The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  “So, all is ready then,” Jakub said as he attempted to push the lingering memory of the apparent Western tourist from his consciousness.

  “I believe so, yes,” Kozlow replied. “Everyone is coming tonight. The food should arrive in a couple of hours. It’s going to be quite…extravagant, I think.”

  “And why not?” Jakub asked with a sweeping motion of his hands. “We’re on a mission, Anatol, a noble mission that deserves to be initiated with a noble regale. Come now, my friend, what’s the matter?”

  Kozlow scooped up the empty crates and walked them through the door to his bedroom, where they would be stored during the dinner party. His wife was away at her family’s house in the countryside outside of Warsaw. He knew her excuse for the visit was a pretense to be away from Jakub and his schemes. When he returned to the makeshift dining room Jakub was still awaiting an answer. “Jakub, I still wonder if these people will give us anything useful. They’re just as likely to suspect something, don’t you think?”

  Jakub’s eyes flashed briefly. “That’s not what you said before, Anatol! Don’t begin to flag now, at literally the last hours! Besides, this is a minor operation in our mission. A bit of information gathering, nothing more. If it leads to something, then we win. If not, we have a nice dinner and perhaps have made a few new friends. See?”

  Kozlow looked at the floor briefly then back up to Jakub, who had regained his composure along with the false warm smile he reserved for pliable assets. “You’re right, Jakub. Of course.”

  “Of course,” Jakub repeated slowly. “Come, open that bottle of Żubrówka, and let’s drink a toast or two. Then, I need to attend to a few errands before tonight’s festivities.”

  To new friends—or enemies, Jakub thought bitterly as he downed the first shot Kozlow had poured for him. In a few hours he would be face-to-face with this university professor, Luiza Rolek, the latest adversary in his clandestine war against Poland and her intransigent populace.

  ***

  Keeton peered around the corner for the third time, cursing his situation as he stared helplessly at the red door behind which the man with the tan fedora had disappeared. He had followed him all the way from the Kozlow address to this seedy little bar, having done a lap around Długa Street while trying to decide his next move and then just catching the man stepping out of number 417 and proceeding away at a determined pace. Keeton had tailed him for the twenty-minute walk, employing what means he could to maintain his anonymity. He had ducked among the many corners and recesses inherent in the narrow Krakow streets and even quickly purchased a cheap hat from an outdoor stand for an extra bit of subterfuge.

  For his part, tan fedora did not seem very concerned about being followed. He had walked confidently ahead with his gaze kept forward, stopping only once to light a fresh cigarette. He had acknowledged no person along the way, despite the growing busyness of the late afternoon streets, and had walked right up to and into the bar. His choice of a destination must have been predetermined, not random, Keeton reckoned.

  Keeton checked his watch—a few minutes before four. Soon he would need to make his way over to the Adam Mickiewicz Avenue and find a taxi back to the Royal, where he was to meet Luiza at five o’clock before going to the dinner. Give him five more minutes, then…The red door opened again and tan fedora walked out with a paper sack in the shape of a liquor bottle. Keeton leaned over and watched in surprise as the man went straight across the street and into an old brick converted apartment.

  That settles that; the tan fedora is not Kozlow. But was his appearance outside Kozlow’s coincidence or not? In any event time was running short, so he stepped quickly to the opposite corner to get fedora’s address and wrote it on a notepad, then turned and headed south back toward his hotel.

  When he got to Adam Mickiewicz he waited five minutes among the other pedestrians to finally call over an approaching cab. “Hotel Royal, proszę,” Keeton said as he settled into the backseat. As the sights, sounds, and smells of Krakow marched past him through the open windows he contemplated what else he could do to pull the odds over to his favor.

  “Przepraszam, pana—Hotel Serkowski, proszę,” Keeton said suddenly to the driver, who nodded and grunted in acknowledgment of the change of plan. In less than ten minutes the car had rolled over the Debnicki Bridge and pulled up to the Serkowski Hotel. Keeton held up his hand and received another gruff response, then exited the cab and walked into the hotel lobby and up to the front desk.

  “Mr. Lodge, welcome back!” called Olek Budny from his usual station. “And please accept my thanks for recommending our place to your friends—Mr. Roy and Mr. Morel. They checked in just a while ago, although if I’m not mistaken they’ve left for some sightseeing.”

  Keeton waved. “I was happy to do it. Listen, I don’t have time to stay and wait for them. May I leave them a written message? I’d need a small envelope if you please.”

  Olek happily complied. Keeton scribbled a message on his notepad, then tore and folded the page, and pushed it into the envelope, which he then addressed and licked and pressed shut. “Also, I’ll want to keep my own room as well, if that’s OK—another day or two?”

  Olek checked his ledger and appeared a bit flummoxed at the request. Keeton watched the dark uncertainty of the hotel junior who might have overbooked the rooms turn brighter as he recalled his uncle’s savvy training. The man before him had paid for three nights in advance and wanted to stay longer. And he had recommended an additional double occupancy for which the Budnys put forth no effort to sell. Of course Olek would acquiesce to Keeton’s request and figure out the discrepancy later. The clerk simply gave Keeton a thumbs-up sign, and the two exchanged knowing glances and smiles. The man that the boy knew as Toby Lodge then waved and left the lobby.

  Back in the cab, headed for the Hotel Royal again, Keeton reflected on the action he had just taken. The note was a precaution, perhaps an unnecessary one. But somewhere in his spy’s subconscious he relented to the adage of safety over sorrow, prompted by the image of the mysterious man in the tan fedora. Keeton was certain that he would see him again.

  ***

  Lionel Bridgewater pushed the wadded handkerchief into the wound in his side, the one that had been the penultimate blow of the fight, the one that had been delivered by the vicious thrust of a surprise knife blade. Lionel’s counter had been the last and deciding action, however, to the ruin of the fine Axminster rug of the Burlington MI-6 office. The irregular dark patch produced by his assailant’s last issue of blood surrounded the deceased man’s head. Marley was dead to begin with—there is no doubt whatever about that, Lionel thought with bitter humor. Or whatever your name is, you bastard. The handkerchief was quickly sopped with his own blood, and he decided to forget it and get about the work he had arrived at the station to do in the first place.

  His hands shook annoyingly as he unlatched the Rolex’s strap from his wrist and turned the watch face down on the desk. It took the pressure of both thumbs to rotate the back until it finally popped open to reveal a small metal disk the diameter of a shilling. Lionel poured the disk into his hand and stumbled over to the teleprinter table with the Creed machine, where he was obliged to sit briefly in the operator’s chair to keep from fainting. After a few seconds of regular breathing and concentration he continued.

  The Creed had been modified by the crytographic engineers over at Cheltenham to include a small door through which one could reach the extra scrambling mechanism. The encoding disk, with its unique pattern of punched-out tiny rectangles, fit neatly onto the protruding steel spindle, although twice Lionel wiped blood from it onto his coat to ensure the machine would work with it installed. He then toggled on the power and began typing on the small metal keyboard.

  The work was slow, and he was weakening. His entire body was in a cold sweat, and pain radiated through his torso. He looked down to see that his shirt had begun to look like the Axminster rug. Finally, the essential part of the information was sent and
on its way across the Atlantic. He could call for medical help.

  No, Lionel thought, not quite yet—just a couple of other precautions to take. First he detached the disk from the Creed and dropped it through a nearby vent, the surprisingly sharp metallic rattle awakening him with a bit of adrenaline. Then back at the table he forced the cover from the machine and found the roll of punched-paper strip that was a record of what had been typed and sent. He tossed the roll onto the metal serving tray that was used to take afternoon tea around, then managed to extract his lighter from his trouser pocket and ignite the paper.

  It had all been a supreme effort, and Lionel was spent. He found one of the alarm switches secreted within the station and pushed it. On the floor, looking up through unfocused eyes at the ceiling lights, his pulse at once racing and thready, Lionel wished for two things: that the message would be received by the director of the CIA’s Cavalry in Washington and that the MI-6 response team would arrive in time to save him.

  He wished them in that order.

  ***

  Keeton fumbled for the words as he considered the woman before him. “You look…that dress…you are…beautiful.”

  Luiza smiled and tilted her head demurely. “Thank you, Toby. But I thought I made it clear you didn’t need to resort to flattery.”

  “My view on the matter is flattery may not help me, but it surely can’t hurt me,” Keeton responded as he held her gaze in his for several seconds. “Unless I am very much mistaken.”

  Luiza reached out and took his hand and led him from the lobby of the Hotel Royal to the awaiting Mikrus, brashly parked and running at the curb while a pair of taxis waited to pull up with their paying fares. Keeton settled into the passenger seat just in time for Luiza to shove the gear shift forward and accelerate them away from the Royal. Her driving was confident and just barely aggressive.

  Yet, Keeton sensed that something was wrong, like the gathering summer storm clouds he’d noticed on his walk earlier. Despite their affectionate exchange at the hotel and the way she now warmly held his hand when not working the car’s gears there was a nervousness in her demeanor, in the way her eyes darted around and her smile faded to worry when she was not looking directly at him. She was definitely anxious. So am I, he conceded to himself.

  “Are you OK?” he asked carefully.

  “Yes, sure,” she answered without turning to him. This time even her forced smile was accompanied by a tremor. “To tell you the truth, Toby, no. I mean, meeting you and then the invitation from Kozlow, and the coincidence of you looking for him. Is it?”

  “Is it what?” Keeton asked, already knowing both the meaning of the question and the hard truth of the answer.

  “Coincidence,” she said firmly and impatiently. “Is it that, Toby?”

  The stark reality of his existence of lies returned harshly to the fore, and he steeled himself to the necessary response. “Darling, I arrived that night from England and—I don’t mind saying this—I fell for you straightaway. And I’m certainly glad I found you again at the university.”

  “And Kozlow?” she persisted.

  “As I mentioned, a friend of mine knew that this Kozlow fellow was a rather smart photographer with a local reputation. I’ve never met the man and have only vague memory from a grainy picture of what he looks like. As for this dinner, neither of us knows its objective. But if you want to continue without me, I completely understand.”

  They had stopped at a traffic light, and Luiza sighed and rubbed her temples. “Thank you, Toby. No, let’s go together. We’ll just be careful, OK?”

  “Of course, as you say—we’re in this together.” Keeton smiled at Luiza and was rewarded with a similar response from her as they pulled through the intersection.

  “It’s just a couple of blocks more,” she said. “At this time of day we should be able to park reasonably close.”

  “I don’t mind a walk,” Keeton said graciously. “That’s not flattery, by the way. I just need my exercise.”

  Luiza’s light laugh seemed to break the darker mood. She found a gap along the curb that was suitable for the Mikrus and parked. Then they walked together to the door of Kozlow’s building and rang the bell. A moment later a voice called down, “Wymyślić, proszę. Anatol Kozłowa jest numer dwadzieścia dwa.” Come up, please. For Anatol Kozlow it is number twenty-two.

  “Here we go,” Keeton whispered before opening the door for Luiza and following closely behind her as they ascended to Kozlow’s flat. He was waiting in the frame of the open door, grinning.

  Kozlow greeted Luiza in Polish and gave her a traditional kiss on the hand. She then proceeded to explain the situation regarding Toby Lodge, the British journalist who was in need of both a historian and a photographer. Keeton discreetly watched her deliver the mix of truth and fabrication—and impressed that she did it fairly well. Kozlow looked over at Keeton, nodded at him with a slight nervous smile, then finally waved him into the apartment behind Luiza.

  Keeton recognized the items that had been delivered to the apartment earlier in the day. Along with the addition of many rich foods and drink, the modest place had been turned into an intimate but lush dining room. For six, Keeton noted.

  There were already three others hovering around the table, two men and a woman, sampling the appetizers of pickles, cold cuts, and breads. Kozlow allowed Luiza to make the introductions, which she did as best as she could. There was the quiet seminarian, Nikodem Winograd—“good evening, the bishop insists we learn English—” and Anna Korzeniak, the part-time writer for the Krakow Gazette newspaper, whose English was passable as well. Łukasz Sobol was next, the accountant who often did work on behalf of the local church—“a good man with numbers,” as Kozlow said in Polish translated to Keeton by Luiza.

  The dinner was already taking on the nature of a confusing mixture of languages and professions. Keeton wondered what Kozlow had had in mind with his invitations. Was the variety in these people truly for engaging conversation, or something else? Of course, there was still one guest who had not yet arrived, wasn’t there? As if on cue, there was a hardy knock on the door before it was suddenly opened from the outside by a man utterly recognizable by Keeton. He held a fedora in one hand. Up close Keeton’s impression of him was only heightened—Leninesque, thought Keeton grimly.

  Kozlow greeted him with nervous enthusiasm and a tentative embrace. “Dobry wieczór, Jakub!”

  Good evening Jakub! Keeton scanned the room and noticed no one else even cracked a smile, which told him they either did not know the man and were as uncertain as Luiza why they were at the dinner or knew the man and were skittish nonetheless. In any event the atmosphere in the apartment became a bit thicker with tension in those several first moments before Kozlow began introductions.

  Luiza leaned close to Keeton and whispered, “Anatol has introduced this man Jakub to Nikodem, who studies at the seminary. Jakub has said that it’s wonderful to meet a young man who is a fellow patriotic Pole but also faithful.”

  Keeton had subtly positioned himself to be the last one to meet the man called Jakub, with Luiza next to him on his left. He immediately sensed danger in Jakub’s behavior, in the offhanded way he met the first three guests and responded in the barest perfunctory way. Even Kozlow seemed to have expected more dialogue as Jakub quickly stepped through the arc of people before finally stopping in front of Luiza. His expression was now different, the slightest narrowing of the eyes and the sarcastic upturn of the mouth. There was something more than just her beauty that now drew his attention—something about which Jakub seemed harshly confident.

  “Jest profesorem Luiza Rolek, Uniwersytet Jagielloński,” Kozlow said with an affected formality in her direction. Then he pointed a hand at Jakub. “A może mogę przedstawić mojego przyjaciela, Jakub.”

  “Miło cię poznać, panno Rolek.” Nice to meet you, Miss Rolek. Jakub reached for Luiza’s hand and bent to kiss it, never averting his gaze from hers as they completed the introduction. Kozlow
then said something softly into Jakub’s ear that Keeton could not discern but that caused Jakub’s piercing eyes to shift now to him.

  “Czy mogę przedstawić mój znajomy Toby Lodge, Anglik z Londynu,” Luiza said suddenly to them as she leaned her head toward Keeton. Keeton caught the cue and smiled as he bowed slightly in Jakub’s direction.

  “I welcome the chance to meet you this evening,” Jakub said as he extended his hand politely.

  “The pleasure is mine,” Keeton answered.

  “In your considered opinion, Mr. Lodge, should we all choose English for our conversation tonight?”

  Keeton smiled and nodded, but by then he already knew they were in deep trouble.

  ***

  Morrison swore harshly when he’d finished reading the decoded teletype message from London. The scrambled header, designated by the character string NULL77, had told the Cavalry operator down in the communications room that the special decoding disk was needed to recover the full message. It was Lionel Bridgewater’s calling card, in a manner of speaking, one he had created when he wanted to alert Morrison and only him. It always prompted an immediate notice to the director, who kept the 77 disk securely locked in his office.

  Morrison took a long drag on his cigarette and shook his head, then punched a button on his desk’s intercom. “Betty, roust up Bernie, stat.”

  The specialist who had retrieved the disk and then had brought the decoded message back up to Morrison waited patiently. Having read it he had grasped the gravity of the development immediately. He was a veteran under Morrison’s leadership, recruited into the Cavalry a decade earlier and close enough to the hurly-burly of the international spy game to know the tenor of an emerging crisis.

  “Sit down, Banks,” Morrison said to him after breaking out of his solemn reverie. “Nice work getting this decoded and up to me as soon as possible.” He then pushed a pack of cigarettes and a lighter across the desk.