The Children's War

by Stroyar, J. N.

  “So?” Ryszard asked, unconcerned. If the French wanted him, let them get him.

  “They don’t have anyone in position. They want him alive if at all possible. Dead if not.”

  “What does this have to do with us?” Ryszard pressed.

  “We’ve agreed to do them a favor.”

  “I hope we’ve set a reasonable price.”

  “Not my business. Anyway, see what you can do.”

  “Me alone? Or is there some backup?”

  “Don’t pull in any of ours; we don’t want to get that deeply into it. The names are four of their agents who will offer you assistance as necessary. They are in lower positions at other ministries and so can’t do anything on their own. Naturally, we did not keep a copy of such sensitive information and you should destroy it as well.”

  “Naturally.” Ryszard almost laughed. “I’d have to reveal myself to them?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll do it alone,” Ryszard mumbled. Certainly Warszawa should have guessed that, but it was a nice touch that they had gotten the names for him in any case. The French had to be truly desperate to give up the names of four agents. “Who is this fellow?”

  “An American. He’s running arms for them, purely for profit. There are four consignments expected that he controls. They don’t want to lose the arms, they don’t want the Germans to get them, and they would like to get him out because he is so useful.”

  “But if not, they think he’s better off dead?”

  “He knows some faces and locations.”

  “French only?”

  “Yes, he’s no danger to us. We’ve never dealt with him.”

  “Ah. I’ll do what I can,” Ryszard promised, uninterested. Arms! To the French of all people! They would bury them in haystacks and let them rust before doing anything useful.“How long do I have?”

  “We told them we wouldn’t even be able to contact our people for two or three days.”

  “Good, good.”

  “We implied that we would organize a forcible breakout. So, they probably won’t suspect you have anything to do with us.”

  “Good.” The last thing Ryszard wanted was for the French to have him in their files: given the French sense of honor, he could figure on being betrayed within a month.“How was he picked up?”

  “Somebody prepared him well. Army papers, he even had the appropriate clothes for a young, off-duty officer. He got picked up in a cafó, awaiting his contact. There seems to have been some minor fracas and he ended up betraying himself with his accent.”

  Ryszard snorted his amusement. “I can work with that.” He took his leave of the courier and headed directly back to the office, planning as he went. If the man was already in custody, they probably did not have much time.

  By the time he stepped into his office he had decided on a tentative course of action. He looked up the coded names and memorized them, then destroyed the scrap of paper in his ashtray. As for the photograph, he decided to keep it; it might be useful in supporting his plan. He scribbled Van Wije across the back, then dried the ink on a bit of paper so it looked slightly washed out. He stapled the photo to a piece of paper, and then carefully removed it, so that only the two staple holes were left to mar the photograph. He dropped the photograph into his pocket and headed down into the cells.

  “Where’s the American?” he asked the officer on duty.

  “Mein Herr?” the officer stuttered in confusion.

  Richard snapped open his badge and repeated his question.

  “Cell nine,” the officer answered promptly, motioning to a guard to accompany Richard.“No, wait,” the officer called as they stepped through the first set of heavy doors.“He’s probably in interrogation three—HauptsturmFührer Schmidt just came through a few minutes ago.”

  “Fine,” Richard acknowledged. Interrogation three: that would give it the right level of drama.

  The guard led him to the appropriate room, tapped on the door, and entered. Three men were in the room, two in uniform, both standing. The third man was in civilian clothing, seated with his hands folded together, resting on the table in front of him, the wrists bound by handcuffs. Blood was spattered around the room, clearly not from the American since he looked unharmed. Nevertheless, the spattered blood and the grim room had had the desired effect: he looked terrified.

  The senior officer, Schmidt, looked up with curiosity at the intrusion.

  “Traugutt,” Richard announced. “Release this man into my custody.”

  “I can’t do that, mein Herr, ” Schmidt replied as politely as possible. “He’s Herr Spengler’s fish.”

  “No, he’s mine. Get Spengler down here. Now!” Richard ordered. Spengler was technically superior to him, but that was not important. Politically, the man was a nobody.

  Schmidt certainly reacted as though he was aware of the hidden hierarchy. He immediately ordered the junior officer to contact Spengler and request his presence.

  Richard lit a cigarette to pass the few minutes until there was a response. He did not waste his breath on Schmidt or the prisoner; it was Spengler he needed to convince. He studied the prisoner and decided that someone had indeed had some inkling of what they were doing, but probably not this man himself. He was appropriately dressed in the black leather that the younger generation so favored. His jacket had a smattering of stylish fringe, his trousers were cut tight, and he wore tall boots with the almost obligatory metals clasps and buckles running up the sides. Pawel had acquired a similar set of clothing not long before leaving, and Richard had groaned in dismay.

  Richard picked up the American’s papers from the table and paged through them. They looked completely in order. If the man had managed to keep his mouth shut or stick to the phrases he had been taught, he would certainly have passed without a hitch. Ah, well, there was no accounting for traffic accidents or bar fights. He tossed the papers back onto the table.

  The American looked up at Richard, confused, unsure if he was being saved or damned. With a sudden, insane courage he spoke up, asserting in loud, slow American English, “I am an American and not subject to your jurisdiction! I demand to speak to a representative of my government!”

  Richard walked over to the American, skirting around the table so he could confront him directly. The man looked up at him expectantly, and Richard replied with vicious force, swinging his fist into the man’s face.

  “Shut up!” Richard ordered in English. “I’m your handler, you worm, and if you’ve tried to double-cross me, I will personally see to your execution!”

  Shocked by the outburst, the American fell silent. He brought his bound hands up to his face, wiped a bit of blood away from his mouth, and looked at it with a vague horror.

  Richard surveyed him indifferently. He could imagine the man’s thoughts. The reality of everything he had heard, all the warnings he had been given, were slowly penetrating. He had felt smugly safe, he was an American, but now it seemed that was irrelevant. Richard, seeing how he swallowed hard several times, controlled an urge to laugh.

  The junior officer returned and indicated that Spengler would be along shortly. Spengler arrived ready for an argument, but Richard smiled winningly when he entered the room and preempted the debate. “Ah, Herr Spengler! Thank you for coming down. I gather some of your boys nabbed my agent here.”

  “Is that who he is?”

  “Yes, yes.” Richard nodded, pulling the photograph out of his pocket. “Here’s his file photo.”

  Spengler looked at the photograph, compared it with the prisoner. He turned the picture over and read the name on the back.

  “Where did you pick him up?” Richard asked, eyeing the prisoner as if trying to decide if he was trustworthy anymore.

  “Near Calais. He’s supposed to be arranging the drop-off point for a consignment of arms.”

  “Ah, he’s not supposed to be anywhere near there!” Richard fumed, mentally noting the singular used. A consignment. “Sorry about him trespass
ing on your turf.”

  “What are you doing involved in arms shipments?” Spengler asked, accepting the apology with nothing more than a gracious nod.

  “Bait. That load is supposed to be heading toward my territory. I’ll be interested in seeing what game he was playing at, working with the French. But first we have to get it routed on its original course, otherwise a perfect trap will have been wasted. Months of effort!”

  “That would be a shame,” Spengler commented without sympathy.

  “Yes,” Richard agreed distractedly. “I really want to thank you for your diligence here.”

  “My pleasure.” Spengler’s tone betrayed surprise at the compliment. “Well, look, if he’s yours, you can have him. I’ll send the paperwork over to your secretary for your signature.”

  “Great. Thanks!” Richard beamed. He turned toward the prisoner and said in English, “You’re coming with me.”

  “Your agent doesn’t speak German?” Spengler asked.

  “No. He really is an American,” Richard ad-libbed. He had decided there would be no point pretending that the American was faking his ignorance of German.“Killing two birds with one stone: infiltrating their network while using their system to bait the terrorists here.”

  “Impressive!” Spengler conceded. “And you know English?”

  “I went to school in London.” Richard smiled. “Same school as Vogel.”

  “Ach.” Spengler nodded and kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.

  Richard grabbed van Wije’s papers and led his prisoner out of the interrogation room and down the corridor to the entrance. He signed him out, explaining that the paperwork would follow eventually, and took him up the stairs. He was not interested in offering the man any comfort or calming his fears, quite the contrary, but he found the atmosphere in the cells intolerable. It just seemed all too close for comfort; so, they went to his office.

  Richard gestured toward a chair, and his prisoner sat down. Richard offered him a cigarette, but the prisoner, in a fit of newfound confidence, not only refused but asserted that he did not smoke.

  “Ah, so you really are an American,” Richard said with a laugh.

  “How do you know English?” Van Wije’s voice was muffled a bit by the swelling around his mouth.

  “I’m asking the questions,” Richard reminded him as he sat on the edge of his desk and lit his own cigarette. It was a bit of a delicate situation; he did not know whether his office was currently bugged. Probably not, but one could never be sure, so everything he said had to fit into a consistent story. He smoked for a moment and contemplated the man in front of him, trying to size him up. Reasonably cool for one so young, but inexperienced in this sort of thing and rather naive. Profit, the courier had said, that was good. Richard would not have to fight against any ideologies.

  “Why did you deviate from your assigned course?” he asked suddenly.

  “I didn’t,” the American replied, somewhat surprised.

  “The French were paying you?”

  “Yes, of course,” he responded with refreshing candor.

  “Yet you accepted our money to deliver those goods elsewhere.”

  “No! I don’t know anything about that!”

  “Don’t lie to me,” Richard growled. “You want to stay alive, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” the man answered timidly. “Honestly, I did exactly as I was told by . . . by the people I work for in America.”

  “And who are they?”

  “I don’t know their names,” the man answered wretchedly. “I don’t suppose you do,” Richard agreed, to the obvious relief of his prisoner. “They’ve set you up, betrayed you, and tried to betray me.”

  “I . . . I’m sorry, if . . .”

  “Never mind. All’s well that ends well. All you have to do is carry out the original deal. I’ll forgive this little diversion, except of course, you’ll accept your life in lieu of payment.”

  The man looked miserably confused. He hesitated, afraid of speaking, but finally he ventured, “I don’t understand what I should do.”

  Richard smiled at him benevolently. “Don’t worry, all will be made clear. When you’ve done exactly what you’re supposed to, you’ll be able to go home and kiss your wife and children, walk your dog, and watch your baseball games on television.”

  The man nodded. He was divorced, had no children, loathed dogs, and did not follow baseball, but he said none of these things.

  Richard scribbled something on a bit of paper and handed it to van Wije, removing his handcuffs as he did so. “Go to this hotel, it’s just across the street and down to the right about a hundred meters. Register using these papers you were carrying. I’ll have the secretary clear you, so you won’t have any trouble. Do you know enough words to register for a room?”

  The man looked dubious.

  “Never mind. They’ll be expecting you. Just put your papers on the desk and sign where they indicate. We’ll send your luggage after you. I imagine you’re tired of wearing that . . .” Richard paused and thought of Pawel again. Pawel liked his leather uniform. “I imagine you could use a change of clothes. And a bath.Anyway, wait there until someone contacts you. We’ll get you back on course and wrap up this assignment without anyone even noticing their little flirtation with double-dipping.”

  “But what will I say to them when I return?”

  “Say? I imagine, since you’re an American, you can sue them for getting you into this mess in the first place!” Richard laughed and gestured for his prisoner to stand.

  The man stood; he looked as though he were beginning to comprehend that whatever the game was, all he had to do was play along and he would be safe. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but then he changed his mind and simply nodded his agreement.

  “But remember,” Richard added in a quiet, threatening tone, “I’ll forgive you only once. I’ll be watching your every step until you complete this mission. Every single step. Do exactly as you’re told if you want to redeem yourself. Exactly! And if you even dream of listening to a French agent . . .” He made a discreet slashing motion across his throat.

  Richard had Stefan escort the American out of the building and to the hotel. He sat at his desk for a few minutes and wondered exactly what to do next. Three shipments of arms for free. He’d get them dropped somewhere where his people could pick them up safely—in fact, he’d just have Warszawa decide where, contact them tonight, have them handle further contacts with the American. Or should he handle this himself? Avoid a diplomatic incident and take personal responsibility for ripping the French off. He laughed to himself as he thought of how angry the French would be. “But we had to do it to save your man,” he mentally explained with a guilty Gallic shrug to his French allies. “You did say any effort to save the man, didn’t you?” Yeah, he could pull off some bullshit excuse—the shipments were seized by the Germans, some such nonsense. The French network was terribly disorganized, rife with corruption, understaffed, constantly battling betrayals. They’d never find out, and if they did, they would do nothing about it. Nothing—just as they did in 1939. Letting us twist in the wind like that, when there was still a chance to defeat the Germans militarily!

  Richard shook his head and let his mind turn to that fourth shipment, the one Spengler knew about. What should Richard do with that? The most consistent picture would be to have them delivered and be picked up by somebody who could then be nabbed by the security forces. Sacrifice a few lambs for another feather in his cap and to secure the other three shipments. But who? The Communists came to mind. They were pathetic, hanging on to some ludicrous loyalty to Moscow. Toadies! The same Moscow that had ordered the deportation and murder of their comrades across the border. The same Moscow that had murdered thousands of Polish officers in cold blood in the Katyn forest. The same Moscow that had signed a secret pact with the Nazis. The same Moscow that had happily swallowed half their homeland, wiping out every last vestige of the Polish culture that had flouri
shed there for six hundred years. Their oppositionto the Germans was nothing but blind loyalty to the Russian Communists. They were no less dangerous than the Nazis they so loathed. The Communist Resistance then. He could set them up to find out about the shipment, line up some troops, and voil‡, wipe out a few of them, maintain the consistency of his story, and achieve a political coup.

  Richard rubbed away a nagging pain in his forehead. It was the end of the day, and as he packed his briefcase, he wondered whether he should go talk to the American now, perhaps with an evening walk in the park, or head for home. He decided to let the man stew a bit, and besides, he wanted to run a few things by Kasia first. Something didn’t quite sit right, and he was loath to play out his hand without thinking things through with her.

  On the way out, he told his secretary to make sure there was some relief for the guard he had assigned to the American’s hotel, then he left the building, stopping at a sidewalk stand to buy some flowers for his wife. They looked cheerful, in contrast to the grim and blustery day, and he had been rather ignoring Kasia of late.

  In the reflection of the small vanity mirror that the vendor had pinned up on the back wall of his booth, Richard caught sight of somebody following him. He was sufficiently surprised that he spun around and had to recover from the gesture by slapping at his coat as if something had annoyed him. What the fuck? Again! So soon? What the hell were they playing at? He paid for the flowers and headed toward the taxi stand.

  This did not make sense. Whatever had sparked the last surveillance had finished, and now here he was being tailed yet again. It was infuriating! No wonder this goddamned country is on the road to ruin! he thought angrily, nothing better to do than harass their best and brightest! It flashed through his mind as a serious thought, and only upon reflection did he recognize the irony. Maybe Peter was right, maybe he was ingesting poison.

  He shook that thought away and turned his attention to the taxi that followed his through the boulevard traffic. Did this have something to do with the American? Was there more to it all than just supplying arms? Or was it the videotape? Were they onto him? His mind raced through various possibilities as the taxi sat at a traffic light. Giving in to his impatient anger, Richard tapped the driver’s window.