The two were opposite in more ways than just philosophy and vocation. Gomulka was short and powerfully squat, maintaining a wide stance even while walking. Paszek was lean from head to toe, appearing nearly aerodynamic as his long, quick gait threatened to leave Gomulka behind. Fortunately, the bishop was outgoing and popular; even at this early hour there were plenty of chances for his flock to be out and about and encounter him. He stopped when he could or waved with a hardy greeting. Nevertheless, by the time Paszek reached the town square, Gomulka was obliged to lean his perspiring body against the wall of Saint Adalbert’s church and light another cigarette to recover. The square was large and rather open, and only when Paszek entered the big Cloth Hall in the center of the square did the SB agent make a quick note and trudge over to the Hall’s open doors in pursuit. But this day of routine and tedium was destined to be broken.
“Good morning, Borys,” a voice called from Gomulka’s right after he had taken a few steps into the relatively darkened hall. It was Paszek, inspecting a swath of material at the first merchant’s booth. The famous smile that was a combination of mirth and carefully guarded savvy flashed toward him. Paszek gave a kindly word of declination to the old woman behind the counter and reached Gomulka in two long strides with his hands folded behind him.
“I beg your pardon?” was all Gomulka could say at the moment, a product of his repetitive training at the hands of the SB bosses: act dumb. A wind suddenly blew through the narrow hall, and Gomulka’s prop tourist map fluttered and folded forward, revealing the red notebook with the SB logo.
“It is Borys, correct?” Paszek persisted. “It’s not magic, I assure you. I had to ask around about you. I haven’t seen you at any of my Masses, have I?”
“No, your Holiness…uh, Highness…” Gomulka groped for the correct title.
“Officially, it’s Eminence,” Paszek said with a light laugh. “But my friends call me Baca. I don’t suppose you’re my friend, though, eh, Borys?”
“I…no, I don’t think I am.” Gomulka looked around as if ready to bolt away.
“It’s OK,” Paszek said. “I have many friends and many enemies. You may not be my friend, Borys, but I don’t really think you’re my enemy, either.” He turned his head sideways as if inspecting Gomulka with X-ray vision. “You’re not a believer.”
Gomulka sighed and shook his head.
“Your unbelief is in here,” Paszek declared with a light touch of his finger to Gomulka’s temple. Then he shifted his aim to Gomulka’s chest. “But it’s not yet in here, so there’s hope. Good morning, Borys.” With that, Paszek turned and walked deeper into the Cloth Hall, immediately engaging with other shop owners and visitors.
Borys Gomulka stood completely still for several seconds and finally opened his notebook to record the astounding event that had just taken place. His pencil hovered over the fresh page, his hand shaking. Then he thought better of the idea and closed the little notebook and walked out of the Cloth Hall.
***
Don Morrison coldly regarded the newspaper clipping in front of him, his jaw clenching as he read the article that had been taken from the previous day’s Lexington Herald and included in his morning briefing folder. Keeton had already informed him of the news the day before, and that phone call had only slightly preceded the encoded teletype from his counterparts in MI-6, complaining of “amateur blood lust” and “reckless cowboy adventurism.” It was only a matter of time before the second phone on his desk, the white one with the direct line over to Langley, would buzz to indicate that the unpleasantness had been relayed up the chain in London, then back over the Atlantic at the highest stratosphere of authority to Morrison’s own boss.
Of course, he could not blame the Brits for being temperamental about it. They had lost a valuable senior agent in Allen Davies to that KGB sniper. The news about possible sleeper agents within the British company had gone from bad to worse with the revelation that Eddy was only a second-rate traitor, and not the only one. Still, Morrison’s team had also lost two agents in the whole affair—one to a Stasi bullet and one to a battle-fatigue-induced retirement. And not to mention that Keeton’s true identity was probably compromised to the Soviets. Morrison suddenly found himself repeating an error he often warned his agents to avoid: tallying the body count. Still, he was in no mood to sympathize with Keeton’s predicament so he concentrated his anger with his agent back to the fore. He crushed out the first cigarette of the day and punched the intercom button on his desk.
“Betty, any sign of Agent Orange?” he barked.
“He’s supposed to be on his way, Director,” the matronly voice answered calmly. As the secretary of a CIA division chief, Betty Sutton simply did not give in to the emotional peaks and valleys inherent in Morrison’s job. Over the years, blunting the extremes became one of her most valuable attributes.
“Let me know when you hear, please,” Morrison said with a bit more moderation, Betty’s magic having already begun to work on him. He lit a second cigarette and read through the remainder of the morning brief. As usual it contained a summary of the most recent activity recorded by the five main field agents and teams of the CIA’s Special Defense Division. In agency communications, the division that Morrison headed was code named Department 229, but it was most well known by its agents and staff as the Cavalry. It was a moniker that reflected its primary objective of rescuing civilians who had been caught up in the danger and intrigue of Cold War politics.
The director noted with some solace the latest news from his field agent assigned to China and East Asia, code named Green. Several months earlier Agent Green had successfully extracted a Chinese would-be defector and mathematician out of a North Vietnamese battlefield under the very noses of his communist minders. It had been a risky mission on many fronts, not the least of which was political escalation if the action could have been proved publicly. It had gone perfectly until the ECP—“extracurricular personnel” in the Cavalry’s lexicon—had tried contacting relatives from the safe house in Hong Kong. “Book smart and street stupid,” Morrison had commented at the time. Chinese agents had descended on the British colonial city, and Green became obliged to hold the ECP in the safe house until the coast was clear. Now finally the ECP they had code named Jade Fox was safely on US soil with a new identity and some seed money, applying his expertise in missile ballistics on behalf of the West. Green himself had avoided getting his cover blown and was back to evaluating the dangerous situation in Vietnam, made more dire by the promise of the Chinese intelligence network to retaliate for the loss of a valuable civilian asset.
Morrison had just begun to consider whether the rescue of Jade Fox had been accomplished as a moral imperative or simply because the man was brilliant and was needed by the West, when Betty buzzed his intercom and announced that Andrew Keeton—Agent Orange—had arrived at “the Fort.” Morrison had just enough time to close up the briefing folder, excepting the newspaper clipping, and place a new file on his desk, when Betty knocked on his door and opened it.
“Mr. Keeton has arrived, Director,” she said pleasantly.
Andrew Keeton walked into the room, and immediately Morrison’s mentality changed. Instead of a reckless cowboy, notwithstanding the current British opinion, the director saw the confident agent that he had recruited and trained, the same agent who had faced danger and death on many occasions, in service to his country and to Morrison himself. Nearly six feet tall, dark hair, trim and well dressed—the mask that hid the scars on his body and the ones on the inside, too. Keeton knew he had caused an uproar, but he showed up at the Cavalry’s Foggy Bottom headquarters to take his lumps, unapologetically. The men shook hands, and both nodded in the affirmative to Betty’s question about coffee. Then Keeton took his seat opposite Morrison at the sturdy oak desk.
“What happened to your face?” Morrison asked as he tilted his head to get a better look at Keeton’s right cheek.
“It happened in my fight with Eddy. He had a knife. I was ca
reless.” Keeton held his supervisor’s steady gaze.
“The wound will be small but still noticeable for a while. What if this makes its way into your file, on the outside I mean?” Morrison asked.
“My real name’s already out there,” Keeton answered levelly. “Without a note about a cheek scar. And the only man who knows—knew—about it was Eddy, and he’s…” The rest of it hung between them for several seconds until Keeton looked down sheepishly.
“OK, OK,” Morrison said. “Let’s get this out of the way. Yes, you were careless but not about fighting Eddy. Eddy deserved what he got—he was a traitor. But he was a traitor to the Brits, and they deserved to take care of it to their own liking.”
“Agreed,” Keeton said firmly.
Betty knocked and entered with a tray of coffees. Morrison continued without reservation in her presence, another benefit of having a loyal and discreet secretary. “Now there’s a shit storm at our feet—OK, at my feet. I don’t mind; it’s part of my job. Director Raborn is new, but he knows the score. He’ll let me handle my own department my way, the good and the bad. And we’ve had a lot of good over the years. Same with me to you. You field agents have a lot of latitude, as it should be. You, Andrew—you’ve personally had a lot of success. Hell, you’re the longest-serving Color, and with the most saves. Yeah, I know you’ve lost friends and colleagues during your missions—we all have; it’s part of the danger we’ve signed up for. The people we try to save didn’t sign up for it. It’s all a big ugly mess, and that’s how it’s always going to be. Understood?”
Keeton nodded. Did Morrison really think he needed a pep talk? “Yeah, I got it. How will it go with the Brits?”
Morrison shrugged. “The mistake with Eddy will sting us for a while, but it’ll pass. The intel about Eddy and about the possible sleeper and the name change from Capstone to Waypoint will help. Of course, they’re worried as hell about it, and rightly so. In the meantime, we have the situation in Poland to worry about. By all accounts the danger level is rising, especially for the ECP.”
The director tapped the orange folder he had just pulled out. The white label on the front bore the name that Morrison had given the overall mission, which was also the code name of the Polish bishop who was at the center of the danger: SCHOOLBOY.
***
“It must be boring for you, Borys,” the man with the scarred hands said sympathetically. He was Borys Gomulka’s SB supervisor and to Gomulka was only known by the surname of Slaski. He had once claimed that his disfigurement came from the Nazis burning him with acid, but Gomulka never truly believed the story. “If it was me, I’d prefer one of those outspoken politicians who was sleeping with his neighbor’s daughter. Fun to watch and easy to blackmail when the time comes.”
Gomulka shrugged. “I don’t mind it, except for the early mornings. When winter comes it’ll be hell.”
Gomulka and Slaski were just entering the seedy bar in Krakow where they met regularly to exchange notes and often to get drunk. They took a table in the darkest corner. A bottle of vodka appeared between them on the table as part of the ritual, then two glasses into which generous shots were poured. They toasted their health, then the state, then their own careers.
“Perhaps he’ll sleep in on those bitter cold mornings, then. Paszek, I mean.”
“Not him,” Gomulka said. “I’ve never encountered a man with such devotion to his line of work.” This actually was not true. Gomulka foggily recalled the parish priest in his childhood town just outside of Warsaw, who followed the same rigorous schedule as the one they called Baca.
“Every man has a breaking point, Borys,” Slaski said confidently.
Gomulka nodded slowly and tilted his head back to let the next shot flow warmly down this throat. His head remained resting against the wall behind him. His early life as an only child had been simple and happy. He was still considered a boy when he moved into the city to look for work. Then the Germans were threatening, and Borys convinced his parents to move into his small apartment in Warsaw, into the building that became one of the first casualties of the Nazi bombardment that began the war. Unspeakable acts followed one after another, as he watched friends and strangers taken away in rail cars. Whatever empathy and happiness Gomulka had inherited were ground into dust in those next six years. Finally the war was over and the Russians became their overlords. Gomulka eventually got work in the reconstructed railway station until he was approached by the SB man who now sat across from him.
“What are you thinking about, Borys?”
Gomulka let his head loll forward. “I’m thinking that I’ve got nothing to live for.”
“Nonsense, Borys. You’re doing patriotic work for your country. That’s what you said you wanted, remember? You get paid a decent salary, and eventually my old boss will pass on and I’ll move up. So will you.”
“Is that it?” Gomulka answered between thick lips that resisted movement. “We work for a state that watches decent men and hopes they slip up so that they can be destroyed. Is that what we live for? Is that all I am? This?” He produced the red notebook and slammed it on the table. His voice had grown louder with each sentence, causing his supervisor—despite the onset of his own stupor—to look around in concern at who might be listening.
“Enough, Borys, enough!” Slaski hissed. “The man you’re watching is a subversive. He speaks against the state, against Poland. Besides, you don’t want to become a target yourself, do you? I can forgive this—let’s call it a moment of weakness—once. Come, come, not tears. You’re in no danger, no danger. Anything to report today?”
Gomulka swiped at his eyes with his sleeve and tried regaining his composure. He took the replenished glass and brought it to his lips, then lowered it back to the table without drinking. “He knew who I was today.”
“Knew you? Who, Borys?”
“Paszek,” Gomulka answered. “I followed him into the Hall. He suddenly came up to me and called me by name.”
“What did he say then?” Slaski asked, giving his junior a hard look.
“Nothing, really. Something about his friends and his enemies. Someone must have told him my name. Then he walked away.”
“He’s dangerous, but it’s not so bad that he knows he’s being watched. I assume you recorded this?”
“Yes, yes, of course,” Gomulka answered quickly as he scooped up the notebook and stuffed it back in his pocket. The intense scrutiny had provided him a moment of sobriety. “That’s all. Well, the rest of his day was all normal actions—many people came to see him, of course.”
“Mostly students and old people, no doubt. That’s what makes him dangerous, Borys. He exploits the sentiments of the elderly who think they remember better days before the People’s Republic and the fanciful academics who believe the fairy tales of the West, of extravagant lifestyles and unbridled freedom.”
“I’ll have the report tomorrow,” Gomulka said mechanically before tossing back the last of the vodka.
The men spent the next several minutes talking about the business of the Workers’ Party and a play that was recommended to all its members. Then Slaski paid their bill, and they trudged together out to the street and parted with a wave. As he watched Gomulka turn the corner, Slaski pulled out his own red notebook and pencil and made a notation about the encounter between his agent and the bishop.
***
“They call him Baca,” Keeton said. “In Polish it means ‘shepherd.’ He earned the nickname back when he was in the seminary. Apparently he still allows his flock to call him that even though he’s the bishop of Krakow.”
“How very humble of him,” Morrison said with a bit of cynicism. “Still, from what I’ve read, he’s got guts.”
They had taken the folder labeled SCHOOLBOY from the desk to the low coffee table in Morrison’s office and sat together on the thick leather couch reviewing the contents. Betty had brought in a tray of pastries as a thoughtful testament to the time Keeton had spent in England studying
and assembling his notes about the bishop during his so-called recuperation. “Elevenses for you,” she had announced proudly. Keeton had smiled, and Morrison had grunted.
“Guts, and to spare,” Keeton nodded. “Kazimierz Paszek, named after his father. Grew up in a small village outside of Krakow. Saw a whole lot of shit in his lifetime. When he was a boy his mother died of pneumonia, and his father dedicated his life to his upbringing and formation, both intellectual and moral. Eventually he sent junior off to the seminary, where he picked up the nickname. Baca was outgoing, athletic, and handsome—and dedicated to the church in all respects. Still is. And he speaks six or seven languages.”
“He’s an autodidact, like you,” Morrison commented. It was a skill that made Keeton attractive to the CIA as they recruited him from the army during the Korean War and to Morrison as he formed and molded the new Special Defense Department those many years earlier. “He’s my generation, by the way, so I know he fought the Nazis, too.”
“In his own way,” Keeton said. “Attended secret masses, like a lot of the faithful during the occupation. But he also ran an underground theater group that wrote and performed anti-Nazi plays. That seems to have been the beginning of his reputation as a freedom fighter, of sorts. The Nazis knew enough to hunt for a mysterious resistance leader but never discovered it was Paszek. Other seminarians and priests were hunted, found, and executed. Then you’ve got the roundup of Jews and the extermination camps. Paszek had a lot of Jewish friends in his youth and saw them disappear. Even with all that, he pressed on.”
Morrison nodded pensively. In his own younger days in the OSS, he had learned of the Nazi death camps from his Soviet intelligence counterparts coming in from the East. Even to those veterans hardened to the danger and cold-hearted intrigue of clandestine service, the sheer scale and brutality of what the Germans called the “final solution” had created an indelible mark on their psyches. For Morrison, he would reluctantly retain a certain animus for Germans the rest of his life. “Go on,” he said softly.
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 2