The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  An old man, barely able to get across the square himself, raised his hand to her and nodded toward the suitcase. “Miss, may I help you with this?”

  Luiza stopped and smiled in reflex. “I can manage, thank you.”

  “Ah, but manage only,” the old man said with a broad grin. His face was deeply lined with age and marked with scars that might have come from the war, and his hands were thick and gnarled from decades of manual labor. “Then how about we round up one of these handsome young men to assist us? I commanded such men once and can do so again.”

  Luiza laughed lightly in spite of herself. “It’s a beautiful day, sir, and I can use the exercise. But I do very much appreciate the offer.”

  “Very well, miss,” the old man answered but then raised his cane slightly in her direction. “But promise to travel safely. God keep you on your journey.”

  She lifted her hand to his shoulder and thanked him and continued on. A moment later she spotted Bishop Paszek himself, the lean black cassock seeming to glide across the square and into a huddle of seminarians talking and laughing. The bishop’s appearance only seemed to lighten their banter even further, and she watched in fascination as she had done numerous times before at his charismatic presence. Her eyes then swept the expanse of the square, the literal heart of Krakow with all its life-giving dynamism: two old ladies dickering over the price of a rug, a bistro owner fixing his prices on an outdoor chalkboard, a trio of nuns silently rubbernecking in the bishop’s direction, and various tourists absorbing the very essence of Poland itself among all these natives. Then her searching gaze settled on the stocky man in the crumpled suit, the one she had seen before and had followed to a bar, the one whose name she had been able to overhear as he talked with his SB supervisor in voices raised by their vodka. It was Borys.

  Luiza’s jaw clenched, and her steps picked up again but now moved by patriotism for a people that outshone and would eventually outlast its current communist masters, somehow. Baca was part of that righteous battle—he might even be Poland’s key to victory. An hour later she squeezed into a seat on a third-class rail carriage, part of the train that consisted of four cars, a coal tender, and an ancient steam locomotive that would pull them for six long hours until they reached Warsaw.

  ***

  “Welcome to Poland, Mr. Lodge,” the customs man said in a thick accent after he had loudly stamped Keeton’s papers the requisite number of times. “Enjoy your stay.”

  Keeton took back his passport and visa, marveling at the broad grin that distinguished the man from other Iron Curtain border officials he had encountered over the years. “Thank you, I will.”

  The inspection of his satchel and suitcase had been routine, revealing nothing that Keeton desired to remain hidden. For extra security, the Smith & Wesson had been broken down and secreted in the false bottom and several corner compartments of the bag. As he made his way toward the taxi stands of the Warsaw-Okecie Airport, he let the soothing wave of foreign language murmur wash over him. As a linguistic prodigy he had quickly studied enough Polish to carry on simple conversations. His vocation as a spy led him to absorb sundry snippets of sad farewells, happy reunions, and hushed-tone political banter.

  Keeton stepped outside and found the row of taxis awaiting him and raised his hand. As the first car pulled up, he suddenly waved and shook his head, pretending to have forgotten something and turning back toward the airport doors. It was a bit of trade craft precaution. As soon as the angry driver pulled away, Keeton began a count to five. He only got to three when a man in a dark suit and sunglasses stepped up alongside him.

  “Red plus yellow,” the man said quietly in American English before lighting a cigarette. Keeton did not react to the code phrase, a shorthand signal that told him this man was CIA and was there to meet Agent Orange. The man continued in a low voice, well-practiced so that the cigarette hardly bobbed as he spoke. “Listen, sport, there will be a taxi with a yellow flag on the antenna. Walk right up to it and get into the back. It’ll take you to the train station. Got a bit of intel for you. See you in a little while.”

  As the man walked away toward the parking lot, Keeton donned his own sunglasses and pretended to study his passport while he waited. He also checked his watch and saw the time was a few minutes after three. As soon as the marked car pulled up, he stepped quickly over to it and barely beat a Polish businessman to the door. Keeton tipped his trilby and smiled but received back only a stoic glare. Then he tossed his luggage into the rear seat and followed it in. The taxi pulled away, and Keeton pulled off the trilby to get some relief from the hot interior.

  “Stacja kolejowa, proszę,” Keeton said to the driver. Train station, please. The driver, who Keeton assumed was a paid Polish asset, said nothing for the entire twenty minutes it took to arrive at the edge of a park on the Battle of Warsaw Road. Suddenly he slammed the brakes to bring the car to a stop, and the CIA man in the dark suit jumped in next to Keeton.

  “Call me Edgar,” he told Keeton under the harsh whine of the car engine. They shook hands. “Diplomatic cover, if it matters.” His English was southern, and in physical features Keeton likened him a bit to Cliff Robertson in The Best Man, which he had watched back in the States while recuperating. Edgar then uttered a Polish order to the driver. “Rafal will let us out soon, so listen up. The woman who wrote us about Schoolboy is supposed to be getting here by train in about”—he checked his watch—“ten minutes. We’ve given her the code name Canary. Her first two letters were passed along by one of the Polish domestics who work at our embassy. His name is Walter Zan. We’re not exactly sure how Canary picked him. They met at a university seminar. She introduced herself as Luiza, but we’re not sure that’s real, so for now she’s Canary. The graphology guys have looked at the letters and think she might be an academic in Krakow, with equal parts maverick and patriot. Walter’s a part-time student at the university here, and he just happens to hate the commies, too. So, we suspect some kind of mutual acquaintance connection.”

  “You’ve questioned him, I suppose?” Keeton asked.

  “Gently, sport, gently,” Edgar answered. “Walter obviously knew it was a big deal to pass along the letters. Apparently at some point he got cold feet. So, the second letter has a paragraph that she added on about Walter no longer being the go-between and about when she’d be back. In fact, to be honest, the station chief wanted us to drop it and just keep Walter in the Rolodex in case we need him in the future. That’s when we heard that you might be interested.”

  “So she decided to come here herself,” Keeton stated with a rueful smile.

  Edgar returned the same look. “Yeah, I know. There’s nothing more dangerous than an amateur too clever for their own good.”

  “Get a description?”

  “Blond, late twenties, pretty. Walter was clever enough to notice the dark mole on her left forearm.”

  “I don’t suppose that they—”

  “No, they weren’t lovers.” Edgar interrupted with a grin. “I think the forearm is all we’re going to get. So, last piece of info from her is this—today she’s planning to leave new information at the main desk of the Polonia Palace Hotel, east of the station, for the name of Marcin Bylica.”

  “That a fake name?” Keeton asked.

  “Nope. Real name. Fifteenth-century Polish astronomer. We assume it’s Canary just being her clever self.”

  Keeton nodded. “OK, so you hand her off to me at the hotel when she drops off the letter. Any idea of her plans after that?”

  “Afraid not,” Edgar said. “She might be going back by train right away or visiting friends here for a week. And could be staying somewhere else besides that hotel, who knows? We do have a standing reservation at the Polonia if you need it, but I suspect you don’t want to risk breaking cover. You could check in as Toby Lodge, of course. If she’s turning right back around for Krakow—well, that’s an overnight that leaves at six. I’d like to help you out more, but orders are to wash our hands of
it. She’ll be all yours.”

  “Thanks for the connection anyway,” Keeton said as they pulled up to the corner where the stately Polonia Palace Hotel sat awaiting them. “How do you want to do the handoff?”

  “I’ll keep watch near the desk; you sit on the other side of the lobby,” Edgar said as they stepped onto the sidewalk. “When I walk out, that’ll be your green light. Cool?”

  Keeton had pulled the suitcase and satchel out with him. “That’s fine. What about the intel that she drops off for the not-quite-fictional Marcin Bylica?”

  “All yours from there, sport,” Edgar said as he raised in hands. He then turned and walked through the arched stone front of the Polonia Palace Hotel. Keeton waited a minute before following his CIA colleague into the plush and busy lobby.

  Men in suits moved in various directions. Some were alone, and some were accompanied by equally well-dressed women. Bellhops attended to their needs, and the big ornate front desk was manned by two busy hotel clerks. Edgar sat in a thickly padded chair with a sight line to the action. Keeton had grabbed a pamphlet from a small tourism kiosk and studied it lightly, his eyes discreetly moving from Edgar to an advertisement for a hunting lodge excursion and back again. Another fraction of his attention was used to look for agents of the Polish secret police, the SB, men who, like Edgar and him, might be loitering and carefully watching for suspicious patrons. All he saw were typical citizens coming and going from a very nice hotel.

  Fifteen minutes later, however, both CIA men immediately noticed Luiza as she entered the lobby carrying her suitcase and purse. Indeed, she was beautiful with the fair complexion and blond hair that Keeton expected. The light cotton dress that clung to her body fit the warm day but also quietly signaled a bit of defiant scandal. He admired her confident gait as she stepped across the marble floor, but nonetheless he recognized the uncertainty of the nervous clandestine actor in her face. Was she, even at this last moment, doubting whether to drop the letter at the desk? No, he thought, she’s not even slowing down.

  Edgar had watched her as well and now casually stood up from his chair and queued up behind her as she awaited the next clerk.

  “Good afternoon,” the young man said. “How may I help you?”

  “A friend of mine is arriving in just a bit, but I’m afraid I can’t wait. May I leave a letter for him?” She had put the suitcase down on the floor and drawn the envelope from her purse.

  “Why, of course, Miss. Will he be expecting it?” the clerk asked.

  “Yes, he will,” Luiza answered, the slight tremor in her voice belying her smiling face. She placed the envelope on the counter and took up the fountain pen the clerk offered and wrote in a sweeping cursive: MARCIN BYLICA.

  “I’ll make sure Mr. Bylica receives your letter,” the clerk said as he carefully placed the envelope on an opposing counter behind him, near the familiar inset wall of hanging room keys and pigeonholes for mail.

  Luiza thanked him and turned to go. Edgar, having heard her say the expected name, was already near the door. Keeton picked up his own luggage and watched Luiza walk out of the hotel, measuring his next move. He wanted to follow her and gather whatever intelligence he could about her identity but had also decided to retrieve the letter, or attempt to, to avoid loose ends. As he paced the distance up to the desk, a bit of luck took the clerk who had waited on Luiza on an errand so that Keeton was approached by the young man’s counterpart.

  “Dzień dobry,” the second clerk greeted Keeton.

  “Hello, do you speak English?” Keeton answered hopefully. He had understood the man but figured it was time to employ his cover.

  “Why, yes, sir, I do. How can I help you?”

  “Well, I have a friend,” Keeton answered. “A young woman who was supposed to leave an important letter for me here at the desk. I was wondering if she’s been here yet?”

  The clerk looked a bit perplexed. “A letter sir? Well, I don’t know. Are you a guest here?”

  “It’s like this, you see,” Keeton said with a smile. “Yes, I told her I’d be checking in today, but then I found out about this letter. A bit mysterious, actually. It’s supposed to be under the name of Marcin Bylica.”

  “This is you?” the clerk asked.

  Keeton as Toby Lodge laughed in embarrassment. “Well, as you’re aware Mr. Bylica was a famous Polish astronomer—fifteenth century, I think. It’s my friend’s sense of humor. Marcin Bylica is the name.”

  The clerk waited a few moments, then finally nodded and turned to sort through the paper clutter behind him. He quickly found the envelope by the mailboxes and brought it back to the front. Keeton took the envelope with a quick dziękuję and walked out with his luggage, afraid that Canary’s trail would be cold and that Edgar and Rafal would be long gone and of no more help.

  As he stepped out onto the sidewalk, he found himself not ten feet from Luiza as she awaited a cab among the bustling urban pedestrians. A uniformed bellman had stepped up to help her. If he were able to secure another cab, he could certainly try for the classic following routine, but under the circumstances he could just as likely lose her altogether. He stepped forward quickly, right up to Canary’s side.

  “English?” he asked into her ear.

  She turned suddenly, startled, but then smiled. “Yes.”

  “Well, Miss,” Keeton said, ignoring the looks of the bellman and a few of the other pedestrians who were loosely standing nearby, also waiting. “It looks as though you might be going to the train station, as am I. First time in Poland and I’m on my way to Krakow. I’d prefer not to be late and was wondering if perhaps…that is, if you are indeed going to the station…perhaps we could share a taxi?”

  Luiza quickly scanned him from head to toe: a well-dressed and handsome Englishman with luggage, asking about the train to Krakow. She smiled. “Actually, I’m going back to Krakow myself—yes, by train. It leaves at six o’clock, so you have plenty of time.”

  “I see,” Keeton answered, affecting a look of disappointment as he intentionally let his eyes flicker up and down her body once. “Well, I suppose I’ll be able to make it to the station on my own, then.”

  Just then a cab swerved to the curb in front of them, and the driver jumped out to help Luiza with her luggage. Keeton had taken a step back when she looked at him and smiled again. “Are you coming with us?”

  Keeton smiled back and nodded happily and handed his luggage to the driver. Once sitting together with her in the backseat, he removed the trilby hat and extended his hand. “My name is Toby Lodge. I just arrived this afternoon, from London.”

  “Luiza Rolek,” she answered, noting the slightest lingering of his fingers around her hand. “You are visiting Poland, then, Mr. Lodge?”

  “You may call me Toby, Miss Rolek,” Keeton said, maintaining the one-sided formality he had learned from Pawel Szwedko back at Camp Peary. “Yes, I’m a reporter based in London. Perhaps you’ve heard of my paper, the Ploughshare?”

  “I’m afraid not,” she answered. “As you know, we here in Poland are not always allowed to read about the West.”

  “So I’ve heard,” Keeton said. “But I think maybe the People’s Republic would not be so negative about the messages from the Ploughshare. Most of the editors there share a certain sympathy with your governmental system.”

  “I see,” Luiza answered evenly. “Well, you might also already know that the Polish people are quite independent. We’ve lived through many government systems, none of which truly defined us.”

  “I completely understand,” Keeton answered back. “the Ploughshare certainly supports the voice of the people. Of course, there does have to be order, after all. Democracy is simply a euphemism for mob rule—chaos.”

  “Perhaps. But wasn’t it your own Winston Churchill who said democracy is the worst form of government—except all others that have been tried?”

  “Words to that effect, I believe,” Keeton answered offhandedly. The cab slowed and pulled up to the train st
ation entrance. “It appears we’ve reached the end of our ride together but hopefully not our conversation.”

  “Perhaps, but with fewer politics,” she said, forcing her mouth to smile politely.

  “That would be fine with me,” Keeton answered, trying to cut through the new tension. There was something there after all, hinted at by her dress, of outspokenness and independence. Writing those letters, traveling on her own, sharing the cab, and expressing her opinion to a Western stranger. Edgar had mentioned the report from the graphologists, the men and women at CIA who studied handwriting and language patterns. Was Luiza truly a patriot with sympathies toward Kazimierz Paszek or just another disaffected, misguided product of the Iron Curtain? Or worse, a trap?

  “Well, we might meet later on the train,” Luiza said, handing the cabbie several Polish złoty notes, which Keeton recognized as sufficient for their dual fare. “Welcome to Poland, Mr. Lodge.”

  On the curb they divided the luggage and parted quietly. Keeton had decided on a tactical retreat for the time being. The six-hour train ride might provide him a chance for rapprochement later. Their initial encounter had given him a sense for her, but he realized his physical attraction to her—not completely rebuffed, he thought—could interfere with his judgment. His instincts were bouncing back and forth, which meant he should keep his cover tight until he discerned whether he had just met an ally or an adversary or perhaps just an asset. After the debacle with Eddy, neither Morrison nor Keeton could abide another failure in prudence.