The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  The sputtering engine of the taxi pulled them around the expansive Błonia Park and then south across the Wisła River by way of the Dębnicki bridge while Keeton followed along with his tourist map. After fifteen minutes the driver pulled the car up to the curb at the entrance to a park that bordered Emil Serkowski Plaza. Keeton stepped out and paid the driver, immediately noting the Hotel Serkowski directly across the street. Right away he was inclined to use the hotel as a second base of sorts, at least until the Star dead drop was completed.

  He turned and entered the park. Lionel’s instructions had read, MAIN PATH TO BENCH BETWEEN FLOWER GARDENS. 1X1 STONE WITH STAR EMBLEM. He easily located the wrought-iron bench and behind it, as part of the base of a small fountain, a brick stamped with a five-pointed star. The foliage surrounding the area was not as dense as he would have liked for clandestine work, but then again its sparseness would allow him to watch the location from one of the rooms at the Serkowski.

  Keeton checked all the angles around the location. He figured that after the drop he’d leave by one of the paths that led north toward the river. As he walked back in the direction of the hotel he counted and logged the windows that would suit his purpose of surveillance. Any of those facing north on second, third, or fourth floors—if there was the vacancy.

  When Keeton entered the small lobby of the Hotel Serkowski he was immediately greeted by a well-dressed elderly man who welcomed him and asked how he could be of service to Keeton. After that, their communication faltered. In Polish Keeton began to ask for a room with a view of the park but found himself miming and pointing in place of the translated words he did not know.

  “Do you speak English?” Keeton asked hopefully. The man replied with an apologetic smile and a shake of his head.

  “Sprechen sie Deutsch?” Keeton asked. The man’s eyes narrowed, his mouth turned down, and his head shook vigorously.

  “Maybe I can help you,” a man’s voice said behind Keeton as he was about to ask for a pen and paper to draw up his request. Keeton turned around.

  The man was considerably younger than Keeton—perhaps even still a teenager—but tall and rangy. He wore a red coat and affixed to his lapel was a name tag.

  “My name is Olek. I am a—bellboy, I think is the word—here at the Hotel Serkowski. The man behind the desk is the owner, and he’s my grandfather, Dawid Budny. Welcome, sir.” He made his way around to the opposite side of the desk as he spoke. At the sound of his name, the elder Budny smiled and bowed slightly. Keeton returned the gesture.

  “Your English is very good,” Keeton said to Olek. “Better than my Polish.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Olek answered. “I am studying at the university—business and languages. I work here for my grandfather when I can, and I hope to someday run my own hotel for international tourists.”

  “Well, my name is Toby Lodge, and I’m from London, so maybe your future career has already started. I was just trying to tell your grandfather that if possible I’d like a room that overlooks the park,” Keeton said. “It’s very beautiful, and if the view goes out to the river that would be even better. I’m afraid I don’t have a reservation, but I do have British pound notes and even American dollars if you prefer.”

  Olek laughed. “That’s quite amazing. Not the currency that you offered, although we might accept it after all—no, I meant that you are the second gentleman today who asked for a room looking over the park.”

  Keeton’s pulse quickened. “That is quite an unusual coincidence. It sounds like I’m not the only person who admires the park. Another international tourist?” Keeton had been struck by Olek’s openness and optimism, but now it was time to leverage him into an asset.

  “That’s difficult to say,” Olek answered. “But I don’t believe so. He claimed to be from Warsaw.”

  “Wait a minute,” Keeton said as he snapped his fingers. “I’m a reporter for a newspaper in London. I have a colleague who was stationed in Warsaw and recommended your hotel when I told him I was coming to Krakow. He takes the train here often. I wonder if he came back here today? Wouldn’t that be something?”

  “Could it be?” Olek said as he was taken up into the faux adventure.

  “Tall and thin, like you?” Keeton asked.

  Olek’s face suddenly fell. “Tall, yes, but stocky.”

  Keeton mimicked the look of concern. “Anything else special about his appearance that I might recognize?”

  “His mustache,” Olek answered immediately. “He had a very impressive mustache.”

  Keeton shook his head sadly. “Oh, I’m afraid that’s not my friend Neville at all. I suppose we could check the hotel registry, just to be sure.”

  “Of course, what was I thinking?” Olek said in embarrassment. He gathered the white leather book that was kept at the desk and began scanning it. “Let’s see, here it is…this morning, about nine o’clock…here, at nine-ten…no, the name is Tusk—Bronisław Tusk.”

  Keeton shrugged in resignation. “Well, mystery solved, I guess. That’s definitely not my friend. It’s just a strange coincidence. You wouldn’t happen to have a second room with the park view, I suppose?”

  Olek held up a finger and checked a paper diagram of the building. Apparently the frugal Budnys used and reused the diagram, and it was so heavily marked Keeton could not decipher the occupancy of the place from the other side of the desk and upside down.

  “Well, Mr.…Lodge?…yes, I do have a room facing out to the park. However, it’s on the fourth floor, and I’m afraid our old elevator only goes to the third. But the view is just as you requested.”

  “I’m in decent enough shape, I think,” Keeton said with a smile. “That is, as long as I don’t have to be jealous of Mr. Tusk.”

  “You don’t,” Olek answered. “In fact, your room is directly above his, so you can see the park and the river even better. Is that OK?”

  “That’ll do fine,” Keeton nodded as he pulled out a sheath of British notes and handed several over to Olek. “Two nights, please. No wait, make it three if possible. Unfortunately, somehow my suitcase was misplaced on the train from Warsaw. I don’t have a lot of confidence I’ll see it again.”

  “No problem,” Olek said, extracting a sheet of paper from a drawer. “I have an uncle who is an excellent…uh, men’s clothes…”

  “Haberdasher,” Keeton said.

  “Yes, yes,” Olek answered as he wrote the name and address of his uncle’s shop. He then gave the paper and the room key to Keeton. “Tell him I sent you—he will treat you well.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Budny,” Keeton said as he shook Olek’s hand, then the elder Budny’s, who had sat silently while his grandson attended to Keeton. “I’ll take a look at the room and then make my way to see your uncle. Good day.”

  With that, Keeton slung the satchel back over his shoulder and walked across the lobby to the elevator. Another young man sat inside it waiting for patrons. Keeton flashed three fingers, with several złoty notes held out in his other hand. On the ride up to the third floor, Keeton thought about what the next day and the dead drop in the park would bring. One way or another he was determined to find out whether Bronisław Tusk was an innocent bystander, an asset of MI-6, or Keeton’s opposite number.

  Chapter 6. Dead Drop

  In the convoluted tapestry of the spy game an agent must contend with the persistent threats of double crosses, double agents and double reverse psychology. Staying ahead of one’s adversary is an ever-present challenge.

  Keeton carefully peeled back the cloth curtain with one finger and peered out to the park across the street from the Serkowski. The lights of his fourth-floor room were off. He was dressed in a new set of clothes, including black slacks and polo shirt and a charcoal-gray rain jacket. The other items—a complete other outfit and a large leather duffel bag—sat on the bed. It was nearly midnight.

  After checking into the Serkowski earlier, he had caught a cab back to the Hotel Royal by way of Piotr Budny’s habe
rdashery. His room at the Royal had indeed been undisturbed by both servant and spook. After retrieving and storing the Star envelope in his satchel—he had resisted including the gun to bring along—he’d dined in the Royal’s elegant restaurant, with instructions to the desk to once again avoid his room. Then he had commenced the trek back to the Serkowski on foot, stretching the twenty-minute walk into nearly an hour and a half by stopping at various small shops and at the Muzeum Etnograficzne, where he had yet another occasion to marvel at the rich history and proud culture of the Poles.

  Now Keeton turned away from the window and walked past the remains of a tea set that had been delivered after his return, compliments of the proprietors. It was just the stimulant he needed for the late-night activity. He picked up the trilby hat, the new one, and silently entered the hall and made his way down the three flights of stairs to the dimmed lobby. Olek was sitting behind the desk in a wooden swivel chair, sleeping. Keeton softly knocked on the counter.

  Olek’s head snapped forward, and his eyes opened and begrudgingly focused. “Yes, yes? Oh, it’s you, Mr. Lodge. Do you need something?”

  “First, thank you for the tea,” Keeton said graciously. “It was delicious. But I’m afraid I’m rather wide awake now and thought a brief walk in the fresh air might settle me. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not,” Olek answered with a deep yawn. “The lobby will be unlocked, and your room key will let you into the stairwell. It is safe, but one should always take care.”

  “I will, Olek. And I won’t disturb you again.” Keeton waved and put on the trilby as he headed toward the front door. Olek wasted no time settling back into the chair and letting gravity get the best of his eyelids again.

  Keeton decided to walk north and then cross over at the far end of the park, considering the lack of streetlights on that route to be superior for his purposes. He found the north entrance and entered the park, fixing his eyes on the lamp near the fountain and the dead-drop location. When he was just outside the arc of light thrown by the lamp he stopped, readying himself for action by pulling the Star envelope from the inside pocket of the jacket and drawing a deep breath. He detected nothing. However, just before stepping into the light he heard a sound—laughter and a few words in Polish. He stood still and did his best to keep his visual senses honed by avoiding the lamp directly.

  The silhouette of movement appeared to his right, then materialized into a young couple, arm in arm in the midnight summer stroll reserved for lovers. The girl walked with her head resting on her boyfriend’s shoulder. The boy led her around to the bench near the brick with the star pattern, and they sat to talk and to kiss. For a moment Keeton recalled his own romances in younger days, only to realize how fleeting they’d been after he had finished college and enlisted in the army. After a bit of nasty fighting in Korea he was approached by an intelligence officer named Don Morrison and soon after found himself back in the States training for his future as a field agent for the CIA’s—really Morrison’s—so-called Cavalry.

  The boy had skipped over to one of the adjacent gardens and returned with a flower, which he placed gently into the folds of the girl’s hair. Young fool, Keeton thought. He was not so much embittered or jealous as annoyed. He thought nothing good could come from this mission inside a mission that had been forced on him by MI-6. At the very least there was a good chance someone going by the name of Bronisław Tusk was planning to watch him make the drop in the morning. This was something Keeton could not abide and that prompted him to make the drop early and hope to turn the tables on Tusk, or whoever might make the pick-up. Something else besides MI-6 network building was at hand, and professional pride made him want to know more, despite any danger.

  Keeton’s patience finally disappeared and he walked into the light and toward the bench with the lovers, intentionally scuffing the path to be noticed. The couple’s heads turned to him.

  “Dobry wieczor,” Keeton said softly. Good evening. He said it slowly and menacingly and then walked past them a few steps before turning back and pretending to write something on the envelope. He stared at them a few more seconds and went behind and away from the fountain. When he stopped in the darkness again and looked back, the couple was hurrying down the path that led out to Serkowski Street.

  After they were out of sight, Keeton quickly made his way back to the one-by-one brick, which, as expected, came up easily to reveal the cavity into which he deposited the Star envelope. A moment later the brick was back in place, and his job for Lionel was done. Now he could decide how much more involved he would be in its aftermath.

  He smiled in spite of himself and the cruel reality of Iron Curtain repression. Hopefully whatever he had just relayed to the MI-6 asset in Poland was worth the brief unpleasantness he had caused the young couple. He knew from experience that the odds of this being so were even, at best.

  ***

  Jakub did not relish killing, exactly. It was not so much a question of enjoyment of the act itself but rather the satisfaction in doing his job to certain standards of professionalism. To this mark Jakub held himself steadfastly and expected others to do the same.

  Take the SB agent named Slaski, for instance, who now writhed and fought under Jakub’s weight and his iron-clad choke hold. He was only slightly less the buffoon than his underling Borys Gomulka. Even in these last moments of existence, the pathetic Pole could only manage a panicked, impotent defense—he would die with only the certain knowledge that Jakub had spotted him in the town square, found him utterly wanting in utility as an ally, and thus drew up a plan that would include his murder and the careful framing of one of the unwitting cast: Kozlow, or the seminarian who was to be at Kozlow’s dinner party, or perhaps even Gomulka. All of this Jakub had relayed to Slaski by way of courtesy, a substitute for the ordinary executioner’s blindfold or cigarette.

  Jakub was no ordinary executioner. Once he had decided Slaski’s fate, he had set about meeting him face-to-face, only barely under the guise of a KGB operative attached to the highest echelon of the SB. As expected, Slaski had fallen immediately under the spell of perceived authority, divulging the current status of the SB surveillance of Bishop Paszek and even of the concerns with Gomulka’s commitment to the state’s efforts against him. It had taken only two hours and two bottles of vodka to learn what there was to know. This had been followed by the promise of reward and an offer to toast their collaboration at Jakub’s apartment, which, of course, had turned out to be an empty flat chosen to do the deed in. The electricity still worked in the small room, and a single overhead bulb afforded them their only light…

  “I think you will find me an able assistant in our fight against the bishop and his church,” Slaski had said with his hand extended toward Jakub.

  “My dear Slaski, I have no doubt about it,” Jakub had answered, noting that even so dim a wit as the man before him had begun looking around uneasily. Jakub had ignored the gesture.

  “So, in what role may I be of most help?”

  “The easiest of all, Slaski.”

  “I…I assume this location is some sort of safe house, then?”

  “Safe. For me.”

  “Jakub, you’re being very mysterious. Pardon my directness, but why are we here?”

  “You’re about to assume your part in my plan. You know, my superiors in Moscow are convinced that the SB can help us fulfill our strategic purposes. I’ve protested, vigorously, to no avail.”

  “Moscow? Jakub, I…”

  “A lesser agent would’ve tolerated your incompetence far longer, perhaps past the point where the mission could still be salvaged.”

  Jakub had watched Slaski shuffle into position to reach for the gun that was holstered on his belt against the small of his back. Well, he’s in the Polish clandestine service, isn’t he? The least Slaski could do was try to respond to his own failure, a reaction that the KGB man could appreciate. The point beyond which any pretense was useful having been passed, Jakub had smoothly drawn the small
suppressed pistol from his jacket and pointed it at Slaski’s heart.

  “Jakub, what are you doing? What’s this talk of Moscow? You…are you…?”

  “Take off your coat slowly, and turn around. Any action that deviates even slightly from my orders will result in five bullets being fired into you. There. I’m going to pull your revolver from its holster. Be perfectly still…Now turn around and face me.”

  “Who are you, really?”

  Jakub had then proceeded to give Slaski the truth, prompting the Pole through fits of anger, crying, silence, pleading, and finally the desperate attempt to escape. Jakub had decided before the episode had begun to avoid shooting if possible. He had caught Slaski and after a brief struggle had him pinned to the floor, completely dominating him by leverage, strength, and sobriety…

  Now finally the flailing and the airless shrieking ceased, and the SB man lay still, expired. The dead man’s eyes stared up at Jakub, and his expression was a mixture of surprise and placidity. It was only at that instant that Jakub wondered if Slaski had had a wife and children. Probably so, he thought—nothing of solitude for this one or the others of his ilk. She would demand an inquiry from the soft and maternal government and might damned well get it. Under that possibility his best play would be against Gomulka, whose questionable loyalty was on record in Slaski’s official notebook and would make for an easy case. No, he thought, stay with the objective—he needed to frame an ostensible Paszek ally, which at this point still left him Nikodem Winograd, the seminarian, and of course Anatol Kozlow.

  It was just past midnight. The streets around this part of Krakow would be quiet and nearly deserted. He needed to be sure that Slaski’s body would be found and that the SB would deem it a murder. The impenetrably dark alley into which the flat’s main door emptied would be the perfect location to drop him, and the swelling and bruises already evident on the neck would leave no question about what killed Slaski.