The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  What to do with the revolver? He considered simply putting it back into the holster. He could fire it a couple of times in the alley and then set it near the apparent scuffle. But no, the gun was too valuable a potential piece of placeable evidence. So Jakub kept the gun.

  Less than ten minutes after Slaski took his last desperate breath, Jakub was walking away from the alley, confident that one way or the other he had advanced the cause of his nation and of himself. Still, he needed contingencies. Was it not a British or American proverb that said it was better to be safe than sorry? So in the morning he would also send a coded telegram to his English contact, who would in turn place a classified advertisement in one of the London papers.

  The man for whom the message was ultimately meant, who looked for such messages, would thus know that he was to make himself ready and able for a mission in which death would be the outcome.

  ***

  Keeton awoke a full hour before the small mechanical alarm clock began ringing, the watch he had placed on the nightstand next to the bed confirming it was only seven o’clock. He reluctantly flipped back the cotton sheet and swung himself to a standing position wearing the clothes from the night before. When he glanced toward the door he suddenly had a laugh at his own expense. Concerned Olek’s gregarious tongue would somehow reveal his room number, Keeton had erected a rattle trap at the door using a chair and lamp.

  “Amateur,” he said aloud. “I must’ve been pretty sleepy.”

  Fifteen minutes later he had cleaned up in the tiny bathroom but emerged with a shadow of beard. That would fine, at least until dinner with Luiza. He finished dressing and went down to the lobby, waving to the elder Budny as he exited to the street, satchel over his shoulder.

  From the Serkowski he walked to the Cloth Hall at the center of the town square to have breakfast, then back again stationed at the window just before the appointed time for the drop. The nightstand was moved near him and was holding a small notepad and the Minox camera. If Tusk was watching from his own window one floor below, he’d wait for a while—perhaps an hour, Keeton thought—without seeing any action at the drop location before concluding that either Keeton had missed the schedule or had made the drop early. Keeton hoped for the former.

  So he sat and watched and waited and was rewarded. At eleven forty-five a portly man sporting a thick mustache and wearing dark sunglasses walked briskly across Serkowski Street and into the park. It had to be Tusk, Keeton reckoned. He knelt at the window and opened it a few inches and grabbed up the Minox. Tusk walked straight back to the bench and sat down and began reading the newspaper that had been tucked in between his body and one arm. Keeton recognized the demeanor of an agent who was reconnoitering his surroundings and awaiting the right time to act. Keeton was doing the same and took the opportunity to snap several pictures of Tusk.

  After about five minutes Tusk stood and casually walked around the bench to the fountain and found the Star brick. Using the newspaper to shield his actions he suddenly squatted down, pried the bricked up, and slid the envelope into the folds of the newspaper, all in one smooth motion. Just as deftly he replaced the brick, stood, and turned back toward the hotel. Back at the corner, however, a car appeared, and Tusk climbed in and rode away.

  Perhaps this is the end of it, then. His job was done, so let it go. Tusk was taking whatever intel Lionel had sent along with him to a contact or a handler or even to another drop. In any event Tusk was gone and out of Keeton’s life. Why not take a look inside of his room? One way or another, it would serve Lionel right for all the mystery.

  Keeton closed the window and slipped the Minox into his trousers pocket, then quickly dug the tiny lock-pick kit from the compartment of the satchel and headed out of his room and to the stairs. Down on the third floor he approached Tusk’s room slowly and silently. No one else was around at the moment. He lowered himself to the floor and peered through the generous gap under the door that had been left by this old, settled building.

  He smiled. Tusk had apparently left the curtain open so the floor was awash in generous sunlight, and there were no shadows moving inside. Keeton reached up and knocked. No movement. Another knock; again no movement. As he stood he checked for traps. No fibers in the jamb as with his own door at the Royal. He went to work on the lock with his picks and a minute later closed the door behind him and push the bolt into position. He looked for traps on the inside of the door to show he had entered. Curiously, he detected none.

  The bed had been slept in, but the sheets and covers were turned back up—a signal, perhaps. Tusk had left a small duffel bag open on the dresser top, with at least one change of clothes visible inside it. A few toiletries remained on the bathroom sink. Keeton began with the bed, checking first under the pillows, then under the bed along and between the wooden slats. He felt within the bedding and lifted the mattress. Nothing.

  The duffel was next. This was a careful process that started with a quick pat-down of the clothes—he discerned nothing solid hidden within them. He felt for the false bottom and other voids within the structure of the luggage and then for odd or suspicious shapes in the corners and clasps. A popular brand name printed on a silk tag inside seemed to teasingly confirm that this was a standard commercial bag.

  Finally he turned to the dresser itself. Agents needing to exit a hotel room quickly would affix false credentials to the underside of a drawer so that they could open the next drawer below and grab what they needed within moments. He opened the middle drawer and reached inside and up. There were two thin packets taped to the top drawer, which he carefully extracted from the dresser and turned over onto the bed.

  One British passport and one Spanish, Keeton noted. He retrieved the steel letter opener from the tiny writing table and slowly worked the tape up. The British passport was well stamped and typed up as belonging to Mr. Michael Tusker—the face in the accompanying picture contained the same swarthy features that Keeton had observed out in the park but was clean-shaved. He had a London address, and the word BUSINESSMAN had been typed in as his occupation. The same occupation appeared in Spanish in the other passport, with a Siena address belonging to Sr. Mikel Tossel. Keeton placed both passports under the edge of the drawer, opened to their respective identification pages and pulled the Minox from his pocket. He had just finished adjusting the distance dial and taking several pictures of the passports when his senses detected something—a movement or noise that alerted him.

  Then he clearly heard footsteps in the hall and the metallic clinking of a hotel key and brass room tag being extracted from a pocket. Someone was at the door. It was too late to hide or replace the passports and the drawers. The key was pushed into the lock.

  His eyes and mind raced about the room for a weapon—the lamp, the water pitcher, the drawer. Of course—the letter opener.

  ***

  In the few moments Keeton had between the sound of the hotel door being unlocked and Tusk entering, he snatched up the letter opener and silently took the three long strides into the small bathroom. The orientation of the suite was in his favor so that he would see and be behind Tusk first instead of the other way around.

  The door swung open. Keeton heard the shuffling of Tusk’s shoes and the repeated jangle of keys into his pocket. Tusk took two more steps and stopped, a few feet beyond where the bathroom door opened to the bed area. Keeton’s impression of the man was only bolstered now that he was visible close up: shorter than Keeton but large and powerfully built. Keeton could not tell whether he was armed or how. He wore a gray suit of very light fabric, but there was perspiration on his balding scalp and thick neck. He held the sunglasses in one hand and surveyed the room with the overturned dresser drawers and incriminating passport documents.

  Keeton felt his pulse racing with the knowledge that he needed to act before Tusk’s instincts turned his head toward the hiding spot. Tusk could be a Polish operative on the MI-6 payroll, a double agent for the SB, or anything in between. If the former, Keeton thought s
avagely, it would serve Lionel right to plunge the letter opener into Tusk’s neck and upend the entire Star mission—but no, Keeton had been the one whose curiosity forced this encounter, and he felt responsible to somehow bring it to nonlethal finish. Instead, Keeton slipped the opener into his trousers pocket and bounded out of the bathroom.

  The immediate and unavoidable rustle of fabric that always accompanies such an action reached Tusk’s honed senses, and he spun around just as Keeton reached him. They collided and tumbled to the floor in an immediate flurry of fists and knees. Keeton had managed to land on top, but Tusk stood completely upright with Keeton hanging onto his back and then simply shrugged the American into the wall amid a sudden avalanche of plaster. Keeton’s hand closed around the dust and shards, and as Tusk advanced toward him he flung them into Tusk’s face. Tusk grunted loudly and took a mighty but blind swing. Keeton had already ducked the blow and shot down and around to Tusk’s back again. This time he put one arm around Tusk’s neck, secured the hold with his other hand, and pushed his fingers into the man’s rapidly throbbing carotid artery.

  Tusk immediately recognized the move and plunged them both backward against the opposite wall with another loud crash. He tried flipping Keeton but only managed to roll them both to the ground, with Keeton’s advantage strengthened. Tusk clawed at Keeton’s head, but soon the powerful limbs gave way to disorientation and unconsciousness.

  Keeton knew he had only a few seconds before Tusk recovered. He would leave quickly and quietly. But then when he’d gotten to his feet he noticed the Star envelope, torn and opened on one side, peeking from Tusk’s suit pocket. It was a prize too attractive to pass up. He snatched it up and pulled out a single sheet of paper, which contained only a line of typed characters: GED0611SOLDEK/PIORUN. Keeton photographed the paper and then replaced all of the Star material in Tusk’s pocket just as the big man was coming to. The last thing he saw from the hallway as he closed the hotel-room door was Tusk on all fours, shaking his head to clear it.

  Keeton then hurried to the stairs and up to his own room, where he quickly gathered up all of his belongings into the duffel. He left the hotel via a back entrance and walked south for several blocks, away from the river, the bag and satchel strapped over his shoulders. When he was satisfied that he’d put enough space between Tusk and himself, he hailed a taxi back to the Hotel Royal.

  As he lunched on salad and pierogi at the Royal’s restaurant, Keeton reflected on what had just happened. Tusk had gotten a decent look at him, despite being under the duress of a struggle, and had not seemed to recognize him or react. He had considered it a fair chance that Tusk was some kind of MI-6 operative and the Star mission simply a ruse so that the Brits could keep tabs on him in Poland, although for what ultimate purpose he could not discern. If this were the case then Lionel would have certainly sent Tusk a picture of him or a detailed description. Then there was the matter of the code embedded in the Star envelope. The only portion of it that Keeton had any confidence about was 0611—could that be June 11, only three days from today? Then what did the rest of it mean?

  As a field agent Keeton was trained to make decisions on limited information, but the current intelligence equation regarding Bronisław Tusk was too lopsided with unanswered questions for even him. And not to mention this Star business was not his main reason to be in Krakow in the first place. He pushed away the last of the dumplings and tipped back the final swig of beer and reluctantly made the decision to bring in Roy and Morel. They might as well share in the fun. They were to be staying in a little hotel near the train station in Warsaw. He raised his hand for the check, signed it off to his room, and made his way to the front desk.

  “Mr. Lodge, your room will be ready any moment,” the desk clerk announced happily as Keeton approached.

  “Thank you, Szymon,” Keeton said. “And the laundry?”

  “Just delivered, sir,” Szymon answered with a nod. “Is there anything else I can help you with at the moment?”

  “Yes, one thing,” Keeton said. “I have a friend who’s staying in Warsaw. The Metropol, I think. Do you know the place?”

  Szymon thought for a few seconds. “Let me see. Yes, I believe it just opened a few months ago.”

  “I need to get a telegram to him if I can,” Keeton said. “Can you arrange that?”

  Suddenly the clerk’s eyes widened. “Telegram? Oh dear, Mr. Lodge, how could this have slipped my mind? I’m so very sorry. Please forgive me!”

  “What is it, Szymon?”

  “You have received a telegram from Warsaw just this morning. Of course, you’d asked not to be disturbed, so we were holding it for you. I should have—”

  “It’s quite all right,” Keeton said demurely. “May I have it?”

  Szymon was already digging into a file drawer. He fetched the small sealed envelope with the green markings of the Polish telegraphic authority and handed it to Keeton. At that moment one of the hotel’s maids entered the lobby and nodded to Szymon to indicate that Mr. Lodge’s room was ready. Keeton then received the news from the clerk and exited the lobby by way of the elevator.

  Back in his room Keeton inspected the envelope briefly to detect any signs of tampering once the telegram had reached the hotel—it appeared intact. He then opened it and unfolded the paper that contained the message that had been recited and copied in English and then probably transmitted by Morse code.

  08 bm. br.

  To Mr. Toby Lodge, Hotel Royal

  We enjoyed time in Warsaw. Uncle Ed was very nice in recommending the Polonia and says hello. We are off to warmer climes.

  Regards RR

  The telegram was from Romain Roy, of course, ensconced with Jimmy Morel in Warsaw. Now they were on their way to Krakow—in the coded language they used frequently for messages that might be monitored “warmer climes” did not mean the tropics; it meant the place where the danger was likely greater. Keeton smiled at the reference to Edgar, who must have found them and offered them the CIA quarters in the Polonia. He also knew they were coming by rail—the phrase would have read “We are flying off…” if by air—which meant they should be on the overnight train as he had been and should therefore arrive the next morning.

  The timing suited Keeton very well. He would give them the Minox film containing the pictures of Tusk and the passports and the mysterious code, with the hopes they could tie up any loose ends with the Star affair while Keeton himself pivoted his attention back to Schoolboy. He needed to find Anatol Kozlow, which meant hopefully getting the man’s location from Luiza. Having a planned dinner with her as part of the mission was icing on the cake.

  ***

  Normally Jakub would not have reacted to so fortuitous a coincidence as an overheard conversation at a cafe. It had started at a nearby table with a pair of businessmen over a lunch of sandwiches and beer—a worker in one of their offices had reported police activity near her flat, about a dead man found in an alley a block away. The men talked briefly about the unusual event, until their waiter joined in the discussion, at which time Jakub became aware of it behind him. They were indoors, and the sound carried in Jakub’s favor. A few minutes later, as the waiter brought him his black tea and sausage, the KGB man brought it up.

  “Shocking, this murder everyone is talking about,” Jakub said, in perfect Polish. “Not something one would expect in our country—well, not in this city anyway.”

  “I agree, sir,” the waiter answered ruefully. “I happened to hear that the poor man died of strangulation. His wallet was apparently emptied and thrown to the side. Whomever found him and the empty wallet said his name was Slaski.”

  “So, just a common robbery, then?” Jakub asked. The menace he had used with Slaski had changed into a mixture of concerned citizen and gossiper. “I don’t know about that. I heard another man say this morning that perhaps this Slaski was a government official.”

  The waiter leaned in. “Yes, me too. And his hands were scarred. Some say such a thing belongs to one
of the middle bosses in the state police.”

  “Belonged, past tense,” Jakub said with affected pity. “Whatever his profession he was a Polish citizen, after all.”

  “God rest his soul,” the waiter nodded. As he walked away Jakub smiled and sipped his tea. Another believer in spirits who couldn’t bear the awful truth about earthly existence, he thought. Still, these enigmatic folk were somehow strengthened by the thought of sacrifice and suffering, a philosophy that made them at once easier to manipulate and more difficult to defeat. Jakub was resigned that he would never completely understand it, but nonetheless he knew to be careful at the game he was playing. Dealing in death always raised the stakes.

  Five minutes later the businessmen paid and left the café, still murmuring about the incident. Five minutes after that, Jakub asked for his bill, giving the waiter one final false lamentation about Slaski, and walked out into the warm summer sun and began his normal lunchtime route.

  He enjoyed the half-hour leisurely stroll that afforded him the various views of Polish life: merchants, factory men, students, and pensioners. He began at the café on Floriańska, then all the way north past the old fifteenth-century defensive wall and then another mile to Kleparski Park. There, among a thicket of strong oaks, he knelt at an ancient stone marker whose original design had long since worn away. Making sure he was hidden from the view of any fellow daytime pedestrians, Jakub pulled the marker up and peered beneath it. A small yellow envelope beckoned him. He gathered it up and slipped it into his shirt pocket, then replaced the marker and walked back to Prądnicka Street.

  Twenty minutes later he arrived at his second-floor flat, a simple three-room suite with a secure door situated in an obscure building. The spartan living room looked out to the dark, quiet bar across the street where Jakub could get drunk anonymously. It was only five blocks from the alley where he had dumped Slaski’s body. Once he had locked the door again, Jakub did a quick inspection of his apartment—central living room, bedroom, and lavatory—and detected nothing out of the ordinary. Then he pulled a bottle from the small and ancient electric refrigerator and a glass from a nearby shelf and stepped over to the small round table that doubled as desk and occasional dinner spot. He poured himself a generous shot of vodka and pulled the yellow envelope from his shirt pocket.