Specialist Banks nodded as he lit one for himself. “If I can say so, sir, we might be in for some long days ahead—even more than normal.”
“Long days for sure,” Morrison nodded. Just then the door opened, and Betty appeared with a tray of coffees.
“I figured you’d want these,” she said as she placed the tray on the little table in the center of the office. “The AD will be calling into the secure line in just a moment.”
Bernie Williams, as second in command of the Cavalry and the presumed successor to Morrison, had accepted the informal yet critical title of assistant director and was simply known to most of the staff as the “AD.” Although he usually handled the Cavalry’s overnight operations, he, like Morrison, was in reality at the CIA’s disposal at any crucial time. Now was one of those times.
Morrison and Banks each took a tentative first sip of their coffees. “We’re going to need an immediate reply back just as soon as we finish up with the AD,” Morrison said.
“Of course, sir,” Banks answered. “We have the machine ready downstairs with the 77 disk in place. It should only take—”
The buzz of the phone interrupted the specialist. Morrison punched the flashing white button and then turned the intercom switch to ON. “Afternoon, Bernie. Sorry to ruin your day.”
“I was afraid the call wasn’t so you could wish us happy anniversary,” Williams said with a bit of forced humor. “Thanks for the wine, by the way. Dorothy’s favorite.”
“You’re going to need something stronger. This is ugly.” Morrison then proceeded to read the teletype message from Lionel.
“Son of a bitch,” Williams growled. “You think this is solid stuff?”
“We both know Lionel wouldn’t have sent it otherwise,” Morrison said. “Odd thing, though. It’s very short and sweet and even has a couple of misspelled words. Not like Lionel. It’s as if he was in a hurry, but this news is too big to rush it, and he’s usually more careful.”
“Agreed,” Williams said. “Probably need Banks to fire off a response and ask for confirmation.”
“Banks is here, and you’re on the intercom,” Morrison answered. “I want to agree with you, but…well, there’s something not quite right. I’m not sure we should answer back just yet. Even so, I guess we don’t have a choice.”
The office door opened again, and Betty carried in another teletype strip. “Veronica just received this—she thought you needed to see it immediately,” she whispered as she handed it to Morrison. Her face and tone portended more bad news.
“Hang on a second, Bernie,” Morrison said. “A new incoming scrambled egg. Well, damn—this explains Lionel’s sloppiness, all right. Listen to it: ‘Runner assaulted Mayfair Station. Bound for hospital. Request any recent traffic from Runner.’ It’s signed TWIST—that’s Lionel’s boss, by the way. What a shit storm.”
“I second that,” Williams said. “No other details?”
Morrison looked over Lionel’s message again.
NULL77
START
URGENT IMMED DELIVERY
FROM LON STATION 4
RE: ALERT. SLEEPER SUSPECTD
MI6 CODE NAME LINK. RECO TAKE ACTON ASAP
RUNNER
“Not from these, no. The first one’s a 77, so it took a few extra minutes to get it set up over here. Banks?”
“Probably typed in about thirty minutes ago, sir.”
“Got that, Bernie? The one from Twist came through the normal route as urgent—time stamp is only about ten minutes old. Lionel must’ve been attacked while he was getting the 77 ready or right after. Either way he was able to get it off to us and then somehow got help—phone, alarm system, who knows? Twist doesn’t say how bad Lionel’s hurt, but at least they’ve got him going for medical.”
“OK then,” Bernie said. “So replying to Lionel is no use. What about Twist?”
Morrison blew a cloud of smoke up toward the ceiling. “Good question. Lionel’s been feeling mighty alone over there—the atmosphere in London’s pretty poisonous. We all know it’s chaos in MI-6 since Allen was killed, and now we’re being told it’s on our doorstep, too. Damned Link.”
Banks spoke up. “Sir, may I ask about Link? I assume that’s a British asset?”
Morrison shook his head grimly. “Nope. One of ours, Link is just their code name for him.” Then he crushed out his cigarette and sat back into the thick leather chair.
One of ours. Over there, in Poland. Keeton’s in danger, and there’s no way to warn him.
***
The training team back at Camp Peary called it “secondary linguistic distinction,” the ability to detect when a native speaker of one language was posing as a native speaker of another, and Keeton was exceedingly skilled in the technique. As an autodidact with a penchant for languages and accents he had adopted front-line covers requiring native fluency in British English, French, German, Russian, and several of their regional dialects. Many of his counterparts, both friendly and hostile, had done the same. To do it well—meaning to do it in a way that kept you alive—took talent and study. To detect the subterfuge was a skill rarer yet.
Keeton’s training had activated automatically. For the last few months he had studied Polish on his own, not to mention the recent drills and exercises from Pawel Szwedko at Peary. Jakub had apparently received extensive training as well. It was when Jakub had spoken in English that Keeton had registered the nuances—the pronunciation of the ch sounds, the reduction of the unstressed vowels, and the stress-timed rhythm that the English language shared with Russian but not with Polish—that had told him Jakub was likely an impostor, a Russian one.
Now they were seated at dinner—a seventh and mismatched chair having been conjured from elsewhere in Kozlow’s apartment suite—with the additional preliminaries and a few toasts out of the way. In deference to their host it had been agreed by all, despite Jakub’s original suggestion, that Polish would be the table’s vernacular, and Luiza would translate to and from Keeton as needed.
“You are a journalist, then?” asked Anna Korzeniak, the reporter for the Krakow Gazette. Keeton reckoned her age as midfifties, meaning she had lived her entire adult life under some form of occupation or sphere of influence.
“Yes,” Keeton answered. “It’s a rather small newspaper in a great big city, London. But we have our niche—that is, our place in the world. My background is economics, so I have a keen interest in the various models of it around the world. I have a modest list here of some of my articles if you’re interested.”
“I’d be interested in seeing the list,” Jakub said before Anna could answer.
Keeton smiled and extracted the prop from his coat pocket. There was a risk in showing the information to them since he’d pivoted the Toby Lodge cover in order to earn Luiza’s trust. Lionel had created the cover to gain sympathy with the communist authorities, not with the commoners faithful to Bishop Paszek.
Jakub read over the paper quickly. “Your biography and your writings suggest that you agree with the Polish authorities on many things and perhaps question the bishop of Krakow’s intentions.”
Keeton shrugged. “Well, yes I think it’s fair to say I’m very skeptical of the Western capitalist systems. They tend to force good people to make questionable choices. As a journalist I try to be objective. Since I’ve arrived here in Poland I’ve concluded that perhaps I’ve misjudged the bishop. I believe he’s less trying to start a revolution than to protect his people and his church from political tensions between the West and the East.”
Keeton watched the others react as Luiza translated. Not surprisingly, the little crowd unwittingly gathered by Kozlow nodded and smiled at Toby Lodge’s positive words about the bishop. All except for Jakub.
“I suppose that’s his business,” Jakub said evenly. “Conversion.”
Keeton smiled. “Well, I’m more interested in finances than faith, but if you’re implying that I’ve gained some admiration of Paszek, I’d say you’re righ
t.”
“Mr. Lodge, I believe your evaluation of our bishop is exactly right,” Nikodem said. “He stands firmly and defiantly before the authorities and makes them examine their own motivations. He is our champion against oppression.”
“Careful, young man,” Łukasz Sobol said. “One must not talk about being against the People’s Republic, even if what is said comes from…let’s say enthusiasm.”
“Of whom should I be afraid?” Nikodem replied.
“There are many to fear,” Jakub said with a hint of ferocity that immediately ebbed. “I mean to say that everyone is aware that Paszek is a lightning rod—a willing one—among our authorities. If he takes on the mantle of hero, so be it. We need not follow him into the fire, eh?”
Kozlow cleared his throat uneasily. “Let the bishop face danger alone, you mean?”
“Not exactly,” Jakub answered. “The people can be supportive of the bishop, but each of us plays our part. We shouldn’t expect a working man who supports a family to be a martyr, after all. But a bishop, whose very life is about sacrifice—that may be another matter. Am I right, Nikodem?”
The seminarian’s face turned from somber to determined. “Yes, I think that is right, Jakub. At some level, yes, and at some point in time perhaps.”
Łukasz spoke up. “If and when it ever comes to that point, the bishop would gladly give his life for any one of us or all of us, for that matter.”
“May that day never come,” Jakub said as he raised his glass of Krupnik. “But if it should come, strength to that man.” The others automatically followed him in the toast.
Keeton detected another glimpse of the self-satisfied smirk on Jakub’s face as they tossed back their drinks. What exactly was he playing at? If Keeton assumed Jakub was Russian, then he had to go all the way and figure he was KGB. If Jakub was KGB and had apparently engineered this gathering through Kozlow, then Keeton should assume Jakub was acting against Schoolboy. Their program was called Echo. At the table this evening there had already been talk about sacrifice and martyrs.
“I suppose it’s easy to drink to another man’s death,” Luiza said suddenly.
“Of course not,” Jakub answered. “I believe we are saying that everyone has a part in it—the state, too, for that matter.”
Luiza’s hands went up. “Parts—what is my part? What is your part?” Keeton moved his foot over discreetly and lightly tapped her leg twice under the table. She looked over at him briefly and swallowed whatever she was about to say.
A moment later there was a knock on the apartment door, and Kozlow let in three uniformed caterers to begin serving the food. The conversation and mood lightened as they began sampling the extravagant courses. As at similar social occasions across the world and throughout time, the discussions touched on the weather, local sports—“TS Wisła? Nie, nie…KS Cracovia!”—the land, schools, and children. There were many compliments about the food and drink, to which Kozlow nodded almost sheepishly. Keeton answered questions to Toby Lodge about London and England as Jakub keenly looked on. Keeton talked about Lodge’s assignment and the need for a photographer to help him capture his story. As the main courses faded toward dessert, more liquor was poured, and the laughter increased.
Keeton kept careful count of Jakub’s consumption, as did Jakub of Keeton’s.
“I was just asking Miss Rolek whether she supports Bishop Paszek or not,” Jakub whispered across to Keeton in English after having directed the question to Luiza in Polish.
“I rather thought so,” Keeton replied. “My Polish is very limited, but the bishop’s name always gets full attention.”
“So it does,” Jakub said evenly and turned back to Luiza. “Miss Rolek?”
“The bishop is a source of pride for many Polish people,” she said fiercely. “It might be said that the state is not quite as favorable toward him as, for instance, young Nikodem here.”
“Quite right,” Jakub answered her and then turned to Keeton again. “But on balance, especially here in the capital of the Polish church, one needs to choose for the bishop, no?”
Luiza hesitated for a few moments. “It’s not always that simple.”
“Well, it seems to be that it always comes down to picking a side,” Jakub said without a smile as his voice flattened.
Before Keeton could tap Luiza’s leg again she answered. “If you insist, then yes, one needs to be on a side!”
“Forgive me for breaking rules about English,” Jakub said with suddenly lightness.
“Not at all,” Keeton said. “Jakub, we spoke earlier of the roles played by everyone, and you seemed to indicate that a man with a family has an obligation to them. Are you married, with children, then?”
Jakub sighed dramatically. “No, I am afraid not. I have my role, too, though. That’s why I’ve chosen to use only my first name tonight, in case you had not noticed.”
“I did notice,” Keeton said with a light laugh. “Call it reporter’s instinct. I suspect Jakub is just a cover name.”
The Russian’s face straightened. “Cover? I…uh…what is cover?”
“Sorry, I mean—well, a disguise then?”
Jakub’s mouth curled in a false smile. “Oh, yes. Disguise. Yes, yes. But look, we are headed for trouble for breaking the rules. No English!” He then playfully shrugged at Kozlow, who had begun to listen to their exchange blankly.
“So, you’d be willing to take some photos for me, then?” Keeton asked Kozlow. “I can pay you the normal rate you’d get in England. One day, two at the most, I should think.”
Luiza translated, and after a few moments of hesitation Kozlow finally nodded but not without a slight glance over in Jakub’s direction. Keeton’s eyes followed to see that Jakub was staring at Luiza with an intensity that could only be ascribed to a seething malice. The game between the three of them—four, if Kozlow was anything more than a pliant pawn—had reached an impasse. Nothing more was to be probed for or offered.
But by no means was the danger abated. Keeton’s mind raced with it and with the opportunities to advance the Schoolboy mission. It would be tricky and uncertain. Jakub suspected Luiza but perhaps not yet Keeton, so proximity to her was an added risk. Keeton knew Jakub’s address, which was an advantage, but he needed to presume that Jakub had enough clout to find him at the Royal. His most immediate concern was putting distance and time between him and Jakub—and then regrettably to cut ties with Luiza.
“Very good, then Mr. Kozlow,” Keeton said, through Luiza again. “Shall I call on you on Saturday morning, say about nine o’clock, here?”
“Tak, tak,” Kozlow answered politely in the affirmative. “Sobota rano.”
Keeton looked at Luiza. “Well, I certainly hate to be the spoilsport here, but I’m afraid I need to turn in for a busy day of sightseeing tomorrow.”
“Of course, Toby,” Luiza answered by way of accepting the out being offered her. “In fact, I have a class in the morning myself.” She then informed Kozlow, which began the series of goodbyes in Polish and broken English. Jakub had taken two steps toward the door, making him the last of the remaining guests to say farewell. After a traditional Polish greeting to Luiza, he turned finally to Keeton.
“Sir, it was an honor to dine and talk with you this evening,” Jakub said as he reached out and took Keeton’s hand. “I hope we may meet again soon.”
“The pleasure was mine, Jakub,” Keeton answered as Kozlow handed him his hat. With that he took Luiza’s elbow and, amid a few final polite calls from the living room, gently led her out of the apartment and down the stairs toward the street.
“Toby, I—”
“Not now,” Keeton interrupted. “Wait until we’re in the car.”
Two minutes later Luiza had just driven them around the first corner away from Kozlow’s flat. “So, what was that?”
“That, my dear, was a very tasty but very tense dinner,” Keeton answered with a slight smile. “I think your instincts about the invitation were correct. All that
talk about politics and the bishop—quite confusing, actually.”
“It was Jakub. I’m not sure what to make of him, except that he’s more than he says. What do you think?”
“Quite a disconcerting fellow, that’s for sure,” Keeton said.
“I don’t trust him,” Luiza said. “He kept trying to get me to say that I support the bishop over the state. Now you see what I mean about being careful about what you say in this country.”
Most of the rest of the drive was silent, save a few whispered assurances between them. When Luiza pulled up to the curb outside of her apartment rather than the Royal, they exchanged glances, then smiles. Without words he followed her up to and into the building, then into her flat. When she closed and locked the door, he pulled her to him, and they kissed.
“If you wouldn’t mind staying a bit…” she began. Keeton kissed her again.
“I’d have it no other way,” he said. “How about a drink to help us recover from the Restaurant Kozlow? By that I mean strong coffee, if you’ve got it.”
Luiza laughed and nodded, then took his hand and led him to a small settee. He sat down and waited as the sounds from the little kitchen behind him let him know that she was starting a pot on the stove. While they waited for the water to heat, she sat next to him and leaned over against his shoulder. They held hands, and he gently kissed her forehead.
It took two full minutes before the percolating water caught their attention. By that time both of them had gotten very comfortable in each other’s arms, lost in their respective thoughts about their situation. Keeton had reconciled himself to the reality that he’d leave Luiza behind for the sake of his mission and for her safety. He felt her pushing up to tend to the water and held her against him.
“What about your coffee?” she asked gently.
“What’s coffee?” he whispered. After they had kissed again, she left him for the kitchen. He leaned back and thought about what to say to her and how to say it. He heard her slide open a window, and the fresh air poured in. When they were back together on the settee, he savored the strong coffee and its promise to lift the residual fog from Kozlow’s vodka and Krupnik.
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 17