Nighter
Page 1
Table of Contents
Nighter (The Vesper Series, #1)
Operation “Faust”
Illegal Blood
The Bunker
Asymmetric war
Recruitment
The Capitol
Convoy
Renegade
About The Author
About The Publisher
Footnotes
Nighter
The Vesper Series #1
By Magdalena kozak
All material contained herein is Copyright © Magdalena Kozak 2017.
All rights reserved.
Paperback ISBN: 978-0-473-41902-8
eBook ISBN: 978-0-473-41903-5
Written by Magdalena Kozak
Published by Cheeky Kea Printworks
Cover Art by Piotr Cieśliński, Dark Crayon Design
Typography by Dark Crayon Design & Cheeky Kea Printworks
Translated to English by Monika Wiklik
Edited by EV Proofreading & Cheeky Kea Printworks
For more works by this publisher, please visit:
www.ckprintworks.com
For more works by this author, please visit:
www.vesperseries.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system without prior written permission of the Author. Your support of Author’s rights is appreciated.
The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental, or used in the form of parody.
“I, Republic of Poland citizen, aware of Internal Security Agency Officer’s duties, swear to: serve the Nation faithfully, protect order set by Republic of Poland’s Constitution, protect Nation’s safety and its citizens, risking my own life if necessary. While fulfilling duties entrusted to me, I swear to obey the law diligently, remain faithful to Republic of Poland’s constitutional organs, obey function’s discipline, as well as honor, dignity and good name of service, and obey professional work ethics”
Internal Security Agency (ABW) Oath of Service
24th May 2002, Statute on Internal Security Agency and Intelligence Agency (Dz. U. Nr 74, poz 676);
Art.47. pt. 1
Operation “Faust”
Internal Security Agency
Central Training Facility in Emów
Nadwislanczykow Street, 05-462 Wiazowna
Jerzy Arlecki stared at the red sign with white letters, under which squatted a white, crowned eagle. He rubbed his chin absentmindedly and glanced at the watch. Quarter to eight in the morning. He sighed lightly and walked into guardhouse, taking out his wallet. After pulling out his ID and agency identification, he handed them to sleepy guard. The man simply nodded and noted something in the register without saying a word. He stopped suddenly, then took out another register and read over it, comparing data. He raised his eyes at the applicant after a moment, and shook his head.
“That’s not here,” he said, closing the ledger. “That’s not that training.”
Arlecki muffled a sigh. The same game again, testing an applicant’s mental resistance. They submitted him to such a test the first time at Internal Affairs, in the Administration Ministry’s hospital on Woloska Street, when he did his psychological testing. The lady doctor kept insisting that he lied while filling out the questionnaire, and he defended himself with all his might. He finally got out of it, somehow. Afterward, he found out he’d passed the test. Everyone who apologized and admitted to a slightest mistake was thrown out on the street. ISA officers often find themselves in difficult situations. They didn’t need sensitive ones.
“Better check your ledger again,” he told the guard, “I have the order.” He took another document from his wallet and put it on guardhouse windowsill. “The address checks out? The time, too? So, I am here for training. Better let me in, before I’m late and trouble starts. I promise, you’ll get chewed, too.”
The other one glanced at the new paper, then shook his head decisively. He pulled Arlecki’s documents, put his hand through the little window and waved them hurriedly.
“The White Intelligence Office, Section Three, has its own training facility,” he replied unmoved. “Nadwislanczykow Street Three A, and”—he accented ‘and’ strongly—“it says so right here.” His expression seemed to say “Moron!”
Jerzy scrunched his brow in disbelief.
“About face, right and then across the woods. Better go before it’s too late or there will be trouble,” the guard threw out mockingly. “Before I get chewed out...”
Arlecki stared at the order carefully. There really was a hieroglyph by the address, which, with a little bit of good will, could be considered “3a”. In the document header were the letters WIO III, which he had thought was the training type. But... it turns out this was his new assignment? He scrunched his brows in astonishment. The Office of Analysis and Information, which takes care of White Intelligence, was located on Rakowiecka Street. He’d never heard they had any branches. Well, he didn’t hear about many things in this company. And probably wouldn’t hear many more either...
He growled something inappropriate under his breath, turned around and walked to the car briskly. He jumped behind the wheel, and started the car. He turned in the pointed direction, the particularly bumpy road that would lead him across the woods. He glanced at the watch hands. There was only five minutes until eight. Great, he was going to be late, and at the very beginning of his stunning counterintelligence career.
He finally arrived at a metal gate, bitten by rust here and there. He stopped the car right in front of it and got out, looking around. The area seemed particularly unfriendly; trees and bushes with haunting, leaf-less branches, molted grass laying pathetically down under them. On top of that, a March drizzle was coming down, and the heavily clouded sky seemed to hang right over the treetops.
Arlecki ran his hand over his buzz-cut dark hair, gathering wetness from them. He walked up to a door neighboring the gate, where a once red, now brownish, sign hung. He leaned his head over, trying to read the unclear letters.
“Internal Security Agency. White Intelligence Office, Section III,” he deciphered finally.
He nodded and pushed the door. It squeaked, but opened without any particular issues. He was slightly surprised—an entrance without guards? But he didn’t have much time for musing, so he extended the hand with the remote toward his car. It beeped in answer, blinking its lights. Arlecki started a brisk walk up the winding path between the trees, glancing at the watch every few moments. It was already five after eight when he arrived at small, gray building, stuck into a thick hedge. He ran up the few stairs, put his hand on a brass handle, pressed it, and pushed huge, wooded door. He found himself in a small foyer. A guard yawned in his post on the left.
“Yeees?” the officer said reluctantly, lifting his eyes. “What is it?”
Jerzy pulled his wallet out immediately, and papers from within it, and glanced at them, just to make sure, before handing them to the guard. The man stared at the papers for a while, then nodded.
“Training... mhmm,” he said, hiding another yawn. “Fresh meat, well, well... Come in!” He pushed a button opening large, steel door and motioned his head in its direction.
“I have a car at the gate...” Arlecki protested. “Maybe I should drive it in?”
“You’re already late” the other growled suddenly. “Would you like to wait for them to chew you out? Someone will take care of your car... Maybe.”
Jerzy nodded quickly and entered. He swept the hall with his eyes, equally gloomy and shabby as the whole area.
I’m already regretting this whole affair, he thoug
ht bitterly. I wanted to play Bond, damn it. Was it so bad at my old position?
He clenched his lips. Yes, it was bad, very bad even. No matter what, he would try not to go back there. And so far here, in the ISA, wasn’t so bad. Even despite the boring trial stage and no guarantees it would be different now.
A man wearing a worn out, brown sweater and blue jeans ran down the stairs. He walked up to Jerzy and extended his hand.
“Welcome to Section Three!” he said in a very professional voice. “I’m Captain Morawski, and I’ll be your training officer. We rarely accept new people, so I hope you will prove your use to our purposes.”
“Private Arlecki,” Jerzy replied, shaking his hand. “I will do whatever I can,” he added, hoping it sounded adequately eager.
The other man nodded.
“Come in,” he threw out, and started down the hallway, to the right. “As I understand, you already passed the trial stage, and took your oath?” he asked, without even turning around.
“Yes, of course,” Jerzy confirmed eagerly, following him and looking around.
Nothing specific caught his attention. A row of wooden doors stretched along both sides of the hallway, marked only with numbers, without any signs. A weak bulb light barely brightened the reigning semi-darkness. The wooden floor, covered with paled, purple carpet, squeaked in rhythm with their steps.
“What did you do, during your trial stage?” Morawski continued.
Arlecki barely controlled his reluctance.
“The same as what I think I’ll be doing here, I assume.” He sighed involuntarily. “White Intelligence. Gathering information from widely available sources. In short, I sat online for hours and pulled out all the nonsense...”
“White Intelligence is the basis of information gathering,” Morawski interrupted him dryly. “And without it, there could be no discussion of any field operations.”
He stopped at door marked twelve, and turned around and looked at his new employee carefully.
“Everyone would like to be James Bond,” he said with a mocking note in his voice. “You as well?” Malicious sparks glistened in his eyes.
Jerzy shrugged.
“I worked as a medical rep in a pharmaceutical company before,” he replied shortly. “Strictly speaking, I was a medical salesman. I can’t imagine a job further away from Bond’s adventures than the one my previous employer offered me...”
“Here, here is your work station,” the captain cut him off, entering the room.
Arlecki slipped in right behind him. He swooped his eyes over his new life.
The small room had dirty, graying walls without any pictures. Four wooden desks, with outdated computers screens that took up nearly half the desk surface. Spinning chairs, definitely far beyond the “new smell” stage were in front of the desks. The fringed rug was green for a change.
“And where are the other workers?” Jerzy glanced at his supervisor questioningly.
“They’re running. The morning workout is at eight,” the captain explained. “Then breakfast at nine. We start work at nine thirty. You, sir, just arrived, so all these pleasures just missed you.”
They were both silent for a moment.
“Lunch is at two,” Morawski said finally. “Then work again at three, until six thirty. Dinner at seven. Then evening activities, usually shooting. Lights out at ten.”
“Every day is the same?” Jerzy asked incredulous. “You live here; eat, sleep and work over and over again?”
“You agreed to work in a barracks system, didn’t you, sir?” Morawski threw out at him reluctantly. “Sundays are free. But you need a pass to go out into town,” he added.
What town, Arlecki sighed internally. There were just woods all around, some forty miles to Warsaw... besides, who needed a pass? For that rusty, unguarded gate? But he didn’t say anything. A brilliant Polish James Bond career seemed even less real, his naïve dreams falling apart into pieces under the harsh reality. But, at least he wouldn’t have to kiss those damn doctors’ butts, convincing them that the drug produced by his employer was worthy of their venerable attention. At least he wouldn’t have to do that again, and he would regain some self-respect. Just a little bit.
Suddenly he caught captain’s taxing look.
“You are supposed to be a really good diver?” Morawski asked with rather obvious interest.
Arlecki nodded.
“I used to be,” he said. “A long time ago.”
All in the past.
Coach’s face swam up before his face, out of the past. Jerzy had issues with the coach, and when the opportunity knocked, the coach blocked his access to the national team. As a young athlete, he couldn’t take it, and punched him with his one and only right hook, ending his participation in any competition that way. Jerzy stole a sigh. A whole life full of senselessly wasted chances. Even now, he would be stuck in some shabby, tiny room in the middle of nowhere, with his eyes locked on the computer screen. For the Motherland’s glory though.
“Well, let’s go,” the captain said, regaining a cool expression. “We’ll move on to the next building, which houses the living quarters. You’ll unpack and settle in. Oh, and would you move your car? It’s blocking the gate.”
Arlecki nodded pathetically.
“Yes, sir!” he said, trying to hide his disappointment.
When he started work, his colleagues—two male and one female—greeted him noncommittally. They weren’t especially warm, but they didn’t send a repelling chill either. They introduced themselves briefly: Maria, Staszek, and Wojtek. They were all lieutenants, so they began to order the private around shamelessly, appointing him to the lofty task of coffee making. Luckily, they skipped official titling, and allowed him to call them by their names.
Jerzy didn’t really protest. He would get an officer’s rank only after training, such was the process adapted in ISA. But what kind of training was it, and what would he learn here? Digging through the web? Coffee making? It was so pointless, he wanted to howl.
He nearly laughed bitterly, when he read an official email from Morawski giving him his first task. Section Three had been diligently working for years on gathering and the classification of different beings’ ability to camouflage themselves, not excluding fantasy and literary beings, in a human environment. Currently, Private Arlecki was instructed to research all aspect of a potential vampire existence in modern society.
He shook his head in disbelief, reading the message over a second, and then a third and fourth time. He finally decided that the assignment was another test... besides, he had expected something like that from the very beginning. Even while he was in the trial stage, the officers asked questions, where they already knew the answers, and observed how he managed to find the information. And then with harder tasks, gathering information together and creating somewhat sensible notes. He had to admit though, that none of his previous assignments made as little sense and this one. Vampires, they had some idea, really...
The smile dropped from his face after another thought. Perhaps his new colleagues were checking how he managed in extreme uncertainty, bordering on the absurd, even. How subordinate and flexible he was, how ready to fill the most idiotic orders. It wasn’t some job anymore, but a service in special circumstances, and he had to fulfill his task as best as he could. Even if it was research on dwarf diplomatic protocol.
Captain Morawski suggested, in his email, that Jerzy take to filling gaps in his knowledge as quickly as possible. There was something on his desk, that his colleagues called “starter”... a few DVDs. Jerzy glanced over the covers. Nosferatu by Murnau, from 1922, Fisher’s Dracula from 1958, Buñuel’s Nazarin from 1959. All to be watched this evening, and more promised for tomorrow. Mandatory reading on top of that: The Bride of Corinth by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, The Vampyre by John William Polidori, and La Guzla by Prosper Mérimée.
Arlecki stole a sigh. Well, beginnings were never easy. As his cardiologist from Woloska Street used to say, “A
young doctor has to be like a bulldog. Once he bites in, he won’t let go.” Apparently, a young officer had to be like that as well.
Oh well. They wanted vampires, they could have them. He’d find whatever he’d be able to. He would dig Vlad Tepes’ full story out, and even throw in virtual tour of his capital, Târgovişte.
Wait, wait, a bright thought clicked on in his mind. In December 1989, in Târgovişte, the communist dictator Nicolae Ceauşescu was killed along with his wife. Maybe there was some political action brewing with Romania? Maybe our people would play some unusual card, and they just needed data for that? Well, this could at least be something worth looking at...
Arlecki googled “Târgovişte” and got to work with enthusiasm.
“Vampires camouflage themselves in different ways,” Maria stated the next day with conviction. “Technological advances allow them to do so nearly perfectly.”
Jerzy didn’t answer, sneaking a rub on his pained legs. The morning workout had kicked his butt. The only sport he had done so far in his life was diving, but he had given that up long time ago. Since then, he led the non-dynamic life of a bookworm, spending the majority of his time behind his desk, or behind the wheel. He paid for it now; his physical condition was particularly pitiful. He grimaced in the fresh air. During today’s morning workout, he had thrown up after third mile, however his training officer didn’t plan to make it any easier for him. He forced him to run the full five miles, then finished him off with a set of squats, pushups, and sit-ups. The other functionaries had already gone in for breakfast, while the captain spoke in Bogusław Linda’s voice, “What the fuck do you know of tiredness?” (Footnote 1) and sarcastically added, “Mr. Arlecki,” before giving out another command. Jerzy started to hate him. Him and everyone around.
His tyrant had finally finished and left, shaking his head in visible disgust. The fresh recruit dragged himself to his room somehow, barely alive, without a shred of desire for breakfast. His stomach still performed sudden flips, and overworking it was the last thing he wanted to do.