The Children's War (167 page)

“I went to school in London.” Richard smiled. “Same school as Vogel.”

“Ach.” Spengler nodded and kept the rest of his thoughts to himself.

Richard grabbed van Wije’s papers and led his prisoner out of the interrogation room and down the corridor to the entrance. He signed him out, explaining that the paperwork would follow eventually, and took him up the stairs. He was not interested in offering the man any comfort or calming his fears, quite the contrary, but he found the atmosphere in the cells intolerable. It just seemed all too close for comfort; so, they went to his office.

Richard gestured toward a chair, and his prisoner sat down. Richard offered him a cigarette, but the prisoner, in a fit of newfound confidence, not only refused but asserted that he did not smoke.

“Ah, so you really are an American,” Richard said with a laugh.

“How do you know English?” Van Wije’s voice was muffled a bit by the swelling around his mouth.

“I’m asking the questions,” Richard reminded him as he sat on the edge of his desk and lit his own cigarette. It was a bit of a delicate situation; he did not know whether his office was currently bugged. Probably not, but one could never be sure, so everything he said had to fit into a consistent story. He smoked for a moment and contemplated the man in front of him, trying to size him up. Reasonably cool for one so young, but inexperienced in this sort of thing and rather naive. Profit, the courier had said, that was good. Richard would not have to fight against any ideologies.

“Why did you deviate from your assigned course?” he asked suddenly.

“I didn’t,” the American replied, somewhat surprised.

“The French were paying you?”

“Yes, of course,” he responded with refreshing candor.

“Yet you accepted our money to deliver those goods elsewhere.”

“No! I don’t know anything about that!”

“Don’t lie to me,” Richard growled. “You want to stay alive, don’t you?”

“Yes,” the man answered timidly. “Honestly, I did exactly as I was told by . . . by the people I work for in America.”

“And who are they?”

“I don’t know their names,” the man answered wretchedly. “I don’t suppose you do,” Richard agreed, to the obvious relief of his prisoner. “They’ve set you up, betrayed you, and tried to betray me.”

“I . . . I’m sorry, if . . .”

“Never mind. All’s well that ends well. All you have to do is carry out the original deal. I’ll forgive this little diversion, except of course, you’ll accept your life in lieu of payment.”

The man looked miserably confused. He hesitated, afraid of speaking, but finally he ventured, “I don’t understand what I should do.”

Richard smiled at him benevolently. “Don’t worry, all will be made clear. When you’ve done exactly what you’re supposed to, you’ll be able to go home and kiss your wife and children, walk your dog, and watch your baseball games on television.”

The man nodded. He was divorced, had no children, loathed dogs, and did not follow baseball, but he said none of these things.

Richard scribbled something on a bit of paper and handed it to van Wije, removing his handcuffs as he did so. “Go to this hotel, it’s just across the street and down to the right about a hundred meters. Register using these papers you were carrying. I’ll have the secretary clear you, so you won’t have any trouble. Do you know enough words to register for a room?”

The man looked dubious.

“Never mind. They’ll be expecting you. Just put your papers on the desk and sign where they indicate. We’ll send your luggage after you. I imagine you’re tired of wearing that . . .” Richard paused and thought of Pawel again. Pawel liked his leather uniform. “I imagine you could use a change of clothes. And a bath.
Anyway, wait there until someone contacts you. We’ll get you back on course and wrap up this assignment without anyone even noticing their little flirtation with double-dipping.”

“But what will I say to them when I return?”

“Say? I imagine, since you’re an American, you can sue them for getting you into this mess in the first place!” Richard laughed and gestured for his prisoner to stand.

The man stood; he looked as though he were beginning to comprehend that whatever the game was, all he had to do was play along and he would be safe. He hesitated as if he wanted to say something, but then he changed his mind and simply nodded his agreement.

“But remember,” Richard added in a quiet, threatening tone, “I’ll forgive you only once. I’ll be watching your every step until you complete this mission. Every single step. Do exactly as you’re told if you want to redeem yourself. Exactly! And if you even dream of listening to a French agent . . .” He made a discreet slashing motion across his throat.

Richard had Stefan escort the American out of the building and to the hotel. He sat at his desk for a few minutes and wondered exactly what to do next. Three shipments of arms for free. He’d get them dropped somewhere where his people could pick them up safely—in fact, he’d just have Warszawa decide where, contact them tonight, have them handle further contacts with the American. Or should he handle this himself? Avoid a diplomatic incident and take personal responsibility for ripping the French off. He laughed to himself as he thought of how angry the French would be. “But we had to do it to save your man,” he mentally explained with a guilty Gallic shrug to his French allies. “You did say any effort to save the man, didn’t you?” Yeah, he could pull off some bullshit excuse—the shipments were seized by the Germans, some such nonsense. The French network was terribly disorganized, rife with corruption, understaffed, constantly battling betrayals. They’d never find out, and if they did, they would do nothing about it. Nothing—just as they did in 1939. Letting us twist in the wind like that, when there was still a chance to defeat the Germans militarily!

Richard shook his head and let his mind turn to that fourth shipment, the one Spengler knew about. What should Richard do with that? The most consistent picture would be to have them delivered and be picked up by somebody who could then be nabbed by the security forces. Sacrifice a few lambs for another feather in his cap and to secure the other three shipments. But who? The Communists came to mind. They were pathetic, hanging on to some ludicrous loyalty to Moscow. Toadies! The same Moscow that had ordered the deportation and murder of their comrades across the border. The same Moscow that had murdered thousands of Polish officers in cold blood in the Katyn forest. The same Moscow that had signed a secret pact with the Nazis. The same Moscow that had happily swallowed half their homeland, wiping out every last vestige of the Polish culture that had flourished there for six hundred years. Their opposition
to the Germans was nothing but blind loyalty to the Russian Communists. They were no less dangerous than the Nazis they so loathed. The Communist Resistance then. He could set them up to find out about the shipment, line up some troops, and voil‡, wipe out a few of them, maintain the consistency of his story, and achieve a political coup.

Richard rubbed away a nagging pain in his forehead. It was the end of the day, and as he packed his briefcase, he wondered whether he should go talk to the American now, perhaps with an evening walk in the park, or head for home. He decided to let the man stew a bit, and besides, he wanted to run a few things by Kasia first. Something didn’t quite sit right, and he was loath to play out his hand without thinking things through with her.

On the way out, he told his secretary to make sure there was some relief for the guard he had assigned to the American’s hotel, then he left the building, stopping at a sidewalk stand to buy some flowers for his wife. They looked cheerful, in contrast to the grim and blustery day, and he had been rather ignoring Kasia of late.

In the reflection of the small vanity mirror that the vendor had pinned up on the back wall of his booth, Richard caught sight of somebody following him. He was sufficiently surprised that he spun around and had to recover from the gesture by slapping at his coat as if something had annoyed him. What the fuck? Again! So soon? What the hell were they playing at? He paid for the flowers and headed toward the taxi stand.

This did not make sense. Whatever had sparked the last surveillance had finished, and now here he was being tailed yet again. It was infuriating! No wonder this goddamned country is on the road to ruin! he thought angrily, nothing better to do than harass their best and brightest! It flashed through his mind as a serious thought, and only upon reflection did he recognize the irony. Maybe Peter was right, maybe he was ingesting poison.

He shook that thought away and turned his attention to the taxi that followed his through the boulevard traffic. Did this have something to do with the American? Was there more to it all than just supplying arms? Or was it the videotape? Were they onto him? His mind raced through various possibilities as the taxi sat at a traffic light. Giving in to his impatient anger, Richard tapped the driver’s window.

“Yes,
mein Herr?
”

“When the light changes, I want you to drive to the middle of the next block and stop without pulling over.”

“In traffic,
mein Herr?
”

“Yes. Just stop dead and let me out. I’ll leave my briefcase in the car. What I want you to do then is to drive on as soon as I step out and go to the address I gave you. Do you remember it?”

“Yes,
mein Herr.
”

“Good. Wait there. I’ll pay you and there’ll be an extra hundred in it for you as well. Got that?”

The driver nodded solemnly.

“Good.”

The light changed and the driver did as instructed. The car behind them almost hit them as it slammed on its brakes and skidded to a halt. Richard stepped out and noticed that the taxi that had been tailing him also stopped in the ensuing traffic confusion. His taxi drove on and Richard walked calmly over to his tail. The passenger sat in nervous confusion, not knowing what to do. If he drove on, then he would lose his prey, but if he stayed put, stopped in the middle of the road, it was obvious what he was up to.

Richard opened the passenger door and slid in beside his colleague. His gun was out and he pointed it at the terrified man and asked, “Who are you working for?”

“Herr Traugutt! Please don’t shoot! I’m only following orders!”

“Whose?” Richard asked again with ice-cold anger.

The man looked at the gun and then at Richard’s angry visage. He could conceivably shoot, he looked that angry, and they both knew that more likely than not Richard would not be held accountable for shooting a pesky subordinate. Maybe a fine, maybe a few bribes to clear his record. “Schindler,” the young man admitted. Better to face his boss’s anger than this man’s unpredictable temper.

Schindler! If it was that weasel, then it wasn’t a promotion! “Let me see your papers,” Richard ordered.

The man reluctantly handed them over. Richard put them in his jacket, saying, “If you’re lying to me, I’ll have you shot. Now, tell me again, who are you working for?”

“Schindler. I swear!”

“Okay. Get out.” Richard gestured with his gun toward the door.

“My papers?” the man asked desperately.

“You can pick them up at my office tomorrow.”

“But,
mein Herr!
I need them.”

“I said, get out!”

The poor fellow stepped out of the taxi and remained standing in the middle of the road as Richard ordered the taxi to take him home. He glanced back and snickered at the lonely figure standing still as cars passed around him on both sides. Eventually it disappeared from view.

The little interlude had lifted his mood some, and by the time he reached his house, he was humming happily to himself. He recovered his briefcase and the flowers, paid both drivers, and scanned the neighborhood to see if he could find the hidden observer. There was nothing obvious, and he went inside looking forward to a good meal and a long discussion with his wife.