Czajkowski stared at his old friend.
Had he heard right?
“You have a record of the protocol?”
“I was mindful that one day history might need proof. After we are all gone.”
Thank God for obsessive-compulsive behavior. It was what made Mirek such a superb intelligence officer, though he knew that his old friend hated the label. He’d much preferred Sowa, which was what Lech Wałęsa had privately called him, while always adding a sly smile.
“Are you still the Owl?” he asked.
Mirek smiled and nodded. “Solitary, nocturnal, with perfect vision, incredible hearing, and sharp talons. But I’m not much of a hunter anymore for people’s weaknesses. Thankfully, the people we dealt with back then had plenty to exploit.”
“Where is your record of the Warsaw Protocol?”
“Safely hidden away.”
“Right now, as we speak, an auction is occurring where documents that are 100 percent authentic are being offered for sale to foreigners intent on using them to blackmail me. If that happens I would then have two choices. Concede to their threats or be publicly ruined. I could even be tried for crimes against peace and humanity by the Commission for the Prosecution of Crimes Against the Polish Nation. What we did may certainly qualify. And I emphasize the we there. Many who we dealt with are still alive. Men and women who would testify against us.”
“You’re not the first who has come to me.”
He was surprised.
“Wałęsa came and asked the same thing you are asking to deal with his own troubles.”
He was surprised. “Why would he do that?”
“It’s simple, Mr. President. He was the one who tasked me with running the Warsaw Protocol.” Mirek paused. “He was also its first participant.”
Now he was shocked.
The idea of the protocol had been simple. Turn SB’s informants into counter-informants. Not all of them, of course, as there were far too many. But enough to cause havoc within the security services. A small cadre of men and women who routinely made reports to their handlers—except those reports were Mirek’s creations. Some were innocuous, meaningless information that kept the informants in the SB’s good graces. Some were deliberate lies, sending the SB off chasing ghosts with false leads. Wasting time and resources.
But eventually the program traveled into darker territory.
The imposition of martial law changed everything. Where before everyone had hope that things were changing, that Solidarity was making progress, the strong arm of the government eventually crushed all political opposition and sent the freedom movement underground. Thousands were arrested and jailed. People fled the country by the hundreds of thousands. The SB expanded its reach and worked hard to pit Poles against Poles.
Spies were everywhere.
So Mirek devised a way to deal with those spies.
He used his army of counter-informants to turn the SB against their own. A perfect way to clear the opposition ranks. And it worked. Hundreds were arrested. People who thought themselves safe since they’d made a deal with the government to inform on their neighbors disappeared, never to be seen again. Most likely they were now rotting away in the ground somewhere, shot for their supposed duplicity. The communists were never tolerant of betrayal.
The Warsaw Protocol allowed Solidarity to continue to function without some of the prying eyes of the government. Was it 100 percent effective? Absolutely not. But it was effective enough to ensure that the movement survived.
And Wałęsa himself created it?
“What are you saying?” he asked Mirek.
“In the 1970s Wałęsa was recruited as an informant. Of course, at the time he was just a young electrician at the Gdańsk Shipyard. A nobody. But he was tough and scrappy. He hated the communists and everything they had done to Poland. He wanted to know more about them. So he allowed himself to be recruited. It was quite an education, one he put to good use years later when he helped lead a revolt.”
When all of the furor arose over any supposed complicity, Wałęsa stayed silent for a while, but eventually stated that he was never an agent, never spied on anyone, took no money, and would prove it all in court. He also boldly stated that if he had to repeat his life, he would not change a thing.
Now Czajkowski knew why.
“Wałęsa came here,” Mirek said. “We sat at this same table. He wanted me to testify before the court and prove his innocence. He knew of my record of the protocol and wanted it made public. I refused.”
“He took quite a public beating.”
“That’s true. But he survived. As you will, too.”
“This is much different. He did not have to face an electorate. The safety of the Polish people was not at stake. Those missiles make us a target on Moscow’s radar. They threaten our existence. We would have chosen sides in the conflict between East and West. My opponents will skewer me with those documents, if they are made public. Then the weak will bow down to the United States.”
“You have little faith in your government.”
“I have no faith. I believe only in me.”
Mirek smiled. “You always were the tough one. I saw that the first day we spoke, and you proved it every day thereafter. You were a fighter.”
He appreciated the kind words.
“I sympathize with your situation,” Mirek said. “I truly do. But it doesn’t change things.”
No, he supposed not.
“I took Wałęsa’s idea and expanded it from one person to hundreds, to eventually over a thousand. Not only did we learn about our enemy, we were able to mislead them, all made easy since they were too stupid and too anxious to be careful. In the process, yes, Poles were killed. But I have no regrets over those deaths. We had to weed out the traitors, and what better way to deal with them than allowing the government to kill its own. But what we did must remain secret. To reveal anything now would only taint what we accomplished.”
“I have no regrets, either,” he said. “Those people chose their fate when they became spies against their neighbors.”
“That is exactly what Wałęsa said. I’ll tell you the same thing I told him. I swore upon the Bible, to God, that I would take that secret to my grave. I kept a record only to clarify history, if that was ever needed, after I was gone. What happened to Wałęsa, what’s happening to you now, requires no clarification. This is not my problem.”
He shoved the chair back and came to his feet. Anger surged through him. “Not your problem? You coerced me into your scheme. Me and all of the others. We had no choice. Then I helped you recruit so many others. They, and I, worked for you so we could justify in our minds the weakness we’d shown to the SB.” His voice kept rising. “We convinced ourselves we were doing the right thing playing both sides. And we were, Mirek. It helped win the war. We took down a government. We threw the communists out. We gave courage to all of Eastern Europe to follow our lead. We changed the world.”
The white-robed prelate never moved, his face set in stone. He allowed a moment for his words to take hold. Finally, Mirek said, in barely a whisper, “That does not alter what we all agreed to.”
“I can go public and expose it all.” He pointed. “You included.”
Mirek looked up at him. “You can. But the taint upon you will still be there.”
“So what? I’m destroyed at that point. There are others, still alive, who participated. They can speak out, too.”
“Not a one of whom would ever admit to being an informant, much less a counter-informant. None of those people want to relive any of that. Why would they? And if they do, it is merely their word. There is no proof. You will stand alone, Mr. President. Just as Wałęsa stood alone. Be strong, as he was.”
“If I do nothing, I will be ruined. Poland will be infested with foreign missiles, and, if aggressions ever escalate, we’ll be the first target Moscow will destroy. We’ll be nothing but a puppet to the West. Beholden to it for our safety. Our existence. History has shown that nobody gives a damn what happens to Poland. But I do.”
“You can draw comfort from the fact that you know the truth. That we did what was necessary and changed the world. In fact, what we did allows you to be in the position you now are in. It was glorious, Janusz. Glorious.”
He headed for the door.
This had been a waste of time.
He turned back and faced Mirek, his expression cold, his eyes conveying the rage he felt. “That glory doesn’t mean a thing anymore. It only counts within the mind of the pathetic coward who hides behind these walls.”
And he left.