Discussion is an exchange of knowledge; argument an exchange of ignorance.
—ROBERT QUILLEN, AMERICAN JOURNALIST
ZEDNIA FOREST SUPERINTENDENCY, POLAND,
NEAR THE POLISH-LITHUANIAN BORDER
THE NEXT DAY
The Polish countryside due east of Bialystok was mostly woodland, with farms and small villages nestled among the patches of forest. About sixteen kilometers from the city, a narrow two-lane road ran north and south through stands of tall trees and small clearings. A few hundred meters from the State Forest Service’s local headquarters, an even narrower dirt track intersected the paved road, heading east, deeper into the woods.
Two men lolled near a dark blue panel van parked at this junction. They were smoking cigarettes, apparently enjoying the afternoon sunshine. Both were dressed like ordinary rural laborers, in dirty jeans, drab work shirts, and dark, often-patched coats. Something about their watchful eyes and tight-lipped mouths, though, suggested they would be more at home in the tougher, grittier neighborhoods of a big city.
One of them straightened up slowly, watching a battered Fiat Panda heading toward them. He flicked his cigarette away. “There’s Górski,” he muttered.
“About fucking time,” his comrade growled. Both men were speaking in Ukrainian.
The Fiat pulled up just behind the panel van. The driver, a plump, middle-aged man, squeezed awkwardly out from behind the wheel and walked over to them.
“Sorry I’m late,” the newcomer said nervously, in Polish. “Our goddamned officers wanted to run another combat resupply readiness drill. Right before the weekend, for Christ’s sake!”
“All officers are bastards,” one of the two Ukrainians agreed in perfectly colloquial Polish, rolling his eyes at his companion. “It’s almost like there’s a war on.” He hardened his voice. “Look, did you bring the stuff we asked for, or not?”
“Oh, yes. Definitely. No problem,” Staff Sergeant Teodor Górski stammered. “It’s all in the back.”
“Show us,” the second man snapped.
Sweating now, the Polish noncom popped open the rear hatch on his Fiat. Blankets covered an assortment of lumpy shapes piled in the cargo area. He flipped them away—revealing a collection of weapons, ammunition, and communications gear.
The first Ukrainian leaned in past him and picked up one of the weapons, an American-made Colt M4A1 carbine. It was the assault rifle of choice for Poland’s GROM “Thunder” Special Forces unit. Quickly, with practiced hands, he checked it over, nodding in satisfaction. He put the rifle back and hauled out an even bigger piece of hardware, a Swedish-made Carl Gustav 84mm recoilless rifle. Like the M4, this antitank weapon was used exclusively by Poland’s Special Forces, not by its regular troops. It was in perfect condition. Pleased, he turned back to Górski. “Is any of this going to be missed?”
The Pole shook his head, visibly gaining confidence as he explained. “Not a chance. All of this gear and ammo is marked as ‘unrepairable and junked’ or ‘expended’ in our logbooks and computer files. I’ve had it all stashed away in my apartment for months. Nobody’s going to come looking for this stuff, no matter how many times they check the supply depot’s inventory.”
“What about the serial numbers on the weapons?” the second Ukrainian asked.
“They’re still there,” Górski told him. He shrugged. “You’ll file ’em off, right?” He smiled weakly. “I mean, you wouldn’t want anyone tracing them back to your best supplier, would you?”
“No,” the first man agreed flatly. “We certainly would not want that. Your services have been extremely useful to us.”
“So we have a deal?” the Pole asked.
“We have a deal,” the second Ukrainian confirmed. He tossed the Pole a packet containing more than thirty thousand zlotys, the equivalent of $10,000, in a mix of currencies—euros, zlotys, American dollars, and British pounds. “Unfortunately, once again I seem to have mislaid the tax forms for this transaction. I assume you will handle the necessary paperwork yourself?”
“Naturally.” Górski smirked. He went back to avidly counting his money.
“And take this as a bonus,” the first man said, handing over a business card. The card bore the picture of a very attractive nude redhead and a Warsaw telephone number. “Her name is Franciszka. She’s expecting your call this evening, around midnight. It’s our treat.”
The plump, middle-aged Pole stared down at the business card. He swallowed hard, staring down at the young woman’s incredible body, her moist lips, and her bright, open, inviting eyes. He usually made do with the services of aging prostitutes working out of the sleazier brothels on the left bank of the river. This Franciszka must be one of the high-end escorts who were the favorites of rich businessmen and tourists. “That is . . . very gracious of you,” Górski murmured, eyes greedily drinking in every line and curve. “Most appreciated.”
“You deserve it,” the second Ukrainian told him. He smiled. “Nothing but the best for one of our friends, eh? She’ll take very good care of you. She knows lots of”—he winked—“special tricks.”
Once they transferred the weapons and other military hardware to the blue panel van, the Polish supply sergeant was almost pathetically eager to get on his way. With a jaunty wave, he pulled back out onto the little country road and drove off at high speed.
“There goes one fat little jumped-up puddle of piss we won’t have to see again,” one of the Ukrainians muttered. “Thank God.”
“God will have nothing to do with it,” his comrade said with a cruel, ice-cold grin. “We’ll owe Franciszka for that one.”