The end of a long day of business – a profitable day. Ivan Budnikovsky's little empire had grown considerably since the end of the war. The speed with which everything had fallen into place surprised even him. With the reduction in staff at the Kommandantur hospital, a consideration to the duty sergeant saw to it that his military duties had shrunk to attending parades twice weekly. A further few donations had ensured speedy passage of deliveries through the mail that was once more open to civilians, but of very variable reliability. His new shop had plate glass widows and electric light, and though most of what he displayed was still wartime merchandise, his deliveries of French toiletries, spirits, scents and other articles of a personal nature ensured there would always be something exceptional for discerning and affluent customers. Despite the hard times everybody was going through, there were a shocking number of these lately: newly minted court officials, formerly black market traders scrabbling to invest their gains into legitimate ventures, landlords now renting at peacetime rates, and of course the upper echelons of the szlachta and the church. Everybody seemed to want to enjoy themselves, show off, make up for lost time. Ivan Budnikovsky did not exactly understand the impulse – he lived above the shop in a nice set of rooms that would one day be representative, but right now held an iron bedstead and a desk. His money was still too hard-earned to fritter away on frivolities. But he was not going to tell them otherwise.
With a sigh of contentment, he unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside. Feeling carpet underfoot gave him a sense of comfort and security he had missed during his military service. As soon as he had real money, he would not have a wooden floor anywhere in his home! Setting down the cash drawer on the chest of drawers by the door, he turned on the light.
“Good evening, Mr Budnikovsky.”
Ivan's hand reflexively moved to his right hip before he even recalled that the revolver lay unloaded and safely locked in a desk drawer. Seated by the window, a stranger watched him attentively. A second man stood by the entrance to the bedroom. Both were dressed in jodhpurs and leather jackets – the uniform the NSB used when they wanted you to know who they were.
“What – do you want?” Budnikovsky managed to say once he had his voice under control.
The man by the window rose.
I apologise for startling you. Mr Budnikovsky.” he said smoothly. “My name is Agent Malinski of the National Security Bureau. This”, he pointed to the standing man who walked over to the door and positioned himself in the corridor outside, “is Agent Breshko. He will ensure we are undisturbed. Please, take a seat. We have things to discuss.”
He felt sure his knees would give out, but Budnikovski managed to cover the metrts to the chair and dropped heavily. Figuring it was best to open negotiations in a businesslike manner, he forced his voice to stop trembling. “Agent Malinski, what is it you want from me?”
Malinski indicated a bottle of vodka on the table. “I am here to talk business. Please, have a drink.”
“Thank you, but I don't.” That was not entirely true, but the young man did not share the Polish love for alcohol-fuelled enjoyment.
“Very well.” Malinski said. He gestured at the bottle. “Consider it a token of our appreciation.”
A litre of vodka – and not the bad stuff – was still worth a small fortune. Budnikovski blinked. “Please keep in mind I am a German citizen and a soldier in the Prussian army....” he began.
“Mr Budnikovsky, I am aware of this. Please, relax, we are not here to harm you in any way. Our visit is an expression of our appreciation for your business acumen. Poland will need men like you to return to peace. Rest assured your German citizenship does not mean we consider you anything less of a compatriot worth of our protection and admiration.”
“Thank you.” was all Budnikovsky managed, baffled. That was not how nocturnal visits by Dzerzhinski's thugs were supposed to go.
“That is, in fact, what we intended to speak to you about. Poland is still a regrettably disorganised place where all kinds of untoward things happen. We are working to change this, and I am sure you, as a businessman, appreciate our efforts.”
“Erm – yes. Of course.” That much was true. Business had become easier with the end of the wartime restrictions, but it still took far too much in the way of privately arranged security, facilitation payments and general uncertainty. Budnikovsky would have given a good deal for the ability to despatch consignments to his partners in Lodz and Plock by railfreight instead of having to send staff with suitcases. Too much was 'lost' en route.
Malinski smiled. It was a cold, joyless smile expressing the satisfaction of the spider as a fly tangled itself in its net. “I am glad to hear that, Mr Budnikovsky. You see, we believe it is in the interest of the state to support successful and energetic businessmen.”
That, Budnikovsky reflected, had not been what the NSB said during the war. He doubted most agents shared the sentiment. “I see.” he replied cautiously. “This is, of course, a laudable endeavour....”
“But we need the help of our business community to achieve this.” Malinski interrupted. “Mr Budnikovski, you regularly meet many important people in the Polish state, government, church and business. People we have an interest in. We ask you to keep your eyes and ears open for any irregularities you may encounter and to help us ensure the safety of our country. You will not find it to your disadvantage. As I said, we seek to help. The Bureau is happy to cultivate mutually beneficial relationships with patriotic businessmen.”
“Of course.” What other answer could you give, realistically? Budnikovsky had no illusions about the things the NSB had done during the war and, for all he knew, still did behind the walls of its fortresslike headquarters. But word on the street was that Dzerzhinski and his men could be trusted to keep their word. They took care of their own and didn't cross you if you played it straight with them. That was more than you could say for most of the newly minted officials he'd had to deal with. “I will be happy to assist. If you need anything specific, just ask.”
“Thank you, Mr Budnikovsky.” Malinski rose and nodded gratefully. “I promise you will not regret your choice. I will be in touch periodically. If there is anything we can help you with, just let me know on those occasions.”
Budnikovsky shuddered. “But you won't...”
“Another midnight visit? No Mr Budnikovsky. I will announce myself in future as a proper guest does. I now know I am welcome under your roof, after all. Let me not detain you any further – I am certain you need your sleep.”
Budnikovsky opened the door for him and shook his hand, Malinski suddenly radiated an entirely unexpected human warmth that made the young German glad he had been able to please him. Something at the back of his mind told Budnikovsky he was being played, but he was willing to go along with it.
“Goodbye, Agent Malinski. I am glad we could come to an agreement.”
“Goodbye, Mr Budnikovsky.” the secret policeman returned affably. “And one more thing: Your lease of the premises is through the name of a staff member. If you just write to the registry office that will be easily remedied. Petty legalistic concerns should not stand in the way of a genuine patriot, after all.”
Budnikovsky sighed. Apparently, it really was that easy. Like so many of his business partners had told him, you needed the right kind of friends. He had the best kind now.
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