46.

1 July, 12:00 noon, Czernograd, 44 Rimsky Street

Halszka would have liked to think that it was her who had the first break, but it was really Stanislaw.

It was just the two of them, poring over the last few months’ worth of the Palace diaries. They were precious documents and dangerous to have. Neither Halszka nor Stanislaw knew whether someone inside the Palace made a copy, which then found its way into the Director’s hands, or whether someone was able to hack into the Palace computer network. Palec didn’t feel the need to share with them the origin of the documents but trusted them enough to let them analyse the logs. Them and only them. Spying on the Royal Family, even in the context of a counter-intelligence operation, was quite likely a career-ending move. Particularly if the leads were flimsy, as they were so far, and no cooperation sought from the Secret Service or other government agencies, as it wasn’t. At least not yet and at least not until the Director knew the lay of the land.

Stanislaw Hruszko, or Stas, the diminutive he was known by to everyone despite being twenty years older than most people at the headquarters, was a thin, ascetic looking man who looked more like a librarian, or perhaps a pharmacist, rather than a veteran counter-intelligence operative. Then again, how should a counter-intelligence operative look like? Halszka thought. Deceptively normal, to deceive easily those more easily deceived, she decided. And Stas was all that. He had worked for years with the Director, sent from time to time on the most sensitive missions by Palec, it was said, liaising with other friendly services overseas.

This must not have been nearly as exciting for Stas. The appointment diaries made for a tedious reading at the best of times, more so when they were to be mined for information, so much more so when no one knew what that information might be.

The King’s diary at least was quite light. The King was dying; he has been dying for some time now, diagnosed with inoperable cancer, and yet battling on, with the quiet dignity that has won him more popularity and respect now than at any time during his forty year reign. How ironic, Halszka thought, sometimes you have to die to make it, even if you’re a king. Personally, she didn’t think much of King Stefan, alive or dying, the sentiment she suspected she shared with the Director and a sizable proportion of the population, though perhaps not the majority, except among the young. Dying in style couldn’t unmake decades of missed opportunities and missteps; besides, every year thousands were dying of cancer and other horrible diseases, with equal poise and spirit, yet without the sycophantic adulation and commentary. Another old man in his twilight, fading slowly. A symbol, perhaps, but a symbol of what? The old country fading away with modernity?

In any case, the King’s most frequent guests in recent times were his family and doctors. They were the only visitors since the dying King made the decision to leave the Palace for the hospital to spend his last days under the best care the country could provide. Neither Halszka nor Stas expected to learn anything out of the royal schedule, but they checked anyway, to tick the box.

There were no guarantees the other ten senior diaries that landed on their desk would prove any more helpful. The Russians could have been talking to a cook at the Palace – to poison everyone, Palac laughed – or a guard, but the more Halszka listened to the original telephone call, the more certain she felt this was not a matter of some minor officials selling state secrets he has accidentally got his hands on. There was something about that conversation, the words used, the tone of the voices… Call it the devil’s hunch; one of the reasons she’s been employed by the counterintelligence. One of the reasons she hasn’t disappointed her superiors so far.

Prince Piotr, soon to swap His Royal Highness for His Majesty King Piotr, on the other hand, was a busy little heir to the throne. But in a good and respectable way; the way people would expect and approve. Gone were the dissolute ways of the youth – and the middle age – no appointments with whores and other men’s wives moonlighting as royal whores, no appointments at gambling tables, no weekend-long drunken parties at country estates and yachts of less than reputable tycoons and celebrities. All that was in the past, years and considerable amount of clever PR effort ago, and, so the Prince hoped, being at last forgotten by all except those with long memories. Or those with little love for the Marian line of the Herenkow royal family, on the throne since 1969, when King Jan III died without an heir, bequeathing the crown and the sceptre to his cousin Stefan. No, Price Piotr was busy now, slowly but surely preparing himself for the role of the lifetime.

His diary for the past few months – and, Halszka imagined, for a long while back – has been pretty tightly filled with meeting and functions one would expect of someone preparing himself to step into his father’s shoes in a not too distant future. Aristocracy, whatever’s left of it, public servants, politicians, businessmen, a fair selection of foreign dignitaries, and some specially chosen media movers and shakers. It was a busy and time-consuming task making a smooth transition; not as uncomplicated as it would have been in the good old days a hundred or even fifty years ago.

Halszka and Stas broke down all the meetings into sub-categories, and played around with the pieces, looking for any patterns. Foreigners were the most obvious starting point, but in the end proved unpromising. Prince Piotr had met the Russian ambassador twice over the past half a year, but so he did the American one, and the European Union representatives were guests at the Palace more times than the two of them combined. Other diplomats or visiting dignitaries had a similar random spread. There were no spikes here to attract attention.

Politicians weren’t much joy either. The Prince would have met with most ministers, some more than once, plus some other influential parliamentarians. The opposition was given a considerable time, perhaps more than they deserved in terms of protocol, but not outrageously so. In any case, the elections were due later in the year and the opinion polls were showing a tight race. It wasn’t unwise to cover all the bases.

“What are Ruthenia’s biggest industries?” Stas said out of the blue. Halszka twitched in her seat and almost knocked over a glass of water in front of her. They have been working in complete silence for the past few hours and the only sound in the room was the tick-tock of a wall clock and shuffling of papers.

“Geez, I don’t know,” she leaned back in her chair and took the opportunity to stretch. “Tourism? Agriculture? Chemicals? Heavy machinery? Mining?”

“My my,” Stas nodded, “aren’t we just a little encyclopedia of vital national statistics.”

“So am I right?” she asked.

“Not necessarily in that order, but roughly. Tourism is definitely a nice little earner, that’s for sure. Do you know how many times the Prince met with tourism people?”

Halszka shrugged.

“Twice.”

“OK. And?”

“Chemicals in top five, and top three for exports. Any guesses?”

“About meetings?”

Stas nodded.

“Twice too?” she asked, shaking her head.

“Nope. Once.”

“This is leading somewhere, I presume?” she said.

“I don’t know,” this time he shrugged. “Maybe. Natural resources?”

“Am I supposed to pick a number between one and ten?”

“Something like that.”

“I’m not enjoying this game.”

“You’re boring,” Stas said. “And a spoilsport. By the way, the answer is seven.”

“Uh, the Prince likes mining?”

Stas tapped a pencil on the printouts in front of him. “Five out of seven, with people from the oil and natural gas part of the sector.”

“Is it that surprising?” she asked, “We did strike gold... so to speak. You know, RiG as the Saudi Arabia of Europe, only without the minarets and burqas.”

“We’re not quite there yet. Early stages. Exploration. Finds. People are only starting to put contracts together.”

“So? The Prince is forward-looking. All about the future. A modern monarch.”

Stan chuckled. “You’re enjoying being a devil’s advocate there?”

She smiled. The two bumps on her head started itching; a sort of her own private “my ears are burning” thing. She remembered years of teasing, even bullying, all throughout the childhood, the school, and into the university, well into adulthood. But Stas was unselfconscious; his eyes said he said what he said and did not mean anything more by it than its face value.

“Yes, enjoying it,” she said. “Pass me the incriminating evidence, please.”

He was right, there were seven meetings with people identified as connected with the resources sector. Two, one in January and another one in late March were with mining companies executives, but the other five, one in February, one in April, two in May and one only a week ago, were all with gas and oil people; exploration, exploitation, logistics.

“You know what else?” Halszka said after staring at the pieces of paper for a few minutes.

“Do you want me to try to guess, or are you going to save us both time?” Stas took off his glasses and rubbed the base of his nose.

“Normally I would... but,” she pushed the papers back to him. “Look at the attendees at the meeting. Do you see something else in common besides the Prince?”

Stas put the glasses back on and spread the sheets in front of him, glancing from one to another and back from the start.

“Witold Kasprzak?” he finally raised his gaze and looked at Halszka. “At all the oil and gas meetings, but not the mining ones.”

“Indeed,” she said. “One of the three private secretaries. Or two, now that Maciar...”

“Maybe Mr Kasprzak is professionally interested in the industry? Maybe they divide the responsibilities between the three of them... divided the responsibilities?”

“Now, now,” she said. “I’m the devil’s advocate here. In any case, it will be pretty easy to check your theory.”

They spent the next twenty minutes going through the printouts, noting the Palace officials, particularly the three private secretaries, present at all the official meetings. There was no pattern. All three seemed to have their official duties spread pretty evenly. Maciar had attended more functions involving foreign guests, but aside from that none of them appeared to monopolise any one category of meetings, whether by the invitee’s background or by the type of the industry.

“So,” Stas said, “we have the Prince whose previous interest in the industry was restricted to getting the best fuel for his sports cars, but who now seems to be interested in the dirty and boring stuff – getting it out of the ground. And we have a private secretary who seems to be just as interested as his employer.”

“This could be nothing, you know,” she said, stretching back, with her hands clasped behind her head.

“It’s the best we’ve got so far,” Stas said. “Actually, it’s the only we’ve got so far.”

She sighed. “D1?”

Photo by Denny Müller on Unsplash