“Sorry, Keeton,” Lionel whispered as he folded the teletype paper in half and tucked it into the second folder on the desk in front of him, the one labeled PROJECT STAR.
***
The midday London traffic coursed through the streets like a noisy multicolored bloodstream. One of those little cells, a traditional black cab, pulled sharply over to the curb on the Constitution Hill road near Buckingham Palace. The rear passenger door swung open and Keeton bounded out, having handed the cabbie a five-pound note and calling it settled. It would be only a few minutes’ walk to Saint James’s Park.
It was a warm and beautiful day in the city, and it energized Keeton. He had been able to sleep through most of the flight from New York, awakening only when the plane’s engines began to throttle down as they approached the city. They had arrived at the Number Three Oceanic terminal a few minutes early—quarter to eight in the morning—which had given him plenty of time to clear customs, pick up his modest luggage, and catch a cab to his hotel. A lengthy hot shower had the effect of synchronizing his body’s rhythm to the English time, after which he dressed and had a light breakfast with coffee in the hotel’s restaurant. His choice of a casual outfit of polo shirt and white cotton trousers was effectively also a decision not to carry around his Smith & Wesson automatic. The weapon had accompanied him from New York within the false bottom of the attaché and would travel on to Poland. It was not that he considered the meeting with Lionel to be free of all risk—nothing he did professionally ever was. But his instincts and craft told him that a bustling public venue would be acceptable. Besides, he thought, the houndstooth trilby and sunglasses provided at least a modicum of obscurity.
He walked east until Constitution Hill turned into the Mall road, then crossed it to enter the park at the westernmost end. The last instruction he had received was by way of a hidden message embedded in the paper disk that was affixed to his hotel key and that bore his room number. Saint James’s Park. North side walk. First bench east of the bridge. Orange shopping sack. Noon sharp. A glance at his watch told Keeton he was right on time.
Lionel was seated on the park bench facing Saint James’s Park Lake with its famous assortment of squawking water fowl flitting and frolicking on the mossy surface. Unlike Keeton, he had chosen more formal attire, a lightweight gray suit with black necktie and loafer shoes. As indicated, an orange bag made of waxed paper and fitted with corded hemp handles sat next to him. Keeton stopped just behind the bench and looked back and forth as if taking in the breadth of the little lake.
“A gift for me?” he asked softly. Lionel did not react, and he wondered if perhaps the British agent had a spotter working with him. It doesn’t matter at this point, he thought.
“Actually, yes,” came the reply. “Care to see?”
Keeton sauntered around the bench and sat down so the bag was between them, avoiding a direct look at his counterpart. “Hello, Lionel. Are you alone?”
Lionel gave a short, bitter laugh. “More than you know. I’m completely Tod Sloane on this one. That means—”
“I know what it means,” Keeton interrupted. “If you’re going rogue on this Lodge cover, I appreciate it. I know my name must be an expletive in your company right now. I’m not all that popular at the Fort, either, if it’s any consolation. And while we’re at it, about Eddy…”
“You don’t owe me an apology, Keeton,” Lionel answered. “Eddy got a traitor’s fate. If anything, I’m envious of you for being able to carry it out.”
It was Keeton’s turn for a rueful smile. “Don’t be. It sticks with you. I should’ve brought him back here.”
“Well, it’s done, in any case,” Lionel said. “But there’s more, isn’t there? The other sleeper.”
“Or maybe more than one.”
Lionel glanced at him. “I suppose with all that potential intrigue you’ve got your suspects.”
“Just before Allen died,” Keeton answered. “He whispered something to me about a sleeper, but he didn’t say who. Then we found out it was Eddy, and I thought the case was closed. Now we know it’s not closed. So yes, I’ve had my doubts—for a while about you. Hell, for a while about Morrison.”
“You’re a cold-hearted chap, aren’t you?” Lionel said with a bit of friendly sarcasm. “Your own boss?”
Keeton shrugged and smiled. “He’s over it. He sent me here, didn’t he?”
“So the air is clear between us as well, then?” Lionel asked. “If so, there’s the matter of the dead drop in Krakow.”
“We’re square. What’s the story about it?”
“That, I’m afraid, I cannot reveal,” Lionel said. “It’s a matter I’m working on with a contact in Poland. We don’t have a solid network there—yet. The material you’ll take in will help. I’m sorry, but that has to be the deal. I hate to sound mercenary, but when my assistance to you is found out, I’ll need a way to keep my job, by making it look like I was using you.”
Morrison had already offered a chance to back out of the Lodge cover and thus the dead-drop mission for MI-6. Was stubbornness or perhaps sentiment compelling Keeton to imagine that Lionel could be trusted? Or did he truly have a good read on the man?
He performed the calculus quickly and nodded. “Fine, then. What’s the dope?”
“It’s in here,” Lionel said, nudging the sack. “The padded envelope contains the Star mission intel—please don’t try opening it. It combusts if handled improperly. There’s a small card with a note of appreciation to Mr. Toby Lodge. You can read what it really says with a Black Number Three. The box actually is a gift to you, from our little shop in Mayfair—a special edition, you might say.”
“Anything else?” Keeton asked.
“Not at the moment…actually, yes. Keeton, I know you worked with Allen Davies for several years. I only knew him a few, but he was my mentor. I’m taking his post as a liaison officer for the various companies. As you know, his last assignment was figuring out the rumors about sleepers. That job has gone to someone else above me, and I’ve been kept in the dark, and frankly I don’t like it a bit. But I’ll share with you anything of note that I learn—out of respect for the Brit.”
Keeton’s emotion was unexpectedly pricked by the mention of Davies’s nickname among the Western spy agencies, only a few of which knew the Brit’s real identity. That put him and Lionel is a small fraternity, and despite his assumption that Lionel had cleverly used the moniker to influence him, he was moved nonetheless.
“I’ll get up now,” Lionel said quietly. “Wait two or three minutes, then take the bag with you. Luck, Keeton.” With that, the English agent stood, pretended to check his watch as if a businessman on a lunch hour, and headed north out of Saint James’s Park toward Mayfair.
Keeton watched the birds and the children and the mossy water for ten full minutes before leaving the park by way of the Mall road, carrying the little orange shopping bag and wondering what was really behind the Star mission.
***
After a cab ride to his favorite London pub for a lunch of roast beef sandwich and beer, Keeton decided to walk the entire way to CIA London Station 4—a forty-five-minute trek.
The big three-story mansion sat off Campden Hill, protected from civilian intruders by a high brick wall topped by spiked grill work and from the CIA’s Cold War opponents by an elaborate system of measures. Hidden closed-circuit cameras were already following Keeton as he approached the front gate from down the street. If he had tried to climb over the big wall, electronic sensors would have activated an alarm inside the house as soon as he touched the metal grill. The windows were all sufficiently shaded to prevent telescopic prying and were fitted with vibrational scramblers to prevent the new light-based listening devices. When Keeton did get to the front gate, he depressed the single white button embedded in the wall off to one side. A few moments later the little metal inset speaker crackled.
“May I help you, sir?” a male voice asked in a polite but firm tone. Keeton made an immedi
ate mental note to mention the bad trade craft—the voice should have no way to know it was a man at the gate.
“Mr. Toby Lodge to see Mr. Jones,” Keeton said in the affected British accent of his cover. “He’s expecting me.”
“One moment, please, Mr. Lodge,” the voice answered. Keeton had used the simple designated coded language to request entry into the station. Had he been under any sort of duress, he would have asked for Mr. Pennington, a signal that would set in motion a security response. “Yes, Mr. Jones welcomes you. Please come in.”
The electric lock on the gate snapped open noisily, and Keeton pushed it opened and walked through. A strong spring pulled it closed again, and the bolt automatically slid back into place with another loud rattle. The brick sidewalk on which he now stood led to the front door of the mansion. Along his walk to it Keeton took in the familiar detached security building on one side and wide expanse of lawn on the other.
He smiled at the plain brick wall at the edge of the property that had once been adorned with ivy. A few years earlier he had participated in a so-called entry challenge, in which he and two other agents were assigned to test the impregnability of Station 4 and make it inside within three attempts. After being thwarted twice by the wired grill work and the cameras equipped with night vision, Keeton had finally hit on a plan that worked. The three of them had attacked the wall at the same time, with Keeton in the middle. His compatriots were immediately stopped as they neared the house, but Keeton had stayed huddled against the wall, undetectable, in a homemade camouflage suit made from ivy branches. While the others had sat inside sipping tea and being ridiculed, Keeton very slowly made his way along the wall, eventually flashing across a narrow gap to the house, near a service door. When his watch showed the prearranged time, a fourth agent—“but that’s cheating, you son of a…” “Too bad, you’re dead”—whom Keeton had hired jumped the wall, prompting the security detail to stream from the service door to nab the man they thought to be Keeton. A moment later he had ducked into the house and made his way to the kitchen area, whereupon a green and brown monster walked in, held up a gun fitted with a dye canister, and plastered the Station 4 security chief in liquid yellow turmeric, prompting him to spit his tea and utter the impotent complaint.
The very same chief now swung open the front door and glared at Keeton.
“Bill, you’re back,” Keeton said with surprise as he slid back into American English. “I hadn’t heard. Good to see you here.”
William Aston’s face remained passive, but his tone was brooding. “Yes, it’s nice to be back in a country that speaks English most of the time—or even some of the time. Get in here before you’re seen.”
Keeton knew his way around the station, having used it many times to prepare for or debrief from various missions in Eastern Europe as Agent Orange. Down in the cellar he stopped to check for any teletype traffic for him—there was none—but was then stopped by the new head of Station 4, a big, jovial red-haired fellow named Chester Sawyer.
Sawyer was a career officer who had done a little bit of fieldwork in his early days but then was tapped to concentrate on information analysis, on account of his penchant for mathematics. Keeton had met him on a previous mission in both of their younger days, even before the incident with William Aston and the ivy wall. Sawyer’s predecessor had requested a stateside post as he glided into retirement, a transition that had occurred while Keeton was recuperating from the events leading to Lynette’s death.
“Welcome back to London, Keeton,” Sawyer said with a natural broad grin and a handshake. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”
“It has, Chet,” Keeton answered. “I’m afraid I’ve lost track of you over the years. With Robby moving back to the States, I assume this assignment is a promotion?”
Sawyer’s smile continued. “In more ways than one. Long hours but decent climate—well, more decent than some places I’ve been. Audrey definitely wanted this. Happy wife, happy life, as they say. Can we help you with anything before your flight tomorrow morning into Poland?”
“Any gadget boys upstairs who could spare an hour to take a look at something?” Keeton asked, raising the orange bag. “And maybe let me use a black-light station, too?”
“Yes to both. I think Ollie Perkins is your man,” Sawyer answered. He took Keeton’s elbow, and they walked together up two flights of stairs, stopping on the ground level so that Sawyer could request an afternoon tea from an attendant steward. Keeton asked for black coffee as the steward took his hat. The second floor was mainly offices and meeting rooms and libraries of files, acrawl with secretaries and case officers absorbed in Cold War spying. By and large, navigation was easy once inside the house until they came to an imposing reinforced door, the one that led to the staircase to the banally named Attic, the electronic brain center of Station 4.
“By the way, I asked for Bill Aston to come on when I started,” Sawyer said. “Good man. Seemed a little lukewarm to you when he heard you called to request a stop-in. No, I don’t need to know why. Toes get stepped on in this business all the time. Regardless of all that, Bill’s installed some new features in the place. Getting into the Attic is more than just a coded knock nowadays.”
Keeton watched Sawyer produce a laminated white paper card, of a size that could fit into a wallet, from his shirt pocket. The card was adorned with a black arrow and had a dozen or so small rectangles punched out of it, which could be read by a computerized electric eye. Sawyer slid the card into one of four vertical slots in the wall next to the reinforced door, waited a few seconds, then withdrew the card and pushed it into one of the other slots. Thick metal bolts that kept the door from moving then slid open.
“What do you think?” Sawyer asked proudly.
“I should think your card is easy to counterfeit,” Keeton answered. “I can almost re-create it from memory and certainly could with a photograph.”
“Oh, you probably think an electric eye reads the pattern of holes on the card,” Sawyer said with an impish look. “Well, you’d be right. But that’s not all. The card itself is two pieces of stock paper pressed together, but in between them are tiny magnetic strips. Don’t ask me exactly how they do it, but my identity, or some kind of proxy code, is recorded on those strips. If a card that doesn’t contain a legit identity on the magnetic part is used, a general alarm sounds, and the boys in the Attic get fidgety and armed.”
“You’re right, it’s impressive,” Keeton said with genuine approval as he followed Sawyer up the old wooden stairs.
Save for a small lavatory and a few storage closets, the Attic was one large room that was lined and filled with radio equipment, maps, oscilloscopes, and tape reels. Specialists manned the various receivers and recorders, some adorned in thick padded headphones and continually adjusting knobs with labels like SQUELCH and MOD. Others stood over tables with deciphered messages and made notations on charts. There was even one small station at which a young red-headed woman was tapping out a coded message on a powerful shortwave set. Finally, Keeton noted the gun cabinet sitting overtly at one end of the floor, at the ready in case of emergency.
“Just a second. Ollie, do you have a moment?” Sawyer called.
Keeton scanned the room and wondered which of the busy men in shirts and ties and rolled-up sleeves would answer. He was surprised when the redhead turned to look at them and stood. As she walked over to them, Keeton gave her a once-over, approvingly.
“Olivia Perkins, meet Toby Lodge,” Sawyer announced.
As they shook hands, Keeton noticed she had kept her left arm behind her back, frustrating his attempt to look for a ring. Then he caught sight of her triumphant smile and knew the action was on purpose, and he suddenly admired her all the more.
“Miss Perkins,” Keeton said as he returned the unspoken banner by way of a long look into the blue eyes.
“Ollie, Lodge here needs a black light, and he needs us to look at something for him,” Sawyer said.
“Certain
ly, what can I help you with, Mr. Lodge?” she replied. Her voice was as smooth as he expected, but there was a certain precision in her tone that somehow belied the intense femininity.
“Just this,” Keeton said, handing the shopping bag over to her left side. She waited a moment, gave a soft sigh, and finally relented by taking the orange sack from him with her left hand with a knowing glance back up to his face. Engaged, but not yet married, he noted.
She extracted the box and handed the bag back to him, then lifted the lid to reveal the watch, a Mark XI pilot’s watch made by Jaeger-LeCoultre. Keeton recognized branding and the simple design with the matte-black dial with markings and knew the Mark XI to be a rare postwar model but undoubtedly modified by Lionel to be what he had called a “special edition.” Ollie pulled out the watch, hefted its weight in her hand a couple of times, and then gently tested the crown. “Follow me, Mr. Lodge,” she said as she turned and walked toward one of the empty stations.
Keeton looked over at Sawyer. “Some piece of work. The watch, I mean.”
“I’m sure the Brits will make us pay for it, one way or another,” Sawyer commented. “As for the girl, she’s an electrical engineer from MIT. Smart as a whip—in the blood, most likely. Planning to marry a British footballer—nice boy, but Ollie’s in our line of work, so I’m not sure I approve.”
Keeton laughed. “I can’t imagine she’d care whether you approve or not.”
“She’d better care,” Sawyer answered with a bit of mock indignation. “She’s my niece. I promised her father I’d protect her from prowling wolves with cover names and gadget watches.”
Keeton had turned suddenly toward Sawyer. “Your niece. Ollie’s your man, you said. Well, thanks for the advanced warning, Chet.”
“You didn’t notice the family resemblance?” Sawyer asked, pointed up to his own shock of red hair and giving Keeton a light rap on the back. “You must be slipping. Well, I’ll leave you to it, then. Check in before you go today; I suspect I’ll have some news for you.”
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 6
