The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  “Toby Lodge is not his real name,” Edgar continued. “He’s not a reporter from London. He’s an agent for the CIA. Not familiar with it? It’s like the SB, except American. Yes, that’s it—the American secret police.”

  Luiza stared at Keeton until he finally turned to her. “Luiza, listen to me. These are bad men. Answer all their questions.”

  “You are not in charge here,” Jakub yelled. “You do not give instructions.”

  “Now wait a minute, Jakub,” Edgar said cordially. “Orange has a point. Miss Rolek really should answer all the questions we have for her. The problem is, we already know those answers, remember? It’s Orange who we need to convince to talk.”

  “Toby, I don’t understand,” Luiza said. “Are you really an American?”

  “Yes, I am,” Keeton answered, with the pretense of the British accent finally removed. “I was pretending to be Toby Lodge, but I wasn’t pretending about protecting the bishop. That’s why the American government sent me here.”

  “That part is true, protecting the bishop,” Edgar said. “But they also sent him to spy on you, not to protect you. So now your deception and his have been found out. He told you his first lie about who he was, then took you to dinner, maybe to bed, right? Offered to help you, but in reality he’s only gotten you into more trouble.”

  “Enough,” Keeton said. “What is it you want?”

  Before Edgar could answer there was another knock from down below in the building, and all of them waited in their various states of tension until Mateusz let in the new arrival. Keeton recognized the man as the driver who’d picked him up at the Warsaw airport just after Edgar had made contact.

  “Witam, Rafal!” Edgar called to his Polish asset and then waved him over. “Perfect timing.”

  Rafal carried over a large leather duffel bag while Mateusz positioned the lamp and table closer to them. Keeton knew what this meant for both him and Luiza, and because he knew he did not have the heart to look at Luiza as Rafal knelt and began unpacking the bag. It started with a canvas roll dramatically spread open on the table to reveal a surgeon’s field kit of stainless-steel instruments. Then came loops of electrical wire and clamps, followed by several septum-capped medicinal bottles and a set of syringes. The last object was a simple carpenter’s hammer.

  “I’m so sorry, Toby,” Luiza said as tears formed and rolled down her cheeks. Keeton finally looked at her and knew she had not quite comprehended the plan. Edgar knew the training he’d gone through, the mental mechanisms for resisting to the point that any information divulged would as likely to be invented to stop the pain as to be the truth. But pain inflicted on an innocent bystander was another matter altogether, especially for a Cavalry agent.

  “No. I’m sorry,” he repeated back to her. She examined his expression until suddenly recognition spread across her face. Her head turned sharply toward the table of implements, and she began sobbing.

  “We’ll get through this,” he said with wooden assurance. She was not listening.

  Jakub leaned toward Edgar. “We should let Mateusz stand outside. I do not think he will have the nerves for this. Fists used on men, yes, no problem. But this! He is simple, with the senses of the Polish man. He may even break before the American does.”

  Keeton heard the exchange and thought Edgar looked perturbed. Nevertheless, he relented, and Mateusz was told to go out to the sidewalk and smoke and to maintain a watch. The morning light was gathering now. Then Edgar turned to the two captives.

  “We should get going,” he said to them. “I’m sure Toby here also kept secret that he has a team in Krakow right now, so time is wasting.”

  “Team?” Jakub asked. “What does this mean?”

  “Nothing, comrade,” Edgar replied. “I’ve got everything under control.”

  “How big is this team, Edgar?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I just told you it’s handled.”

  “I assume you know what a double agent is, Jakub,” Keeton suddenly said in Russian. By their relative expressions Keeton saw that Jakub knew the term and that Edgar did not speak Russian. “Are you sure of his new loyalty to you?”

  “What’d you say, Orange? What did he say, Jakub?”

  “I’ll give you what you want, but not if you hurt the girl,” Keeton said, again in Russian. “And you have to let me take revenge on this disloyal dog. Those are my terms—my only terms.”

  “Not another word, sport, I mean it!” Edgar drew a pistol from his shoulder holster and pointed it at Luiza’s head. “I can end this real quick if you’d like.”

  “Let him do it, Jakub!” Keeton said. “And lose my information forever!”

  “No!” Jakub’s hand shot out to grip Edgar’s wrist and then to bring his arm down with surprising strength and speed. “He is simply trying to give me doubts about you. Don’t give in to such a simple trick.”

  Edgar was shaking in anger. For his part Keeton had already begun working on the rope behind his back again, aided by Luiza’s chair and the new shadows.

  “OK, OK, I’m cool,” Edgar said. He extracted his arm from Jakub’s hold, then pushed the gun back into the holster.

  Keeton then saw the shift of Jakub’s eyes to his. There was a subtle question in Jakub’s expression, as if to ask whether the things Keeton had said to him in Russian were genuine. It couldn’t be that easy—Jakub was a trained field agent as well, and his admonition to Edgar about Keeton’s trick had been absolutely correct. And yet, Jakub had looked.

  As Edgar collected himself and prepared to continue with the interrogation, Jakub retreated into the shadows and considered the whole scene. The captured American was desperate, to be sure, so it was natural that he would try to talk his way out of trouble. Nonetheless, Jakub had had doubts about Edgar’s authenticity for the several months they’d been in contact. It was part of his craft, to understand the risk of what the American had called a dvoynoy agent—double agent. Both East and West had them placed, but in Jakub’s opinion his side had the advantage. It was, after all, easier for the arrogant westerners to believe Soviet spies could be lured away from their pledge to the motherland, amid the promises of decadence and libertine lifestyles. Well, couldn’t they? Jakub smiled to himself as he thought again about the rewards of a successful mission in Poland and about the assassin ensconced in a comfortable London apartment whose time was spent more at tennis than killing—the easy life, indeed! Best to keep a close eye on this slick American operator Edgar—so far he’d only produced a confused silly girl and an infatuated university student. But extracting what was known from the man called Orange would indeed be valuable and also perhaps even proof that Edgar should be kept alive.

  “Finally, let’s get started,” Edgar said. He made a show of inspecting the various tools on the table in front of him. During the back and forth between the men, Luiza had continued to cry softly from fear.

  “It’ll be OK, dear,” Keeton said again. “Think of something else, something completely different from this place and him.”

  “Is that what you’re going to be doing?” Edgar asked him.

  “We’ll do it together,” Keeton told Luiza.

  “In my professional opinion,” Edgar started. “These are the surest ways to get results.” He lifted up the tangle of electrical wires. “But it can tend to make the subject soil themselves—you know what that means, Miss Rolek? Yes?—so, it’s not my first practical choice.”

  “Why do you do this?” she cried out.

  “This is not what I want,” Edgar said with affected sincerity. “Of course it’s not. Isn’t it clear? I’m going to ask your boyfriend questions. His answers, or lack of answers, will determine what happens to you. Now you see the danger of falling for a spy and especially of trusting his lies.”

  “Don’t listen, Luiza. Concentrate on something else.” Keeton felt the rope’s last taut threads. He thought he might be able to pull his wrists apart if not for the mixture of stiffness and dull pain from his overnig
ht position and his punishment at Mateusz’s hands.

  “We’ll begin here,” Edgar announced. He held up one of the bottles, a blue one, and then proceeded to pull several cubic centimeters of the liquid into a fresh syringe. “I’ll be putting this into her thigh, Orange—in about thirty seconds it’ll hurt like the dickens. You’ve heard of localized painkillers? This is the opposite.”

  Luiza began to squirm as Edgar approached. Rafal was obliged to hold her legs still as his boss pushed the needle through her skin and thumbed the plunger down. She was still crying, and Keeton bitterly cursed the rest of them. Suddenly she screamed as the narcotic attacked the muscles and nerves of her right leg. It was like a hot iron had been applied to her. Edgar said something quietly to Rafal, who fashioned his handkerchief into a gag and tied it across her mouth.

  “First question, Orange,” Edgar said. “What’s your real name?”

  Keeton had expected this one. “What good is that to Jakub for his mission here in Poland? I’m always under nonofficial cover anyway. It’s a waste of time.”

  “You’re playing with fire,” Edgar warned. “Just give us your name. Look at Miss Rolek. She’s suffering because of your stubbornness. I can snap my fingers, and Rafal will bring out the green bottle. She’ll be all better in half a minute.”

  “Whatever name I give will be a lie, and you know it,” Keeton answered. “If you put any more of that poison in her, I won’t give you anything at all. Jakub, I swear it.”

  “We’ll see,” Edgar said sharply. Then he picked up the blue bottle and pulled another dose into the syringe and approached Luiza.

  Keeton looked at Jakub again. “Wouldn’t you rather hear how I know about the KGB’s plan to destroy the bishop? And my knowledge of your Echo project?”

  Luiza was now moaning but rather still. Edgar tapped the syringe and bent toward her. Jakub leaned forward as well.

  “Last chance, Jakub, damn you!” Keeton exclaimed.

  “Wait a moment, Edgar,” Jakub said as he took a step forward. “Just a moment.”

  Edgar spun around with a sneer. “You must let me do my job! That’s why I’m here; that’s what you paid me for.”

  “It’s working,” Jakub said with a slightly conciliatory tone. “You see, he’s ready to talk, to talk about important things.”

  “You won’t get anything until she’s begging him to talk.”

  Jakub shrugged. “We have time, do we not? Or are you truly worried about his other agents in Krakow?”

  “I told you it’s fine.”

  “We have a program, too,” Keeton said. “It’s called Camelot. The public thinks it’s been closed down. It hasn’t.”

  “How did you come to know about Echo?” Jakub asked Keeton.

  Edgar had had enough. “Aw hell, Jakub, even I knew about Echo. A bunch of headshrinkers predicting the future. So what?”

  “You knew about this and did not tell me? Another thing you kept secret?” Jakub asked Edgar. The chastisement caused the CIA man to slump in surprised embarrassment. “Mr. Orange, how did you know?”

  “Edgar’s right,” Keeton told him, although everything he was about to say next was invented by informed imagination. “We have assets placed in the Technology Directorate in Moscow. The Echo information was filtered through them to us. Like Edgar said, he’s in a position to know the actual agents; I was simply briefed about this before they dispatched me to Poland.”

  Edgar looked up. “Now wait a minute…”

  “And how did you come to know Miss Rolek?” Jakub asked.

  “I met her in Warsaw,” Keeton said softly.

  “Intercepted, you mean,” Jakub said as statement rather than question. Keeton nodded. “And Edgar showed her to you?”

  “That’s right, Edgar had the intel on her and handed it off to me. I arranged to meet her, made it look like a coincidence. I knew about the college kid, too, and the letters he shuffled to the American embassy. Edgar again.” Then, in Russian, Keeton again said, “Double agent.”

  Edgar stood looking furtively between Jakub and Keeton. His spy’s intuition signaled danger. Jakub then turned on his heel and went out to the stairs and down to find Mateusz.

  “What are you trying to pull, Orange?” Edgar asked.

  “There’s still time,” Keeton answered. “Bring Luiza out of it, and break us out of here.”

  Edgar laughed bitterly. “No, sir, it’s too late for that. They’re already paying me good, and if I deliver I’ll get a dacha somewhere cold but comfortable. Hell of a lot better than any offer from Uncle Sam.”

  “You can’t possibly be that stupid, Edgar,” Keeton said. “That stuff I was saying to Jakub in Russian—you’re burned. Crispy.”

  The door opened, and Mateusz lumbered through followed by Jakub. Keeton saw Edgar turn and subtly unbutton his suit coat.

  “I know what you said about the other agents, that it’s OK,” Jakub said to Edgar. “But I want to move Mr. Orange as a precaution. You did a good job getting him here.”

  “Move him?” Edgar repeated. “That doesn’t make sense, Jakub. And what about the girl?”

  “I’ll let you take care of that, whatever way you want. She’s useless,” Jakub shrugged and motioned to Mateusz, who approached Keeton’s chair.

  “No way!” Edgar yelled as he blocked Mateusz’s path. That turned out to be a mistake. The big Pole grabbed him at the armpits, lifted him off the floor, and tossed him halfway to the wall. For a moment Keeton expected Edgar to pull his pistol, then remembered the promise of Russian loot that the American believed in. Edgar was not going to kill his new benefactor. Jakub seemed to realize this as well, as he calmly smirked at Edgar on the floor. Mateusz bent forward and pulled the slip knot that held Keeton’s torso, then tugged the loops of rope roughly off of him and threw the pile behind the chair. At that moment the apartment door flew open, and Morel’s form filled the doorway, arms extended, pointing the Cavalry-issued Smith & Wesson into the room.

  All eyes were turned to him, but Rafal was first to act as he reached for the pistol tucked in his waistband. Morel’s gun barked deafeningly twice, and Rafal fell back into the table of implements and medicine bottles, scattering all of it across the floor. Morel then swung his aim around in time to see Mateusz rushing him. Keeton had begun twisting and pulling his wrists and finally felt the rope break. Through the ache and stiffness he pulled his hands in front of him to yank open the knot at his feet. Edgar reached into his coat for his gun. Morel pulled four shots to drop the charging Mateusz, then retreated into the hallway to take cover as Edgar started shooting.

  Keeton had managed to kick the ropes from his feet and now stood and launched himself into Edgar. They fell forward together, and Edgar’s revolver clattered out in front of them. Morel returned and got his last two shots off at Jakub but missed with both as the Russian dove to the floor in the darkened room. Jakub then picked up the broken vodka bottle and headed toward Luiza, who remained tied up and perspiring as the pain took her closer to shock. Morel bounded at Jakub and tackled him just before the jutting sharp edges of the bottle got to the girl’s neck.

  Keeton and Edgar rolled and tumbled on the floor until Edgar seemed to get the upper hand, pinning Keeton under him and wrapping one large bony hand around Keeton’s throat. Keeton then remembered the Jaeger-LeCoultre and began slashing up at Edgar’s head and neck with the extended diamond tip. After the sting of several slicing cuts on his face, Edgar realized what was happening and began fending off the attack. Keeton managed to roll them again, and they broke apart, both standing.

  Across the room Morel was using judo and boxing, while he recognized Jakub’s training in SAMBO—the Russian technique known as “self-defense without weapons.” Both men were well practiced and well matched, evidently Morel’s youth and speed pitted against Jakub’s gristle and experience. Morel jabbed and stepped back to avoid Jakub’s iron grip, but eventually the distance between them closed and their grappling skills took over as they fell to
the floor.

  With the blood streaming into his eyes Edgar knew he could not keep up his defense, so he dove to the floor for the pistol. Keeton followed and landed on top of him once again, but this time he reached under Edgar and found the striped cotton tie and pulled it around. As Edgar stretched for the gun, Keeton tightened the tie like a set of reins. Finally Edgar stopped reaching and began instead to claw at his throat and at the stifling constriction around his neck. It was too late. Keeton’s leverage was superior and unbreakable—and fatal.

  Jakub held Morel’s arm and was forcing it back across his body to break it. At the last critical moment Morel managed to turn his body to relieve the pressure point. As Jakub clamored for another hold, Morel noticed his undefended throat and struck at it, evening the damage between them. A second punch caused Jakub to let go altogether as he gulped to get air. Morel held his hyperextended elbow and stood to face the Russian.

  Keeton was drenched in sweat from his fight, and it was difficult to move quickly. He climbed up and over Edgar’s inert body and grabbed up the pistol. When he turned he saw Jakub reach down and pick up the unused syringe of pain-poison and swing it at Morel, who blocked it once, then again. Keeton could not get a good aim. Finally Morel struck out with a straight kick to Jakub’s torso that pushed him back several steps. Keeton then pulled the trigger, twice. Jakub cried out in pain, then charged one final time at Morel, who caught the arm and flipped Jakub to the floor.

  By the time Keeton had checked the other men—they were all dead—and walked over to Morel and Jakub, the Russian was laboring to breathe, and blood was pooling in his mouth, but Morel was still obliged to hold down the arm that held the syringe. As his struggle of defiance ebbed, Jakub looked up at Keeton with a broad smile of red teeth.

  “Ona ne mozhet byt’ ostanovlena,” he whispered fiercely up to Keeton. He repeated it twice more, softer each time, before dying.

  Morel carefully pried the syringe from the rigorous hand and tossed it aside before finally releasing his hold on Jakub. “What was that? What did he say?”

  Keeton helped Morel to his feet. “He said, ‘It can’t be stopped.’ Whatever it is, he sounded damned certain about it.”