The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  “I rather like it here better for now,” Ivan said in truth. He kissed her again. “Shall we walk to dinner? I’m up for it if you are.”

  She nodded, and they continued across the bridge and toward the restaurant she had picked for its intimate ambiance. They walked with their hands swinging together, talking casually about the sights and sounds of Rome, but Ivan was thinking about the information he had received that morning from a courier who had slipped the note under his hotel room door. The bishop’s schedule had been confirmed by agents embedded in the offices of the chaotic Italian intelligence apparatus. He marveled at his own ability to let the London episode fade away, along with the luxurious life of the Canadian tennis aficionado. The CIA man named Keeton had gotten his comeuppance for ruining it—the next morning Ivan had found a small story in the Times about a violent shooting in the restaurant that ended in the death of an American tourist whose name was still under investigation. The working theory was some sort of underworld crime incident. The fate of an apparent bystander—Keeton’s partner in the tweed coat—was unknown to the paper.

  “See that building?” Francesca asked as she pointed to a sepia-toned facade. “Inside is the Biblioteca Vallicelliana, a library built three hundred years ago. Very interesting if you enjoy history.”

  “History is fine, but the here and now is where we live,” Ivan answered again with genuine emotion. “I didn’t meet you somewhere back in time, did I? I find that most statues and monuments are simply objects whose builders were trying desperately to convince us that the previous ages were great. But they’re all dead now, aren’t they?”

  “You mustn’t think that way, John,” she said. “There were great ages and great people in the past. Maybe not any greater than now, but still they are the foundation that we came from. Well, at the very least enjoy their beauty!”

  Ivan’s tense face relaxed. “Yes, you’re right. Their beauty is here and now, too. I’ll try to remember that.”

  It was a few minutes more before they arrived at the restaurant. He let Francesca handle the introductions with the maitre d’ and it was clear that she was known there. The proud man in charge of the flow of the business became a sudden sycophant. “Buona sera, Signorina Palumbo. Si, si! Ovviamente!” While they were shown to a table in an intimate corner, Ivan was checking the patrons and waiters for any unlikely signs of recognition. He stepped forward at the last moment so he would be seated with his back to the wall.

  The dinner was quite enjoyable for Ivan, and he allowed himself the luxury of simply basking in Francesca’s company. She behaved with the perfect blend of naiveté and coquettishness. As dessert arrived he thought ahead to walking her back to her apartment and to the unspoken invitation to stay the night. They would sleep together and in the morning perhaps enjoy a light breakfast. He would already have been up at daybreak, to review again the chamfered corner with the window that pointed perfectly to where the bishop would be in seven days.

  Ivan thought that a lesser man would rebuke himself for taking advantage of the girl due simply to the sight lines of her apartment. But he considered himself a professional, with the detachment that came with such a life. He would revel in Francesca’s company as long as he could and then move to the next step of his plan, whatever that meant for both of them. One way or the other in seven days he needed to be poised at the window with his finger wrapping the trigger and the Eye focused on the man whom his government wanted eliminated.

  ***

  Jean Bleudot had carefully followed Sir Thomas Baddeley from the courtyard outside the cathedral at Notre Dame, where for a while the MI-6 agent seemed genuinely interested in the architecture and especially of the towering statue of Charlemagne on horseback. Baddeley had then crossed the Seine and walked westward, descending to the waterfront at Pont Neuf, while Bleudot stayed above him on the Quai de Conti, watching. An undercover man from the Préfecture de police, where Bleudot had compatriots, watched from the southern end of the Pont des Arts.

  A small boat arrived near Baddeley’s position, where one of the two men aboard stepped off and began walking with Baddeley. Along with the pilot of the boat he was one of Bleudot’s agents, pulled together as part of the plan to trap Baddeley. Like his close friends in CIA and MI-6, Bleudot was running this operation quietly, nearly privately. One of the voice recordings intercepted during the surveillance of Baddeley had revealed the dead drop location and how to designate a meeting time and place. The man down below posing as the KGB contact, who went by the name Claude, checked his pocket watch.

  Baddeley suddenly stopped, alerted to the clandestine signal. The boat’s engine roared. Bleudot watched in amusement as the trapped spy shoved Claude aside and fled toward the Pont des Arts, as expected. The plainclothes policeman began to casually walk to the edge of the bridge to intercept Baddeley’s ascent of the stairs. In the event Baddeley kept running along the river, Claude and the boatman were now in pursuit. Bleudot walked briskly in the same direction, a black Peugeot panel van rolling close behind him on the street.

  “Bonjour, monsieur,” the policeman said happily to Baddeley halfway up the stone stairs. He pointed a gun at the MI-6 man and told him to stop and keep his hands in plain sight. A few seconds later Claude arrived and patted Baddeley down, finding only a small retractable knife. The policeman cuffed Baddeley’s hands, and they escorted him quickly up to the street. The van pulled up, and everyone got in through the rear doors. Bleudot was already inside.

  “I believe we may have met already, Sir Thomas. At this point I predict that England will take back your knighthood, however.”

  Baddeley sat on the metal bench inside the van, Claude and the policemen on either side of him with pistols drawn. He was nervous and sweating profusely but still attempted to show confidence when he spoke. “You’re Bleudot, from SDECE. We’ve met twice before, briefly.”

  “Your memory is better than mine,” Bleudot said casually. “I don’t recall ever seeing you before today, except in the many photographs for our surveillance program. The case against you is quite damning, but it will be up to the bosses whose prison you will spend the rest of your life in. C’est la vie!”

  “What do you want to know?” Baddeley asked. “Look, I know your supervisors need information. I’m willing to work out a deal, but you have to take care of me.”

  Bleudot smiled cruelly. “Taking care of you is exactly what I had in mind.”

  Baddeley’s head lolled forward into his cuffed hands. “I needed the money. I have debts, gambling debts. What I gave them was useless. I was very careful about that. No one was hurt; I swear it.”

  “Does that include Allen Davies?” Bleudot asked. “Whatever you know about the man who shot the Brit, and whatever you know about the one called Waypoint, you’re going to tell to me. Then, and only then, will I decide whom to turn you over to—SDECE, CIA, MI-6…or the Seine.”

  The van took ten minutes to wind its way back to the Préfecture headquarters and pull through a set of tall double doors that magically opened as they approached. The men marched Baddeley to a small elevator not accessible to the general police force and up to a room equipped with two-way mirror observation. He was sat behind a metal table and secured, then left alone for twenty minutes.

  Bleudot had made the arrangements he needed. Only Claude now remained with him, his most loyal lieutenant for what was likely to happen next. He stood absently staring at their prisoner, contemplating the various consequences of handling a high-value asset like Sir Thomas on his own, in passive defiance of his company’s protocols. His career might soon be over, and he thought the odds at least even that he would end up in prison next to Baddeley or perhaps instead of him. If it came to that, would he run, perhaps try to disappear and set up a new life somewhere else? He had the skills to do so if he wanted. But no, he thought. Despite the grim profession he was in, filled with strife and betrayals though it was, he still felt the obligation of honor owed to men like the Brit and like Keeton. Figh
t, yes. Defend, yes. Flee, hide, surrender—never! He sighed heavily, nodded to Claude, and entered the room with Baddeley.

  “I want to make your situation as clear as possible,” Bleudot said before Sir Thomas could say anything. “What I’m about to do is not endorsed by my company. Only one man in the police knows we’re here, and it’s quite unlikely anyone else around this man knows that he and I fought the Nazis together in the Resistance. We nearly gave our lives for each other many times. But he’s only one man from the entire police force. I’m telling you this so you understand the isolation we both face. You know me, my name, and presumably other particulars about me, and perhaps you believe you have means to destroy me when this is over. I believe you might be right about this—so then, we both know I now have absolutely nothing to lose from this point onward.”

  Baddeley’s face had gone through a series of changes as Bleudot spoke—curiosity, anger, and now the bleak fear that Bleudot was serious, that what he was saying was not clumsy and affected psychology meant to cow him. The Frenchman meant every word he said.

  Bleudot signaled to the mirror. In the observation room Claude turned the lights up so they could see through the semitransparent glass. Claude nodded through it and left the room, closing the door with a firm and definite clap.

  “OK then, Sir Thomas,” Bleudot said as he removed his jacket and tossed it into a corner. “Now that it’s just you and me, let’s get started.”

  ***

  Lionel sat at the bench in the Italian Gardens of Hyde Park and waited. The coded request from the CIA London station was clear and concise, and it left him with the impression that the subject matter would be significant. He wondered whether the Americans realized he had never officially been reinstated as Western intelligence liaison, the post he took after Allen Davies was killed. Probably not, he thought. His own understanding of his future at MI-6 was rather murky. Sir Thomas Baddeley had gone missing, and his instincts told him he might soon have a new boss. His thoughts drifted back to his meeting with Bleudot in Vienne. He knew the Frenchman had been battling his superiors to recognize the threat of communist sleepers for a long time and had only a few sympathetic ears. Bleudot was passionate and seemed on the edge of angry desperation.

  It was a cool early morning despite the strong sun. A few Londoners and tourists were already out and about enjoying the beauty of the park’s Serpentine River and surrounding walking paths. Lionel had picked the best location from which to observe someone approaching, although the layout of benches made it difficult to cover all angles. Through his sunglasses he looked for Jimmy Morel or perhaps Chet Sawyer. All he could see close by so far was a rotund man in a bowler seated across from him wiping his brow with a kerchief and a couple casually pushing a baby tram near the central fountain.

  Lionel checked his watch—almost eight o’clock. The sweaty bowler-hatted gentleman stood and moved off toward the path back to the Serpentine Bridge. The couple pushing the tram completed a rotation around the fountain and headed to the south edge of the gardens, near Lionel’s bench.

  The mother was a beautiful ginger-haired young woman in a light cotton dress. Her husband, a bearded dark-haired man in a flat cap and sunglasses, had given her his suit coat to put over her shoulders to fend off the morning chill. They rolled the tram over to the adjacent bench and sat down. In all of this big dangerous world of three and a half billion people, some good and some evil, this little threesome cared only to complete the gentle family ritual of a walkabout. Their naive carelessness both inspired and repelled Lionel.

  “If I told you there was an atom bomb instead of a baby in this carriage, Lionel, what would you do?” asked the man as he removed his sunglasses. Lionel recognized the voice and looked over.

  “Keeton! Bloody hell!” Lionel exclaimed. “Bloody hell!”

  “Something like that,” Keeton said amiably. “You’re looking fit again. That’s good to see.”

  “And you’re looking alive again. So the reports in the paper were wrong—you weren’t gunned down?”

  “No, the accounts from those girls and the waiters were accurate,” Keeton answered. “He got four shots into me, point blank. Morrison had me wearing a motorcycle jacket with some sort of bulletproof lining, made from a new polymer. It stopped three of the bullets really well, but the fourth got through and hit a rib. Had lost most of its energy by then, though. It was still a hell of a wallop, and I had three pretty big black-and-blues to prove it, along with the stitches. That about it, Ollie?”

  Olivia Perkins, CIA technology specialist, smiled over to Lionel and nodded. “I suppose so. The liner of the jacket is a synthetic fiber that I’d call bullet resistant rather than bulletproof. If those rounds had been forty-fives, Keeton would be dead.”

  “She likes reminding us all of that fact,” Keeton said with a nudge to Ollie’s elbow. “Darling, it appears junior’s getting a bit restless. Mind rolling him around the park for a bit?”

  Ollie’s eyes flashed. “Oh, I see—leave the men to talk about important matters, is that it?”

  “It’s not like that at all,” Keeton said with seriousness. “Everything is need to know, and the stakes and the danger couldn’t be higher. This is about security, not the least of which is yours. Trust me.”

  “I could say the same thing,” Ollie replied. Then her face relaxed in frustrated resignation. “Very well, then. I’ll be calculating exactly how thin that next jacket liner will be.”

  Keeton waited a few seconds until him and Lionel were alone. “Anyway, our station nearly lost another man in the shooting. Took a lot worse than I did, but we saved him. He’s stateside now recovering with some serious overdue vacation Morrison found for him. The shit of it is, Ivan got away.”

  “Yes, I assumed if you’d gotten Ivan I would have heard. Well, you did a convincing job telling the world you’re dead,” Lionel said. “I presume that’s the play.”

  “Yeah, that’s the play,” Keeton answered. “Sorry about the blackout, but the boss insisted. We’ve gotten some intel from the other side of the curtain that the Reds bought the story. So Ivan probably got another ribbon to put on his uniform, along with the one he got for killing the Brit. And Lynette.”

  “So what’s next?” Lionel asked.

  “We suspect Ivan’s still the asset deployed for Schoolboy, in Rome. He’s one of their best assassins, and I can tell you firsthand he’s one mean son of a bitch. The Council is just starting, and we really don’t know what to expect yet, or when.”

  “If you’re going after him in Rome,” Lionel said. “I want in, Keeton.”

  “I do need friends; that’s for sure,” Keeton said. “And you sure as hell have earned the chance. What’s your situation?”

  Lionel then relayed the information about the meeting in Vienne with Bleudot, about the suspicions about Waypoint being in SDECE and about Baddeley. “If Bleudot’s got him, I’m not sure we’ll ever hear from Sir Thomas again. I won’t cry over it, although I’d like to see the bastard’s face one final time. By the way, I think Bleudot’s gone solo on this. Sound familiar?”

  “We haven’t heard anything about it, so he must be playing it cool,” Keeton said. “Like we all are. I’m glad we’ve got him on our side. When can you get to Rome?”

  “Today. Now.”

  “Good. Morrison’s rounded up a private plane out of Gatwick and a safe house in Rome. Flight leaves in four hours. Ask for the Penfield charter. You’ll find all the regulars there, too.”

  “I’ll be there,” Lionel said. “How are we going to find Ivan in Rome?”

  “I have a plan, the start of a plan anyway. It’s a long shot. Hell, when isn’t it?”

  ***

  “Guten tag, Vater Teodor,” Keeton whispered as he sat down next to the priest.

  “Andrew, it’s good to see you again. I was very surprised to hear from you. When we parted last year I suspected you would fade into the shadows, given your profession.”

  “Let’s say I trie
d, but circumstances got in the way. Jump out of any old Czech planes recently? I seem to remember your penchant for such things.”

  Teodor smiled. “I hate to correct you so soon after our reunion, but if you recall I was pushed.”

  They were seated in the last pew of the Basilica of Saint Mary in Montesanto, one of the so-called twin churches at the Piazza del Popolo with its landmark obelisk situated at the original gates of Rome. Just under two miles from the basilica was Vatican City, the site of the Council in which Father Teodor himself was in attendance. He had walked to the piazza to meet Keeton, and they knew to communicate in their common language, German.

  “Fair enough,” Keeton said. “Since you’re here, I assume you received the letter I wrote?”

  “I did, yes.”

  “And you memorized the letter and burned it, correct?”

  “Yes, Andrew, just as you instructed.”

  “Good. Was it clear what I need?” Keeton asked.

  “Very clear. I’ll see Bishop Paszek in the morning. That was the best I could do. Arranging a meeting between the two of you was out of the question. He’s beset by Polish SB agents. But we have a breakfast tomorrow morning that the SB are decidedly not invited to attend. I’ll have an opportunity to have a few words with him.”

  “Thank you, Father,” Keeton said with a hand to the priest’s shoulder. “Listen, I can’t tell you everything—for your own good—but the bishop is in serious danger here in Rome. I need to understand his itinerary, as much detail as possible. Most importantly, when will he be leaving Vatican City, to be outside the borders and in Rome?”

  “How soon you forget, Andrew. I’m not a novice to this game after all. I’ll get you what you need and have the information to the villa you specified as soon as possible. I have access to a trusted courier—well, my brother does. He’s here, too, of course.”

  “I should’ve known you’d come through for me,” Keeton said. “By the way, how’s life in West Germany? I haven’t seen your file since you left that field hospital in Fürth. I only heard that you made it to Regensberg.”