Davies, that clever old operator, Keeton thought. He had dropped the British accent, and it was obvious the driver knew he was CIA. Still, no one on the MI6 team save Davies himself would know his real name. That was the way he liked it. “First Eddy and the demolition team, now you. Must be costing the US taxpayers an awful lot,” he said.
Lionel started up the Austin and pulled into the traffic. A few raindrops began to form on the windows. “Not much at all, sir,” he said cheerfully. “Just think of it as lend-lease.”
***
From the moment the Boeing 707 lifted off from the runway at London, BOAC’s Monarch flight BA505 was turbulent. The pilot had warned them of two things: that the flight might be delayed or canceled at any moment and that if by chance it was cleared for takeoff this afternoon they would most likely have several hours of bumpy air travel before they cleared the massive storm system that had arrived. He was right on the latter.
It had started raining hard just as Lionel let Keeton and Philippe out at the Regal Briton Hotel. They had said quick good-byes and good lucks to the SIS man, checked into their rooms—both using assumed names—and met downstairs again at the restaurant. The meal had been even better than Philippe promised, and the wines were also very good. They had spent an extra hour reminiscing quietly about previous missions and toasting the retiring Brit and other clandestine fellows in arms. The headwaiter kept Philippe supplied with cigarettes and both of them with brandy. Finally they had retired, agreeing to meet back for a light breakfast at nine thirty the next morning. It had rained most of the night with constant bouts of bright lightning and rumbling thunder.
They had met for breakfast as planned, but both men only wanted strong black coffee. On the wet taxi ride to London Airport, in a real taxi with a real civilian cabbie this time, Philippe had conveyed in carefully guarded conversation that the operation with the MG, the accident, and the staging of the cadaver had gone as planned the night before. Another round of good-byes at the curb of the Oceanic terminal, and Keeton was suddenly solo. An hour later he had checked his suitcase and was through customs with his own genuine passport. Despite the threats of weather delays, he boarded on time for the one o’clock flight to Washington via New York.
Keeton tried settling into his first-class seat, having quickly downed a preflight bourbon as the rest of the passengers hustled and bustled to their places. What the hell, he thought. I have a feeling this will be my last drink for a good long while. The plane shook as it fought the strong headwinds on its way up to cruising altitude, causing a background of rattles and creaks that dominated the typical human silence of a rough takeoff. At one dramatic drop, a woman behind him yelped.
“Ladies and gentlemen, from the cockpit this is Captain Randolph.” A confident British voice crackled over the cabin’s intercom system. “As you’ve no doubt noticed, we are encountering significant turbulence due to the heavy weather system that reached the British Isles yesterday evening. As I mentioned back at Heathrow, our meteorologists are predicting a fairly wet ride for the first part of our route this afternoon.”
“Fairly wet?” the yelping woman’s companion called out sarcastically.
“Rest assured our four-man crew is very experienced, and we will be searching for some calmer air higher up just as soon as possible. In the meantime, we request—and indeed strongly recommend—that you remain in your seats with your seat belts fastened until we can get clear of this bumpy air. We apologize for any inconvenience this may cause. Thank you.”
“Bumpy air? I should say,” the man called out behind Keeton.
Bumpy, yes, but I’ve felt worse, Keeton thought as he began to succumb to the fatigue he felt from his rush out of Paris, which was compounded by the droning and rocking of the aircraft, and the liquor.
The CIA agent had faced many mortal dangers during his civil service, but on those adventures he always sought at least some control of his circumstances. Aboard a jetliner screaming thirty thousand feet above a rough ocean, he was absolutely helpless, trusting his fate to Captain Randolph, who was more voice than man. This, he recognized, was the disconcerting part for him. He had stayed alive by training and by calculating choices—always trying to keep the fractional likelihood of success above one-half. He vaguely remembered from his college classes that a fraction with zero in the denominator couldn’t be made sense of. Sort of like air travel, he thought sleepily. Or going behind the Iron Curtain. Or…
Without sensing a change of location or time, Keeton suddenly found himself back on that battlefield in Korea. Somehow he knew it was 1952, but he was older than he should have been—his present age, in fact. He was a CIA field rookie but nonetheless had been thrown into a mission involving several competing village chieftains who were vying for American money. The CIA’s favorite turned out to be spying for the Chinese, and his betrayal had gotten Keeton’s senior officer killed the day before. He was in a tent, and that chieftain bastard was standing in front of him smiling. Just smiling, as if nothing had happened, as if Keeton didn’t know what he’d done. Keeton was furious. He turned around to an army cot and reached under it to grab his Browning 9 mm pistol in order to kill the Korean. When he turned around to fire, the man was gone, running away through the countryside. Keeton pursued him.
They ran for two or three miles, up hills, around boulders, and even halfway through a live minefield—with not the slightest thought of the fractional advantage of success. The chieftain tired and stopped, and Keeton simply walked up and put a bullet through the man’s leg, then dragged him all the way back to the tent and tied him to a chair. Oddly, the chieftain did nothing but berate him about his dead supervisor, until finally Keeton pointed the gun at the chieftain’s stomach and fired several times. Blood went everywhere. Without warning, the cover of the tent disappeared, and he was being charged at by several Koreans, each of whom he shot. More Koreans showed up, and he shot them all with a seemingly inexhaustible magazine of rounds. More again; then he had two guns. He mowed them down as fast as he could, until the sound of a rumbling C-97 cargo plane told him it was time to go. He threw the guns to the ground and jumped up to catch the skyhook device that was dangling from the open clamshell doors under the tail. He grabbed the hook barehanded and was instantly pulled from the battlefield and reeled up on to the extended ramp of the plane. When he finally clamored up into the cargo hold, he looked up to see the chieftain in front of him with a bloodstained midsection—but alive!
The chieftain lunged, and together they fell back, sliding to the end of the ramp. It had become dark and stormy. He clawed at the surface of the ramp, but it was slick from the torrent of rain and the chieftain’s blood. Together the two of them plunged off the end and into the abyss of the storm…
Keeton started and looked around. He was in the 707 bound for Washington. He was dry and presumably safe. A stewardess walked over to him and knelt at his side.
“Evening, Mr. Keeton. Looked like you might be having a bit of a dream.” She was in her early twenties, slim and blond, very pretty, with a gentle British voice. Her name was Lynette. “Luckily the captain found that patch of good air he was talking about. We should have about another—” she checked her watch—“hour or so of smooth flying before the next bout of stormy weather.”
“A bit of a dream,” Keeton repeated absently.
“We should be able to serve our late lunch now, if you’re interested,” Lynette said. “The steward is carving roast beef, and we’ve got some wonderful steamed vegetables. Or you can have it as a sandwich.” She leaned in close to his ear and whispered, “If enough of you get the sandwich, we’ll have time for dessert—ice cream and cake. What could I get you to drink first?”
“Black coffee, please,” he answered, finally shaking himself out of the stupor. “And the sandwich will be just fine.”
“Very good, Mr. Keeton.” She walked up to the galley to fix his coffee.
Ninety minutes later the first-class section was awash in afternoon tea
and various sweets, and the bumping began again. The steward and stewardesses hurriedly picked up the plates, silverware, and cups but continued to refill the liquor glasses until at last Captain Randolph put a stop to it with another weather report. Fortunately, forty-five minutes later the clouds opened up to a bright overhead sun, and the rest of the flight was extremely pleasant. Many of his fellow first-classers napped. Keeton enjoyed Lynette’s attention but deflected all of her questions about his plans in Washington. Still, he allowed the doting until at last they approached New York.
The air was smooth, the landing was soft, and the stop was a short thirty minutes. Six passengers boarded, the doors were closed, and it was a quick hop to Washington-Dulles. Amazingly, they touched down at 5:10 p.m., exactly on time. Nine hours in the air, but watches only had to change by four hours with the magic of westerly overseas travel.
“Passport, please, Mr. Keeton. Bringing back anything of taxable value? Very good. Welcome home…” His transition from passenger to luggage carrier to returning American to taxi fare was a blur, except for the surprising reappearance of Lynette, who was walking along with two of the other stewardesses toward the taxi stand.
“Mr. Keeton, well hello again,” she said in that sweet English lilt.
“Lynette,” he said, both amused and startled. “You must be on your way back tonight?”
“Actually, no. Another crew takes the return tonight. I’m here until tomorrow night. And it’s a Saturday, after all. If you’re not busy…”
“Unfortunately, I do have to work over the weekend,” he said.
“That really is unfortunate. You know, I never asked you what you do for a living. Go ahead, what is it that has you working on a Saturday?”
“I’m an accountant for a travel agency here in Washington,” he said. “The bosses need to see the books right away. Is this your regular route?”
“It is, actually,” she said. “Well, for a while. There’s talk about canceling the Washington service.”
“So my window of opportunity is narrowing?” he asked.
“Let’s just say I’d hate for us to miss out,” she answered with coy urgency.
“I suspect we’ll meet again,” he said. “At least, I hope we do.”
“I think so, too, Mr. Keeton.” She smiled. “Andrew.”
“Well, it looks like your taxi is here. I don’t want to hold you up.” He tipped his hat and smiled. She smiled back, got into the yellow-and-black car, and rode away with a last wave of her white-gloved hand. He sighed deeply and got into the next taxi and gave the driver a Georgetown address.
The rush hour traffic nearly doubled the ride, notwithstanding the talent of the taxi driver to hit all the red lights. It was six thirty before the car pulled up to the little triplex of narrow brick houses near the corner of Q and Thirty-Fourth Streets in Georgetown. Keeton paid with a generous tip and walked up to the door of the first of the triplex. In fact the CIA owned all three, using the homes as drop points for traveling agents. Each of their doors required a deadbolt and a knob lock to be opened. As soon as the taxi had pulled away, he pulled out a ring with only two keys on it. He stabbed the key stamped O into the deadbolt, and it turned. Then the other key—stamped with a T—opened the knob but only after a counterclockwise turn followed by a clockwise one. Keeton pushed the front door open and noticed the panel of buttons and lights on the wall nearby. The green light was illuminated, indicating that he had used the right keys in the right order to get into the building. If he had not, an alarm would have sounded over at the Fort, and a security team would be dispatched. The system served the dual purpose of burglar alarm when the apartment was empty and SOS signal in the event that an agent was under duress. On the panel he pushed two blue buttons simultaneously, securing both door locks electrically and reinitiating the alarm.
He took the suitcase up to the bedroom, noting the immaculate condition of the whole place. An agency-directed cleaning crew came through each time an agent stopped in one of the three houses. He had been well fed by BOAC, particularly Lynette, but was still tired from the travel. In the full-length mirror he saw his suit was crumpled from the trip, and his face had a shadow of stubble. Just rest, he thought. Whatever you’ve been brought back here for, it wasn’t R&R. So rest while you can, and go after it tomorrow.
He stripped and started the shower. As soon as it became hot, he stepped under the stream and let the water hit his face full bore. It felt good.
***
“Kein Wasser mehr! Bitte, Kapitän!” Agent Red cried from beneath the drenched towel covering this face. “No more water!”
They had been using the technique on Daniels for an hour that morning. It was the third time.
After the meal of beans, they had worked on him with more physical torture, on his shoulder and then by dislocating a finger. He had been blindfolded the whole time. After a break they removed his underpants, held him over a hole in the floor, and forced him to relieve himself. He was then hosed off and immediately put back on the waterboard, naked, for round two. Junger had continued to ask about the location of Neumann. The captain was convinced that his prisoner, in his presumed capacity as a spy, had Neumann secured in a safe house somewhere. They had given him another break, albeit one he spent strapped to the board lying on the floor, before this latest session.
“Then let us start from the very beginning, again,” Junger said. “You were picked up by the Ministry of State Security because you’re a foreign acquaintance of two known friends of Detlef Neumann, a man who is a dangerous fugitive. Phone conversations between you and Comrades Schoenhardt and Ernst indicate that you’re not British but American. So the only logical explanation is that you’re an American agent trying to interfere with the justice of the German Democratic Republic!”
Without waiting for a response, they poured the water for a minute. Daniels had adopted the response of pulling against the restraints with his hands and feet while the water seeped through the towel and around and into his nose and mouth. This action kept him from thrashing, and the pain in his limbs gave him a mental focal point apart from the sensation of drowning. Gerolf removed the soaked towel once more.
“I know you’re exhausted,” Junger said softly. His warm breath washed over the cold skin of Daniels’s face. “I know you’re hungry. I know you need medical attention. The truth equals relief, remember? So when I return I’ll ask you only one simple question. I’ve been very lenient up to now on this most important point. I will ask you whether you are an American spy. Your answer will determine what happens next.”
Junger pulled away, and Gerolf roughly positioned the board flat on the floor. Daniels heard Junger’s boots clop toward the door. Keys jangled as the soldier unlocked it and let the captain out of the room. There was a brief whispered exchange that Daniels could not discern, and then the door closed with its metallic thud. There was silence—almost. Daniels heard a shuffle, of clothes perhaps. Then the unmistakable sound of a hard swallow and a breath.
“I’m still here,” Gerolf said in a hissed whisper. “I suppose you thought I didn’t speak English? I was forced to learn it as a child, during the early occupation of the Allies. You know, we’ve all been well trained in the various techniques of pressure. Captain Junger is a very…let us say, efficient man. Businesslike, professional. He is good, very good. Albert and the other soldiers here are taught to protect us if necessary but to remain calm during the tension of a difficult interview. He never would’ve shot you, even if you had managed to kill me, unless the captain ordered him to. Yes, they do their duty to the state because they’ve sworn to do so. Then there’s me.”
Daniels heard the steps of the Stasi lieutenant move around him, getting closer. “To be sure, I am loyal as well. But the big difference is that I enjoy this. I really do enjoy this.” Daniels felt the sole of Gerolf’s boot press against his swollen shoulder, lightly at first and then suddenly very hard. Daniels cried out involuntarily. “Yes, this.” Then Gerolf took a s
tep and Daniels felt the boot on his hand, the one with the dislocated finger. He tried to move the hand but Gerolf quickly trapped it. “And this.” Gerolf dug the toe of the boot down against the finger, getting another scream. Then Daniels felt the board shake as Gerolf stood on it, down between his legs. The boot rested lightly above his testicles, barely touching. “And soon, this.”
Gerolf stepped off the board and walked to the door. “Don’t think that we’ll stop. We won’t. I won’t.” Then he left the room and locked the door.
The mission, remember the mission. Keep going until Detlef Neumann is safe. Somehow, keep going. Just a few minutes of sleep, to rest your body and your brain…no! He raised and lowered his head against the board several times. Stay awake and think. Think! What’s your next move? No, no—what’s their next move? That bastard Gerolf just gave you some intel—he said Albert and the other soldiers…OK, so you know there are more than three…you already knew that, they’ve been part of the team holding you down. Or maybe those were other Stasi officers. Well, what does that matter? Come on. Think!
He took the time for several deep breaths, employing the focusing techniques he had been trained on in the facility in Virginia. OK. Review what Junger has said; he’s the key. He keeps asking about a safe house. He’s focused on a CIA safe house, which means they haven’t found Neumann. Good. It also means they know the Red Hound lead was nothing—either they checked it out, or Junger knew right away. It doesn’t matter which. Of course! It means they brought Max and Frida in as well and gave them the third degree. And didn’t get anything useful, which means if they did talk about where to find Neumann, it hasn’t panned out, because…because he’s in hiding, deep. Good boy. Max and Frida didn’t know anything, anyway. Sure, they knew Neumann was on the run—half the citizens in this place are under investigation, and they all know they’re being wiretapped and watched all the time. Those dinner parties are chock-full of artists and intellectuals who are one misstep short of prison or the guillotine. What did Junger do to Frida? Maybe Gerolf got that assignment. It doesn’t matter right now. Think!
Agent Orange Page 6
