“Nothing, for now,” Keeton answered. “It’s time to train.”
***
With the contracted Cessna 310 already warmed up on the tarmac at Dulles, Keeton landed at the airfield at Camp Peary, Virginia, less than an hour after he had left the Map Room. Donny Boyle, the legendary Cavalry training expert, greeted him personally by careening up to the plane in an open-air Jeep. Keeton hauled his duffel bag down the airstair and waved back at his US Air Force pilot.
“Keeton, good to have you back,” the diminutive Irishman called out over the rattle of the Cessna’s twin engines. “Course, it could’ve been under better conditions.”
“Yeah, maybe one of these days it’ll just be social, instead of you trying to half-kill me,” Keeton answered back, tossing the bag into the back of the Jeep and climbing in.
Boyle put the Jeep in gear and spun it back toward the row of hangars, beyond which a road led to the training facility. “I got the call from the Fort about the new intel,” he said, “but I think we’ve got what you need. I’m not too thrilled about this Whisper fella, I’ve got to say.”
“Agreed. I’d like to hear more about him from the team,” Keeton said. “Red’s team is dug in on the other side, and my team should be in WB very soon.”
It was a ten-minute drive to Training Zone 3, or what was at least the central cluster of buildings—mostly farmhouses, barns, and tool sheds—that formed the nucleus of it. He would spend the next three days there, learning his new cover identities and following Donny’s recipe for preparedness.
“You’ll stay in the big house with the team, right here,” Donny told him, pulling up to a two-story white colonial. “We’ll use it for the book learnin’. We’ll be using the red barn and those two sheds for the rest of the training. You hungry?”
“I am, yes,” Keeton answered. He followed Donny through the big front door. The smell of freshly brewed coffee, bacon, and toast assaulted his senses.
“Too bad, boyo,” Donny said, flashing a grin. “Up those stairs, take a right, second door. That’s your HQ. Be back down here in five minutes for a fitness run.”
Keeton looked hard at him. “I’m a little old for brain games.”
“No games. I’ll be with you,” Donny responded. “Five minutes. You ain’t in Paris no more.”
Keeton shrugged reluctantly and headed up the stairs. In his room the closet was stocked with all of the apparel he would need for training, including cotton T-shirts, shorts converted from sweat pants, and running sneakers. Instead he chose the lightweight chukka boots, for the terrain. True to his word, Donny was stretching on the front porch when Keeton walked out. The midmorning summer heat of Virginia was already building. Keeton knew that the humidity, amplified by the dense surrounding woods, would soon catch up. They both finished stretching and headed out in a jog.
Forty-five minutes and two water station stops later, they were back at the porch, soaked and spent. Donny, despite being a half foot shorter than Keeton, had kept up a vigorous pace that helped avoid the unwelcome conversation. They caught their breath for two minutes before Keeton broke the silence.
“OK, what gives? Clock’s ticking on getting up to speed on those covers. You just wanted to see if I could keep up?”
“Well, making sure you’ve been keeping up on your endurance is important,” Donny said with another big grin. “But more than that, I needed to take the tension outta you. You’re wound up for this, and rightly so. But I need you to focus, so the time to draw out some of that nervous energy is worth it.” There were two white towels draped over the porch railing. He picked up one and tossed it to Keeton. “Back upstairs, take a cool shower—not hot or even warm—and meet me back down in the dining room in fifteen minutes for a proper breakfast, ready to learn. And don’t worry—this won’t be the last of the physical training.”
Keeton wrapped the towel around his neck and headed back into the house. Donny was right. After the cool shower he was still hungry, but very relaxed. When he walked into the large dining room, Donny and two other men were already seated near one end of the long Shaker table. One of the men was Asian. Two Navy stewards were serving the breakfast, an enormous spread that belied even what he had imagined it might be from the earlier smells.
“One minute late,” Donny commented, looking at his watch. “That’ll be ten extra minutes on tomorrow’s run. Well, let’s have the introductions so we can finally eat. This is Andrew Keeton, our agent in training. He’s good, boys—tough, intelligent, and seasoned. Keeton, to my right here is Russell Mangold, who will be your cover specialist. He has the new identities worked out and will be testing you.” Mangold stood up, and the men shook hands. “And to Russ’s right is Phichai—you might say he is on loan to us from Thailand. His nickname is Tong, which means ‘big.’ He’ll be conducting your fight training.”
“I know judo already,” Keeton said confidently.
“This will be something different,” Donny answered enigmatically.
Tong stood and extended his hand. To Keeton’s surprise the Thai was nearly his own height, but slimmer. “Hello, nice to meet you,” Tong said.
The four men then sat down and dove into their breakfast of eggs, bacon, rice, and toast. The food was served family style. Juices and strong coffee were regularly refilled by the stewards. Tong flavored his meal with curry and other spices. Their conversation was jovial and exploratory. Keeton learned that Mangold spoke fluent German—most likely a native, he thought—while Tong was definitely native Thai but spoke passable English. Both seemed to be contract agents, but with enough clearance to be in the heart of Camp Peary. When they were done with their late-morning meal, Donny led them into a large open library that would become the center of what he called Keeton’s “book learning.”
“Let’s start,” Donny said as they gathered around a big oak table that served as a desk for the team. It was large enough that they could all sit comfortably around it. Tong excused himself to tend to “the preparations,” as he called it.
As the three remaining men sat down at the table, Mangold took the lead. “Keeton, the cover you’ll adopt in meeting Whisper is a freelance West German photographer named Reimund Huber. As you know, the CIA works with other Western agencies to cultivate these covers over the years, in this case by seeding magazines and newspapers with photos attributed to Herr Huber. And we never have to show his face on record. Because you’re working in West Berlin only, it should serve as a suitable identity. However, in the event you are recorded in any way, we have devised a physical disguise as well.” He lifted up a photo of Keeton that had been altered, showing him with reddish hair and a mustache and beard.
“What do you think?” Donny asked.
“Red hair? I think this was your idea, Irish,” he answered sarcastically. “Actually, it reminds me of one of the fellows I met at the end of the Czech mission.”
“Very good,” said Mangold. “The cover is actually his, and we’re borrowing it. In the unlikely event that you’d need to recite any of Huber’s personal information, I have this biographic packet for you.” He slid over a thin folder containing a sheet of data and a passport. “I’ll take you through it.”
For the next hour Mangold guided Keeton through a series of mnemonic exercises in order to recall at a moment’s notice all of Huber’s particulars. Donny made sure the stewards kept up the coffee. Mangold asked Keeton to go for a walk around the perimeter for twenty minutes and come back for a test. On his first pass, he remembered about three quarters of the information. They immediately went for another hour. At one thirty in the afternoon, Keeton was able to pass all of the vital statistics questions. This earned him an afternoon break until three o’clock. To Donny’s delight, Keeton instead decided on a fitness test of push-ups, pull-ups, and sprints; the results were “satisfactory to good,” in Donny’s words. Boyle’s scale rarely included anything more superlative.
At three o’clock they were served ham sandwiches and tossed salad and fresh f
ruit. When they were finished Donny called them back into a utility room in the house, where he and Mangold went through the rigors and steps of applying the disguise that would turn Andrew Keeton into Reimund Huber, complete with dye and false facial hair. In the midst of the next few hours of practicing this, Mangold peppered Keeton with questions, eventually transforming the questions into a type of role-play where Mangold became the belligerent German official demanding and then challenging answers. At last Keeton had applied the entire disguise himself. Mangold was checking it when a communications specialist arrived with a decoded Teletype for Keeton, retransmitted from the Fort.
START
AUGUST 01, 1964 2310 GMT
URGENT—IMMEDIATE DELIVERY LEADERSHIP
FROM ZEPPELIN VIA VOGEL LOC STATION WBSH1
RE: STATUS WHISPER
ZEPPELIN ADDITIONAL CONTACT WITH WHISPER—WHISPER REFUSES TO DIVULGE ANY ADDITIONAL DETAILS UNTIL MEETING TO DISCUSS DEFECTIONS.
ADDITIONAL INFO. ORANGE TEAM ARRIVED, AWAITING FURTHER MISSION INFORMATION.
END
Keeton nodded as he read through the note, then passed it over to Donny. “Specialist, can you take down a response and reply back immediately?”
“Of course, sir.” He produced a notepad and pen.
“From—Agent Orange. Regarding—Whisper Mission Info. Read—Orange will conduct meeting with Whisper. Instruction to Zeppelin. Continue surveillance of factory. Report back any indication of visits, interrogation, or…or removals. Direct all communication to Station P, attention Orange. End. Got it, Specialist?”
“Yes, sir,” the man replied crisply. He recovered the Teletype from Donny and left the room.
“Good job on this.” Mangold indicated in the mirror from behind Keeton. “Especially nice touch on the eyebrows.”
“Now take it all out,” Donny said. “Tong has something for you.”
“Which is?”
Tong had appeared in the doorway. “Fight training,” he said, smiling broadly.
***
“Muay Thai,” Tong announced simply. “Like English boxing, but more.”
“I gathered that,” Keeton responded. He stood in a ten-by-ten-foot fighting ring in the opposite corner from Tong. They were both dressed in shorts, but without sneakers or shirts. On Keeton’s hands were lightweight padded sparring gloves, but he was also adorned with pads on his shins, knees, elbows, and midsection. Tong only had the boxing gloves for protection. Donny affixed the final piece of equipment over Keeton’s head and pushed in a mouthpiece.
“Good luck, boyo,” he said mischievously.
Tong stepped forward. “First, just English box.”
Keeton adopted the stance he had been trained on and shuffled forward. He touched the glove that Tong offered. Suddenly the Thai snapped a jab that pushed Keeton’s head back. Keeton stepped back and regained his focus and moved forward again. He jabbed and missed, three times. Tong was lithe and fast. They circled and began a rhythm of sparring. Tong’s shots were faster and landed harder than Keeton had expected, but the American used his weight advantage—close to thirty pounds, he reckoned—to lean and push the lighter man. Still, the number of connections was in Tong’s favor when he called, “Break now.”
It had been five minutes, and both men were now glistening with sweat. The fighting facility was simply the big barn. The night was warm and humid, and having the big doors open on both ends of the building did not seem to offer much in the way of relief. The ring dominated the center, but mats, punching bags, practice dummies, and weights were stored in various corners and nooks. Donny poured water into Keeton’s mouth, while Mangold attended to Tong’s corner.
“Good start,” Tong called over. “Now, we begin Muay Thai.” The men stepped to the center, and Tong began the lesson. “Boxing is much the same. Jab, hook, uppercut, all of it. But Muay Thai adds elbow and knee strike.” These he demonstrated in slow motion, barely touching Keeton’s head and midsection. “And kicks.” Tong lifted his right foot up directly in front of him, jabbing Keeton’s stomach hard enough to push him back a step. Then he brought his right foot up and around so that the kick impacted the back of Keeton’s left leg. “Now you kick.”
Keeton shrugged and tried to repeat Tong’s actions, but the Muay Thai master simply blocked them with his own leg movements. “Leg defense against leg. Yes?”
“OK, yes,” Keeton answered.
Tong nodded and they began again. Now he kept the larger man at bay with the front kicks, neutralizing the size advantage. For ninety minutes, the men sparred, taking water breaks every twenty minutes or so. Tong stopped the fighting to instruct Keeton on Thai boxing, clinching techniques, kicks, use of the shins, elbow strikes, and something called the flying knee. By the end of the session, they were fighting in a sort of rhythm, two minutes of combat and two minutes of demonstration, repeated over and over again. “Break! Enough for today,” Tong finally said, looking well worked but energetic.
Keeton was completely exhausted. He thanked Tong and then shuffled out of the ring and to the nearest chair. He winced as Donny helped him take off the pads. “Damn, he’s very fast,” Keeton said. “I hope I’m not expected to know half of that stuff by the time I leave for Berlin.”
“Half of half would be a miracle,” Donny said. “That’s not the point.”
As if to answer Keeton, Tong walked around the ring and over to his chair, dropping to one knee. “You did good for first time. You are good boxer. Quick fists. Tomorrow we work on kicks. Practice, practice, practice. Drill, drill, drill. You will have new surprise for your opponent.”
“I’ll be here tomorrow,” Keeton said resignedly.
Tong gave him a sporting light slap on the top of his head and smiled. “All Thai have nickname. Mine is Tong, means big. I will give you nickname before you leave.”
“C’mon, champ,” Donny said, pulling Keeton to his feet. “You know the drill. To the shower, then back down to the library. We’ll put in another hour of cover study and get a late snack into you. I think you might’ve lost ten pounds today!”
On the walk back to the house, Donny told Keeton that while he was getting his Muay Thai lesson, they had received a Teletype acknowledgment of his instructions from Philippe, who along with Roy was ensconced in West Berlin Safe House Number One. The East German asset Zeppelin continued to watch the factory, but there was nothing new to report about it yet. It was the same story with Zeppelin’s secondary asset, Whisper. They knew that when assets began to cultivate and run their own informants, complexity and risk rose quickly. It was part of the spy game, whether they liked it or not. When they were back in the house, Keeton cleaned up, downed a sandwich, and went through one more hour with Donny and Mangold on the Reimund Huber cover.
At ten o’clock he fell onto the bed in his room, quickly giving in to sleep amid a subconscious swirl of Reimund Huber’s personal life, the redheaded disguise, and Tong’s knee strikes.
***
“Wie heißen Sie?”
“Ich heiße Marzell Adler.”
“Was ist Ihr Beruf?”
“Ich bin investigativer Journalist.”
“Geburtsdatum?”
“Neunter November, neunzehnhundertdreissig.”
Fifty questions later, Mangold nodded to Keeton approvingly and handed back the fake passport of Marzell Adler, the second cover Keeton had learned in as many days. They had been at it for three hours. The same information was repeated in various orders, sometimes calmly, sometimes under duress as part of the role-playing. Mangold glanced over at Donny.
“Told you so, Russ,” Donny said with his big grin. “He’s a natural. Are we sure about the back story?”
The CIA cultivated hundreds of false identities at any given time, and of various depths—from temporary, one-use driving licenses to years-long complex biographies, like Theodore Barney. When possible, photographs were kept to a minimum, although to avoid suspicion it was sometimes necessary. The trick was matching a picture on fil
e to a newly assigned agent.
“It looks good to me,” Mangold answered, pulling out two older black-and-white portraits cut from newspaper bylines. “These are the only two pictures we’ve created of the cover version of Marzell Adler. Been in the vault for a decade, never used. They’re close enough to the new passport to match, considering the dates and all. The visa will be granted right at the checkpoint itself—even though Adler is a West German, he’s not a Berliner, so it’s a fairly routine crossing. Don’t ask me to explain the logic. And for this cover, no physical disguise is necessary—Marzell Adler is clean shaven and dark haired. I think you’re ready, Keeton.”
“Actually, I’d like to bone up some more on Adler’s articles,” Keeton said.
“Suit yourself.” Donny shrugged, pushing over the rest of the thick folder. It contained over thirty newspaper and magazine articles, including six lengthy exposes. “It’s noon. I’ll have the steward bring in your lunch. Tong wants to see you at two o’clock.”
“Thirty,” Keeton said suddenly, as if snapping from a trance.
“What’s that?” asked Donny.
“On the flight over here I was wondering how many covers I’ve had. I think it’s thirty.” Keeton frowned. “Maybe a few more than that.” He pulled open the folder and started looking through the articles while Donny left to order lunch. Halfway through the material, he realized he knew enough about Marzell Adler and instead let his thoughts drift back to questions about his profession. It happened occasionally, when he was tired or had lost a colleague or had otherwise had his assumptions challenged, as Father Teodor had done. Regarding his covers over the years, he concluded that in his mind he created a real person out of the pictures and the lies, a character whose biography he could recite and who was at once a fabrication and a tangible part of him. It was an amalgam that had kept him alive through all those missions. The steward brought in a lunch of pasta salad and carved roast, but in his somber mood, he barely picked at the food.
That afternoon, Keeton dutifully changed into his training shorts and sneakers and found Tong waiting for him out in the barn. He was put to work in front of the rubberized practice dummy. Tong showed him three knee strikes and two kicks, instructing him to practice “many, many times…a million times.” Keeton followed his orders but broke up the long session with occasional fist and elbow strikes to the dummy’s head, and, when he was halfway through, with a quick two-mile run through the nearby woods. Tong then called him in for more instructional sparring, which they did until the dinner break. After the meal, the role-playing for both new covers went into the night. Just before he was to turn in, Donny gave Keeton the news.
Agent Orange Page 8
