Agent Orange

by Langford, Stephen

  “Just an impressionable boy, really,” Ziska said huskily. “I met Rudolph and started asking him about the factory and then a job. I convinced him that I’m not afraid of hard work. And it turns out he needed a secretary. Anyway, I’ve been there twice so far, and I’ve spotted the Stasi truck once.”

  Keeton pulled the folded paper with Zeppelin’s blood on it from a hidden compartment in his belt. He spread it out and slid it over to Ziska. “We got this from Zeppelin, too. Can you confirm the layout?”

  “Yes, generally correct. But here,” she said, pointing, “and here are small brick partitions, which could be hiding places. This is only the main factory floor. There are two higher levels and the basement, which is where they must take the prisoners for interrogation. Rudolph’s office is on the second level, which overlooks the main floor; adjacent to this office are many empty rooms and storage. My desk is just outside of his office, and I can see the floor as well. The top level is all utilities and ventilations.”

  “We need to figure out a reconnaissance plan for the basement,” Keeton said. “Ziska, what are your duties as secretary?”

  She gave him a sideways glance. “I suspect secretaries are the same all over the world, Adler. Know what I mean? But if you’re talking about official administrative duties, then so far I’m just filing papers and organizing the time sheets so the accountant can keep them all straight. I answer the phone, but at night it only rings once or twice.”

  “Any chance you could find blueprints?” Keeton asked.

  Ziska shrugged. “Perhaps, but I’d have to ask Rudolph even where to start, which wouldn’t do much good for my cover. I had thought of another way, however.”

  “What is it?” Keeton asked.

  “I could sneak down into the basement and then if caught pretend I’m on an errand for Rudolph. If necessary, I could pick the locks on the doors. At least I’d get some idea of the arrangement of the rooms and perhaps where the guards are stationed.”

  “Extremely dangerous,” Bleudot commented. “According to Zeppelin everybody knows not to ask about the basement. At the very least, they would begin watching you—essentially you’d be burned and no longer able to work.”

  Ziska shrugged in resignation. “So, what else can we do?”

  “How about a more direct approach?” Eichel said. “Every night Ziska sees Rudolph for dinner before work. Tonight we put Adler and Bleudot in front of him. They claim to be Stasi investigators who suspect Junger of some offense to the state. Just scare the shit of him to get him to talk.”

  “What if he really doesn’t know anything about the basement?” Bleudot asked.

  “Sweat him for whatever you can, I guess,” Eichel suggested.

  Keeton considered this idea for several seconds. “It could work. What about doing it all in one night? We’ve got the employee badges. We hit Rudolph at dinner tonight, pump him for info about the basement, then depending on what he knows, we let Ziska go in like she said. No matter what, Bleudot and me go in as employees. You’re right: it’s dangerous—but what part of this whole damn business isn’t?”

  The other three silently looked at one another and then him, and nodded.

  ***

  “Good evening, my darling,” Rudolph said sweetly to Ziska as she approached the table. He rose and pulled a chair out for her, grinning foolishly the entire time. Their waiter came over and took their drink order. As he walked away to fill it, Keeton and Bleudot approached. The agents stepped menacingly up to the ostensible lovers.

  “Yes, may I help you?” Rudolph asked as the grin faded.

  Keeton leaned in. “You are Ziska Weber?”

  Ziska assumed the wide-eyed silence that the GDR inspired when suited men already knew your name. “Yes, I am.”

  “So then you are Rudolph Nast,” Keeton declared to the factory manager, who also indicated in the positive.

  “You may go, Miss Weber—for now,” Bleudot told her, affecting a harsher German to hide any trace of his French roots.

  “What is this all about, anyway?” Rudolph asked suddenly as Ziska stood. He had become accustomed to their time together and decided to defend it.

  “Leave!” Keeton ordered Ziska, who backed away from the table then turned and walked briskly to the front of the restaurant and out the door. Rudolph must have realized his mistake. His eyes shifted back and forth between the two men as Keeton sat down at the table.

  “Mr. Nast, it is the duty of the Ministry of State Security to assess threats to our country. So I ask you one simple question: are you entirely loyal to the German Democratic Republic?”

  The blood quickly drained from Rudolph’s face. To be asked such a question! And by the Stasi, no less. “Why, of course I am,” he answered. “I work hard for the benefit of the state and my fellow citizens. I hire and supervise hard workers, too.”

  “Like that girl?” Keeton asked in mock pleasantness. “Quite the find, a girl of her obvious…charms. And talents, I’m sure.”

  “I have permission to hire a secretary,” Rudolph protested meekly. “The factory supervisor actually encouraged me…”

  “Relax, Nast,” Bleudot said, sitting down at the table as well, and smiling broadly. “Your loyalty and integrity of labor isn’t in dispute at all. But we do have a few questions for you.”

  “Of course. Whatever you need, you may count on me.”

  “We know that,” Bleudot answered. “Unfortunately, not all of the workers at the Sonstige Industrierohr Berlin are as loyal. Take this new girl, for instance. What do you really know about her?”

  “Ziska? Oh, she’s a nice girl—and very efficient!”

  “Efficient perhaps, but I’m not entirely sure of her loyalty,” Keeton said. “Now, what can you tell us about the basement?”

  Rudolph felt his prospects fading, not because he lacked information but rather because he could almost feel the gravity of the factory basement tugging him into its deadly orbit. “Basement? Not much. The man who runs the factory during the day—my uncle, by the way—has told me to be careful and leave it alone.”

  “Alone,” Keeton repeated, turning to Bleudot. “See, I told you he knows nothing and cannot help us.”

  Bleudot shook his head and then drew a pad of paper and a pen from this suit pocket. “Draw what you know of the basement floor plan. This will tell us whether we can rely on you to collect information on Captain Junger.”

  “I beg your pardon. Who is Captain Junger?” Rudolph asked.

  “Draw,” Keeton said, jabbing at the pen and paper. Rudolph complied and slid the pad back over to him. As Keeton pretended to scrutinize Rudolph’s work with an increasingly skeptical glance, the manager became more agitated.

  “Of course, I’ve been down there. I can add more detail if you need,” he said nervously. Keeton slid the pad back to him. “Let’s see, there are smaller rooms here and here, mostly old utility areas I think, for washing equipment. We don’t use them anymore.”

  Keeton took back the paper. “This is good, Mr. Nast. Now listen. This Captain Junger is unfortunately a suspect in selling state secrets to the decadent West. Because of your knowledge of the basement area in which he does his—shall we call it his type of work?—we might need you to explore for us and report back his activities.”

  This only made Rudolph that much more anxious. “Report back? But I’ve heard…that is, some of the line workers have seen…well, prisoners being taken down into the basement.”

  “We think he’s using this procedure as a way to get Western agents alone and collaborate with them,” Keeton said. “A typical method for such a traitor!”

  Rudolph shook his head. “From what I’ve heard, the prisoners don’t come back up looking like they’ve had a friendly chat. They look like they’ve been beaten, or worse. Sometimes they cannot walk on their own. In one case, the soldiers brought up a large item wrapped in a cloth covering—a body, perhaps.”

  “When was this?” Bleudot suddenly demanded.


  “A few months ago, I think. To be honest, I myself have only seen men walking down the stairs once.”

  Keeton pulled a photo from his suit jacket and set it down in Rudolph’s direction. “This man?”

  Rudolph looked at the photo. It was one of Zeppelin’s, taken of Junger, Gerolf, and the soldier Albert. “Yes, all three actually—well, I think the soldier, but of course the hat makes it harder to identify him. But the other two men, yes, for sure.”

  “Good man,” Keeton said. “Mr. Nast, the state will not forget your service. With your confirmation of Junger in the photo, I think we shall not need you to do any investigations for us in the basement.”

  Rudolph’s face lightened perceptibly. “I am glad to help, Mister…”

  “Mencken. Colonel Mencken,” Keeton answered. “One last thing, Nast. If one or both of us shows up in the factory, especially if we are dressed as workers, you are not to acknowledge us. If questioned, you should indicate that we are cousins of yours and new line workers in training. Understood?”

  Rudolph looked uncomfortable again but nodded back at the supposed Stasi agents, who then shook hands with him and left the restaurant. Once clear of the restaurant, Bleudot patted Keeton on the back and grinned.

  “I think we fulfilled Eichel’s instructions,” he said. “Rudolph is now officially shitless. Speaking of the devil, there’s Eichel with the car.” As they approached the next corner, a pale yellow Trabant 500 rolled up to the curb. Bleudot opened the passenger side of the coupe and pulled the seat forward so Keeton could slide into the back. Eichel barely waited for Bleudot to get in before tearing off in front of a trail of smoky exhaust.

  Ten minutes later he pulled the Trabi into a commercial repair garage. An old man tugged the big wooden door closed behind them as they piled out of the car. Bleudot flashed a quick thumbs-up to the old man, who then walked over to the customer entrance and hung an orange CLOSED sign in the window. Ziska was strolling across the street, having taken a taxi from the restaurant to a corner near the repair shop. The orange signal told her to approach the shop and come in. Once in the garage, she found Keeton and Bleudot changing into factory coveralls worn by the men. At their feet were lunch pails as props, complete with bread and sausages and coffee inside.

  “What do you think?” Bleudot asked, flashing his forged employee badge toward her.

  “Good enough,” she said. “But if necessary I could come out and distract the gate guard.”

  “We’ll be fine,” Keeton said, checking his watch. It was ten thirty. “Let’s go over the plan one last time. Ziska will go into the factory at the normal start of the shift. Presumably Rudolph will be there, too. Handle him however you see fit, but the key is to get away long enough to make it to the basement. Remember your cover and your story—if you’re caught sneaking around, don’t give up, don’t break cover, no matter what they might say or threaten. Bleudot and I will enter the factory at break time, and we’ll get up to the office. If necessary, we’ll sweat Rudolph again. If Ziska has some new intel for us, we’ll use it to attack the basement. If not, we’ll go in with shock value. Eichel will be at the meeting point with the van. Questions?”

  Bleudot spoke up. “Ziska is taking a big risk—no backup and a weak story. Show her the drawing from Rudolph.”

  Keeton pulled out the writing pad and let Ziska study the crude picture. When she had memorized it, she gave him a nod.

  “And if she gets caught breaking in, what then?” Bleudot asked.

  Ziska only shrugged. “I’ll be able to handle those goons.”

  “If things go to shit, this might give you a chance,” Keeton said. He had pulled the two poison-tipped collar tabs from the shirt he had been wearing with the suit, part of Donny Boyle’s survival kit. “Can’t use them with this factory uniform anyway.” He gave Ziska the secret weapon with the lethal chemical and briefly described how to use it.

  “The poison works on good guys, too, right?” Ziska asked lightly, mocking a motion of plunging it into her own neck. “If things go to shit, that is.”

  ***

  “Why don’t you just rest for a bit, my dear?” Ziska said sympathetically to Rudolph in the confines of his second-floor office in the factory. When they had met near the entrance just prior to the start of the night shift, Rudolph had beckoned her into his office and told her about the odd and vexing encounter with Mencken and his Stasi colleague.

  “I want nothing to do with them,” Rudolph repeated for the third time to match the third shot of vodka—the infamous “blue strangler”—he had just poured for himself. “Or with the basement, or with anything that’s going on down there. Uncle made it very clear to me.”

  “Of course you don’t, darling,” Ziska answered as she guided him to the little couch on which they had had intercourse two nights earlier during the shift. “Here, take the bottle with you. That’s right. Let me pour you another.”

  “I need to work,” he muttered absently as he succumbed to her gentle push by lying down on the couch.

  “You need to rest, even take a small nap. I won’t let anyone disturb you. I’ll tell them that the state auditor has you on the phone. OK?”

  “You love me, don’t you, Ziska?” he asked, reaching up to her.

  His groping hands disgusted her, but she maintained the smile. She playfully tickled his face with the large braid of blond hair and then eased another shot of blue strangler past his lips. Five minutes later he had nearly gotten the buttons of her blouse undone and had taken three more shots. His fingers stopped working, and his hands drifted down to rest on his stomach. Then he passed out.

  Ziska briefly considered tying him up but thought better of it. In each of their several after-work dates he had ended up unconscious after five or six shots and would remain asleep for several hours. It stood to reason that she would have at least a good hour to work, if not the rest of the night. She buttoned up the blouse and gathered up the materials she had practiced with earlier that afternoon in the safe house: a clipboard holding several innocuous ledgers, a pen to record completely useless notes, and the two sturdy wires she’d need to open the locked basement doors. The vodka bottle fell over and rattled across the floor as Rudolph’s hand dropped from his side and bumped it. He simply continued to snore.

  She quietly left the office and made her way to the stairs leading to the factory floor. The noise from the assembly line was overwhelming. Someone in the basement could scream and scream and scream and never be heard, she thought. Across the floor she saw the doorway beyond, which the stairs to the basement descended. Here we go. You’re the secretary whose drunk boss told you to look through the file cabinets. He said something about checking…in the basement, I thought he said. Clipboard at your side, straighten up, walk to the door.

  She had become accustomed to men watching her walk by, and the factory floor could not have been a more attentive audience. A few even whistled—not that she could hear this over the drone of the machinery. To her right was a large double door that led to a dock area, where Zeppelin had observed the Stasi arriving with prisoners. Just ahead was the stairwell. She made a show of looking around for a sign or some other benchmark and then walked slowly down as if lost. A set of metal double doors led into what Rudolph had drawn as the main stem of the basement. She stepped up and carefully tested the door handle. It was locked. She then knelt down and peered under the doors. The hallway was well lit and quiet, with no discernible movement in it. From her pocket she extracted the two wires and began working the lock.

  Five pins. Defeat them one at a time. Work quickly but carefully. After thirty seconds the final pin gave, and the lock turned. She counted to three and slowly pushed the door open. She saw no one and recalled the absence of the van outside as well. Then she walked the first ten feet before coming to a corner, just as Rudolph’s drawing had indicated. She peered around it and saw a closed door. Prisoners still down here? If it’s this quiet, I might even be able to find…

  “
Halt!” a voice shouted as a soldier rounded one of the corners up ahead. His rifle was raised to the firing position. “Do not move!”

  Ziska dropped the clipboard and began screaming, just as she had mentally rehearsed. “Don’t shoot me, please! I’m Mr. Nast’s secretary!”

  “How did you get through those doors?” the soldier demanded as he walked toward her with the rifle still aimed at her torso.

  “They were unlocked! I’m just a secretary. Mr. Nast asked me to check for the inventory down here.”

  “Nast who?” the soldier asked loudly. Now he was within several feet of her.

  “The night shift supervisor. He’s…well, he’s drunk. He told me to…please don’t point that gun at me.” She backed against the wall and began to sink down it. The two wires that she had used to open the doors fell discreetly from her right hand.

  “Those doors are always locked,” the soldier said.

  “No, they weren’t. I swear it. Check yourself. Please!”

  The soldier lowered the rifle and seemed for the first time to take note of this beautiful woman before him, now hunched down against the wall in fear, completely vulnerable. He swallowed hard and glanced over at the doors. In his uncertainty Ziska saw that he was fairly young, certainly not seasoned enough to have actually been in battle. She carefully extracted the poison collar stay from her skirt waistband, waiting for him to decide what to do next.

  “Wendel! Stop!” The shouted command came as if it were being given to a dog. The soldier instantly stopped and spun around and then adopted a ramrod straight posture at attention. Walking down the hall was Captain Junger, followed a step behind by Gerolf.

  Well damn it all, she thought.

  Ziska slipped the poisoned dart back in her skirt and stood up, collecting the clipboard and smoothing down her clothes dramatically. She had summoned tears as well. “Sir, thank you. I’m…I’m not exactly sure what is happening. I’m the office secretary. My boss sent me down here to…”

  “The answer you give to the next question may very well determine whether you live or not,” Junger said coldly. “Who are you?”