Junger wrote in a small notepad from his pocket and looked up. “No. If your information checks out, we will talk. Incidentally, the girl gave us an address, and it turned out to be a boarded-up old glassmaking factory—she had spirit, didn’t she? I hope for your sake this information is real. In the meantime, Albert will keep you company outside the door.”
Albert let Junger and Eckart leave first. Then he stepped out with the chair and closed and locked the door. Keeton watched the window carefully. He could see the face of the soldier, who was apparently receiving instructions from Junger, his face turned to the right.
Exit must be in that direction, Keeton thought. Couldn’t get that bastard to put my arms down. Forget about that; just be patient and watch. Albert’s face appeared in the window to check on him and then disappeared to the left. Keeton heard the scrape of the chair as Albert pushed it against the wall and sat down outside.
OK, can’t wait. Time to go. Breathe and concentrate. Ignore the pain. Breathe and concentrate.
The wire that lined the inside of Keeton’s upper teeth was kept in place by hooks that passed in between his second and third molars. It was the last piece of survival gear he had gotten from Donny Boyle. He pushed against the center of the wire with his tongue, and the hooked ends of the wire snapped away from the teeth. It was a technique he had been required to master at the training camp. He manipulated the wire, careful of the sharp edges built into its design, until it stuck out from between his teeth. Above him, his hands clutched the chain that tethered him to the piping, and his wrists were reddened and sore from the pressure and friction of the cuffs. At the mental count of three, he pushed off his toes and pulled himself up and extended his neck so that his face came close to his right hand. But not close enough. On the third attempt he finally grasped the wire in between his thumb and forefinger and then let himself back down.
He waited a good minute or so to recover from the exertion and let the intense pain in his wrists and ribs subside, then he began working on the left cuff with the wire, another mandatory skill from Camp Peary. Clesujo brand, double-locking mechanism. Defeat the double first, work it counterclockwise…feel it move…there! Now the single lock, clockwise…done! His hands fell down to his side, the cuffs dangling on one wrist. He shook his arms to get the blood moving again, savoring the relief to the injured parts of his body. He even stepped away from the hole and performed several deep squats for the sake of his legs. Although he kept his eyes and ears open for signs of Albert, he was counting on him to feel secure and bored enough to simply wait in the chair.
He straddled the hole again and flung the cuffs back over through the chain loop and visualized his escape plan. Make it look good. Turn so your right hand is toward the door. Hide your free left hand. Junger will step toward you triumphantly, in front of Albert. Have the wire ready in your right hand…He practiced his attack plan twice and then assumed the captured position and waited. Albert got up once, after which Keeton took the opportunity to do more stretching and limbering of his arms and legs. He knew he had precious little energy to spare but had decided that his adrenaline would carry him through to the end, whether it was escape or death.
He estimated it had been about an hour before finally he caught sight of Albert’s face in the window, saluting. He checked the position of his hands just in time to hear the door being unlocked and opened again. As expected, Junger stepped through first, followed by Eckart.
“The address you gave me was another decoy, and you knew it would be!” Junger yelled at him.
“What are you talking about?” Keeton answered back. “It’s the primary safe house for our team. It’s the address I was given.”
“No, it was an abandoned building!” Junger said angrily. He took a deep breath to calm himself. “You must pay for this deception. Let me explain the mathematic equation at work.”
Keeton wanted to strike, but Albert wasn’t in the room, and he couldn’t risk him fleeing to get more help. He needed him closer. “I’m going to kill you, you communist kraut bastard!” he screamed as loud as he could. As hoped, the soldier hurried in but quickly relaxed as he realized his superior was still in control.
“Do you realize that—” Junger yelped suddenly as Keeton pulled away from the chain and leaped at him. Keeton put a hand to Junger’s throat and got behind him, turning them so that Albert’s rifle pointed at the captain first. Eckart looked around for a chance to attack. Then Keeton briefly showed Junger the sharp end of the wire.
“I will push this into your neck and sever the artery,” Keeton whispered fiercely. “You’ll be dead in less than a minute. Albert will shoot me, but I won’t care. Or you can tell them to stop, and you’ll live. Do it now or die! Tell them to stop!”
“Stoppen Sie, Albert!” Junger cried. “Stoppen!”
Albert lowered the rifle, and Eckart took a step back. Then Keeton felt the hard lump of his own gun still tucked in Junger’s waistband. He dropped the wire and pulled the suppressed pistol. A moment later he extended his arm and shot Eckart through the forehead—a wet red splotch appeared on the wall behind him and the man fell dead to the ground. When Keeton looked at Albert, the soldier realized what was about to happen and raised his rifle. Keeton knew that the high-powered bullet could very well pass through Junger and into him, so he pivoted and shot Albert twice in the chest. While falling, Albert fired one shot from the rifle, narrowly missing them. The sound echoed in the cell and out into the hallway. Keeton spun Junger into the back of the room and shot his lower leg through the meat of the calf. The captain cried out and collapsed.
Keeton slid the magazine from the gun out into his hand—two bullets left, including the one already in the chamber. He ran to the open door and saw the reflection of a soldier approaching in the window. Keeton counted to three and then stepped out of the doorway, went to one knee, and fired both shots into the surprised soldier’s chest. With the pistol now empty, he tossed it aside and went back into the cell to find Junger struggling to get to his feet and move forward. Keeton picked up the rifle and used the butt to knock Junger back down. The adrenaline had gotten him this far and fueled his violence, but now fatigue returned and slowed him. He pointed the rifle at Junger’s head.
“I suppose I’m next?” Junger asked, grimacing from the leg wound.
“No, Captain, I’m not going to kill you,” Keeton said. “Scout’s honor.”
“What does that mean?”
“Never mind. Lie on your stomach and look at the wall.” Watching the captain carefully, he found the wire and opened the other handcuff then tossed the cuffs over to Junger, hitting him in the head. “As long as you do what I tell you, I’m not going to kill you—but I’m not going to make it easy on you, either. Strip all your clothes off and throw them over here—you can keep your underclothes. Then cuff yourself to that thick pipe behind you. You know, even after everything I’ve gone through with Albert looking on, I still didn’t enjoy killing him. He was just following the orders of your dark, dirty culture. It just had to be this way; that’s all.”
“Don’t moralize to me, spy,” Junger said fiercely as he pulled the clothes off. “Dark culture? Take a look at the West, at America. Do you think it will survive another generation?”
“It really doesn’t matter what either of us thinks, Captain,” Keeton answered. “Now throw me your clothes and get those cuffs on. Hurry up.”
“You think you can escape this place? They won’t let you. You’re better off giving up this plan. If you do, if you let me go now, we will admit the losses of my men as a necessary casualty of this stupid undeclared war we’re both in.”
“I’m sure Moscow would understand,” Keeton said sarcastically. “Now let me see you test those cuffs.” He walked over to the table and dumped the remaining survival kit items from the sack. He picked up the remaining collar tab—the nonlethal one—and brought it over to Junger.
“Relax. This one won’t kill you,” he said as the captain began to pa
nic. Still, he had to hold Junger down before pushing the tip into the base of his neck. Ten seconds later Junger was unconscious. Keeton tested the cuffs himself and began stripping Eckart’s body. There was a lot of blood on the top of the jacket and shirt, but it beat trying to escape while naked, he figured. Two minutes later, he laced up the shoes and stood up. The clothes were a decent fit, the right length but roomier than Keeton’s trim body needed. He collected Junger’s clothes, all the keys from the three men, and Albert’s service pistol, preparing himself to leave.
One last thing. Before setting out to find Red and get him out of the prison, he slipped the poisoned dart into Junger’s pocket.
For later.
***
Inventory, Keeton thought as made his way down the hall. Junger said “they” wouldn’t let me escape. Have to assume he rounded up other Stasi officers to raid the safe house and that they’re in the factory or around it—and they might come down here any second. He had the bundle of clothes in one arm, Albert’s service pistol in his other hand, and the rifle slung over one shoulder. He also took the service pistol from the soldier he had killed in the hall and tucked it into the jacket. Move fast and find Red.
The first room he came to was the cell where Ziska had been killed. With relief he opened the door to find that her body had been removed. Bleudot was gone, too. He studied the copious amount of blood on the floor for just a moment, imagining his French counterpart bleeding out at Ziska’s feet. Then he moved on. The next door did not have a window. This gave Keeton a bit of hope, but he opened it to find an empty utility room. The third one—window included—was dimly lit. Keeton peered in carefully to see a thin, bearded man huddled in the corner, wearing what looked like a hospital gown. The light did not allow him to discern whether this was Agent Red or not, so he opened the door and stepped in.
“Prentiss Penfield? Agent Red?” he called. The bearded man looked up with a vacant stare.
“Ich heiße Gottlieb,” the man said, struggling but finally standing. “Kennen Sie meine Frau?”
Keeton immediately knew this was not Red. Too short, different voice. Now what? No, I can’t take him out of here. It’s not the mission. He’ll never make it out on his own, either. He sighed, said an apology, and locked the door behind him.
He was approaching the double doors that led upstairs when he noticed an alcove with a single door at the end of it. He used the master key and opened it.
“Prentiss Penfield?” he called again into the semidarkness.
A thick gravel road of a voice replied. “Aw, shit. They didn’t send you, did they? Orange?”
Keeton stepped in and found a light switch. When he flicked it, a figure materialized in the bright light. It was Agent Red, lying on the floor, shackled to the wall and naked. He did not move.
“Yes, it’s me. We’ve got to go!” Keeton whispered fiercely.
“They shouldn’t have sent you,” Agent Red said. “Do you know my name—my real name?”
“That’s not important now. Listen, I took care of—”
“It’s John. John Daniels. I want that engraved somewhere, OK?”
Keeton walked over and knelt next to Daniels, who was dehydrated and thinner than normal. The unkempt beard and face was a timeline of the two weeks of evasion, captivity, and torture. His right shoulder was purple and terribly swollen, and he obviously couldn’t move his right arm. Keeton knew that the agent was in shock, but he had to get him moving, fast. “Listen, John, I’m here to get you out. You have to do what I tell you. We’re leaving now.” He searched the keys he had taken from Eckart and Albert until he found the one that fit Red’s shackle and began to help him put on Junger’s clothes. Between Keeton’s tender ribs and Daniels’s broken collarbone and dislocated finger, the work was slow and painful. By the time they were done, Daniels seemed to be coming out of his privation-induced stupor. The clothing seemed to restore his consciousness and a portion of his dignity.
“Can you handle this?” Keeton asked him, showing him one of the pistols.
“Left-handed, yes, so don’t expect any marksmanship medals,” Daniels responded, taking the gun from him with his good arm. “I sure can’t fire that rifle. What’s our situation?”
“Very tight spot. We’re in the basement of a factory in East Berlin. Captain Junger is locked up tight down here, but I think there are probably more Stasi upstairs. We might need to fight our way out. One way or the other we need to get out to the dock area.”
“Any good news?” Daniels asked.
“Have you met Gerolf? He’s dead,” Keeton told him.
“You’ve made my day; now let’s go,” Daniels said firmly.
“Roger that,” Keeton said. He motioned them forward into the hallway and to the doors. “Through here, up the stairs, first right leads to the dock. There was some kind of cargo truck out there earlier. Junger drives around in a service van and parks it there to bring in prisoners. We’ve got to get one of those trucks.”
“I’ve met the service van before, too,” Daniels said.
“It’s a Benz,” Keeton mentioned. “And here’s a key from Albert’s pocket that looks like a fit. We just might be able to bully our way past the factory workers, but as soon as the Stasi sees us, it’s going to be shooting time. Ready?”
“Yeah, let’s go.”
Keeton went first, followed one step behind by Daniels. Both men were walking awkwardly. At the top of the stairs, they looked around but saw only the factory employees and the production lines humming. Two or three men on the line made eye contact, but their attention, trained by time and experience, waned quickly.
The twenty-foot walk to the turn that led to the dock went by without incident, but as they reached the intersection, two Stasi officers in field-ready coveralls emerged from the office stairwell. They considered the two CIA agents for just a moment, sorting the incongruence of these unknown men walking in the factory as if they were on the team. Simultaneously they decided to act and reached into their uniforms for guns. Keeton and Daniels bolted down the corridor toward the dock.
They ran for thirty feet until Keeton pointed Daniels to a fork truck parked on one side. Keeton himself took cover about ten feet beyond this, behind a support column that jutted into the corridor. The Stasi officers rounded the corner, and both agents fired from their positions. Both first shots missed and were returned, with no one hit. The Stasi’s shots alerted the factory floor, and workers began scattering in the face of the violence. The officers then split up as Keeton and Daniels had done, one finding a door to burst through but the other only a small bit of support beam a few inches thick. Keeton aimed and fired twice, hitting the exposed officer in the leg—he fell out into the corridor, and Daniels killed him with his next two shots.
“Go!” Keeton called. Daniels caught up to him, and together they made it to the end of corridor and turned the final corner to the dock. Another Stasi officer in a suit and homburg hat stood before them, startled. Both agents fired and hit him. Together they ran out onto the large concrete pad that made up the loading dock. Keeton spotted the cargo truck and the service van—and two more officers who had already been alerted by the sound of gunfire and now were lifting machine guns in their direction. Daniels managed to grab Keeton and push him off the far side of the dock to the hard ground. One machine gunner had begun firing, the bullets impacting and ripping through the cargo truck. Daniels fell on top of Keeton and then rolled them both until they were behind the truck’s front tire. Daniels had dropped his gun—it was back where they had landed, out in the open.
Keeton helped Daniels to a sitting position behind the front wheel and checked his magazine. Three shots left. He handed Daniels the gun and told him to cover the back of the truck. Keeton took a deep breath—painful from his own injuries—and sprinted from cover to retrieve the other gun. Both machine gunners were firing, sending chunks of concrete and dirt through the air. When Keeton checked the gun, he found that it only had one bullet left in t
he chamber.
Then he heard the machine gunners calling out to someone. The Stasi officer who had survived the corridor shootout had reached the dock. Confused by the chaos of gunfire and overlapping instructions, the man drifted over to the edge of the concrete pad. Keeton rose and fired his last remaining bullet into him and then recovered the fresh gun that was dropped down into the dirt.
Keeton knew that reinforcements would arrive before long. He peered around the corner of the dock and saw one of the gunners carefully approaching the front of the cargo truck. He fired once but missed. He could not detect the second gunner, who must now have been going around the back of it. Just then Daniels fired—the second gunner had indeed tried to flank them, but he’d been hit by all three bullets. Daniels was now out of ammo.
The first machine gunner had gotten behind his partner and now spun around the corner of the truck in an attempt to finally finish Daniels off. Knowing his gun was empty, Daniels was already rolling under the truck to find cover. Keeton fired once and missed. He fired twice more to see both shots hit the target in the chest.
“You OK?” he called to Daniels, who struggled to crawl out from the truck.
“Depends on your definition, but good enough,” Daniels answered as Keeton helped him to his feet. “Are you ready to leave now?”
“Let’s go,” Keeton said. They jogged toward the service van—their escape vehicle. Keeton saw the old man who had been at the guardhouse absently checking IDs. He had come to investigate the shooting and was now hurrying back to his post to call for help. “Stoppen Sie!” Keeton called to him in pursuit. He tossed the key to the van to Daniels and sped ahead. “Halt!”
The old guard made it to the small checkpoint booth, a narrow walkway on one side and the driveway with the wooden gate lowered across it on the other. He closed the booth door and reached for the telephone. When Keeton came around to the front near the window and raised the gun, the old man placed his hand across the glass as if this would stop the shot. It didn’t. The bullet—the last one in Keeton’s gun—tore through both the glass and the man’s hand and then penetrated the soft tissue of his throat. The guard slipped to the floor, unable to cry out as his airway was destroyed. The telephone was pulled to the floor with him.
Agent Orange Page 16
