Agent Orange

by Langford, Stephen

  Keeton let go of the pistol with one hand and punched Tough Guy’s throat. The soldier sagged and started to gasp. Keeton tried again and only partially hit his target, but it was enough to force Tough Guy to use one hand to defend himself. Now they both only had one remaining hand on the gun. Tough Guy had the leverage but was still reeling. All at once the German rolled completely off of Keeton and with a surprise move was able to snatch the gun away. As Keeton scrambled to get away from the inevitable shot that was to be taken at him, Tough Guy staggered to his feet, wheezing but with the advantage. For a brief moment, their eyes met. Tough Guy smiled and aimed the Makarov.

  The red hole that appeared on Tough Guy’s forehead popped into existence amid the muffled echo of a suppressed gunshot. His head then bent back from the momentum of the bullet, and the remainder of his body, including the hand holding the gun, violently followed. His final action was to fire a last shot into the ceiling. At the end of this long arc of motion backward, Tough Guy hit the concrete floor with a muted thud.

  Keeton turned around to see Vogel near the door, his own gun outstretched. He was dressed in a maintenance uniform as well.

  “Sorry for the drama,” he said as he lowered the weapon. “I had to wait for him to stand up to get a clear shot.” He walked over to Keeton, and they shook hands.

  “Thanks hardly seems to be enough,” Keeton said, unabashed at his sweaty palms and pounding heart.

  Vogel shrugged. “I met Morel outside at the truck. The signal from the Elephant is coming through loud and clear. Came down to see how it was going, and when I got close to the room, I heard a shot. We need to clean up this mess and do something with the body; then we can get you out of here.”

  “The mess” that Vogel referred to included both Tough Guy’s blood and the wires that ran from the ceiling and down into the air duct. They hid the wires with duct tape. It would take a very unusual bystander to reveal the Elephant to the East Berlin authorities. As for the body, they had no choice but to wait for an all clear and then drag it into the hallway. In the meantime Vogel was able to secure a mop and a bucket of water to help with the cleanup. The caliber of the slug from Vogel’s gun matched the Makarov. They arranged things to look like a suicide, gathered up the shell casings from the electrical room, and dropped the body as far from the door as practical. Eventually an investigation would lead to a finding of homicide and an unsolved mystery but hopefully not until they were long finished with this mission.

  Several hours later they both crossed back over to West Berlin, separately and having said their good-byes beforehand. Keeton took a taxi to a predetermined corner of the city, and Roy picked him up in a fast-moving sedan and drove straight to the airport. With no luggage at all, the men were booked on the next flight to London.

  ***

  Department 10 had set up shop in the second floor of an abandoned West Berlin beer hall, configuring three rows of three stations each on the long tables. The nine operators—men and women carefully recruited by the CIA to transcribe what they heard—sat on the accompanying benches. Each station consisted of a headset, a tuner with outputs that led to a tape recorder, a thick pad of ruled paper, and a cup of pencils. Several times a second, the electronics that controlled the Elephant sent pulses through the S-Bahn rails so that essentially nine specific phone lines—chosen carefully to be possible sources of intelligence—were monitored on a constant basis. The operators dutifully wrote what they heard, in shorthand that would be transcribed later and compared to the tapes in the event of ambiguity. They were trained to listen for particular key words and phrases. When an operator heard something that might be important, he or she would mark the sentence on the pad and punch a button on the tape machine that added a tone to the recording. The work was grueling, accomplished in twelve-hour shifts with two or three rotating substitutes for breaks.

  In the fortieth hour after the Elephant was activated, a few sentences were marked by Operator Four at two thirty in the morning. Seven hours later the sentences were translated into English and analyzed, whereupon the message was approved to be sent up the chain of command as very important. A scrambled Teletype then fired across the Atlantic and landed in Langley. At 4:10 p.m., Washington time, Director Morrison was handed the decoded Teletype.

  Morrison read the message three times before looking up at Specialist Banks, who stood with an air of expectation. “Damn,” the director said softly. “OK, start arranging a phone call with Agent Orange, and put together the planning team for a meeting back here in two hours.”

  “Yes, Director.” Banks smiled with nervous energy and left the office.

  Morrison reached over and pushed the intercom button on his desk. “Betty, please give the AD a call at home and put him through.”

  “Yes, Director,” Betty answered.

  A minute later Bernie Williams was connected to Morrison’s desk through a secure line. Morrison read the decoded message aloud, and Williams whistled.

  “I assume you’re giving this to Keeton?”

  “Damned right I am,” Morrison said. “Can you be here in two hours to start planning?”

  “You couldn’t stop me,” Williams answered. “Thank God for second chances, eh?”

  Morrison lifted the Teletype page and read the note one more time. INTERCEPTED PHONE DIRECT LINE FROM STASI OFFICE INDICATES SDECE BLEUDOT ALIVE. PLAN TO TRANSFER TO MOSCOW IMMINENT. PHONE TAP ONGOING TO SECURE FURTHER DETAILS. RELAY TO DIRECTOR 229 MORRISON IMMEDIATELY.

  Chapter 10. Second Chances

  The CIA London station was set up in a turn-of-the-century three-story mansion, with electronic countermeasures and soundproof glass in the windows. The basement level was darker than its aboveground counterparts, and its ceilings lower, but Keeton enjoyed the closed environment and the feeling that his colleagues were near him at all times. In the month since he had escaped the East German train station for London, he had requested and received permission to take over the basement, excepting the small, enclosed area that housed the three Teletypes and their respective operators. With frequent communications to and from the Cavalry, this proximity suited him perfectly fine. As an official MI6 liaison, Lionel was cleared into the station and given freedom to more or less walk about. Only the top floor, containing the agency’s most advanced radio gear, was off limits to him. Together the four of them—Keeton, Philippe Allard, Romain Roy, and Lionel—had spent the time gathering intel and planning yet another rescue.

  Keeton now studied the latest Teletype that had been sent from the Fort. He read it again before closing his eyes, trying to discern whether this news was good for him or bad for him. The last four weeks had been sprinkled with emotional ebbs and flows. First of all, he was alive, and the Elephant mission was a success. After the urgent message from the Fort that Bleudot was also alive, further intercepts had indicated the East Germans were waiting for the Frenchman to heal from his near-fatal gunshot wound before sending him to Moscow. His time with Lynette had certainly salved the wound of all the violence he had thus far encountered and dealt out. Whisper was dead, but Agent Red was heading home. Ziska had been lost, but Bleudot was alive. And now this.

  ADVISED. ELEPHANT INTEL INDICATES POET CAPTURED. LOCATION FACTORY NOW HEAVILY FORTIFIED. STASI PLAN TO TRANSFER TO MOSCOW WITH BLEUDOT. ADJUST MISSION ACCORDINGLY.

  “Adjust mission accordingly,” Keeton said slowly, softly. He let his head fall back against the chair. “That’s all, just that one little thing.”

  “What’s wrong, boss?” Philippe asked as he rounded the corner and saw Keeton frowning in thought. Without opening his eyes, Keeton handed him the paper, and Philippe read it. “I guess we need to retool the mission. A two-for-one special.”

  “You could say that,” Keeton answered. Then he shook off the weight of this new wrinkle and stood. “Well, get the team assembled in the briefing room at”—he glanced at his watch—“make it noon on the dot. I’m going to send a confirmation back to HQ.”

  Philippe smiled
. “Imagine getting both Bleudot and Neumann back at the same time. We’ll be legends.”

  Keeton gave him a sideways glance. “Yeah. Most dead heroes are. Get the team.”

  An hour later Keeton convened the foursome in a square chamber within the basement that had become their briefing and planning room. Cups of coffee and tea held corners of maps in place, and a stack of Teletype pages sat nearby as a ready reference. Now the mission included Detlef Neumann.

  “OK, I know Philippe’s already spilled the beans about the poet,” Keeton said as he held up the latest Teletype before adding it to the stack. “So let’s get started. First, from what we can tell, the basics of the East Germans’ plan are the same. Bleudot is being held at the Charité Hospital, almost healthy enough to move. We assume the reds won’t let him stay in EB any longer than necessary, and they sure as hell aren’t going to let Neumann sit around in that factory.”

  “Especially not since you busted yourself and Agent Red out,” Roy said with an impish grin.

  “Nice bit of work, that, Keeton,” Lionel added. Earlier in the week, he had been given the rundown of Keeton’s recent adventures. In the course of being brought into the fold of the mission, he had also learned for the first time Agent Orange’s real name.

  “Never mind that,” Keeton answered. “I don’t want to lose anyone else. We don’t know how this so-called motorcade is going to work. We do know they’ll be taking both Bleudot and Neumann to Schönefeld to be put on the same flight to Moscow. Twenty-to thirty-minute drive. They could grab them in separate cars at the same time, one after the other. From what we can tell, Captain Junger is heading up the transfer.”

  “Your old friend,” Philippe said.

  “We had a falling out, I’m afraid,” Keeton said with a grim smile. “Our main plan won’t change, either, but it’ll be riskier. We have to assume they’ll have a pretty heavy escort, with more armed soldiers and Stasi officers than they’d have had with just one injured Frenchman to watch.”

  “KGB along for the party now?” Lionel asked.

  “Doubtful,” Keeton answered. “The Soviets are in control at a certain level, but they still let Secretary Ulbricht have a say within his own borders. Neumann is a good political catch, and the secretary will want as much of the credit as possible. They’re not expecting us—I hope.”

  “You’re right, though,” Philippe said. “With Neumann added into the mix, we could face extra problems.”

  “Doesn’t sound very easy,” Roy said. “And if you don’t mind, I’ll state again for the record that Junger can recognize you even with a month of beard on your face.”

  “We’ll have to chance it,” Keeton declared. “The game is to blitz them with the story we planted about Junger, get them to put him in custody, and give us the prisoners. Our covers will be Stasi officers sent to bring Junger in. If that doesn’t work, then I guess we’ll go with brute force.”

  “By the way, your credentials are made,” Philippe said. “Your cover into EB is our old acquaintance Marzell Adler, the socialist journalist. At the safe house, you’ll switch to Stasi Lieutenant Colonel Hans Gabler. Roy’s cover will be your lieutenant. Same with me.”

  “Eichel was mad as hell he couldn’t be in on this,” Roy said. “Considering he’s on Red’s team and the poet mission started this whole mess.”

  “I don’t blame him,” Keeton said. “I’d be mad, too. But the boss thought he was needed back at Red’s side for now.”

  Roy nodded. “I heard rumors that Red might…”

  “That’s not for us to worry about,” Keeton interrupted. “We need to focus on this rescue.”

  Roy and Philippe exchanged glances but were silent. Lionel cleared his throat. “Well, let’s get down to the details, then.”

  For the next several hours, the men pored over the maps, sketched scenarios, downed the afternoon tea brought by the steward, and traded ideas to maximize their chance of success. Each of them knew that in a mission like this many things could go wrong, but there could only be one positive outcome—victory, which was all that mattered.

  ***

  “No more apologies, Andrew, but I’ll take these anyway,” Lynette said with a smile as she accepted the bouquet that he brought that evening. One of the advantages of being based in the London station was that he could occasionally see her when she was in town and not traveling internationally with BOAC. Their first night together, nearly a month earlier, had been one of passion, but now their affair had been complicated by her recriminations of his silence after he had left London for West Germany. There was simply no way to tell her that while he was ostensibly away doing accounting for his travel agency he had actually nearly been killed several times while serving the clandestine needs of his country. Most of his time away had been spent in East Berlin, and although he had thought of Lynette many times, he dared not even attempt to contact her. The specter of losing his cover over such a trivial matter as an intercepted love letter, and the inevitable punishment meted out by Director Morrison, was a firm deterrent.

  “I know,” Keeton said as she began to look for a vase in the cupboard. “I just wanted you to know that I miss you every time one of us has to go away.”

  “Lately I’ve been traveling more than you, dear,” she said happily once she had finally located the vase. She lowered the flowers into it and began fussing with the arrangement. “Maybe I should be the one apologizing for being away so much. And by the way, I like the beard. Oh, I forgot to cut the stems.”

  Keeton had approached her and now encircled her thin waist with his arms. “I had them cut at the shop; they’ll be fine. And there will be no more apologies, from either of us.” He leaned down and whispered softly, “If that’s OK with you.”

  “It is, Mr. Keeton,” she answered, tilting her head against his cheek. Then she turned around and kissed him on the lips. “What time are those reservations?”

  “Eight o’clock,” he said. They kissed again. “I called for a taxi to pick us up at seven forty-five.”

  She pulled away from him. “Then I have just enough time to show you something. Follow me.” She took his hand and led him back into the small living room at the front of the flat. She let go at the door and stepped over to the battered hutch that had held a few picture frames. Now a new record player sat there proudly. “What do you think?”

  Keeton walked over to it. It was a V-M brand player with the changer mechanism and two external speakers. It certainly was not the highest-end model—well made, but modest. “It’s very nice.”

  “You don’t seem too impressed,” she said with a mock pout. “I brought this back from America, I’ll have you know.”

  “You had one already,” he answered. “That little Dansette.”

  “Well, you certainly notice the details,” she said. “I put the old one in the bedroom.”

  “I’m sure I would’ve noticed that, too,” Keeton said as he took her face into his hands and kissed her. “Well, maybe not.”

  “Incorrigible,” Lynette remarked. “I think the taxi’s here.”

  Through the front window they watched the lights of the black car form twin wedges against the street pavement. Only Keeton noticed the small lorry across the street, and only he knew that Eddy was stationed there to watch him by order of the Brit, Allen Davies.

  “Wonderfully punctual,” Keeton said dryly. He helped Lynette with her coat, retrieved his hat from the wall-mounted hook next to the front door, and escorted her down as the cabbie jumped from the driver’s seat.

  The ride to the restaurant took only fifteen minutes. Halfway to the place, and then again as they stepped from the curb to the restaurant’s door, Keeton casually looked around and saw Eddy’s white lorry at the prescribed following distance. He had mixed feelings about the precaution but could not do much about it. So he pushed it from his consciousness and focused on the date.

  Dinner was wonderful, beginning with oysters and a plate of bread and cheese—they drank champag
ne throughout. Keeton vigorously attacked his roast dinner, and Lynette gave her salmon Wellington an honest effort before finally slowing and offering him a few bites. After they had ordered dessert, Lynette excused herself for the powder room. The restaurant—posh but not too difficult to get into on the Tuesday night—was darkened for ambiance. Keeton had carefully chosen his seat so that the wall was to his back. While Lynette was gone, he fully surveyed the room.

  Almost all of the diners were couples, except for one larger table near the back that appeared to be a business dinner. Even their conversations were muted. The overall effect was a dull drone that washed over the place. In those three minutes, no one looked suspicious to him—no inadvertent long looks, quickly turned glances, or odd pairings that caused his honed intuition to take notice. When Lynette returned, he stood and helped her with her chair. His world suddenly shifted again from cold spy craft to sensuous courtship. They shared their desserts of raspberry summer pudding and apple pie and were obliged to order two final champagnes by the glass to finish.

  Keeton paid the bill while Lynette discreetly checked her face in her compact. He then asked for their coats and his hat and a taxi. The lorry was still there, with Eddy no doubt munching a cold sandwich and sipping a warm beer. On the drive back, as they held hands, Lynette bent her head to his shoulder. He kissed her forehead, and they talked about the food and the restaurant and the city. Back at her flat, she opened the bottom of the hutch and asked him to choose one of the vinyl disks for the record player. Then, after coyly telling him to wait there for her, she walked to the bedroom.

  She had a rather eclectic collection of albums and artists—from older crooners to the newest Beatles album. He flicked through the records quickly, pulling a few out from either interest or pure curiosity. As he was standing with his final choice, she returned in a very sheer negligee with clearly nothing else on. From the bedroom a slow blues song began to play.

  “Hello,” he said simply as his heart quickened with anticipation.