The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  Beside the teletype room was a small office in which the operators could take and make phone calls, both encrypted and regular, and generally handle the incoming and outgoing communications. When Morrison entered the office, a specialist looked up from her work and smiled.

  “Good evening, Director,” she said pleasantly. No one at the Fort was ever surprised to see him walking through his operation, and, in fact, his attention over the years had endeared him to them and them to him.

  “Hello, Veronica,” he answered. “Much traffic today?”

  “Oh, mostly the usual updates about Red troop movements. Still a ton of chaos throughout the African continent, a couple of possible ECP leads for Agent White that will show up in the briefing folder tomorrow. And another update from Agent Green about the status of the Hong Kong safe house. The Big Map’s been updated. Of course, you probably came down for this.” Veronica reached into the OUT tray that Morrison had already started to eyeball and handed him the latest teletype from London Station 4. The blue edging indicated a decoded scrambled egg message.

  “Well, I’ll be…,” he said suddenly after scanning the page. Then he simply pivoted around on one foot and walked out, the paper crumpled in one tightly clenched fist.

  ***

  After breakfast the next morning, Keeton and the other agents gathered in front of the big house to bid farewell to Pawel Szwedko. He had proclaimed Keeton ready to handle the persona of his new cover, as well as any contingencies that might require rudimentary Polish language skills. A soldier assigned to Camp Peary had driven a jeep over from the airstrip and loaded Szwedko’s civilian luggage and now waited patiently in the driver’s seat. The men with whom Szwedko spent the least amount of time went first, which seemed always to be the fraternal norm.

  “Take care of yourself,” Boyle said as the men shook hands. “And thanks for your time to train up our boy.”

  “Thanks, Szwedko,” Curtis said. “If anything happens to Keeton, it’s your fault.” Then when Szwedko’s eyes widened in surprise, Curtis added, “I’m just joking.”

  Morel and Roy said their goodbyes quickly, and Szwedko made a comment about boxing.

  Keeton had endured Szwedko’s scrutiny but had at least learned a lot from the man in a short time—about Polish culture, the people, the kings, the wars, and the intricacies of the language. Szwedko was subtle in his probing, but he was dealing with an agent wholly dedicated to disguise and deception as a means to an end. Keeton had allowed the deception to stay between them throughout the training.

  “Keeton, it was a pleasure meeting you and working with you. Good luck in your mission,” Szwedko said while extending his hand.

  “Dziękuję…profesor,” Keeton answered.

  Szwedko nodded graciously until he realized Keeton had used the title that Curtis had overheard from one of the psychologist’s CIA handlers. He sheepishly backed toward the jeep and into his seat. The men all raised their hands in a final greeting, and the jeep bounced into gear and drove off to the waiting airplane.

  “Interesting character but seems like a good man,” Boyle commented as they began walking back to the house. Keeton had one more morning of final work to do with Curtis before his own flight out that would begin the Schoolboy mission in earnest.

  “He sure did seem that way,” Curtis said with a lighthearted emphasis. He exchanged a look with Keeton.

  “What did you call him just now—professor?” Morel asked.

  Keeton had refrained from talking about Szwedko to Morel and Roy. From Morel’s question, however, he now regretted his opaqueness to them. He was about to formulate a response when the sound of an approaching jeep caught the attention of all of them—except Boyle, who kept walking up to the front porch and into the house. Keeton noticed it all and for a moment was defeated by an impending anxiety when he saw Director Morrison arriving. The feeling passed quickly, and Keeton regained his edge.

  “The Director and I might need a moment, fellas,” he said to the other agents, who all caught his tone and then followed Boyle into the house. The jeep stopped, and Morrison stepped out.

  “Morning, Andrew,” Morrison greeted him. “How’s the training going?”

  “Just fine, sir,” Keeton said flatly. “Didn’t stop at the Fort this morning?”

  “That’s right,” Morrison answered. “How about we take a walk?” Half a minute later they were enveloped by the woods on the green trail.

  “I thought maybe you’d come to say goodbye to your little friend,” Keeton said absently. “You know, the headshrinker.”

  Morrison looked at him, then smiled, then laughed a bit. “Was he that obvious?”

  “I knew right away,” Keeton answered. He figured that one good deception deserved another.

  “Look, that was a concession I had to make to the Brits,” Morrison said. “In exchange they’ll support your new cover while you’re in Poland. We knew the thing with Eddy would have consequences. OK, I’ll admit that I was worried about your emotional stress, too.”

  “I hope I passed Szwedko’s tests, and yours,” Keeton said. “After all, I have a flight out today.”

  “I consider all of that evaluation stuff to be pro forma,” Morrison answered, then stopped walking. “But now there’s something new.” He dug the abused teletype paper from his pocket and handed it over for Keeton to read.

  START

  JUNE 3, 1965 2207 GMT

  URGENT—IMMED DELIVERY CAVALRY

  FROM LONDON STATION 4

  RE: REQUEST FOR ORANGE ASSIGNMENT, MI-6

  MI-6 (VIA RUNNER) KINDLY REQUESTS THAT ORANGE EXECUTE A DEAD DROP WHILE IN KRAKOW, DETAILS TO BE GIVEN HIM BY LONDON STATION 4 USING PHONE-IN. REFERENCE IS MISSION: STAR.

  REQUEST IMMEDIATE CONFIRMATION, PLEASE.

  END

  “I assume you already told him yes,” Keeton said as he looked up from the paper. “This is dated yesterday evening.”

  “Right again,” Morrison answered. “And I made it clear that this would make us square for Eddy, period.”

  “Whoever Runner is, he’s probably getting pushed to tie up all loose ends,” Keeton said. They began walking the trail again. “They still have a tiger by the tail—the sleeper business, I mean.”

  “Runner is Lionel Bridgewater,” Morrison said. “He took over after Allen was killed.”

  “Lionel?” Keeton asked in surprise. “Remember that he was on my list of sleeper suspects right after Allen was shot. We thought Eddy was a big cheese, and he wasn’t.”

  “Do you think Lionel’s dirty?” Morrison asked.

  “My gut says no,” Keeton answered. “My head says danger. But it doesn’t sound like we have a choice.”

  “Of course we do,” Morrison said firmly. “We can get another cover put together and—”

  “No, let’s stick with the plan,” Keeton interrupted. “I’m ready to go. I’ll be careful about the dead drop. I need to be back out there. I need a win.”

  “OK, Andrew. We’ll play it that way, then. Lionel and I sent a couple more messages back and forth last night. He’s handling your cover story with the newspaper himself. He told me no one else knows about you. He did say he’s happy to be working with you again. My gut tells me he’s on the level.”

  “Well, while we’re being so honest with each other,” Keeton said. “You were on my sleeper suspect list, too.”

  Morrison laughed. “Past tense? That’s good, I guess. So we’re even—you thought I might be a Soviet plant, and I was worried you were cracking up. If it’s any consolation to you, Szwedko gave me a thumbs-up when our jeeps passed just now.”

  Keeton finally smiled. “I sure hope he knows that means affirmative.”

  “That’s hard to say,” Morrison answered, his mood lightened by that of his agent’s. “Anyway, you’ll rendezvous with Lionel in London. The details will be waiting for you at the station there. Your travel arrangements have already been changed, and Donny was notified, too. You’ll finish up here with the tr
aining, then a puddle jumper to New York, and the BOAC flight out to London. One day in London, then on to Krakow. You know the drill.”

  Keeton looked away. “Yes, that I do.”

  They finished the green trail in silence.

  Chapter 3. Toby Lodge

  The engines of the Boeing 707 throttled up and roared for three full seconds before the pilot released the wheel brakes, and the big plane began its brief journey down the runway. Less than two minutes into the flight, still ascending, it turned away from New York and toward London.

  Keeton had quickly settled into his first-class seat, having ordered a double bourbon right away from the engaging British stewardess. The seat next to him was unfilled, another bit of scheduling magic courtesy of Morrison and his connections. Save for one well-to-do couple leaving for a romantic holiday, the passengers around him were all businessmen, the kind who had worked eight hours in New York or Washington and then needed to be in London the next day. If American, their families would simply have to wait one or two or three days—or perhaps a week—to see them again. If English, they had already done the penance and would soon be reunited. Keeton, of course, fit neither prospect. Nearly thirty-five years old, unmarried, and dedicated to a clandestine life of subterfuge, his view of everyday life had been formed from the stories of others.

  A year ago, there had been a brief moment when he would have considered a complete change to his lifestyle. There was a girl and flirtation and then times together—a glance through a window to a more normal existence, happier and easier. But the whole thing turned out to be an illusion; worse, a fabrication. She had been an enemy agent, the classic “honey trap,” disguised as an air stewardess named Lynette. When she had been found out by him, there was the briefest moment of triumph for her and defeat for him, until the sniper’s bullet tore through her body in front of him. He had relived it often when he slept. She had been killed because MI-6 already knew she was dirty and was on their way to apprehend her, and the KGB could not afford to have her talk. As the plane leveled off he pushed his seat back, reluctantly immersed in all of the memories and regrets about her. The irony that his relationship with her had started on the BOAC route suddenly bit at him, and against his better judgment he asked the stewardess—Lynette’s replacement?—for another double and dared to let his eyes slowly close.

  “Mr. Lodge?” the feminine British voice crept its way into his consciousness. It had to be Lynette, recovered from her injuries…no, that was impossible. His eyes snapped open.

  “Oh, I’m very sorry, Mr. Lodge,” the stewardess said with a hand to her mouth. “I didn’t realize you were asleep.” The cabin had darkened. The luminous hands on Keeton’s watch indicated it was nine thirty New York time.

  “That’s no problem, Miss…”

  “My name’s Molly. Molly McPeak.” Keeton ignored the glimpse of flirtation. “Well, I was just coming by to see if I could take your glass away.” She indicated the nearly finished scotch and reached for it.

  “Just a moment,” he said, snatching up the glass and tipping the last residue of alcohol back into his mouth. “You can pour me another, however.”

  “Of course, Mr. Lodge,” she answered with a pleasant smile but a shade of coldness to her tone.

  Keeton figured she now saw him as one of those flyers, getting drunk out of fear of crashing or the thought of freedom from responsibility for the next six hours, and to hell with the hangover. He was neither. As soon as the drink was set down and Molly faded into the cabin’s shadows, he switched on his overhead light and pulled the small attaché bag from underneath his legs. From the bag he withdrew a packet of papers encircled with a rubber band.

  The Toby Lodge dossier was designed to look like a curriculum vitae of sorts, in case of prying eyes. In fact, he would use it for just that purpose once he got to Krakow, to convince the man called Kozlow that he was a British journalist sympathetic to the socialist cause. For now, although his review and training had been thorough, Keeton read through the material to stay awake awhile longer and dispose his thoughts to the here and now instead of to the past.

  ***

  At exactly the same moment Keeton settled in with his third double bourbon, Lionel Bridgewater opened his own version of the Toby Lodge file, the one he himself had created. He had his own strong drink in front of him as well. It was the middle of the night in London, and the office was dark and quiet, situated as it was on the second floor of an exclusive watch dealership inside the Burlington Arcade in Mayfair. The business was real, but so was the MI-6 operation behind the facade. Buying and selling expensive timepieces internationally was an ideal way to send hard intel—miniature bugging devices, special poisons, and even decoder disks for British teletypes—across the world. But tonight Lionel was simply squatting in the Burlington office so that he could polish the Toby Lodge cover away from his supervisors.

  In the light of the single lamp above him, Lionel sipped his whiskey and studied the dossier’s cover sheet.

  Toby Lodge

  Assistant Editor, the Ploughshare

  1960–present

  Specializing in editorial analysis of world sociopolitical affairs, concentrating on the struggles of the working class in capitalist oligarchies and on the progressive opportunities developing in the people’s republics around the world.

  Recent & Important Articles:

  “On the Relative Productivity in Nominally Free Markets: A Realistic Look,” August 1962.

  “Unfair Capital Non-distribution Causes War,” December 1962.

  “Thy Brother’s Keeper: Why Is the Catholic Church Holding Out Against the Commune(ist) Model?” May 1963.

  “The Possibility of Eliminating Strata in Newer Economic Paradigms,” January 1964.

  “Is Bishop Paszek Trying to Foment Revolution in Poland?” in press.

  Biographical Note

  Mr. Toby Lodge was born in London in 1932. Although he was lucky enough to avoid physical injury during the Second World War, the horror of it touched him deeply when his parents were both killed by a German V-2 rocket, leaving him an orphan. The capitalist system was kind to his father, whose trust fund has allowed Toby to rise to the calling of social commentary and activism.

  Toby Lodge joined the Ploughshare in 1959, after an unsuccessful start as an aspiring playwright. He found his voice in championing the cause of the inequities of the classes, in advocating for the social reform of progressive governments, and in bringing this advancement to the Western capitalist powers.

  Lionel smiled when he had finished the summary, not only from a bit of pride in his authorship but in the meticulous instruction from the psychologists who advised him on the faux persona. The dossier itself was clearly intended to be autobiographical from Lodge, so the incessant high idealism and self-servitude of the language painted the picture of an arrogant young man spending Father’s money to preach against the moneyed class. Perfect.

  Behind the cover page were several folded issues of the Ploughshare, itself a working “free-sheet” biweekly newspaper that, like the watch business Lionel was sitting in, was an MI-6 shop. The Ploughshare sold real adverts to legitimate patrons as a way to maintain the cover. It employed a small team of civilian typesetters, proof girls, and printers to make and distribute the paper every other Wednesday. All of the reporters and editors were trained agents who spent time each week maintaining their covers—or, like Toby Lodge, did not exist at all.

  But Lionel’s smile faded as his thoughts turned to darker matters. He had hidden his collaboration with the Cavalry and on allowing Toby Lodge to be used as a cover into Poland. He knew in doing so he was playing with fire. Why had he deliberately done something against his supervisor’s wishes? Had he sensed a secret, ulterior affirmative from his boss or just pretended it into existence? Or was it simply pride and stubbornness born from his affection for the American spy he had worked with before? He had been there along with Keeton when Allen Davies was shot, and he and the American had sh
ared Davies’s last moments when the master spy had revealed his speculation about a sleeper agent within MI-6. The truth about Eddy and what he had had to say about more sleeper activity, leading up to the fight with Keeton, was a tin of kerosene on the smoldering embers of distrust within Lionel’s colleagues. The atmosphere had become thick with it in London.

  Finally Lionel made it down to the last piece of intel that had just arrived at the Mayfair office via teletype, moments before he sat down to review the dossier. He had read it once and then carefully set it aside rather than into the burn box.

  START

  JUNE 5, 1965 0230 GMT

  URGENT—IMMEDIATE DELIVERY RUNNER

  FROM FOGGY BOTTOM FRIEND

  RE: REQUEST FOR ORANGE ASSIGNMENT, MI-6

  PLEASED TO BE WORKING TOGETHER AGAIN. ORANGE IN TRANSIT. MEET AT YOUR DESIGNATED LOCATION 1200 LOCAL TIME.

  END

  The smile came back again. This message had to be from Keeton’s rakish team member Romain Roy—the “Foggy Bottom Friend.” Lionel had recommended a rendezvous with Keeton at Saint James’s Park, and the invitation had been accepted, with compliments. Indeed, he was happy to be close to the Cavalry again and to help his friend with a mission.

  Of course, Lionel was still a spy. In this business sometimes friends were only as close as the last twist and turn of events. For him, that twist was the request he had sent to the American station the day before, about the dead drop Keeton had been told to do while in Krakow.