The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  “If it makes you feel better,” Keeton said. “I’d say most of the dinner guests were in the bishop’s corner—that is, they were friendly to him.”

  “I know what that means,” she said with a smile. “Yes, most of them.”

  “Jakub,” Keeton said plainly. “I agree with you. We shouldn’t trust him.”

  “I’m just hoping we’ve seen the last of him,” she said. “Do you think that this is possible?”

  “I do,” he replied. “Your best bet is to avoid Anatol Kozlow to start with. I have a feeling he’s simply doing what Jakub wants. A dinner like that must’ve been provided by Jakub.”

  “I got it—no more invitations,” she said. They sipped the coffees slowly and relaxed together as the late evening cool filtered in. Only the caffeine kept them from drifting to sleep.

  “I need to get going,” Keeton finally said, his cup drained and his will pushing him to do what he did not want to do.

  “I’ll drive you,” Luiza said.

  Keeton walked up behind her and put his arms around her waist and bent to kiss her ear. “I would like nothing better. But to be honest, I think I need to walk a bit. The booze is trying to knock me out, and the kawa is fighting to keep me up all night. I need some fresh air to break the tie. I might walk for a bit and then catch a taxi.”

  She arched her head back so they could kiss. “If you say so. We can have dinner tomorrow, here if you’d like. Is there something wrong?”

  “One thing,” Keeton admitted. “Listen, I have an appointment with Kozlow. Kozlow is connected to Jakub, and we both admit we don’t trust him. I’m feeling as uneasy as you about this whole thing. But I still need to finish my story about the bishop, just like we talked about. So, I think it’s best we stay apart at least until I’m finished with Kozlow, just in case this Jakub fellow is hanging about.”

  “At least?” she asked quickly.

  Keeton smiled. “If I sense that Jakub is around me at all, I don’t want you in any danger. Let’s see how it works out. One way or the other, I’ll contact you, OK?”

  Luiza nodded and smiled, but there was an unspoken tension of reality between them. She walked him to the door, and they kissed goodbye. As he left her building and stepped out into the dusk, both of them wondered—for different reasons—if they would ever meet again.

  ***

  Sir Thomas Baddeley pulled himself up the marble staircase of the University College Hospital, the silence broken only by the clap of the footsteps of him and the two juniors who accompanied him. They reached the third floor and then walked right through the phalanx of nurses and policemen. Baddeley and his agents had been expected.

  The UCH was headquartered in what was fittingly known, by virtue of its shape, as the Cruciform Building. At the very end of this wing, the south-pointing one, an additional pair of MI-6 guards flanked the last hospital room door.

  “No need for that,” Baddeley whispered fiercely as the guards came to military attention at his approach. He was in a foul mood, with a key agent having just barely made it out of surgery alive. Back at the Burlington location where the agent had been found, there still lay the corpse of his assailant, now surrounded by an evidence team trying to piece together what exactly had happened.

  Inside the hospital room a doctor gently listened with a stethoscope to Lionel Bridgewater’s breathing. Two white-hatted nurses attended as well, ready with a medical chart and blood-pressure cuff, respectively.

  “Well?” Baddeley asked.

  “So far, so good,” the doctor said as he pushed his finger against Lionel’s neck. “Steady heartbeat. No indication of blood in the lungs.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” the MI-6 chief said tersely. “That’s not exactly what I was asking about.”

  The doctor, of an age that he could have been pulled into the orbit of the last world war, stood up slowly and turned around to face Baddeley. His name tag read GOODALL. “Your man almost died an hour ago.”

  “It’s not the first time,” Baddeley answered.

  “For him or for you?” Goodall asked. He draped the stethoscope across his neck, and when he did Baddeley noted the scars delivered at some distant conflict—shrapnel, most likely—and thus recognized a fellow veteran of action.

  Baddeley smiled and nodded. “Will he be conscious anytime soon?”

  “I hope not,” Goodall said. “We’re keeping him under as long as possible. No sudden movements. He’s got some exceedingly delicate sewing inside there. And he received a hell of a concussion, probably when he finally passed out and fell.”

  “I just need some answers,” Baddeley said. “Thank you for saving him.”

  Goodall shook his head. “That wasn’t me, I’m afraid. I brought him in and called for last rites. Fortunately, one of the young stars was still here after a double shift. Young eyes and hands. Sent off the priest, this time. I’ll be watching your man, though, for the duration.”

  “I’ll thank the surgeon at some point, too,” Baddeley said. Then he motioned to one of his men, who produced a business card that listed nothing more than a single telephone number. “Please give this to him and ask him to call me. A meeting will be arranged.”

  “Of course,” Goodall said as he accepted the card. “Incidentally—”

  Just then the door opened, and one of the agents pushed his head into the room. “A call for you, sir. Urgent from Mayfair.” Immediately Baddeley excused himself to Goodall and walked out, following the agent back to the nurse’s station. A cream-colored telephone sat on the counter with the handset off the cradle and sitting next to it. One of the policemen seemed to be guarding it. Baddeley picked it up and shooed the cop away.

  “Yes?”

  “Henman, sir. We’re scrambled for up to two minutes. No identification whatsoever, no money, no paperwork. Average clothes. Finally got all our photographs taken, so he’s off to the coroner to check for body marks. Shouldn’t take too long for that.”

  “Very well, thank you, Henman,” Baddeley said. “What about the transmission?”

  “The disk wasn’t on the corpse, and the punch strip was removed and destroyed. So far our initial finding seems confirmed—that Bridgewater burned the strip himself. But the disk wasn’t on him, either, so it’s still missing. Incidentally, sir, how is our man anyway?”

  Baddeley sighed. “Looks like he could make it if his luck holds out. Finish up there, and meet me back at the station. But rotate two men at Mayfair until further notice—two good, well-armed men.”

  “Yes, sir,” Henman said. “Anything else, sir?”

  “That’s all.” Baddeley rang off and turned to see Dr. Goodall approaching. “I’ll be leaving you to it, then, Doctor. Thanks again for all you’re doing. You may use that number yourself, if you need anything. In the meantime, you’ll probably be living with this mess of bobbies and suits until my man is out of here.”

  “Understood,” Goodall answered. “There was one thing I wanted to mention to you. Your man—the name on his chart reads ‘Joe Bloggs,’ how original—well, he was in delirious shock as they were getting him prepped for the surgery. Most of what he was mumbling was quite inaudible, but there was one word that I heard clearly several times. I thought it might have some meaning for you.”

  “What was it, Doctor?”

  “Orange. He kept saying it. Isn’t that odd?”

  The man who was Lionel Bridgewater’s MI-6 supervisor and who was known by the CIA code name Twist clinched his jaw silently, turned on his heel, and left the Cruciform Building without another word.

  ***

  The radium-powered markings on the Jaeger-LeCoultre Mark XI indicated nine thirty. Keeton was halfway back to the Royal and tired enough to desire a ride the rest of the way. He had purposely taken side streets to enjoy the quiet and quaintness of the neighborhood but now turned up a very narrow avenue that intersected his only hope for a taxi route. He carried his hat and savored the steady breeze through his hair.

  When he was o
nly three addresses away from the busier street ahead he heard a slight shuffle behind him. His subconscious registered briefly that he had not noticed anyone close behind him before but also admitted to dulled senses from the long day, the liquor, and the prospect of leaving Luiza for good. Often in his chosen profession, those incremental moments of laxity were deadly.

  In the next instant a hood was thrust over his head and cinched around his neck. Instinctively he reached up with both hands, but that action only served to allow his arms to be pinned above him in a full-nelson wrestling hold. A moment later he felt a quick jab against his neck along with the sting of a short needle that penetrated the fabric of the hood and his skin.

  Within two seconds his legs gave way, and two seconds after that he was hurdling down—or up, or sideways, he could not tell—through a pitch-black tunnel that ended in unconsciousness.

  Chapter 9. Questions and Answers

  The ship was called the Soldek, a coal hauler moored along the Martwa Wisła, the so-called dead river that led out from the heart of Gdansk’s ports to the Baltic Sea. It was to sail for Galway, Ireland, the next morning. Roy was quite proud of himself for deciphering the code that Keeton had pulled from the mysterious Tusk: GED0611SOLDEK/PIORUN.

  The feat had been accomplished by first assuming, as Keeton had, that the numbers referred to a date and that the remainder of the code told Tusk where to be. Roy and Morel began trying out different theories, eventually hitting on the phonetic “GED” as shorthand for Gdansk. From there it was a matter of leveraging their favorite new asset, the young and bright Olek Budny. Down at the front desk of the Serkowski Hotel, Roy told an inventive story about getting a friend’s telegram with instructions sent in a cruel shorthand. The helpful Olek translated the word PIORUN, Polish for “lightning.” SOLDEK was simply a Polish surname, with no other apparent use for subterfuge. Finally, with some friendly cajoling and a wad of złoty notes, they convinced Olek to phone, at some trouble and expense, a relative who worked at the Gdansk shipyard to look for a boat with the name Piorun or Soldek. Two hours later Olek heard back about the coal hauler, and an hour after that Roy was rushing onto a twin-engine Ilyushin Il-14 for the short and choppy flight to Gdansk.

  “Dzięki,” Roy told the cabbie after paying him. He had been dropped off in the rough district of the docks, two blocks off the Martwa Wisła, at an address that Olek had scribbled on a small slip of paper.

  The area was quieter than Roy had anticipated and security minimal. He spotted the Soldek through a tall fence that had been wrapped with a thin chain but no lock. Lights were on, and there was the occasional movement and shadow. It was closing in on dusk, and Roy imagined the crew making final preparations for cast-off first thing in the morning: checking the ship, drinking at the nearest watering hole, making passionate love to wives or girlfriends, or praying to Saint Hyacinth for a safe trip. Or all of those things, he thought cheekily as he unwrapped the chain and entered the yard. He’d taken about a dozen steps when a gruff voice called out to him—it was a man standing in the doorway of the seaward-facing office of the local steamship agent.

  “Hello,” he said as he approached the short, stout official. The man simply crossed his arms and stared. Roy then spoke some gibberish in French. No movement. Roy pulled out the corner of his local map as if it was some sort of significant document. “Soldek!” he said emphatically and pointed to his watch. Nothing. Finally Roy pointed a finger around in all directions. “Bar?” With his other hand he indicated the classic drinking motion.

  The man grimaced as if disgusted by the lack of language but then grinned and barked instructions with his waving arms. Roy simply nodded and walked in the general direction indicated by the agent. Perhaps he would find a sailor who spoke English or French, whatever good that might do him. He found himself spending equal attention looking for a tavern and cursing Keeton.

  Up ahead he saw more lights and more pedestrians. His watch read four minutes past nine. A quick smoke before I plunge into this. He passed next to what appeared to be a graveyard for dilapidated shipping crates and ducked into their midst to get out of the stiff sea breeze. After lighting his cigarette and waving out the match, he heard a slight rustle behind him, the unmistakable sound of a person who wanted to remain silent.

  “Dobry wieczór,” the voice said. “Sztorm!”

  “Sorry, I’m afraid I can’t—” Roy started but then felt the cold imprint of the muzzle of a gun on the back of his neck.

  “Sztorm!” the voice persisted.

  Sztorm? Sztorm? Of course, sztorm. Roy sighed and whispered back the countersign.

  “Piorun!” Lightning!

  ***

  The first sensation was the tickle of a bead of sweat that meandered past his chest to his trim stomach and then for some reason stopped. Keeton wanted to brush it away, but his hands wouldn’t move. He saw nothing when he blinked his eyes and suddenly remembered the dark hood that had been thrown over his head. As his nervous system recovered, he became aware that his hands were secured behind his back and that he was tied to a chair, around his torso and also his feet. His clothes were on, except for the suit coat. The place he’d been taken to was quiet and hot. Perspiration was running freely down his face.

  With his toes he was able to gain enough leverage to lift the front legs of his chair two or three inches and then drop them back against the floor. The echo that resulted told him the room was fairly empty, not very large, and had a wooden-plank floor. His fingers probed the rope that bound his wrists—it was securely tied in the so-called handcuff knot. After several attempts to strain against the bindings, he heard the shuffle of clothing nearby followed by several slow footsteps that were no doubt from patent-leather shoes. Then the hood was pulled roughly off.

  The room was darkened but not entirely so—one meager low-wattage bulb burned in a corner, from an unadorned lamp sitting on a dilapidated table. The shades on all of the windows were drawn, but Keeton could tell it was dark outside. It could have been midnight, or four in the morning, or two days since he was taken from the street. After a few seconds his vision adjusted enough to see the man standing before him, leaning forward and scowling.

  “Się nie ruszać!” Do not move! Everything about the man’s face seemed distorted, from his overly square jaw and jutting chin to his large ears and severely developed brow ridge. His huge hands flexed at the end of long thin arms. His height was accentuated even more by his slim body. Keeton named him the Giant.

  The Giant wore dark cotton trousers and a white shirt with a loosened black tie on the neck. He shook his finger and hissed some other warning in Polish, then flung the hood to the floor and walked back to his own wooden chair and sat down. At his feet there was a large bottle of vodka, half-empty.

  “Gdzie ja jestem?” he asked the Giant. Where am I? The Giant simply laughed and gave him a derisive look. Then he asked again, in English.

  The Giant then emitted a deep growl, got out of the chair again, and sauntered over to him. Suddenly one of the enormous hands curled into a fist and plowed into Keeton’s jaw. It was a seemingly effortless exertion. Keeton realized he had completely misjudged the true power contained in the Giant’s lanky frame. He recalled that back in his Kentucky youth Grandpa Keeton called this “country strong,” the brawn honed from years of fieldwork and hard-scrabble living. The Giant was definitely country strong. Through stars dancing in his eyes Keeton watched the Giant lean over and hush him with a finger gently put to his lips, then return to the chair. After taking a long swig from the bottle he pushed back with a big, ugly, contented smile and closed his eyes. If not for the pain that reverberated through his skull, Keeton might otherwise have found the whole sequence rather amusing.

  Look for opportunity, read the training manual from all those years ago—and if opportunity is not readily available, make your own. Real helpful, Keeton thought as he assessed his surroundings, at least what he could discern in the dim light and from a position where he could onl
y look to the side and ahead. Not much more furniture than the two chairs. Plenty of dust and cobwebs. An abandoned apartment, maybe.

  The rope that encircled his torso had also been wrapped around the chair back four times and then secured with a slipped knot that would allow quick untying with a strong tug. Keeton knew the purpose of such an arrangement—to quickly release the prisoner and move him—and therefore assumed his feet were bound the same way. The tight handcuff knot around his wrists ensured that Keeton himself would not be able to release the other ropes. So much for opportunity. That’s when he remembered the Mark XI watch, the one modified by Lionel, the one with the retractable diamond tip.

  It took some probing before he finally found the correct angle to reach the stem and start winding it to extract the sharpened nib. He tested it gingerly with a finger, then began the even more tedious manipulation to bring his right wrist over so he could begin working on the rope. All the while he kept his eyes on the Giant, who seemed to be dozing.

  Patient but urgent, Keeton thought as he began the sawing action that he hoped would give him that elusive opportunity he needed to stay alive. After five minutes he stopped and tried feeling for the torn fibers—he was almost through the loop that held his wrist, after which he’d be able to pull open the other knots and free himself. Then he’d need to figure out how to take on the Giant. A minute more, then it’ll be time to act. A moment later Keeton heard the sound of a slamming door and approaching footsteps up a creaking staircase.

  The door to the apartment opened, and Jakub walked in. He squinted, not from the darkness of the room but from apparent confusion at the scene. The Giant had begun to rouse from Jakub’s entry.

  “Mateusz!” Jakub barked. The awkward hired thug jumped to his feet. Both the chair and the bottle went tumbling away from him. As Jakub cursed at him in Polish, Mateusz tried in vain to check his shirt buttons and straighten his tie. Jakub stormed over to him and continued the tirade, pointing alternately to Keeton and the black hood on the floor. Mateusz winced both from embarrassment and from his inebriated senses. Finally Jakub was finished with him and turned to Keeton.