“Well, Mr. Lodge,” he said in English as he stepped up to Keeton. “We have some things to discuss.”
Keeton suddenly pulled against his restraints so that the chair rattled on the floor. “Discuss? I think you owe me more than a discussion, Jakub—or whatever your damned name is! I demand to know why you kidnapped me right off the street and why you’re detaining me now!”
Jakub’s eyes flashed briefly, but he kept his composure to the point of contented bemusement. “You know, Mateusz is quite the simpleton—this is not a random insult; it’s a clinical description. I gave him very strict instructions to keep your face covered. I believe I told him to stay on guard as well. But you might imagine that for this type of work one can only expect to recruit such men as him—strong, stupid, and hopefully obedient.”
“None of this answers my questions, Jakub,” Keeton’s voice seethed. “Why did you do this to me? Who exactly are you?”
Jakub’s slight smile faded. “Mr. Lodge, that’s what I intend to ask you. And you will discover it is very dangerous to be untruthful.”
“You’re making no sense. Now let me go!” Keeton made another show of trying to break free of the ropes. In reality, he was not pulling on the handcuff knot at all, for fear it would give way. As soon as Jakub had entered the room Keeton had begun winding the diamond tip back into the Mark XI. He needed to keep Jakub from examining the bindings. It was equally important for him to maintain his cover as long as possible. “This may be the Iron Curtain, but I still have rights as a British citizen!”
“Rights,” Jakub mulled over the term. Then he peered closer at Keeton’s jaw, swelling from Mateusz’s punch. “It looks like you have already received a lesson in rights. Here, in this place, you have no rights at all.”
“I see,” Keeton answered indignantly. “So I assume this means you’re an SB officer?”
Jakub showed the condescending sneer Keeton had seen at the dinner party. “SB? Yes, I am SB then. Why not? So, you now have my identity. What about yours?”
Keeton shrugged as best he could. “You know that I’m a reporter for the Ploughshare—and apparently I’m a prisoner of the Polish state police as well.”
“All I have seen is a piece of paper typed up to look like your identity.”
“That’s simple, then. Call the Ploughshare office in London. They’ll vouch for me.”
“No need for that,” Jakub said. “I will know the truth soon enough.”
“Jakub, if that’s a threat…”
“Why were you following me yesterday?” Jakub asked with the sneer.
Keeton felt the wave of resignation wash over him as he realized the persona of Toby Lodge might not survive the encounter. In some ways it was a relief to reach the point of obsolescence in the life of a cover. The persistent falsehood could be stripped away to reveal the truth, or at least something closer to the truth perhaps. There was virtue in the truth, right? Then what—torture? Defection? Execution? He had faced all of those prospects before, and for better or worse always came to the same conclusion: survive!
“Yes, fine,” Keeton said with affected surrender. “Yes, I followed you yesterday. I promised her I’d do it. I met Luiza Rolek exactly as I’ve described—I was looking for help with my story about the bishop. She’s smart and beautiful. I was…that is to say, we…well, I was with her one evening, and she told me about the dinner invitation from Kozlow. She was nervous about something—she wouldn’t tell me what, but she did ask me to investigate Kozlow. So that’s what I did.”
“You haven’t answered my question,” Jakub said.
“I was watching for Kozlow outside of his apartment, from the bar across the street. I noticed some delivery men; then I noticed you. I decided to follow you a bit. That’s about it, really. What do you want me to say? I wasn’t even sure you were connected to Kozlow until I saw you go into your own apartment building, so then it made sense you were visiting him. Even then it was only an assumption. I could at least then tell Luiza I was helping her.”
“You’re hiding something,” Jakub said. “That is a dangerous thing to do.”
“Jakub, please,” Keeton pleaded. “What do you want to know?”
“First, your name.”
“Toby Lodge.”
“A reporter from London?”
“Yes! You have to believe me, please. Please!” Keeton’s voice changed to desperation, but he was already twisting the watch stem again. He sensed Jakub was stalling now, waiting for something…
There was a loud knock somewhere within the building. Jakub nodded to Mateusz, who left the apartment and could be heard descending the stairs. Keeton counted twelve steps—they were one floor above ground. It was possible to kill an enemy, or to survive a desperate jump, from this height. Jakub picked up the overturned vodka bottle and sized it up for remaining dregs, then took a drink that finished it off and tossed the bottle back to the floor. Keeton moved the rope on his wrist back and forth across the diamond tip. Footfalls—at least two men—were now approaching the apartment. Mateusz walked into the room followed by another man, a man Keeton knew and who knew Keeton.
“Hello there, sport.” It was Edgar, the CIA agent who was spying in Poland under diplomatic cover in Warsaw. Edgar the traitor, apparently.
***
“This is Twist, over,” Sir Baddeley said over the encrypted line. “Good to talk to you. Bloody clever equipment, I must say.”
“This is Longbow, over,” Morrison said into the black handset. “Kind regards to you, too, Section Chief.”
The special telephone on Morrison’s desk had been rigged by Banks only a few minutes earlier, done so specifically for this call between the Cavalry director and his MI-6 counterpart. The wiring led directly down into the basement and was connected to the KY-3 Troilus encryption system, a 250-pound metal cabinet filled with an array of circuit boards and punch-card racks. From there the scrambled signal was processed through an electronic switchboard, then sent via wire across the Atlantic to England, where the entire process was undone so that Sir Baddeley could hear Morrison’s voice. At the station in England the same equipment worked in reverse to the United States.
“Quite the mess, isn’t it?” Baddeley started. “Something one doesn’t expect, to have a man cut down like this.”
“It’s bad going, to be sure,” Morrison answered. “What’s the prognosis?”
“They saved his life, and now it’s all about keeping it saved. He’s not out of the wood just yet.”
“We’re pulling for him, as I’m sure you know,” Morrison said. “But given your urgent teletype about having this call, I assume you’re looking for something else. How can I help?”
“Are you alone?” Baddeley asked.
“Yes I am.”
“It’s like this. Runner was attacked in one of our local stations—Mayfair. Apparently he’d just fired off a coded teletype. As best we can figure it, there was a struggle between him and one other man who now happens to be lying dead on an examiner’s table. No identification so far. In any event Runner gave as well as he got but was still critically wounded.”
“You have a record of the message, then, and where he sent it?” Morrison asked. Although the request for an immediate call using the Troilus had been a surprise, he’d known that the Brits would pull the NULL77 disk and the punched tape from their machine. This would allow them to discover the message’s destination and content.
“That’s the confounding part,” Baddeley said gruffly. The sound of ice tumbling in a glass told Morrison that the MI-6 man had taken to calming himself with what was undoubtedly a good bottle of scotch. “The encryption disk for the Creed machine is missing, and the recording strip has been incinerated right there in the station.”
“I don’t understand,” Morrison said. In fact, he now knew what had happened to Lionel, or thought he did. The circumstances implied that Lionel himself disposed of the disk and the paper strip, before he signaled his emergency. It made sense
but damned tough of him if he had been badly wounded before he did it. Baddeley’s call was about whether the Creed had fired off to the Cavalry or not and what content might have been included.
“Well, I think it means Lionel wanted to cover his tracks. Reckless of him, at the least.” Baddeley’s statement hung between them in the electronic ether. In that moment, Morrison decided on a course of action.
“At the least,” he repeated. “I suppose it has to be said, doesn’t it? Reckless or intentional? Are you sure you know what he was up to?”
“I think that’s a bit harsh, Director,” Baddeley said with defensiveness. “Now what I wanted to discuss was whether your station had received the message from him. We do share special scrambler disks, right?”
“Yes we do,” Morrison answered. “They stay secure in my office until we receive a ‘null double-x’ message. In Runner’s case the protocol is 7-7.”
“None of those, then?”
“I’m sorry, Chief, but no,” Morrison said before taking a generous shot of his own favorite booze, courtesy of Betty’s preparation for the late evening call.
“Well, then, I suppose that’s something,” Baddeley said. “There is one other circumstance that bears mentioning. One of the attending physicians told me that Runner, although he was in shock when he arrived at hospital and somewhat incoherent, nevertheless repeated the word ‘orange’ many times. You can see how I might then think of your station, and your man.”
“Indeed,” Morrison answered. Baddeley had waited to use this information, something Morrison might have done himself. At this point, however, Morrison needed to stay the course he had chosen. “I have to say this concerns me. I worked with your predecessor for many years and respected the hell out of him. Runner was his recruit. But without knowing Runner’s motives for destroying the tape, and without knowing who attacked him and why…well, it leaves me wondering if I should recall my man from the field.”
The irony in Morrison’s response stung him a bit. Lionel had indeed sent a warning that warranted contact with Keeton, if only it could be done so easily. Keeping this intelligence from Baddeley could turn out to be a prudent precaution given all of the turmoil in MI-6 or a sin of omission that could further endanger Lionel’s life. Such was the constant calculus in this business
“I see your point, Director. However, I don’t believe you suspect Lionel of any wrongdoing.” Baddeley’s sigh was clear even through the convolution of all the machinery and thousands of miles of wire. “But it must be admitted that our company is facing challenges that need to be carefully considered. My recommendation is that we keep these channels open and share what we learn in the coming days. Agreed?”
“Absolutely, Section Chief. The Troilus is available anytime. And once again, our sentiments are for Runner’s recovery. Longbow out.”
Morrison held up a finger in Bernie Williams’s direction and then physically pulled the black phone’s wire from its connection in the wall. The AD was sitting across the desk from his boss, having listened in on the American side of the entire conversation.
“Paranoid?” Williams asked with a grin. “I don’t blame you—new technology just gives us new ways to fubar.”
“I didn’t like doing that, especially the part about Lionel’s credibility,” Morrison said. “But what I told him about the Brit and my respect for him was completely true. I wish we knew whom to trust.”
“The age-old puzzle for us, isn’t it?” Williams said. He got up from his chair and poured them both another drink. “Do you think they really don’t know where Lionel’s message went?”
Morrison shrugged. “Eventually they’ll find out the answer. In the meantime the clock’s ticking for Keeton. What are our options?”
***
“Mr. Red-plus-Yellow, I’d say you’re in one hell of a jam.”
Edgar stood next to Jakub with a sadistic grin on his face. Keeton stared stonily back even as he felt the next, perhaps final, layer of subterfuge evaporate. He then took a deep breath and began steeling himself to the near certain prospect of brutal interrogation. His mission became to make it through what might come and pick his chance at escape.
“Looks like you’ve already gotten a little taste,” Edgar said as he considered the rising bruise on Keeton’s face. “I’ve only known Jakub a few months, but my humble advice is to just give him what he asks for.”
“So, this is the man you warned me about, then?” Jakub asked him.
Edgar nodded grimly. “That’s him. He’s CIA all right. His code name is Orange—yeah, the color. He might try to keep this British cover going, or he might give you a different story, or he might even stop talking completely.”
“What is his background?”
“He’s experienced and tough. He’s been a successful agent, well regarded by his boss and his fellow agents.”
“You included?” Jakub asked.
“Yeah, me too. I’ve heard some stories about him. Someday I’ll tell you those stories, assuming we still have a deal.”
“Of course, of course,” Jakub answered, then turned to Keeton. “So, Mr. Orange, let us drop the deception and become honest with each other.”
Jakub made a motion to Mateusz, who tilted his head around a couple of times like a prizefighter and walked slowly past Jakub and Edgar, to stand before Keeton once again. This time both of his big fists closed tightly and he proceeded to deliver several powerful blows to Keeton’s face and torso. Then he took a step back to make way for Jakub. They had done this together before.
“I did warn you, after all,” Jakub whispered. “Now is the time for truth. Now is the time for you to save your life. What do you know about the girl?”
Keeton tried clearing his head first. “The girl…Luiza. Yes, I met her here in Krakow, at the university.”
“Wrong answer, sport,” Edgar said casually.
After a signal from Jakub, Mateusz repeated his earlier flurry. Keeton tried to prepare for it, either tensing his muscles or moving with the punches as best he could beneath the rope.
“Again, Mr. Orange,” Jakub said icily. “The girl. Tell me about her.”
The pain now radiated across Keeton’s entire upper body. The shoulder that had been the focus of such careful surgery a year earlier throbbed badly, his breathing was labored, and one eye was darkening and closing. He knew he needed to make a move soon.
“What girl?” Keeton asked softly, looking toward the floor.
Jakub grunted and tugged at his own coat in anger, then pushed past Mateusz toward Keeton.
“Wait a minute, Jakub,” Edgar said. “Look, let me tell you something. Agent Orange won’t give in. You’re sure as hell not going to beat anything out of him. May I suggest we use a different form of leverage?” He walked over to Jakub and whispered something in his ear, and the KGB man nodded back to him.
Keeton watched Edgar walk around him, past his peripheral vision and then disappear behind him. Strangulation? he wondered. Water? Some kind of narcotic? He had held out through a couple of punches and could not imagine the questions were all done, but if they were he had to accept it with no regrets. Death comes knocking at everyone’s door eventually. He then heard the sound of wood scraping against wood, and Edgar reappeared walking backward and dragging something across the floor. It was another chair. Tied to the chair in a manner similar to Keeton was Luiza. She was unconscious.
So much for no regrets, he thought. “Well, hell…”
“Yeah, I know.” Edgar smiled as he dug a small leather case from his coat, unzipped it, and extracted a syringe filled with a watery, clear liquid. He pulled a small rubber stopper from the tip of the needle and then carefully prepared the syringe for use.
“We were supposed to need two doses of this stuff, but I guess you woke up early, sport. I tried telling them you were one tough bugger.” Behind Luiza’s back Edgar found the vein in her bound arm and pushed in the dose of counteracting drug. “It’ll take only a minute or so.”
“It’s OK, Luiza,” Keeton said to her. She glanced over at him with a look of shame and sorrow. He knew what she was thinking, that she was the cause of his peril. He wanted to tell her the truth, even if it only offered a slight and momentary solace prior to what was about to happen to them.
“Hello, darling,” Edgar said to her as he put away the syringe. “This all must be very confusing to you.”
“Bastard,” Keeton said through clenched teeth. “Somehow, some way…”
“Yeah, I know, the amazing Cavalry and their superstar,” Edgar interrupted him. “I don’t think we’re going to see any of your magic today. Miss Rolek, before we get started I feel like you deserve to know exactly how much danger you’re in. First of all, we already know all about your contact at the American embassy—the kid named Walter Zan.
“Walter? What have you done to him?” Luiza asked with her voice trembling.
“Nothing much, yet,” Edgar answered. “But enough that he told me you wrote those letters to the embassy and that you suspected trouble for the bishop. It’s the same information I gave to Jakub—and also to Toby Lodge. Oh, you’re probably wondering why he’s here, too. You probably think he had the misfortune of meeting you by chance. But that’s not the truth.”
“What do you mean? Toby?” She had turned to Keeton, who looked at her for a moment and then back up contemptuously at Edgar.
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 19