“Here’s how this is going to go,” the man said. “Turn around and head north. There will be a car waiting, and we’ll both get in peacefully, right?”
Harry had frozen for just a moment, then began following the instruction. “I keep my gun in the same place you keep yours. Given the circumstances I don’t want there to be any misunderstandings between us.”
The man pointing the gun at Harry was Jimmy Morel. “Keep walking. Let’s go. There’s the car; see it? You’re going to get in.”
The black saloon was a Bentley S3 Continental with darkened windows. The man who’d followed Harry caught up to them and then patted him down, retrieving the pistol and a wallet and then proclaiming him otherwise clean with a nod to Morel. The rear door of the Bentley opened, and Harry was pushed in. Immediately his head was covered with a thick canvas sack.
“Don’t struggle; don’t give us any trouble. It’ll be a bit of a ride, so relax.” This voice came from the man who’d already been in the car.
“I’m not thinking you’ve been sent from the home secretary,” Harry said.
Morel settled in on Harry’s other side and pushed the barrel of the gun into him enough to stop the conversation. They drove briskly through the London streets, avoiding the intrusion of curious onlookers with a privacy curtain pulled closed between the front and back seats.
Harry recognized the first man as American. The man who had frisked him had not spoken, but from the sounds of the car doors Harry figured he had gotten in next to the driver—who also remained silent. But the man who’d put the hood over him had the blended accent of the Yank who’d spent a fair amount of time in England, perhaps several years. Harry had gotten a brief glimpse of him, enough to notice the mechanical gaze of the highly trained but obedient foot soldier.
The Bentley had been fitted with air-conditioning, and the cabin was pleasant. Nevertheless, the more Harry rode along and thought about the men who’d taken him from the street and why, the more nervous he became, and he began to perspire. In the immediate moments after he was pushed into the Leigh Place alley he thought his contacts to be undercover KGB pulling a clever ruse, perhaps to test him. He clung to that even now, but it was fading. The directorate would never requisition the purchase of such a luxury car even if their meager means allowed it. He also remembered the gun that was flashed at him—an American Smith & Wesson. He decided the accents were genuine, and the tactics all pointed to one obvious conclusion.
“Mind telling me what this is about?” he asked from under the hood. The answer came in the form of the pistol butt against his forehead, hard enough to send a message without too much injury.
For the remainder of the twenty-five-minute ride Harry kept quiet. Eventually they slowed through a few turns and stopped, then proceeded forward into what must have been a garage given the reverberations of the Bentley’s engine. The sound of a metal roll door being lowered confirmed it. The engine was cut, and Harry was led across the concrete floor and into a building whose floors creaked. Some large old mansion converted into a safe house. He was variously pulled and pushed down a narrow staircase, and the floor became hard again and the air noticeably cooler. A cellar. Then he was seated and had each wrist cuffed to the chair down at his side. Finally he heard the loud report of a closing door and the turn of a lock, and the hood was removed.
Harry was centered in a square makeshift room of black velvet curtains. The location of the ceiling light that hung above him had determined the place he’d be interrogated. An empty metal table and another chair sat off to one side. Standing before him were Romain Roy, Keeton, and one of Chet Sawyer’s men, who’d only been introduced to Keeton as Christopher. Each of the men wore a suit, but Roy’s jacket was unbuttoned to reveal the butt of an automatic pistol fitted into a shoulder holster.
Harry squinted and blinked to get his eyes accustomed to the new bright light. He gave each of the men a once-over, then looked down to see the model of the handcuffs that secured his wrists—both pairs were the standard Peerless model. The rest of the scene was made effectively invisible by the arrangements surrounding him, save the little bit of the ceiling Harry could make out above the light, where the wiring disappeared into insulation that was as deep as the ceiling joists. Soundproofing works both ways, Harry thought dismally. He began to shiver in the cool, dank air.
“You’re going to see and hear only what we want you to, Harry,” Keeton said. “Only know what we want you to know.”
He had watched Harry’s eyes make their way around the little area, taking in what he could in those first dozen seconds, just as Keeton would have done himself. Harry Haskins was an asset all right, a British citizen working for the Soviets—for money or political ideology or most likely both. He was also a Brit who was being secretly held on his own native soil by a foreign government agent. This was going to be tricky.
“I’m not sure what you want from me,” Harry said. “Ransom?”
Keeton smiled. “It’s a little too late to play dumb, Harry. Put yourself in our shoes. The way you reacted when we picked you up—not exactly like an innocent man who thought he might be getting rolled for his wallet. No, I suspect you thought we were your Russian friends. You might even still be thinking that all this is a test of your loyalty to the star and sickle. Let me assure you that it’s not.”
“Are all of you American, then?”
“Does that really matter to you?” Keeton asked. “We need information.”
Harry’s eyes darted between the men. “I’m just a little fish. You don’t want me.”
“Both right and wrong, Harry. And that’s the sticky wicket for you, I’m afraid. You’re big enough to send messages through, big enough to pay for his services, big enough to rub elbows with the stars. But not really big enough for Comrade Sakharovsky to give a damn about.”
Now Harry looked down at the floor as he worked out the calculus of the spy who had been found out and captured but with really no leverage or options—except one. “What is it you want?”
“I told you, information.”
“I know very little, really.”
Keeton unbuttoned his jacket and reached in. For a moment Harry pulled back as if anticipating the drawing of the American’s pistol. Instead Keeton pulled out a folded sheet of paper. “We have a man in Poland, more than one, in fact. Yes, you can see where this is going, right Harry?”
Harry’s face paled, and his shiver increased. Keeton nodded to Roy and Christopher, who then placed the table and empty chair in front of Harry. Keeton sat down and unfolded the page and slid it over.
“This is a note page we obtained from a KGB asset in Poland. On it he composed the telegram that he sent to you from Krakow. Not the only one—we have them all.”
“I’m just a cutout, you understand,” Harry said woodenly.
“The scribble at the bottom is in Russian, it’s his original message plus a few notes about the date and such. That’s how we know you copied it into the classifieds. By the way, I was there in Krakow and took this from him myself. And although I didn’t want it to happen this way, I had to kill him.”
“I just pass along information. I don’t understand most of it.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, Harry. I’m sure you see all kinds of interesting correspondence. Agents in your position are conduits. You do the grunt work for a few pounds while more important agents are out there building networks and reputations with the directorate, right? But you see it all; you can put it together. We know the telegram messages were being relayed into the newspapers. So first, I need the paper or papers you’re using. Before you answer I should let you know we’ve already got a team at your flat pulling it apart. If you’ve left any litter lying about we’ll find it.”
“You won’t find anything there,” Harry said.
“We’ll see about that,” Keeton answered. “One way or the other we’ll figure out the places, even if it’s brute force. In the meantime it’s important for you to cooperate
with us. The better the intel you give us, the better off for you. Now, about those newspapers—just start talking, Harry.”
The captured spy sat forlornly in the chair and closed his eyes, twin trickles of perspiration racing each other down his temple. If not for the slight tremble in his chin and the palpable throb of his carotid artery, one might have thought Harry had fallen asleep. Then finally his eyes opened again. “You do understand you’re ending my life, right?”
“How do you figure that, Harry?” Keeton asked.
Harry snorted. “You’re just messing about, aren’t you? I’m a British citizen who will be convicted under the Officials Secrets Act. That’s up to fourteen years in prison.”
“For each act, as I understand it,” Keeton added. “I can see why you’re concerned—and why you’ll want to give us what we want. Information.”
“If I do have anything to say, what will you offer?”
“At the very least it’ll be a good payday for you,” Keeton said. “How’s five hundred pounds sound?”
Harry’s head moved slowly back and forth. “No, no, no. No! I want a place to land. I want a guarantee I’m not going to end up in Wormwood Scrubs for the rest of my life.”
“You want a hell of a lot,” Keeton said fiercely. “Well, so do we. You have to give us this first piece of intel, in good faith. In return I’ll work with my boss to figure out what we can do for you.”
“Like what?” Harry asked. There was the tenor of desperation in his voice.
“I don’t know exactly,” Keeton answered with a shrug. “A plane ticket to Moscow? Do you think the Reds would even have you?”
“How about New York, then?”
Keeton now crossed his arms. “That would be something, wouldn’t it? Harry, my best offer is to try to get you released from our custody with no questions asked. Then my personal advice—take it or leave it—is for you to get the hell out of England forever. Settle in to one of your socialist paradises, they’ll take anyone who wants asylum if they can even remember where they keep those forms. The newspapers, Harry?”
Harry avoided eye contact but nodded. Keeton signaled again to Christopher. The agent stepped over and handed Keeton a pencil and a pad of paper. For the next five minutes Harry recited the routines used to send information from Poland and through the advertisements, and Keeton transcribed it. Once Harry began talking, the interchange became as much conversation as interrogation. The material itself was superficial but would be a start to prying the more important information from Harry’s memory.
“Anything else?” Keeton asked. “I mean, it’s a very good start, and it’s something I can definitely take up the chain of command in your favor. But even so…”
“What else do you want to know?” Harry asked.
Keeton stood up. “Come on now, Harry. We can’t hold you here forever. At this very moment my boss’s MI-6 counterpart is probably demanding to grab you. We haven’t got to the good stuff yet. Like who in London the messages were for.”
Harry swallowed hard, and his eyes flashed in fear. He was not a particularly superstitious man, but he suddenly thought it prudent never to utter Jonathan’s name to either the CIA or MI-6. Although it was undoubtedly a cover of some kind, Harry knew that several other KGB assets had mentioned the assassin by the same name. How could he survive by giving them just enough information that perhaps they would find Jonathan on their own, without ever linking that one short word to himself?
“I never heard a name,” Harry said with affected confidence. “I just placed the advertisements like I was told to.”
“Really, Harry?” Keeton asked sarcastically. “The classifieds are addressed to an ‘FK.’ No bells?”
“I gave you the paper, didn’t I?”
“That was a good-faith deposit,” Keeton said. “If that’s all there is, then it’s probably time to ring up the Secret Intelligence Service.”
More beads of sweat had formed on Harry’s forehead. Just enough information. “OK, it’s like this. I’ve met him a few times, when I need to pass along something verbally.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere, Harry,” Keeton said. “For your sake I hope this is legitimate. And a name?”
“Jonathan,” Harry answered with a sigh. “That’s what I called him. Probably just a code name for me. Who knows?”
“So you met Jonathan a few times. We’ll need a full description, of course. Probably bring in a sketch artist, but for now what can you tell us about his appearance? What nationality—English?”
“Certainly spoke like an Englishman,” Harry said. “But could’ve been a cleverly trained foreigner—if so then probably a Russian. Very well dressed. I’d say fancy—Savile Row kind of fancy.”
Just then there was a knock on the metal door, a signal to the team. All three men turned and passed through the curtain to leave Harry chained to the chair, alone. Having locked the door behind them, the team assembled with Morel in the small room within CIA Station 4 requisitioned to them for recording the interrogation. Morel pulled off the thick headset.
“Just got word,” he said. “Boss is in town, as you’d figured, and he’s meeting with the section chief. Think the director told him about Harry?”
“I’m not sure,” Keeton shrugged. “Probably.”
Morel pointed to the stopped tape reel machine on the desk in front of him. “So your original bluff about calling MI-6 and giving Harry over to them might actually turn out to be right.”
“It might, and I don’t like it,” Keeton said. “I would’ve preferred more time to sweat Harry.”
“He’s lying about something,” Morel said. “Harry, that is. Don’t know what you’re seeing in his body language, but I’ve gotten some decent training on audio cues. He’s hiding something.”
“Probably holding on to a bargaining chip or two,” Roy said. “That would be pretty natural, I guess.”
“I’m going back down there—just me. Grab me some booze,” Keeton said. “And cigarettes.”
Two minutes later Keeton sat across from Harry—he had set a tray containing two glasses, a bottle of whiskey, and an opened pack of Embassy plains onto the table, then taken the handcuffs off of Harry’s wrists.
“Harry, I’m going to play this straight with you, and I expect the same treatment,” Keeton said as he poured them each a double shot and slid a glass across the table. “There’s a better than even chance my boss has told his number in MI-6 about you. You’re smart enough to know that what we’ve done—grabbing you off the street—is illegal, and both you and me could be in serious trouble. Now’s the time to open up. Give me more about Jonathan.”
Harry took a sip of the whiskey, swallowed hard, then tossed back the rest. “Dark hair, like yours, and about your height, too. Marks? No, I don’t recall any.”
Keeton’s hand smacked the top of the metal table, and Harry nearly fell backward. “That’s not enough, Harry! We need to know who Jonathan really is and how to locate him. You signaled him in the papers. You must have a code to meet him, right? And what’s he going to Italy for?”
Harry lit an Embassy and nodded nervously. His mind raced as he imagined himself being a bit of cheese in a trap to catch Jonathan. Somehow he knew that such an operation would end very badly for him, so he had to get this American off of that idea in a hurry. Think, Harry, think…
“I have no idea about Italy,” he said after several seconds of silence. “It was just the sentence the man from Poland told me to write—I swear that. But I might have something.” He took a long and deep drag on the Embassy. “Yes, I can give you the way I set up meetings with him. It’s just one or another phrase I put in the classifieds. Jonathan’s job includes watching for it. But listen, I’m not going to place a dummy advertisement and meet with him for you; I’m just not. I’ll give you the words to use, but then what you do with them is up to you, right?”
“You’re afraid of Jonathan?” Keeton asked. “What’s his job for the KGB?”
; “At this point, I’m afraid of everything,” Harry answered miserably. He poured his own drink and quickly sucked it down. “But yes, I’m afraid because of what I’ve heard about him. I assume he’s a violent man. There’s one other piece of information, from my last meeting with him. That was on June the tenth.”
“Go on then, Harry.”
“I was just small talking with him, which he didn’t like. Didn’t like me much all around, in fact. I mentioned something like, ‘Looks like you’re going to Italy,’ and he said, ‘Well, it better not be July third or anytime during the fortnight.’ I didn’t really care at the time why he said it. And sitting here now, I still don’t know why.”
Harry wiped at his drenched brow. He was pale and spent. Keeton sipped his whiskey and considered this poor man who would almost certainly end up with a considerable prison sentence in Britain. The odds of Morrison agreeing to simply let Harry go, as Keeton had let on, were very slim. It was a damned shame lies were told so effortlessly in this business, he thought.
The sudden sharp rap on the metal door caused Keeton to start and Harry to drop his cigarette stub and let out a low groan. He began to stand up, but Keeton pointed a finger and shook his head gravely. Harry was still for a couple of seconds, then sank back into the chair.
“You said I could get out,” Harry cried as Keeton walked around the table and secured his hands to the chair again. “You bastard, you said I’d leave!”
“Calm down, Harry; it’ll be fine,” Keeton snapped back. He left Harry whimpering in the little makeshift interrogation room and met Roy at the basement door. Back up at Morel’s post Christopher was awaiting them, sporting a broad smile.
“Is the director here?” Keeton asked.
Morel furrowed his brow and shook his head. “No, it’s not that. It’s about Jonathan, about what Harry just said. Think about it—England, a KGB spy named Racket, the fortnight.”
It was Keeton’s turn to smile. It was obvious now. He nodded to them and said, “Wimbledon.”
***
“We don’t get out and about as much as we should, I suppose,” Morrison said quietly to the man who had just sat down to his right.
The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2) Page 23