The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  Sir Thomas Baddeley nodded. “Perhaps you’re right, Director. But there’s out and about; then there’s out and about.”

  They were seated on the very bench in Saint James’s Park where their juniors, Keeton and Lionel Bridgewater, had met to exchange material about the MI-6 Star mission. That had been a mere two and half weeks earlier, and already Keeton had traveled to Poland on his dual mission and narrowly escaped with a few leads. For MI-6 the situation had been worse, having nearly lost Lionel amid increasingly mysterious circumstances. Morrison had arrived in anticipation of clearing out what fog he could for the section chief, although he still had doubts about how much to share.

  “You must admit,” Baddeley continued. “Having you show up here is a bit jarring. It might make one think there’s an emergency afoot—beyond the usual, that is.”

  “Let’s start at a high level,” Morrison said. “How’s Lionel doing, and how’s the search for Waypoint going?”

  Baddeley cleared his throat roughly. “Unfortunately, when Lionel went unconscious he hit the floor hard enough to cause a concussion. The doctor said that along with the blood loss he’s experiencing a bout of amnesia. Might last a few weeks, but eventually he’ll come around. Physically he’s recovering as well as can be expected, with an occasional walk to get his legs back. He’s eating well again. As for the Waypoint matter, it’s proceeding—slowly. You know I can’t say much more than that. And you know that having a potential sleeper in the house is sowing distrust. What more can I add than that?”

  “We don’t have much to help you with there,” Morrison said. “I’ve seen no chatter at all about Waypoint. Maybe they changed his code name again, for all we know.”

  “Assuming it’s a man.”

  “True,” Morrison conceded quickly. We wondered whether this was a poke from Baddeley about the KGB agent named Lynette Crest who had become Keeton’s lover and would-be captor. It would be a fair poke, he decided. In any event Morrison wasn’t there to trade barbs. “We have our own problems, Chief. That’s why I’m here.”

  “Meaning?” Baddeley turned toward him for the first time.

  It was Morrison’s turn to clear his throat. “Your suspicions about the Creed disk were correct. Lionel had used it to send us a message, apparently just before he was attacked at the Mayfair station. It didn’t contain any information about what happened at the station or who Lionel’s assailant was.”

  “I knew it. I knew not to trust you!” Baddeley hissed in agitation. “What was in the message, anyway?”

  “That’s the trouble on our side I was talking about. Lionel had somehow gathered intel about a double we had in Poland, that this double might be on to Agent Orange who was there at the time on a mission. Orange is safe now, but it was touch and go for a bit. I decided to tell you in person today, to apologize and to inquire about Lionel’s condition.”

  “Don’t expect me to say all’s well that ends well,” Baddeley said sternly. “Of course I’m glad your man in Poland made it out. Any other dark revelations to share, Director?”

  Morrison’s mouth began to work, to talk about the intel intercepted by Keeton, the telegrams and classifieds, and about the KGB man they had illegally picked up to interrogate on behalf of the CIA’s Schoolboy mission. But some spark of intuition, latent from years of desk work but yet embedded in his life of spying, caused Morrison to stop.

  “That’s all, Chief,” he said. “If possible I’d like to visit Lionel. To extend my apology to him and my well wishes for his return to work.”

  Baddeley sighed. “Very well. I can arrange it. Your credentials?”

  “Thank you, Section Chief. Let’s plan for two days from now, Wednesday. I’ll arrive under the cover name of Toby Lodge.”

  ***

  “How did you sleep, Harry?”

  “Bloody awful; thanks for nothing,” Harry whispered as his eyes blinked open. He was lying on an old army cot conjured up from another section of the basement, under a woolen blanket of the same vintage. One wrist had been cuffed to the cot. Remnants of his smoking and drinking were on the table, along with the empty plate from the late-night supper supplied to him.

  “I wouldn’t say that exactly,” Keeton replied. “I’ve gotten reports of vigorous snoring on all three watches, including the two hours I sat here with you.”

  Harry glanced over to where the chair had been occupied throughout the night. A small pile of newspapers and an ashtray filled with cigarette stubs lay next to it. Christopher, who had had the last watch of the night, stood behind Keeton. With the clumsiness of a newborn foal standing for the first time Harry pushed himself to a sitting position.

  “Looking for my classifieds?” he asked.

  “Hardly,” Keeton answered. “No, we have a new activity planned for this morning.”

  “How about a trip to the loo first?” Harry asked.

  “Sure, Harry. But under the same conditions as last night.” Keeton nodded to Christopher. The agent unlocked Harry’s handcuff and then produced the strip of cloth that served as a blindfold.

  “You look as knackered as I am, mate,” Harry commented dryly to Christopher just before the blindfold was tied on. Harry was then led off to the primitive but private toilet.

  Five minutes later Harry was back in the chair and in his place behind the table. The plates and glasses from the night before had been replaced with a pitcher of water and a clean glass. The cigarettes and a lighter remained. Once again Keeton sat opposite him, but this time he held a large bound book in his hands.

  “You’re the luckiest man in London this morning, Harry,” Keeton said as he slid the book across to Harry. The cover was forest green, with a seal in the center that consisted of two crossed tennis rackets surrounded by a purple edging and in white letters, THE ALL ENGLAND LAWN TENNIS AND CROQUET CLUB. Below the seal, in large gold letters, was the book’s title, CLUB YEARBOOK 1964.

  Harry studied the cover for a few seconds, then looked up at Keeton with a shrug. “And how exactly does this make me so lucky?”

  “We believe Jonathan might be a member of the All England Club,” Keeton said. “Since you’ve met him in person, you’re the only person here who can identify him. You’re going to look through this yearbook and find him for us and give us his real name or at least whatever cover name he’s using in England.”

  “Again, how does this make me…?”

  “Harry, you’ve gotten a reprieve. Trust me on this. My boss hasn’t arrived to take you off to Century House—yet. If you help us find Jonathan, then we can help you avoid the nick for the rest of your life. Simple as that.”

  Harry’s finger tentatively reached out to touch the green cover. He hesitated, staring. The Yanks seemed pretty certain that he would find a picture of Jonathan as a member of the Club. It made sense to them. Jonathan’s dress—the clothes, the watches, the upper-crust manners—all matched someone who might have the expensive tastes and disposition for such a membership. And the means? Harry had no idea how much an agent like Jonathan might be remunerated but much more than himself he was certain. Now he recalled the recent news frenzy surrounding the Championships, set to begin soon and last “the fortnight” just like Jonathan had said. So was this it—the end of Harry’s career fighting the Cold War for his socialist beliefs?

  “I understand what you’re going through,” Keeton said suddenly. “You’ve put yourself in danger for an idea, for how many years I don’t know. By cooperating with us you feel like you’re betraying it, helping to defeat it. But let me tell you something, Harry. This game we’re playing, it’s a whole hell of lot bigger than either of us, with its own nature that doesn’t give a damn about us as men. So take care of yourself. Save yourself. Survive another day as a free man. Tomorrow can be sorted out tomorrow.”

  Harry gave Keeton a quizzical glance. Then his eyes turned back to the yearbook, and he opened the cover. Keeton lit Harry a cigarette and gave it to him, then stood up and left the enclosure. He returned a couple
of minutes later with a tray filled with an elaborate breakfast but told Harry to finish his task first.

  The yearbook itself was rather thin, and Harry quickly turned to the section that described the administration and membership of the Club. First there were Committees and Chairmen, then the Permanent Members, then the Life Members and the Honorary Members—and then finally the Temporary Members. Harry’s finger stopped at the third name: Philip Brown. He pushed his nose closer and studied the portrait a bit more. There was Jonathan—the smug half smile, the dark cruel eyes, the perfectly groomed hair.

  “I’ve got your man,” Harry finally announced. Keeton put down the buttered toast he had begun and took up the book while Harry kept his finger pinned to Brown’s picture.

  “You need to be sure, Harry,” Keeton said. “It’s a man’s life, if that matters to you.”

  Harry pulled back, and his face fell indignantly. “Of course it matters. And I’m sure.”

  Keeton nodded and pushed the tray of food over to Harry, then left the enclosure. Christopher stayed behind on guard.

  Up in the listening station Morrison was waiting for Keeton, along with Morel and Chester Sawyer. The sound from the basement was being piped through a small speaker on the desk. The Cavalry director had arrived earlier in the morning and managed to debrief Keeton and the team on his conversation with Sir Thomas Baddeley.

  “That was a nice speech you gave Harry about the spy game,” Morrison said. “Make it up on the spot?”

  “Who says I made it up at all,” Keeton replied irritably. “What can we do for him, anyway?”

  “Let me worry about that,” Morrison said. “It’s a good thing Chet knows one of our diplomatic cover guys, who just happens to be good friends with Sir Somebody or Other that’s who’s a member of the Club. Not sure how he talked him out of the yearbook, but I guess that doesn’t matter. You were right, Keeton. Connecting Harry probably saved his freedom and maybe his life.”

  “You came over here to clear the air with the Baddeley, Lionel’s boss. You told him about Lionel’s teletype message but not about Harry. Why not?”

  “Things are still too hot in MI-6 right now,” Morrison said uneasily. “I didn’t want to tip our whole hand, not yet. Believe it or not, I want to protect Harry just like you do. Let me see that book.”

  Morrison looked over the picture of Philip Brown for several seconds, then turned to Sawyer. “Says here he’s a Canadian businessman but with a residence near London. Doesn’t give his address or other details, though. Chet, can you have your guys set up the Troilus for a call to Langley? Top brass. And anything you can find on Philip Brown’s residence in the meantime.”

  “Sure, Director. My guy’s name is Ollie—remember him, Keeton?” Sawyer gave him a mischievous smile, which seemed to break through Keeton’s sudden foul mood.

  “So what do we do about Brown?” Keeton asked. “And about Harry?”

  Morrison looked back at the yearbook page as he considered a plan. “Even though Brown’s a Canadian citizen we can’t risk a second pickup on British soil, not until I get us some cover. That’ll be my job. Andrew, if you’re up for it I want you and the team to start prepping for a meeting with Brown—but treating him as the KGB man Jonathan. Use Harry to arrange it in the newspaper and to put together a credible story for why they replaced Harry and why you need to meet him in person again.”

  “What’s the purpose of the meeting?” Keeton asked. “I mean our purpose.”

  “Just like you sent false intel to save the girl in Krakow,” Morrison said. “Maybe we can stop the Russians’ Echo plan against Schoolboy. We can start by trying to spin Jonathan around a little. If that fails we tell the Brits about him or deal with him ourselves. As for Harry, tell him we’ll take care of him. And I mean that.”

  Keeton nodded and stuck his hand out toward Morrison. “Will do. And thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me yet. My plan is to put you in danger, probably illegally no less, with a deep-cover KGB asset. Which reminds me—the gadget boys need a new piece of gear tested and gave me a prototype to bring over. Come on up to the Attic, I’ll show you.”

  ***

  “Emerson’s the best, but Sangster’s on his home turf, so to speak.” Morel was looking down through the small binoculars onto Centre Court, where he and Keeton had been able to procure second-round seats to the Championships by virtue of Chet Sawyer’s connections. The weather was sunny but cool, and both men wore casual jackets and sunglasses. Keeton had on a trilby hat as well.

  Australia’s Roy Emerson was the top-seeded player, expected to successfully defend his 1964 Wimbledon title. His popularity among both players and spectators was fueled by equal measures of sportsmanship, hard work, and simply his high ranking. Nonetheless, he would need all of his well-honed skill and fitness to defeat the crowd’s emotional favorite, Mike Sangster of Great Britain, whose serves broke speed records and caused Emerson to take three steps back from his normal receiving position. The first set went to extra games as Sangster’s serve proved hard to break. Eventually Emerson prevailed eight-to-six. The next two sets went quicker as Emerson’s sheer mastery overtook the plucky Brit. As the match ended the crowd cheered both men equally. Keeton took the binoculars from Morel and trained them on Philip Brown—or according to Harry Haskins, “Jonathan”—who as a Club member had select seats down closer to the action.

  Brown had dressed for the weather in white slacks and a white cotton shirt covered by a dark-blue sweater bearing the Slazenger panther logo. At the moment he was applauding and exchanging remarks with two other members. Keeton noted the patronizing smile Brown used in response to some comment or other, never fully broadening it or breaking into a laugh. Brown’s eyes shifted distantly when they could, as if searching around for something, or someone. He then walked up and out with his friends, giving one final broad glance around the Centre Court stadium.

  Keeton and Morel also blended into the shifting, exiting crowd and walked out to the car park where Morel had brought one of the motor pool machines, a pale-blue Austin Mini. A traffic policeman cleared them through, and Morel drove north on Church Road.

  “Well, we got a decent look at him,” Morel said as Church became Wimbledon Park Road. “I’m still not sure I know what the boss is up to, though. He seemed to be ready to tell the section chief everything, then pulled back. What do you think?”

  Keeton shrugged. “Could just be the cloud that’s been hanging over the Brits. Or could be something more. The director did not seem in a mood to let on much. Maybe Lionel will be able to clear it up, at least from his side of things. I’m told he has amnesia.”

  “Sounds convenient,” Morel said. “You ready to go see him now?

  Keeton checked his watch. “Sure, let’s do that. Sorry, but we were only able to get one hall pass.”

  Morel laughed. “That’s all right. I’ll circle around the building and wait for you.”

  With that exchange they shifted to discussing the match between Emerson and Sangster and about the nature of tennis in general. Both were novices but realized they shared an attraction to the solo sports, Keeton having been a track runner and Morel a martial artist. To both of them the thought of a doubles format was a puzzle, and mixed doubles would be completely out of the question unless one was out to impress a pretty girl.

  “Speaking of which, did you get a look at Sawyer’s niece?” Morel asked.

  “I’m afraid I did,” Keeton answered sarcastically. “She’s engaged, by the way. Didn’t you see the ring?”

  “Nope, no ring,” Morel answered in triumph. “What I noticed was a slight tan line on that finger. So I asked her about it. They’ve apparently called it off. She’s available, and I hate to tell you this, but she did ask about you.”

  “That so?” Keeton asked dryly. “For now, I’ll pass. But good luck.”

  Thirty minutes later Morel pulled the Mini up to the Cruciform Building and let Keeton out. At a nurse’s station Keeton checked in
as Mr. Toby Lodge, a name that got him carefully escorted by a well-heeled-looking MI-6 agent up to the third floor and then up an additional staircase to the roof. Lionel was alone, sunning and walking per doctor’s orders. He had shunned the ubiquitous hospital gown and robe for a proper change of clothes.

  “Your daily constitutional?” Keeton asked as he walked up to Lionel, hand extended. Lionel took it gladly and with affection.

  “Good to see you, Keeton,” Lionel said with a smile. “A whole bloody hell of a lot has happened since our last meeting.”

  “An understatement,” Keeton said. “Is it safe to talk up here?”

  Lionel nodded to the other agent, who left the roof and closed the door behind him. “It is now. I suppose you’ve come here with good secret news or bad secret news. Which is it?”

  Keeton nodded. “You know me well, Lionel. I have both. But first, how are you doing, and what the hell happened? I mean before you sent the Creed message to the director and then destroyed the evidence.”

  Lionel looked out across the crowded London landscape, south toward Soho and the Mayfair station, where he was attacked. “I could tell you what I’ve told my supervisor. Or I could tell you the truth.”

  “If those two things are not the same,” Keeton said, “then that raises a lot more questions, doesn’t it? Look, Lionel, before I left for Poland we cleared the air. Time to do it again. Let’s face it, we’ve both been operating on the edges of our companies’ rules, mainly because we don’t know whom to trust. But at the very least I believe we can trust each other. What do you say?”

  Lionel looked back to Keeton. “For starters, I’ve been feigning amnesia to keep Baddeley in the dark about what happened at Mayfair. I just need some time to sort out the situation around here.”

  Keeton nodded, and they spent the next twenty minutes exchanging information about recent events. Lionel told Keeton how he came to know about Edgar’s KGB defection, then about the Star mission and Tusk. For his part Keeton gave Lionel the details of Schoolboy in Poland and how it had led to Harry. Then he told him about Philip Brown, aka Jonathan.