The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  “It’s wonderful, although I miss my old parish in Czechoslovakia quite often, and I wonder what has become of the little flock there. I’ve fit into the cloistered life with my brother and the other monks, and three months ago I was granted German citizenship just as my brother had been twenty years ago, before the wall went up in Berlin. Of course I have a new name I’m supposed to use.”

  Keeton checked around them to make sure they were still alone. “Look, I know you would’ve been just as content to stay behind and fight the good fight, even if it meant prison or death. But I just couldn’t let that happen—my job is trying to save people like you.”

  “You did your job well,” Teodor said. “At grave risk to your own life. Andrew, we all cling to this mortal existence even when we have happy certainty of what comes afterward. Love of life is built into our nature. And yet, you throw yourself regularly into danger knowing that at some point…”

  “At some point, I suppose,” Keeton said with a grim smile.

  “You’re ready for this eventuality?” Teodor asked.

  Keeton hesitated, then smiled again. “Father, you know how we let the Czechs believe you were killed in that plane crash instead of escaping by parachute? Now you live a new secret life in Regensburg. At the present time my life is the same—my enemies think I’m dead. I intend to let them think it as long as I can.”

  “If there’s an enemy of the bishop—and I know there are many—who might turn a gun to him and you’re trying to stop this man, won’t the gun be turned to you, too? Please, go carefully.”

  “I promise I’ll duck,” Keeton said.

  “Andrew, you may make light of this. Yes, you may even go into this new danger happily. But I know you’ve helped many people over the years in your chosen job. Don’t forget to help yourself.”

  “I should go now,” Keeton said as he shook Teodor’s hand and then stood. “Thank you for doing this.”

  “Of course,” Teodor answered. “I’ll send you the information tomorrow. Now, I’m going to stay behind and try to help you in my own way.”

  As the priest pulled himself forward to kneel, Keeton walked out of the basilica and into the warm Roman evening. He shrugged to himself as a car driven by Romain Roy skidded to a stop to pick him up—one way or the other he could use all the help he could get.

  ***

  “Admit it, John, you let me win that last game,” Francesca said to Ivan as they walked through the gates of the Tennis Roma club and onto Via Ipponio where a taxi was waiting. He had begun talking to her about the joy and athleticism of the game a week earlier, urging her to try it with him. It was evident that she had fallen for him, so he was not surprised when she had offered to walk into the nearest club and become a member on the spot. He had immediately gone out and replaced all the old equipment left behind in Kingston upon Thames, including the Gucci bag and two of the best rackets he could find for them.

  “You have to remember, darling, I’ve been playing since I was a boy,” Ivan said. “But for your first time I’d say you did very well.”

  As he held the door for her to get into the taxi, she gave him a smile of appreciation for his lie about her ability then stretched up to kiss him. He put the bag into the front passenger seat. When he had gotten in beside her, he reveled in his situation for a few moments—a pretty and indulgent girl with money and a return to tennis. Although he missed the manicured lawn courts of the All England Club, he admitted that this girl was adequate consolation for the time being.

  “I think perhaps we should be walking back,” Francesca said. “It’s only twenty minutes or so, and you can’t possibly be tired by playing against me.”

  “Perhaps I’m not as fit as you think,” he answered and then made a show of wiping his forehead with one of their white towels. In point of fact, Ivan had arisen early that morning in his hotel room and ran five miles through the nearby Villa Borghese before breakfasting and then meeting her at the club.

  “I’m not so sure,” she said playfully and then took his hand.

  His compartmentalized mind then switched back to business, to his plan. It was not whimsy that led him to the tennis courts but a design that culminated in the introduction of the new Gucci bag, the model that was a bit larger than his previous one—the one that would hold the Dragunov rifle once the gun’s stock and suppressor were removed.

  “After we clean up a bit and have lunch,” Ivan said, “I should begin packing for my business trip—and then, Naples!”

  “Are you sure you’ll be able to be there tomorrow night?” Francesca asked. “It seems like very close timing to go to Zurich and back again in just one day.”

  “Only bad weather or bad business will delay me,” Ivan said with a smile. “And I’m expecting neither of those. And then I can get back to my Roman holiday.”

  “Good,” she answered. “I’m looking forward to having you meet my father. He likes Englishman. And now, so do I.”

  “I’m glad, Francesca. I have the phone number of your family villa in Naples and will call as soon as we’ve landed.”

  “Wouldn’t it be easier if I simply picked you up at the airport instead of you trying to get a good taxi at that time of the evening?” she asked.

  “If that’s what you want,” he said agreeably. “You’re driving down to Naples tonight, then?”

  “Yes, Papa wants me to help him with some office work tomorrow. So you see, we’re both at work for a few hours before it’s back to leisure time.”

  Ivan smiled and nodded. They would make love in her apartment, have lunch, and then say goodbye until the following evening—except he would not be flying to Zurich for the day and certainly not landing in Naples tomorrow night. He would have a call relayed to the villa in Naples apologizing for Mr. Hardy’s delay due to problems with some financing, that he would arrive there on Sunday morning instead. If it all worked out for him they would enjoy a week in Naples, with her father’s approval, dampened only by the shocking news that would no doubt be sweeping through Italy and the world.

  He brought her hand up and kissed it as the taxi pulled up to her apartment. Forty-eight hours from that moment he would be poised in her window with the Dragunov awaiting the bishop’s arrival at the restaurant a mere 250 yards away.

  ***

  Keeton unfolded the paper and began reading the handwritten note from Father Teodor. It took both the front and back of the page. He smiled and then had to look twice at the added footnote at the bottom, scrawled in another hand and in English.

  “I think we’ve got something here,” he announced to the men seated around the table with him—Jimmy Morel, Romain Roy, and Lionel Bridgewater. “Something good—and something pretty amazing.”

  “This villa is amazing,” Roy said as he gazed out over the Tiber River. “How the hell did Morrison rate this place?”

  They were seated together on the rooftop terrace of an exclusive three-story villa situated on the Lungotevere dei Vallati, in the center of the city. The owner was a man named Allegro. The accommodations were plush but private and had been stocked with enough food and drink to sustain them for at least two weeks. The various servants—they all agreed there must be a robust staff for a place like this—had been given the time off. However, they could call the owner’s valet at any time for assorted needs such as laundry or transportation. They had been lunching on sandwiches and beer when a messenger arrived at the street-level gate with an envelope addressed by fountain pen only to “A.”

  “I don’t really know,” Keeton answered. “He’s got an old network from back during the war, and apparently some of them made out pretty good.”

  “Or more likely they came from money, and Morrison and the Allies helped them get it back,” Morel said. “So what’s in the note from the priest?”

  “Listen to this. ‘Dear Andrew’—yeah the Russians know my name, so why not this guy?—‘Dear Andrew, I am happy to repay part of my debt to you. I have spoken to the Schoolboy. His schedule al
ong with the entire Polish delegation is watched very closely, and they are confined to the quarters provided for them. Meals and accommodations are to be taken privately, and all activities are within the walls of the Vatican. Except for one allowance, happening this Saturday—in two days. Lunch has been arranged at the restaurant called Scoglio di Frisio on Via Merulana. Time is one p.m. They are to drive to the Basilica of Saint Mary at the north end of the Via Merulana, visit it, then walk the two blocks to the lunch. It is supposed to be about six delegates including Schoolboy and his personal secretary and of course two SB guards. (Look for suits not collars!)’

  “He’s a natural spy, fellas. ‘When I told Schoolboy that he is in danger and you were trying to protect him, he smiled and asked to write a little note himself at the bottom. I urge you caution. Our missions are different, but we pray for you. T.’”

  “Pretty good intel,” Morel said.

  “You weren’t jesting; he’s not a bad asset after all,” Lionel added.

  “Schoolboy wrote something, too?” Roy asked. “What could he possibly have to say to you?”

  Keeton smiled and shook his head. “Here it is. ‘I appreciate your words and actions. It was nice to meet you in Krakow. Mr. L, wasn’t it? I have a guardian angel already, but one more will not hurt. I must be about my work, no matter what, and be not afraid of it. I believe you understand duty and danger. Thank you. B.’ How’s that?”

  “You mentioned to us that you met him briefly,” Morel said. “But how the hell did he know you were connected with Teodor?”

  “Beats me,” Keeton said. “I’ve heard that he’s got strange ways of reading people, but that’s more legend than facts. Anyway, we have a lead, which is a start.”

  “We should spend the rest of today in the neighborhood of this restaurant he mentions, figuring out the lay of the land,” Roy said.

  “Agreed,” Keeton said. “Roy will be in charge of transportation, as usual. We’ve got Signore Allegro’s cars downstairs. There’s plenty of space to set up a darkroom for developing photos.”

  “I have the new radio gear,” Morel said. “Shortwave stuff, good range and five-by-five signal. We can put a set in the cars, and then I’ve got enough rigs for each of us to carry one. The hell of it is the battery, they shrunk it as much as possible, but it’s still not lightweight.”

  “It’ll work fine,” Keeton said as he finished up his beer. “Lionel, any word from Bleudot?”

  Lionel shook his head. “Both Baddeley and the Frenchman are still M-I-A, I’m afraid.”

  “I have a feeling at least one of them will turn up again,” Roy said with a grim smile. “So what’s the plan?

  Keeton stood. “Go down and get a car ready. Jimmy will set up the radios and go with you. Get some pics of the area, look for likely sight lines. Ivan’s a sniper—roofs, windows, look for high ground. My guess is it’s not going to be easy, and we’re going to need a lucky break. Come back with a surveillance plan that we can cover on Saturday.”

  Roy and Morel both finished their beers and left for the scouting trip. Lionel walked over to the edge of the terrace to smoke and admire the view of the Tiber. Two hundred yards upriver he spotted the tip of the Isola Tiberina, the small ancient island known as a refuge for the sick. He took a last drag on the cigarette and crushed it under his shoe.

  “Keeton,” he said. “What if Ivan isn’t planning to take a shot at the bishop at this restaurant on Saturday?”

  Keeton folded the letter and slid it into his inside jacket pocket. “In that case we have—” he checked the Jaeger LeCoultre—“forty-eight hours to form a contingency plan.”

  ***

  Ivan walked through the Roman alley dressed in a white polo shirt under a black V-neck sweater, with white trousers and tennis shoes, carrying the large Gucci tennis bag. Ahead the pavement threaded under an old stone archway. The red van was parked underneath, awaiting him, with Antonio’s face framed in the side-view mirror. The rear door opened when he got close, and he climbed in. The KGB man he had previously known as Marcus was sitting in the front passenger seat, turned back to look at him.

  “Good morning, comrade,” Marcus said in Russian.

  “It’s you then,” Ivan answered with a smile. They shook hands. Ivan waved off the offer of a cigarette.

  “Yes Ivan, my new assignment in the directorate,” Marcus answered. “A promotion, fortunately. And probably because your success last year rubbed off on me.”

  “You were on your way up before then,” Ivan said. “I know why I’m here—to pick up the weapon. I hope it’s been broken down and made ready. Yes? Very good. So, you’re here for logistics? New orders after this mission is done?”

  “Yes, and more,” Marcus said. “There’s been a modification to the plan. Listen carefully…”

  ***

  “I read you loud and clear,” Keeton said into the miniature microphone concealed near the cuff of his jacket. Morel had just signaled him through his own radio as he and Lionel walked slowly along Via Merulana. Roy was parked near the basilica awaiting Paszek and the Polish delegation to the Council. Keeton himself was at the side window of a fourth-floor apartment Roy had managed to lease on the spot the day before. It had become their local HQ, into which they had brought the radios, binoculars, and several weapons—the largest was Morel’s customized and suppressed Savage 110 sniper rifle lying on a nearby table.

  For the last two days they had reconnoitered the route from the basilica to the Scoglio di Frisio and onward to the next block. Despite the short distance there were plenty of shops and upstairs apartments with many windows overlooking the area—too many, they agreed. So far they had seen nothing suspicious. Time was running out. It was nearly noon.

  “Nothing yet,” Lionel reported. “Just lots of sweaty and content Italians looking for shade and wine, and none of them particularly assassin-ish.”

  Keeton peered through the high-powered army binoculars again, up and down the street, window by window—then scanned through the busy lunchtime traffic both on the street and the sidewalk. They had all been at this since daybreak. The leased apartment was at an intersection, so Keeton could also see northward up the Via di Vito. There was a man walking south toward him—fit build, confident walk, tennis fashion, flat cap covering his face—carrying a Gucci tennis bag.

  “I might have something,” Keeton relayed. “Coming down the cross street…turning west on Merulana. I can’t see his face, but the outfit is…wait, the bag…of course. Similar to the one we found at Philip Brown’s house. Weapon would be hidden in the bag. See him?”

  “We’ve got him, yes,” Morel said. “He’s at the door of the building half a block up from you. Going in. We’re following. Stand by.”

  “Roy here; the bishop has just arrived. Two cars. He’s getting out. He’s got a couple of other clerics and two obvious SB goons in tow. They’re entering the basilica.”

  Keeton watched the windows of Ivan’s building, which was of a similar structure but with its side windows pointed in the opposite direction, toward the basilica—toward Schoolboy’s approach to the Scoglio di Frisio. That would make sense as a viable shooting post. The top-floor shutters pushed open slowly. Keeton could not see into the room, but it would have been his choice if he was Ivan.

  “Top floor apartment, east side,” Keeton said into his mic. “Window opened. Can you get in?”

  “Working on it,” Lionel answered. Two minutes later his radio crackled on again. “We’re in the building, bloody locks would hardly budge. Heading up the stairs…reaching top floor.”

  “Found the room?” Keeton asked. There was another minute of silence. Keeton had begun to sweat up in the hot apartment. He chastised himself for not being with them to face Ivan. Just before Keeton was going to key his radio again, his earpiece vibrated.

  “He’s down, finally,” Morel’s hoarse voice cut in. He was breathing hard.

  “Jimmy’s gotten himself nicked a bit, but he’ll be fine with a stitch or
two,” Lionel said. “This bastard was a good fighter, and he pulled a blade.”

  “Is Ivan alive?” Keeton asked. There was a long, five-second pause. He already knew Lionel’s answer.

  “Hell no.”

  Keeton leaned against the window sill. Ivan. The man who had killed the Brit, Lynette, and nearly Keeton himself. The man who would certainly have taken out Schoolboy with ease and with one shot, if the headshrinkers from both America and Russia were right. Not a bad day, all things considered.

  “Schoolboy has just come out of the church,” Roy said. “Walking your way. Nice work, team.”

  “OK, Roy, head back to the safe house and report this to the boss,” Keeton told him.

  “On my way now,” Roy said. He pulled the car away from the curb and headed north on the Via Torino. He switched off the shortwave radio and consulted the French-version street map for the best place to turn. Taking the Via Nazionale southwest until it ended would get him halfway there.

  With tension of the mission draining, Keeton suddenly liked Rome—its ancient history, the monuments, the temples, the pretty girls, everything. He lit a cigarette and from his high vantage point looked out over the surrounding neighborhood and the multitude stepping through their weekend routine on a warm sunny Saturday, just like at home. Whatever that word means to me. Perhaps he would stay in Rome awhile, rent a villa on the coast, and meet a nice girl.

  “Keeton, we’ve got trouble,” Morel’s voice interrupted his contented reverie.

  “You OK?” Keeton asked.

  “Physically yes,” Morel answered. “But I’ve got the photo of Philip Brown here to confirm the kill. This man isn’t him—it’s not Ivan.”

  ***

  Ivan opened the tennis bag and began unpacking the parts of the Dragunov. He wanted to be completely ready in the event the Polish delegation arrived early. Apparently the SB had been part of the directorate’s planning, including the scheduling of the lunchtime trip. Ivan found the collaboration with the SB a necessary but distasteful evil. Still, although he avoided the political life as much as possible, he did agree that sending a strong message to the insolent Poles was a good idea. The rest of it, including what he was about to do, was simply his job.