The Schoolboy (Agent Orange Book 2)

by Stephen Langford

  He laid out the various pieces of the weapon and assembled it, first reattaching the wooden stock that had made the rifle too long for the Gucci bag. Then he fit the custom suppressor to the barrel and mounted the gun on the bipod. The last part to add, aside from the ammunition magazine, was the PSO-1 optical scope. It was the most advanced ever produced, designed specifically for the new Dragunov rifle. Each scope was matched to its rifle at the factory by serial number and calibrated to the conditions under which it was to be used. Its engineering and perfection gave him an almost sensual pleasure, even as he admitted the relative ease of the shot he was to make. He pushed open the shutters and averted his eyes to the strong midday sun, so they could adjust.

  After several seconds, his eye had adjusted and he looked out over the Via Merulana, to the basilica from which his target would soon be moving toward him. The street was a fluid mixture of natives, tourists, cars, scooters, and pedestrians. Most of windows nearby were shuttered or shaded. That’s when he noticed the curiously poised man at a window opened in his direction. He looked like he was smoking and talking to someone—himself? Ivan picked up the scope and peered through it.

  “Bloody hell,” he said aloud in English as a residual affect of his John Hardy cover. The man was bearded but nonetheless recognizable to him. “Keeton.”

  Ivan continued watching. Keeton was speaking with his hand drawn up to his mouth. A wired earpiece wrapped around one ear. He was using a portable radio, which meant he had a team nearby. He suddenly looked agitated, and the cigarette dropped from his mouth. He began looking out the window, up and down the street, then suddenly raised a pair of binoculars and seemed to peer right at Ivan.

  The Russian dropped to his knee and began mounting the scope to the Dragunov. It was designed to be fast and easy, but he felt his hands tremble uncharacteristically. He had shot Keeton at point-blank range, yet the man lived. And not only lived but was obviously there now to stop the mission. How did he know about it, the location? Did it matter, actually?

  He had gotten away before. What would be his escape route this time? Concentrate! Take Keeton first, and then finish the mission by killing the bishop.

  ***

  “It’s not Ivan!” Morel repeated.

  Keeton had raised his hand reflexively to cover the earpiece, to make sure he had heard correctly. “Roy, you still there? Roy, come in!” It was too late. Roy was taking the car back to the Lungotereve dei Vallati and was already out of range. The bishop was walking in their direction.

  “They have two shooters,” Keeton said into his mic as he scanned the windows and rooftops along the Via Merulana. “Ivan must be set up somewhere else.”

  He picked up the binoculars and began looking. At the next block up the corner building—chamfered windows, one with the shutters opened, just like the first sniper’s post. The angle of the sun made it difficult to see inside the window. He thought he could just barely discern the outline of a man, who must have been crouching. Yes, a man—then he made out the image of the bipod holding up the barrel of Ivan’s rifle.

  Keeton took a step and picked up Morel’s Savage rifle and the box of ammunition, opened the bolt and pushed in one cartridge. Words were coming into his earpiece, but he ignored them. Hurry, Keeton, damn you, he thought. He slid the bolt closed and brought the rifle up to his shoulder. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Schoolboy and the rest of the delegation passing beneath him on the street. Despite the Savage being suppressed, the sharp crack might draw attention. Keeton did not care. Two hundred yards, maybe 220 to Ivan’s position. Then he noticed the SB men each suddenly step away from the tight cluster of priests, with Schoolboy in the center. Those bastards must be part of it, turned or paid off by the KGB—concentrate on the shot. Through the scope he estimated the compensation needed for the drop of the bullet—not much at this close range. His pulse was racing. He pulled the stock against him and held the rifle as steadily as he could, then forced his breathing into synchronization and held it as his finger smoothly pulled the trigger.

  ***

  Ivan verified the scope and bipod were locked to the rifle, then pushed in the magazine and cycled the bolt to chamber the first round. As he placed the legs of the bipod onto the table in front of the window, he made his breathing deep and slow. Then he leaned forward and gripped the extended magazine with his left hand and looked through the scope. Incredibly what he saw was Keeton with a scoped rifle raised toward him. His brain ran quickly and automatically through the adjustments. The range was two hundred meters—two reticle marks. He slowly guided the stock down to account for the distance of the shot and reached his finger around the trigger. That’s when he saw the suppressed flash of Keeton’s rifle.

  A quarter of a second later, barely enough time for Ivan to register what had happened, the .308 bullet ripped through his torso. He flew backward, and his finger pulled the trigger of the Dragunov. The bullet tore across the space between the two men but hit only the top of the sill above Keeton with a brief but loud impact. For both men, time had suddenly stopped.

  “I took a shot,” Keeton breathed into his mic. He recovered his aim through the scope and watched Ivan’s position. He then slid open the bolt and searched around to find another cartridge without looking down.

  “Where the hell is he?” Lionel’s voice filtered into his brain.

  “Second floor, at the next corner, west of the restaurant. Get down there. I don’t see any movement, but I can’t be sure.”

  For the next three minutes Keeton pivoted the scope from the window to the street where he watched Lionel and Morel jog to Francesca’s apartment building and to the front of the Scoglio di Frisio. The bishop of Krakow, three other hungry priests, and two very nervous SB agents filed in.

  Lionel keyed his mic. “Keeton, better come up here. This time it’s Ivan, and you hit him. He’s just about gone.”

  ***

  Keeton entered Francesca’s apartment three minutes later. Morel attended the door that they had apparently picked open. Lionel was standing over Ivan, his expression at once bitter and sympathetic. Their pistols were no longer drawn. Copious amounts of blood soaked the front of Ivan’s shirt and had begun to form expanding pools around his prone body. His chest heaved uncertainly, and his eyes turned in Keeton’s direction.

  “I think he was holding on just for you,” Lionel said quietly.

  When Ivan spoke, blood sputtered from his mouth. “Agent Orange…today you’ve won. Someday the Eye will find you—and find the bishop.”

  “Maybe. But not today,” Keeton said.

  They watched and waited in silence as Ivan took his last few labored breaths, then died. He stared accusingly up at Keeton, just like Eddy had done several months earlier.

  “Bloody good shot, Keeton,” Lionel said. “He would’ve killed the bishop. Good on you.”

  “Yeah, good on me,” Keeton whispered. “Maybe the Eye has already found me.”

  “What’s that?” Lionel asked.

  Keeton sighed. “Nothing. Let’s gather up Ivan’s gear into that bag and get out of here. We can call Morrison from the safe house and let him figure out what’s next—for all of us.”

  Chapter 12. The Last Killing

  The Rhône moved lazily in the cool October evening. A small tourist boat chugged its way upriver, its main deck carrying a group of habited French nuns. It was a Sunday evening, and the town of Vienne, France had begun to close for the night. A sharp chill had crept into the air. From the hills east of the city, a group of men sat on a patio and admired the commanding view of the river and the many ancient features that still remained from the days of Imperial Roman rule.

  “I suppose you would call this a private safe house,” Lionel said.

  “Bleudot was born here,” Keeton confirmed. “Apparently his family owns a bunch of property in the town and in the surrounding countryside.”

  “I appreciate the invitation no matter the circumstances,” Jimmy Morel said as he poured the rem
ainder of a champagne bottle into his fluted glass.

  “I, for one, am a bit worried about this private meeting,” Romain Roy said. “Almost three months and no word. We figured he’d been sent on to the next mission. And now this. Is Bleudot going to tell us he’s retiring?”

  The four of them bantered further about Bleudot, the recent Schoolboy mission, and sports figures. The wine and the cigars were plentiful at the house, and they enjoyed them like carefree bachelors, which, in fact, they all were at the moment.

  “Bleudot is running late,” Lionel said. “If he doesn’t hurry, there won’t be any of this”—he checked the bottle—“any of this Moët and Chandon left.”

  There was rustling inside the house, and the door to the patio swung open. It was Morrison, not Bleudot.

  “Evening, Director,” Morel said happily. In his year or so working in the Cavalry with all its triumphs, defeats, and danger, his skin had thickened and his confidence had grown. He was no longer tempted to snap to attention when Morrison entered. The director hired tough and capable agents, not sycophants.

  “Did you receive an invitation to Bleudot’s party, too?” Roy asked as he pulled another cork.

  “No, I didn’t.” Morrison’s tone was flat. His jaw clenched visibly.

  Keeton put down his drink. “What is it?”

  “French intelligence has reported that Bleudot is dead,” Morrison said quietly. “Killed, apparently. The information from the SDECE is sketchy, and they’re none too anxious to let us know more. There was a photo. Grainy, but it was him. I knew him a long time, well before the Cavalry. And I knew about this place—he’d given me a key in case I needed to disappear for a while. I heard you gents might be here.”

  Keeton fished a piece of paper from his pocket. “We all got word from him a week ago by telegram to meet here tonight, for some well-deserved R and R, he said. We all worked with him, but I know you two went back a lot further. I’m sorry, Director.”

  Morrison nodded solemnly and took a seat at the large table.

  “There have to be more details,” Keeton continued. “I know he was fighting his own company to get them to admit their issues. He even thought Waypoint might be in the SDECE, not MI-6. This sounds fishy.”

  “It sure as hell does,” Morrison said. “I’ve been hitting my head against a wall for a week trying to get something more from them—no dice. And I can’t say it’s been much better out of Langley. They’re in no position to push, or at least that’s what I’m told.”

  “That’s rubbish,” Lionel exclaimed, but it was evident to them all that nothing was to come from denial or reaction. He poured a glass of champagne for Morrison.

  “We’ll need something stronger than that,” Roy said as he stood and walked into the house.

  Morrison accepted the flute and tossed it down quickly. “There’s good news, Keeton, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not,” Keeton answered as he watched the nuns disappear around the bend just north of the town, happily chattering about the provincial beauty or the sky or whatever nuns talked about. They did not know that his friend had been killed, so they could be happy if they wanted to. He could not.

  “Well, it’s my duty to tell you the good news anyway,” Morrison said. “We’ve gotten solid reports from Agent Red that the Russians believe you’re dead—both you, Agent Orange, and you, Andrew Keeton.”

  “Swell, Director. Just swell.”

  “It means you can have a fresh start,” Morrison said. “Just about whatever you want.”

  “And my career in the Cavalry?” Keeton asked.

  “Yes, there’s that. Undecided at this point. I’m not being pushed, so we have some time to figure that out. Listen, you need time away anyhow. My immediate objective is to get you a cover and let you lie low for a while. You’ve earned a vacation to pretty much anywhere you want.”

  “I’ll think about it,” Keeton said. “And what about Sir Thomas Baddeley?”

  “Still missing,” Morrison answered. “Completely gone. Dead or defected; even odds right now. Again, not a lot of clarification from the French.”

  “Do you think Baddeley killed Bleudot?” Lionel asked. He had also essentially been told he was on holiday with terms similar to Keeton’s. “I knew he was going after him, basically to get whatever he knew about Waypoint. That was the last I heard from him.”

  Morrison shrugged. “It’s just as likely Bleudot killed Baddeley, or someone else killed them both. The chatter was that Bleudot yanked him off the streets in Paris and took him someplace. After that, who knows?”

  Roy walked out carrying several shot glasses and a bottle of Irish whiskey. He began pouring a round for them. “It’s not French, but I bet Bleudot wouldn’t mind.”

  “If Bleudot grabbed Baddeley and sweated him hard,” Keeton said. “And I can’t imagine it going any other way. Then they might’ve killed him in retaliation.”

  “They being KGB in France at Waypoint’s direction,” Morel said.

  Morrison shook his head. “If Waypoint is actually in the French company, that is. We don’t know that.”

  Roy had finished filling their shots. Keeton nodded to Morrison.

  “To Jean Bleudot,” Morrison said with a raised glass. “A fine agent, a friend, and one tough son of a bitch. Rest in peace, Jean.”

  Their glasses touched, and they drank. Another round was suggested, and Keeton gave the toast. The call went out for a third, but Morrison turned his glass over onto the table.

  “I’d like nothing better than to stay here and get drunk with you,” he said with a fraternal but forced smile. “But I need to be back in Paris in the morning for a meeting—Europe section chiefs. I’ve got a borrowed car outside. Sorry about the news, but I figured I was close enough to come tell you in person.”

  “We do appreciate it,” Keeton said, and the other men agreed in turn. Morrison then shook hands with them and left. A minute later they heard him gun the Panhard CD coupe into service and down the Montée Beaumur. They sat together for several seconds before Lionel broke the silence.

  “Here’s what I think, lads. Assuming that Baddeley’s dead, that Bleudot killed him, assuming Waypoint found out and had Bleudot killed to keep him from divulging whatever Sir Thomas gave up, then I say we find a way to locate Waypoint and kill the bastard.”

  Roy and Morel looked into their glasses, contemplating Lionel’s proposal. Keeton was thinking about his so-called vacation, undercover wherever he chose. He thought of Poland, of the little farmhouse that for the most part the communists let be, and of Luiza.

  Keeton shook his head. “Not me. I’m sorry; I didn’t sign up to be an assassin. I’ve killed when I had to in self-defense or to save someone else. I’ve killed twice in cold blood—once in Korea and then Eddy a few months ago. I’m done with that. If it comes down to the sequence you said—Baddeley then Bleudot then Waypoint—you’re going to have to do the last killing without me.”

  ***

  The First Secretary rubbed his forehead wearily. There had been no blue file delivered that morning. Instead, the Chairman of the Committee for State Security—the KGB—had requested a rare personal meeting. The foreboding felt by the Secretary was only heightened when the offer for a more sociable lunch had been rebuffed. The suspicion had now been proved warranted.

  “So what are we to do, then?” he asked the KGB man.

  The Chairman thought for ten seconds. “It’s a setback, to be sure, but not necessarily permanent.”

  “No? Why not permanent? Have you lost faith in the Echo Program and its analysis, or have you retained faith in your troops to succeed instead of fail?” The Secretary’s harsh rebuke was no less piercing for having been delivered across the table that separated them.

  “No and yes,” the Chairman answered. “The Echo analysis is accurate, and I believe in it. As for the other, yes, we still have the capabilities to avert a negative outcome in Poland. Paszek is popular and his—what should we call such a thin
g, performance?—his performance in Rome has added to his visibility and influence. This simply means we need to take a longer point of view.”

  The Secretary affixed his gaze on the Chairman. “You’ve had a long and distinguished career, comrade. But perhaps you’ve noted that there’s not always time for a long point of view—not for everyone.”

  “Comrade Secretary, if you’re suggesting I’m to be moved, then so be it. I faithfully serve the Soviet Union and will continue to do so while it’s my assigned post. If it’s a more dangerous proposition you’re alluding to—well, there’s nothing I can do about it anyway.”

  Both men knew the complex calculus of their careers: the Chairman was friends with and appointed by the previous First Secretary—whom he then helped to oust in favor of the man sitting before him. Since that change in Soviet leadership the political climate had gotten sharper and failures less tolerable. Loyalty and gratitude were distant cousins to the current virtue of raw power.

  “Of course,” the First Secretary finally responded. “What is this long view, then?”

  “It’s likely that Paszek will gain in power within the church,” the Chairman said. “Perhaps to the very top—a decade or so. In the meantime the intelligence that was discovered by the Western powers will make it more difficult to find a solution within Poland. We’ve already begun planning an external solution that will correspond to his predicted pinnacle. This external solution will turn his apparent victory into a devastating psychological defeat for him, for the accommodating Polish leadership, and for all those opposed to our principles.”

  “Then both of us need to stay around,” the Secretary said with a cold smile. “By the way, what about the agent that thwarted the assassin?”

  “Little is known so far, but we continue to investigate through our network in Europe—through the one now called Charger and his organization, the Lestnitsa. We assume the CIA gunman was connected to the man that Ivan killed in London, the one code named Orange—maybe even his replacement in their Department 229, the so-called Cavalry.”