Agent Orange

by Langford, Stephen

  “But my name is Penfield,” the prisoner answered through gritted teeth. “You have the passport in your very hands. I demand to speak to my embassy!”

  The captain looked up. “Gerolf!” Immediately the prisoner tensed and twisted, expecting another blow from the baton, but it did not come.

  Mind games, the prisoner thought to himself.

  “Sure, sure. Penfield,” the captain said with a mirthless grin. “And you own a British machine company, then?”

  “No,” the prisoner answered. “I’m just a buyer. I was here to sign contracts to purchase small engine parts from Schuller Präzision. I was cleared into the country. I have the right papers. Well, I had the right papers until…”

  The baton again, not nearly as hard as before but now it did not take much force to send the prisoner into agony. It was a full minute before the captain spoke.

  “You must listen to me. It’s really a simple mathematic formula. Lies equal pain. You say you are a British citizen. But our Abschnitt der Sprachwissenschaft, the men and women who study linguistics, have reported that your British accent is very good…but not perfect for a man with a British passport and a London street address. No, rather they detect the traces of the American East Coast. These language experts are very professional and very meticulous. Why, they even claim to know that your accent is from a region between New York and Virginia. They are even willing to state, in written form, mind you, that you are actually from the middle of the state of Pennsylvania! Now really, how can we help but be impressed with their exactitude? So you see my dilemma with your story.”

  Another surprise rap with Gerolf’s baton. Before the prisoner’s cry of pain and his sharp breathing could again subside, the captain continued.

  “A man with a fake passport and an American accent doesn’t say to me, British business man. It says—” He leaned forward. “C—I—A.”

  The prisoner’s mind was racing. The first thing he had to do was detect the subtle signal Junger was sending to Gerolf. It would at least give him a split second to ready himself for the pain. More importantly, it would give him a little morale boost, a slight win over these brutal bastards even if he was the only one who knew it. The techniques would become more severe. His agent training at Camp Peary taught him to resist to the last possible bit of strength, but to expect the worst. That was always the big question. If captured, would he break? If he broke, what would he divulge? He only hoped he could hold out long enough to save that Russian poet’s life…

  “CIA?” he finally said incredulously. “You can’t be serious. Captain, my name is Prentis Penfield.”

  Gerolf raised the baton once more.

  ***

  “Theodore Barney is dead,” the tall man said stoically in his British accent. “I’m sorry, Andrew.”

  “That really is bad news,” Keeton answered with a certain level of surprise. His American English had the slightest Southern drawl, which he did not bother concealing from his friend. “So how did it happen?”

  “Car accident. A terrible affair, really,” the Brit went on. “Heading out of London, on the road between Ashford and Maidstone. Happened at dusk; road was still slick from an earlier storm. Hit one of those tight turns with a bit too much speed. Lost control, tumbled a few times, petrol tank breached. The doctors are not quite sure if it was the impact or the fire that actually did him in.”

  “Had he been drinking?”

  The tall Brit smiled ruefully. “No, he was stone sober, for once.”

  “Good,” the American answered firmly. “I want to remember him that way. Solid citizen. Well, I guess his number just came up, that’s all. But I must admit, it’s still a bit of a shock.”

  The pair was meandering south across the Pont des Arts, away from the Louvre, among the crowd of Parisians and tourists. It was a well-practiced ritual, and both men knew exactly where they would casually stop and lean against the metal railing. They settled into the target location, each watching the boats on the Seine from under the brim of his bowler and trilby, respectively.

  “Well, Allen,” Keeton said. “What’s next? For you, I mean. If you can say.”

  The Brit smiled. Very few of his friends—a select group into which he placed Andrew Keeton—knew more about him beyond his substantial reputation. Allen Davies had seen more than his share of brutal action, during the war against the Nazis as an aviator, then later when he had been recruited into the Secret Intelligence Service and began to fight the clandestine war in France, and still later when the axis of the world shifted and former allies, albeit arm’s-length ones, became cold war opponents. As an MI6 spy, Davies had killed two people and had caused the deaths of several others. They had been his enemies and would have dealt him the same fate if given the opportunity. He had saved many more on his own side over the years. The equation was of little solace to men like him and Keeton.

  “Funny you should ask, my friend,” Davies said. “Seems like my chief is strongly considering a change of personnel.”

  “That so?” asked Keeton. “And moving you to…where?”

  “The final billet,” Davies said with an uncharacteristic affected flare. “That’s what my uncle Tommy used to call it. When one has done his duty, given his all. When one is used up, you might say.”

  Keeton allowed himself to turn toward Davies briefly. “Your company wants to retire you?” The words contained a surprise that was driven by admiration and respect. Davies was known throughout the Western intelligence network—even if only by one of his several cover identities—as a diligent expert in his specific assignment, which was managing communication and support for the various agencies. Today his mission was to pass on the information regarding Theodore Barney to the American.

  “Yes, retirement,” Davies answered. “Well, it has to happen to everyone, eventually. And it certainly beats the alternative way to end one’s career, in this dark and dirty business. But let’s not be overly sentimental about it, shall we? Your time will come someday. Just look at Barney. He was barely a month back from his…should we call it his Czech holiday? Didn’t get a chance to say good-bye to anyone. One day he’s here, the next…”

  “As you say, let’s not cry about it,” Keeton said curtly. “We’ll get over him.”

  “As my company will get over me,” Davies retorted. “Now, let’s finish this. You know the procedure, of course. Your team here in Paris has been informed and activated. They’ll be awaiting you at Barney’s apartment. Will you need any additional help with the Theodore Barney development?”

  Keeton shrugged. “No, I don’t think so. Should be a smooth transition.”

  “It must be done by tomorrow morning, naturally,” Davies advised. “Finally, they also need you back at the Fort within the next seventy-two hours. I suspect you’ll learn more about the Barney business then. I wish I had more to tell you.”

  Keeton nodded, then pushed back from the bridge railing and thrust his hand toward Davies. “Take care, Allen. And thanks for everything.”

  “And you as well.”

  The two men shook hands. Davies turned toward the Louvre and began the northward trek across the river, while Keeton waited a minute and then put his back to Davies and proceeded briskly in the opposite direction. By the time Davies had stepped off the Pont des Arts, the American was already well down a block of old apartment houses, thinking of the imperative objective he had just been given by his British counterpart and friend, of the identification card in his pocket that would need to be discarded, along with all of the other papers in his possession that bore the name of Theodore Barney, the cover that he had used for the past two years—save the several weeks as Gregor the West German. But now the well-cultivated Barney cover had been unceremoniously “taken off the board,” as the CIA idiom went.

  I wonder why that cover was killed, he thought. Is there some kind of trouble with it?

  ***

  “Do you know Max Schoenhardt?” Captain Junger asked, dropping the passpo
rt on the table and extracting one of the photos from the dossier.

  “Wasser, bitte,” the prisoner said through parched, swollen lips. “Wasser, bitte, Kapitän.”

  “I believe I’ve been more than fair, spy,” Junger said gently. “Lies equal pain. The truth equals relief. You lied; I took your clothes. You lied; I took your food and water. You lied; I took your sleep. You lied; I broke your collarbone.”

  “Bitte…”

  “If you tell the truth, I will give you water,” Junger stated flatly. “Do you know Max Schoenhardt?”

  “We’re acquainted, yes,” the prisoner nodded. “I met him on a previous trip through a mutual friend, by the name of…”

  “Ja, ja. I know, as I told you.” The captain placed the photo on the table and slid it forward. It was a grainy black-and-white picture showing the prisoner, in a casual suit under a dark pea coat, sitting at an outdoor cafe having lunch with another man. “Wasser, Gerolf.”

  The Stasi lieutenant nodded to Junger and turned toward the door. The attending soldier snapped to attention and opened it for him. While they waited, Junger simply studied the prisoner, whose head hung forward in exhaustion. Gerolf returned carrying a plain serving tray, which he placed on the desk near Junger. Then he took his accustomed place behind the prisoner. The tray held two empty glasses and a large glass pitcher of water. The prisoner stared at it, and Junger regarded him approvingly.

  “You see, the truth equals relief,” he said with a grim smile. Then he poured the two glasses full and slid one toward the prisoner so that it rested next to the photo. “Gerolf, lösen Sie seinen linken Arm. Spy, you’ve earned the privilege to drink the glass of water.”

  The prisoner looked steadily at the glass, but his mind was calculating possible moves. Gerolf would unlock the handcuff that held his left arm against the chair—it was clear he would not be able to reach out and take the glass with his injured right. His trainers would call the glass a weapon of opportunity. He imagined it. As soon as his left arm was free, he would slowly pick up the glass and bring it to his lips, with Gerolf standing next to him. He would take a sip and then smash the glass against the metal chair seat between his knees. If done properly, the bottom of the glass would shatter, leaving a cylinder in his hand whose bottom was all sharp edges. Then he would bring it up into an arc and slash at Gerolf’s neck. Ideally, he would cut the lieutenant’s left carotid artery with this action, ensuring the officer’s death. In any event Junger would either allow the soldier to respond by shooting him or would allow Gerolf’s death to go unpunished, at least in the immediate term. The captured agent did not necessarily desire the former outcome, but he preferred it over the indignity that might await him. In fact, he might even consider slashing his own neck. Gerolf came forward and pulled a small ring of keys from his trouser pocket, then bent to unlock the left hand cuff.

  “Stoppen Sie, Gerolf!” Junger barked suddenly. The prisoner raised his eyes to meet the captain’s. Gerolf froze and then took a step back.

  “I see,” Junger said slowly. “You wish to die, eh spy? Poor Gerolf would hardly know what happened, and if Albert back there became overly enraged and shot you, I could be in a lot of trouble. So I’m afraid I can’t allow this to happen.” He picked up the glass that had been meant for the prisoner, drank it down, and set it forcefully back on the tray.

  The prisoner then saw the clandestine signal from Junger to Gerolf, which he had finally discerned after the third blow from the baton. The distracted and flustered lieutenant took a few seconds to respond but then did so with gusto. The prisoner had just enough time to catch his breath and clench his teeth and fists before the baton smashed violently down onto the severely swollen mass of shoulder tissue and fractured bone. The excruciating pain washed over him, until finally his scream faded into the approaching unconsciousness. He had one persistent thought before succumbing to the darkness.

  Whatever you do, Morrison, don’t try to save me.

  ***

  I am an agent of the CIA. My code name is Red. My current cover is Prentis Penfield, but my real name is Daniels. I’m running an operation to bring out the poet. Our safe house is located at…wait…no!

  John Daniels awoke violently, straining against the cuffs and immediately recoiling with a groan from the pain in his shoulder. He blinked rapidly and looked around him as much as his situation allowed. The brief respite had provided some rest, but in his exhaustion and stress, he grasped to recollect his situation. Yes, he was still in the metal chair, in front of the metal desk, and locked in the windowless concrete block room somewhere in East Berlin. Except as far as he could tell, he was now alone. The dossier was sitting on the table, left open to reveal the photo of himself and Max Schoenhardt at the cafe, with more pictures and sheets of paper stacked underneath. He could not discern any sounds in the building, save the dull throbbing that never ceased, as if a big machine was running somewhere above them; all the rest was silent except for the grinding and clinking of the cuffs as he moved.

  The pain in his shoulder relented just enough so that he realized his back, buttocks, and legs were very sore from sitting in the same position for many hours. When he took a deep breath, his stomach vibrated with hunger. His tongue was thick from not having had any liquids. Nevertheless, he was now oddly calm, prompted by his solitude and the opportunity to think.

  Two days, now maybe three. I was careless, turning down that alley instead of staying on the Metzerstraße. The op had been looking up, finally, after three damned months of cultivating the leads and meeting Detlef Neumann. Well, he’s scrappy, that’s for sure. He’s still out there; has to be. Junger knows a lot, but they don’t have Neumann yet. That’s the ticket; that’s the new mission. Hold out. They’ll keep me here until they either capture Neumann or he gets out another way. Then, either way, I’ll be sent to Moscow. Don’t think about that. Just hold out. These cuffs—maybe I can break out…

  The loud metallic sound of the key being thrust into the door’s lock startled him, but he eagerly absorbed the energy from the rush of adrenaline and prepared for the next round of Captain Junger’s interrogation.

  From the footfalls he knew that all three men were back. Junger walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down with the calm and precise motions of the trained interrogator. He felt Gerolf close behind and watched the captain for signs of another baton attack. He heard the door being locked and wondered if the guard, whose name he now knew was Albert, had been changed out.

  “Pardon me, spy. Dinner took longer than expected. Es war ein sehr gutes Abendessen, eh Gerolf? Yes, delicious. Fresh sausage with sauerkraut. Warm bread from that nearby bakery. Grapes. Beer. I can still smell the strudel,” he added with an exaggerated breath. “Well, I need to cleanse my palate.” He motioned for Gerolf, who brought around the tray with the water pitcher, but this time one of the cups was made of paper. Junger filled his own glass and took a long drink, swishing the liquid in his mouth and finally swallowing with a loud, wet smack.

  “Much better. So let us see where we’re at,” the captain stated, pulling a second photo from beneath the first and pushing it forward. It was a close-up of the prisoner leaning in toward a pretty woman who had her head turned as if whispering to him. “Do you know Frida Ernst?”

  “You must already know that, too,” Daniels said, exasperated. “I met her at a dinner party a few months ago, in the West actually.”

  “Hmm, yes. A lover, no doubt,” Junger stated. “Dumme Schlampe!” he exclaimed. Daniels glared back at him, which amused Junger all the more. “Were you lovers? Good. That’s the right answer,” he said when Daniels nodded. He poured water into the paper cup. “Now, were Max Schoenhardt and Frida Ernst acquaintances?”

  “Yes, I knew them both, as I’ve said. Yes, we’d been to a few parties together. I…I think it was Max who introduced us.” Junger smiled while filling the paper cup and sat it near the end of the table. Gerolf stepped up and unlocked the cuff holding Daniel’s left ar
m, then handed the cup to him.

  Daniels eagerly accepted it and drank the water quickly. Some spilled down his chin and neck as he held the cup above his mouth to try to capture every drop. It was barely enough to lubricate his throat. “Mehr, bitte,” he said to Junger. The captain considered the request for a moment then nodded to Gerolf. After the second drink, Daniels asked for more again.

  “Nein,” Junger said sharply. Gerolf snatched the paper cup from Daniels and placed it back on the tray.

  “And you are aware that Comrades Schoenhardt and Ernst are mutual friends of Detlef Neumann?” the captain asked, more as statement than question.

  “Neumann? Detlef Neumann,” Daniels repeated slowly. “No, I don’t know him.”

  “Come now, spy. After all of this, still the deception? Well?”

  The prisoner—real name John Daniels, known in the CIA by his code name, Agent Red, currently under the cover name Penfield—hesitated. This was the tricky moment when he needed to be sure of his plan. Whether Junger really knew he was a CIA spy was immaterial in the short term. The Stasi simply wanted to capture the poet Neumann and send him back to the Soviets, from whom he had somehow escaped three years earlier. It would be an enormous boost for Junger’s career if he could break Daniels and find Neumann. Use that ambition against Junger. Start holding out to him that little paper cup of hope that he might make a name for himself among his Russian masters. String him along, but carefully.

  “Wait,” he said softly to the ground. He kept the British accent. “All right. I did meet Detlef Neumann a few times, when I was with Max and Frida.”

  “A few times,” Junger repeated. He made a sign to Gerolf, who brought around a pad of paper and a pencil. The captain began taking notes. “What does that mean, exactly?”

  “More than three. Maybe five or six. I can tell you where. I think he might return there often.”

  “And where is this place?”