Agent Orange

by Langford, Stephen

  “Is that enough water, spy?” Captain Junger asked.

  “Bitte!” Daniels gasped in reply. After four breaths, they resumed for another round. “Was wollen Sie?” he cried.

  “I want the exact location of the poet,” Junger answered calmly. “Lies equal pain. The truth equals relief. No more deceptions. Mehr Wasser!” They poured water for another minute.

  “Wait! I’ll tell you everything! Not again, please. I have the information you want. Don’t kill me. I’ll answer…anything.”

  After each plea, the captain simply repeated the order. Finally, after thirty minutes, the cycle stopped. Agent Red lay bound on the board, still blindfolded, the towel having been removed from his face. He coughed from the bit of water that had gone down his windpipe. He was drawing breaths rapidly and deeply, savoring the ready supply of air. He was suddenly tipped up, board and all, into an upright position. The bottoms of his bare feet were flat on the cold concrete floor, but he was clearly being held up by Junger’s men. He was exhausted from lack of food and sleep.

  “Now, spy, where are we to find Detlef Neumann?” Junger asked plainly.

  “It’s called Der Rote Hund, on Spandauer Straße,” Daniels whispered. “The barman seemed to recognize him.”

  “Did he know him by name?” Junger asked.

  “I don’t remember,” Daniels answered after a few seconds. “I think Neumann was familiar to him. That’s why I believe you’ll find him there.”

  “Der Rote Hund, Spandauer Straße,” Junger repeated slowly. “Is this the truth?”

  “Yes…yes. Please…” His head lifted slowly, then fell back and lolled to one side.

  “Haben Sie Hunger?” Junger asked him.

  The very words seemed to fire the pangs in Agent Red’s gut. He tried not to overreact. He nodded. Behind the blindfold he could only hear the sounds of a tin being opened and of a spoon stirring up the contents. Within the fetid air of the cell, he suddenly smelled the pungent odor.

  “Beans. Eat,” Junger ordered sharply.

  The first spoonful was pushed against Daniels’s swollen, parched lips, and he was only able to capture half of it. He felt the rest dribble unceremoniously onto his chest and stomach. With renewed attention and strength he gobbled what was offered, straining forward for more as soon as he was able to swallow each bite. After four mouthfuls he began to cough from the coarseness in his throat and was offered a drink of water from a paper cup. Finally, the extended scraping of the spoon to collect up the last few beans signaled the end of the meal.

  “Danke. Thank you.”

  “We’re not done here, of course,” Junger announced suddenly. “Where is your safe house?” Daniels didn’t move. Junger repeated the question.

  “I…I don’t know what that means,” Daniels said. “I only saw Neumann at the bar, at the Red Hound. I never went to his house. I don’t know where he lives.”

  “Who is your contact in Berlin?”

  “I work for Newcastle Machining…my name is Prentiss Penfield.”

  “If I start the water again right away, you might vomit up the beans and choke to death. And there is so much more to explore with you.”

  “I told you about Neumann…what do you want?”

  “So I won’t start the water again just yet,” Junger continued. “Fortunately, I planned ahead.”

  The punch into Daniels’s broken collarbone was hard, and the temporary numbness he had felt ripped away like a fresh scab to produce blinding pain again. He screamed with renewed energy and terror.

  ***

  The taxi ride to Aéroport de Paris-Le Bourget, under Romain Roy’s skillful handling, got Keeton and Philippe to the ticketing desk in time to catch the earlier flight to London, before all the businessmen who shuttled between the capitals. Intentionally, they were the last two passengers to make the quick trek across the noisy tarmac from the passenger bus to the boarding stairs. They found the plane filled to only about half capacity. Both spies automatically scanned the other passengers who were busy settling in. Nothing untoward from the looks of them. One stewardess guided them to their seats, while the other closed the aircraft’s door less than two minutes after their arrival.

  The flight was bumpy as they approached the Channel but otherwise uneventful. In the taxi they had exchanged some of the operational details remaining to be accomplished that day but had agreed to keep silent on the airplane. Instead, Philippe leaned his head back for a nap while Keeton peered out the large windows of the Vickers Viscount to watch through the broken clouds. French soil would give way to water, and then water would become English seaside twenty thousand feet below.

  An hour or so to London is not bad, he thought, but that damned long flight back to the States and then…what? With Theodore Barney gone, there would naturally be a new cover. How many has it been, over the years?

  “Monsieur Barney?” the stewardess leaned in over the sleeping Philippe. She was very pretty, slim with classic brunette features, a credit to her dual vocation as a French woman in the burgeoning air-service industry. “May I get you something to drink? Tea?”

  “Just ice water, please, Yvonne,” he said, noting the name tag on her light-blue jacket.

  “Oui, monsieur,” she said pleasantly and walked toward the small galley at the back of the plane. She returned a minute later and handed him the glass. He took it with his left hand, and he noted her intentional check of his ring finger. “Here you are. Nothing else?”

  He took the drink from her, feeling the brush of her hand and how its warmth contrasted with the cold glass. She would be unmarried, by definition. So was he. If only she knew she was talking to a dead man, he joked to himself. Suddenly Philippe snorted in his sleep, and they shared a quiet laugh at his expense. Then Keeton pushed the previous thoughts away despite the promising flirtation. Just not the right time, mademoiselle.

  “Non, merci,” he said, lifting the glass and taking a sip. At that moment another passenger hit their call button. Yvonne gave Keeton a final smile and turned to attend to a half-drunk businessman who had been able to catch the early flight and now wanted another glass of French wine; in the process, he made a clumsy and noisy pass at her. Keeton turned back to the window just as the Viscount made it to the French coastline.

  Forty-five minutes later the pilot settled into the London Airport approach, and despite his soft, near-perfect landing, Philippe blinked back to life with a deep breath and a brief stretch. Yvonne announced their arrival and thanked them for their patronage, saying she hoped they would consider Air France in the future. Theodore Barney and his valet didn’t need to travel with luggage, so it was an easy transition into London’s Europa Terminal, where the late-afternoon bustle was now in full swing. Among the sea of businessmen, affluent couples, and early-weekend vacationers, they finally made it to the pickup area. Waiting loved ones, high-end private transportation, and everyday for-hires mingled in anticipation of the arrivals.

  “There he is,” Philippe said, nodding forward to the man dressed as Theodore Barney’s chauffeur, who was waiting dutifully near the Vanden Plas Princess limousine. The chauffeur escorted them both into the rear seat and glided smoothly into his place behind the steering wheel.

  “Hello, Eddy,” Philippe said to the man as the limo began to pull away from its parking place. “A very dapper outfit, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Wanker.” Eddy answered brusquely in a thick brogue. He was a man in his fifties, with a rough, squarish face that had been neatly shaved only because of his cover. His scars and cauliflower ears reflected his boxing days. The thick salt-and-pepper mop peeked out from beneath the formal driving cap. “Must be nice to have a millionaire cover.”

  “Oh, it certainly is,” Philippe said with smile. “Where exactly is the champagne back here?”

  “Must’ve forgotten it, guv,” Eddy shot back. “And you must be Barney, my boss.”

  “For a while yet,” Keeton answered, glancing at his watch. It was four o’cl
ock in the afternoon.

  “We have it all ready to go,” Eddy said. “’Cept for one minor snag. Big storm brewin’, and we’re supposed to burn you to death. But don’t worry, Yank, you’ll come out crispy enough.”

  “That’s very reassuring, Eddy,” Keeton answered with a laugh. “Seems like a lot of people will get a real kick out of Barney’s demise.”

  “Don’t take it personal,” Eddy called back. “It’s more about the pyrotechnics than you. No offense.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Keeton said. “OK, how long do I have before I leave the flat?”

  “Give it an hour, say six o’clock,” Eddy said. “You head out, make sure the car-park attendant knows you’re driving down to Maidstone. But of course you’re doin’ no such thing. We’ll make a quick switch at the Chelsea Physic Garden, then you and Phillip here—” he intentionally used the English pronunciation with a twinkling glance in the mirror—“why, you two will go west toward the airport on this here very road. We’ve got you booked in at a hotel near it—called the Regal—and also booked tomorrow for the thirteen hundred BOAC flight to Washington Dulles.”

  “And in the meantime, you’ll take the MG down to Maidstone and crash it,” Keeton added.

  “Right you are,” Eddy said. “It’s about two hours to Maidstone, and we’ll give it a third hour before the big burn. It’s a bloody shame, idn’t it? Mr. Barney will miss that car dearly from beyond the grave.”

  “More happy talk of death,” Philippe said cheerfully. “Gallows humor, as it were.”

  “You want to know the kicker, guv?” Eddy asked. “The place we picked out is about twenty minutes past Maidstone, just beyond the village of Langley. Perfect little intersection where a man getting caught out in a stormy evening might misjudge the quick turn.”

  “Langley? You wouldn’t,” Philippe said.

  “Oh yes,” answered Eddy fiendishly. “But don’t worry, Phillip, the corner we picked out won’t read as Langley in the papers.”

  “Famous last words,” Philippe replied.

  The traffic was very heavy, and Eddy did not pull up to Theodore Barney’s Kensington flat until quarter after five. Along the way they discussed a few more details about the car switch and the location of the hotel. Just before Eddy jumped out to open the rear door, they confirmed the six o’clock departure from the flat. Keeton stepped out and waved to Philippe.

  “Take care, Philippe. I’ll see you back in Paris early next week? Right, good evening.” Then he turned and addressed the doorman. “Charlie!”

  “Evening, Mr. Barney,” answered the bedecked doorman. “Welcome home.”

  It was a phrase that had a lot of meaning for Agent Orange, and at the same time none at all. “Thank you, Charlie! Say, I’m thinking of taking a little drive tonight. Would you mind having my car brought around at six?”

  “Tonight, sir? I wouldn’t advise it, sir. Strong storms in the forecast,” the doorman warned.

  “Still, I miss her—I mean the MG, of course. Although I will admit there’s this girl down in Maidstone that I do believe has taken a fancy to me. I could make it there by eight, wouldn’t you say? Just in time to start a proper date?”

  “I wouldn’t know the driving time exactly, sir,” Charles answered, his properness unruffled by the jocularity. He opened the front door of the luxury apartment building. “I’ll have the car brought around as you wish.”

  “Thank you, Charlie,” Keeton said, placing a ten-pound note in the doorman’s gloved hand.

  He had been in the second-floor flat for only about five minutes when the knock interrupted his bourbon and his packing plans. “May I help you?” he asked through the door.

  “It’s me, Mr. Barney,” said the voice of a middle-aged British woman. He opened the door. It was Jane the All Together, as he and other tenants called her. Jane had come with the building; she attended to cooking, cleaning, and sundry tasks for several of the high-end occupants. Over the years her services had been in such demand that she now supervised two additional girls and one mean but talented French cook. “I didn’t know you were coming home today—” that phrase again—“but it would be no trouble at all to make you up a dinner.”

  “Hello, Jane, that sounds terrific. But unfortunately, I’m going for a drive in just a bit.”

  “Packing a suitcase for a drive?” she asked innocently, noting the luggage he had pulled out of the storage closet before she arrived.

  “Well, truth be told, there is this very pretty girl in Maidstone that has agreed to see me tonight. And Charlie—I mean Charles—tells me I might get stuck there because of a storm. Maybe even overnight. Oh, nothing scandalous, I assure you,” he added wolfishly.

  “I don’t pry, Mr. Barney. Well, sometimes I do, but I must say it does sound like it’s going to pour fierce. At least let me make you up a cold supper to take along. I can tell you haven’t eaten.”

  “Jane, you are psychic.” He laughed. In reality he was famished, having had only breakfast before meeting Davies on the Pont des Arts. “Whatever you can pull together will be very welcome. I’ll take it along and stop halfway. I promise!”

  “That’s more like it, sir,” she said happily. “Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Perfect, then,” he answered, closing the door as she hurried away to prepare his meal.

  True to her word, Jane brought back a picnic basket. “Me and the mister used this with the family during the war, when we wasn’t dodging Jerry bombs.” It contained a covered plate of roast beef sandwiches, two half-remaining stottie cakes, and assorted cheeses and biscuits. Keeton thanked her profusely as he set down the suitcase near the door to accept the basket.

  “That’s plenty big luggage for an overnight,” she said sweetly.

  “Now, Jane, you may not know the motto of the American Boy Scouts: Be prepared,” he said with a mock salute. “I have a very good friend over in the States who is one of these Boy Scouts, so in his honor I intend to follow their advice!”

  “You’re being cheeky, but I don’t mind,” she answered. “Me and the mister, we had our share of…um…rendezvous-es!” She walked him to the stairs and bid him safe travels, and with a final “Good evening, Mr. Barney,” they parted for what he assumed would be the final time.

  Charlie had the little red MGB Roadster purring at the front curb as Keeton emerged from the front door with his suitcase and picnic basket. Somehow the doorman knew not to ask any probing questions. Instead he insisted on lending him a fancy umbrella, seeing that “Mr. Barney” had forgotten his own and what he had was only a spare anyway. Keeton loaded up the MG’s boot with his wares, thanked Charlie one last time, and drove away ostensibly out east toward Maidstone. Despite his earlier offhandedness with Davies and Eddy about the demise of Theodore Barney, Keeton suddenly felt a pang for having to leave two good people behind who seemed to genuinely like and care for this fictional character that he had been playing for two years.

  How many covers has it been? he wondered again.

  It only took ten minutes for Keeton to drive the three miles to the rendezvous point, the corner of Royal Hospital Road and Christchurch Street. The routine had been set. He pulled the MG right up behind the black Austin saloon taxi near the entrance to the Chelsea Physic Garden and stopped, then got out and retrieved his suitcase from the MG’s boot. Eddy had stepped out of the taxi and walked back toward him. Keeton tossed him the keys to the red sports car.

  “There you go, Eddy,” he said. “By the way, there’s a basket of food back there from a very kind lady named Jane, back at Barney’s flat. You fellas can eat the food—it’s good stuff, so enjoy—but save the basket. And in the front passenger seat, you’ll find an umbrella that belongs to Barney’s doorman. Philippe will know both the lady and the gentlemen. Please make sure both of these items survive the crash and have him return them to their owners. OK?”

  “Sure thing, guv. It’s going to be a right pleasant drive out to Maidstone, even in the rain,” Eddy said
cheerfully. “Mr. Barney sure has good taste in automobiles.”

  “Farewell, old girl,” Keeton called playfully to the car. “Good-bye, Eddy, and thank you.”

  “We’re all part of the same fight. Take care of yourself, Yank.”

  The men shook hands, and Keeton stepped quickly up to the taxi. The driver, a young man in a bomber jacket and tweed driving cap, hopped out from the behind the wheel and offered to store the suitcase and let Keeton into the rear seat. Philippe was already there as planned.

  “Right on time, Mr. Barney,” Philippe said lightly. “I’ve got a seven thirty reservation at the Regal Briton, which is supposed to have an excellent beef Wellington and a decent choice of spirits.”

  The driver got in and studied his side mirror. The MG shot past them, then did a quick one-eighty turnaround, angering several nearby drivers, before passing by them again with Eddy’s gleeful face framing the driver’s window. “Hope he makes it to Maidstone without wrecking the damned thing himself. It’d be a shame to lose him.”

  “Theodore Barney, this is Lionel, our driver for hire,” Philippe introduced them.

  “How do you do, sir,” Lionel said pleasantly. “I’ve heard some stories about you, sir, from my boss.”

  “Who would that be?” Keeton asked.

  Lionel threw his left arm over the back of the passenger seat and turned to look directly at Agent Orange. “I believe most of you American blokes call him the Brit,” Lionel said. “SIS liaison sir, at your service.”