Agent Orange

by Langford, Stephen

  Me and Junger have been dancing around my actual identity as a spy for three days. Now he wants to settle the question. He called it the “most important point.” Why is it that? He knows in his heart that he’s right, but he needs me to say it. Why? Because Neumann is a fugitive from Russia, and the captain wants to look good in front of them, right? Hang on. The Russians…the Russians…don’t know about me yet. It’s been over three days…three days…of course!

  Finally, Agent Red drifted off to sleep, and for the next two hours he didn’t dream about anything. He was actually quite content.

  ***

  Daniels slept through the opening of the cell door and only awakened when the board was propped up against the wall. After a few moments of clearing his head, he spoke.

  “How was your lunch, Captain Junger? Yes, your breath this morning smelled of eggs and coffee, so I figure you’ve just gone to have a midday meal. Wiener schnitzel again? It wouldn’t surprise me; you seem to be a man of very regular habits. It makes you good at your job. Businesslike and professional, right Gerolf?”

  The captain laughed bitterly. “You seem to be in a very good mood, spy. Too good, considering your situation.”

  “I know,” Daniels answered. “It doesn’t make any sense, does it? Yes, I know you want to talk about the CIA, and I know that at some point my genitals will be on the table. But until then, I have a story for you.”

  “You will not dictate the conversation here,” Junger said angrily.

  “When I was a boy, in school, there was this bully,” Daniels began.

  “Gerolf!” The lieutenant walked up and punched Daniels’s shoulder. He groaned and winced but went on.

  “It was a long time ago, in Pennsylvania. You’re right. I’m an American.” He had dropped the British accent.

  Junger raised his hand to stop Gerolf from the next action, which would have been the dislocation of another finger. Daniels sensed this, without being able to see it through the stinking blindfold.

  “This bully, for some reason he picked me to test, everyday for a month, when we were in the seventh grade—that’s about halfway through your Polytechnische Oberschule, I think. Part of our physical education was swimming. So the bully got the bright idea of dunking my head underwater and holding it there until I either agreed to pay him, or to say something stupid and degrading in front of all the other boys. At first I went along because I didn’t like being held under the water. Then one morning on the walk to school, I was dreading our swimming class, when I realized I could hold my breath longer than any of the other boys. The bully had actually trained me, so to speak. So that day, he grabbed me and pushed me under until I stuck my middle finger up out of the water. You know what that hand sign means, of course? I could hear him yelling to me to do something embarrassing—pull my trunks off if I remember. But I never did it. I just stayed there holding my breath, and then eventually went limp and pretended to have drowned. I could hear a bunch of his friends shouting to let me go, that I was dying or was already dead. Then finally they pulled him away from me, and they all just stood in the waist-deep water, looking at me.”

  “Does this story have a point, exactly?” Junger growled.

  “Of course it does, more than one actually. The next thing I did was to stand up, catch my breath, and then tackle the very surprised bully and pull him under with me. In ten seconds he was fighting for air, but I was quite comfortable. He had big bubbles coming out of his mouth, while I just smiled at him. I let him go; he popped out of the water and then began throwing up—mostly water, but some of his eggs and Wiener schnitzel, too. The first point is, bullies always lose, eventually. Sorry, Gerolf, but I’ve made it my profession to see that this is true. And secondly, you can pour that water on me a thousand times, and break all my fingers and toes, and let your big ape castrate me—and I’m not going to break. I’m not going to tell you about Neumann or safe houses or code words or any other damned thing!”

  “Is that so?” Junger screamed. “We will see! Albert!”

  Daniels heard the bustle of the soldier’s uniform and the click of his boots on the floor. Gerolf reached up and tore off the blindfold.

  “Do you know what happens to convicted spies?” Junger asked. He gave a nod to Albert, who aimed his rifle at Daniels and pulled back the hammer. “Now, what is it you wanted not to tell me?”

  “I’ll tell you this,” Daniels said fiercely. “You screwed up. You screwed up bad, Captain. You’ve held me for nearly four days without letting the KGB know. Four days! The Americans have their ears to the ground for any chatter from Moscow. By now they might even be sending out signals about a swap for the agent that the East Germans grabbed off the street in Berlin. What agent in Berlin? they will ask themselves. Then you know what? They’ll descend on your bosses demanding to know what the hell is going on, and then your bosses will burn you—they’ll burn you and Gerolf, and even you, Albert! All three of you will get the guillotine before I do!”

  Junger said nothing. Gerolf looked over at the captain with an unspoken question.

  “Schießen Sie mir!” Daniels yelled at Albert. “Shoot me! Schießen!”

  “He will shoot you on my order!” Junger said, snapping back tensely.

  “Schießen Sie mir!” Agent Red repeated. “Tell him, Captain, if you dare!”

  Albert looked confused and glanced over at Junger. Junger gave an emphatic nod. Albert, on cue, aimed his rifle again, gave a warrior cry, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 4. Preparation

  “He did what?” Director Morrison exclaimed in disbelief from behind his desk. “That’s not what’s in his report. I’m looking at a copy of it right here.”

  “I know,” said Bernie Williams, sitting opposite the director. “He didn’t tell the extraction team, either. We learned it during a debrief interview two weeks after the mission, directly from the priest himself.”

  “Well, do we chalk it up to resourcefulness or insanity?” Morrison asked.

  “Can I choose resourceful insanity?” Williams answered with a smile. “Father Teodor said that it was all but over, that the Czech had them at gunpoint in the airplane. Keeton was the only one with a parachute, and the next thing he knew, Keeton had grabbed him and dived out of the plane.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Morrison whispered. “Keeton reported this: ‘Under duress from Czech known as Dominik, ECA and myself managed to parachute from the plane close enough to forest cover to evade subsequent air search. Although ECA incurred an ankle injury during the landing, he was able to walk into WG to the extraction point. In the meantime the EMRaD device placed on port side engine exploded, bringing down the aircraft. No motive for Dominik to betray the agreement to defect, other than the stated one of loyalty to the communist regime.’”

  “My guess is, Dominik was stringing them the whole time,” Williams said. “Standard trick to get a citizen to commit to a treason by defecting, catch them at it, and throw them in prison or execute them.”

  “ECA and agent managed to parachute…” Morrison repeated. “Literally true, I suppose.”

  Betty knocked on the door and entered. Only two members of SDD had permission to come into the director’s office without waiting for his verbal assent, and they were both now with him. The secretary was carrying a fully adorned bamboo coffee tray. Leaning between the pot and the cups was a thick folder bearing a secret: eyes only stamp. “Your coffee, sirs,” she said politely as she sat the tray down on a side table.

  “Thanks, Betty,” Morrison said. “And thanks for coming in on a Saturday morning.”

  “As soon as I heard an agent was coming in, I wanted to. In this office, we just don’t get to see too much of them.” She poured each of the officers a cup, black, and then delicately added a sugar cube to Williams’s. She handed Morrison the folder and his cup, in that order, and left the office.

  The director unwound the elastic cord that secured the secret folder and opened it. The inside cover had the standard
agent profile affixed to it:

  Andrew Keeton

  DOB: 09/30/30, Lexington, KY

  Height: 5’11”

  Hair: Brown

  Eyes: Green

  Agency Service 06/05/53–present

  Dept 229 Service 12/12/58–present

  Keeton’s confident stare looked up at Morrison from the most recent photograph taken for the file. It was nearly two years old, the interval since Keeton had last been at the Fort. Under the picture were several other static particulars:

  Education

  Henry Clay High School, Lexington, KY, Honors Graduate 1947

  Comment: mother died of pneumonia 1945

  Comment: excelled at track—long-distance running

  Berea College B.A. History, B.A. Economics, Magna Cum Laude, 1951 (foreign language distinction)

  Comment: led protest group to desegregate the college

  Military

  Enlisted US Army 1951

  Deployed to Korea 1952

  Comment: upon review of college credentials, physical fitness, marksmanship, and foreign language skills, was marked for candidacy by Directorate of Plans. Subsequent battlefield recruitment commenced.

  “Reminiscing, Don?” Williams asked. “I can understand why. He was your recruit to the Cavalry, after all.”

  “No, checking his picture to make sure I’ll recognize him,” Morrison joked. In point of fact, his practice was to review his agents’ files any time they were returning from a recent mission or significant deployment abroad. He firmly believed that the smallest personal details were important in how his officers might respond to dangerous situations. It was his job to keep them ready, and alive.

  “You know, Bernie,” Morrison said as he scanned through the pages of the dossier. “I can see the formation of a maverick in Keeton’s background. I’m not sure he’d score well on the new psych screens.”

  “Would any of us?” Williams answered. “Besides, I think his resourcefulness and, yes, that rebellious streak has kept him alive and effective all these years.” The statement hung in the air without comment. Finally, Williams broke the tense silence. “I should’ve spent more time on Red’s briefing. I could’ve—”

  “No, you couldn’t have,” Morrison interrupted. “You did a top job training him and getting him in deep. You ran him for almost four years, and brought out—what was it, ten ECAs?”

  “Twelve,” Williams said. “Well, whatever happens we need to learn from it.”

  “We will, Bernie,” Morrison said. “And we’re not done yet.”

  The phone on the director’s desk buzzed from Betty’s station outside. He picked up the handset. “Yes? OK, thank you. Yes, right in.” He hung up the phone. “Keeton’s just arriving now. He’ll be up here in a couple minutes. Everything ready out at Peary?”

  “Yeah, the team’s in place. It’ll be Donny Boyle training him in on his cover and his fitness. We’ll do the briefing in the Map Room this morning. Banks is down there to help.”

  There was a knock on Morrison’s door. “Come in.”

  Agent Orange stepped into the office. “Good morning, Director. Good morning, AD.” He shook hands with each of them and took the offered seat next to Williams.

  “Good morning, Keeton. How was the flight from London? Any trouble with customs?” Morrison asked.

  “The flight was nice,” Keeton answered, thinking back to the very pleasant Lynette and their parting flirtation. “No trouble in the airport.”

  “Very good,” the director said. “We got a report last night from Philippe. The Theodore Barney cover is done—local Maidstone police have declared the crash a tragic accident. Body is completely disfigured, as planned. The car, the remnants of the clothing, and a certain umbrella all point to his identity. Case will be closed by Monday morning.”

  “I guess that’s good,” Keeton said in an uncertain tone. “I assume killing off Barney has something to do with Agent Red, since I’ve met his Penfield cover on a few occasions. The team was putting the pieces together. What’s the scoop—something with Red?”

  “Perceptive of them,” Williams answered. “Yes. We strongly suspect he was captured in East Berlin, as he was about to end a current mission. Details are not known. We’ve got intel about a potential location where they might be holding him. Not a lot more than that.”

  “The Gregor cover needs to be scratched, too,” Keeton mentioned. “One of the defectors was apparently a double, and he took us for a ride. Almost ended the whole thing.”

  “So we’ve heard,” Morrison answered dryly. “Something about a skydiving stunt.”

  Williams cut in. “It was even cleaner than a double agent. Father Teodor apparently brought Dominik into the plan earlier than you knew—mistakenly thought he would be open to spiritual medicine or something. Didn’t work, and Dominik had time to snitch on you and set up Plan B. We got this from the priest himself after he got to Regensburg.”

  Keeton nodded. “Dominik was dropping me back off in West Germany to avoid an incident, but he was hanging onto the priest for God knows what.”

  “You could put it that way,” Williams said, standing. “You saved his life. Nice work. As predicted, the chatter about his escape has settled down, and we don’t expect him to be in any immediate danger, as long as he doesn’t get any foolish ideas about returning to Czechoslovakia to grab more souls.”

  “I hope he doesn’t,” Keeton said. “But I’ll say this for him: he’s pretty tough. Czech paratrooper, fought the Nazis, and spent the last ten years hiding from the communists. He deserved to get out.”

  “Agreed,” Director Morrison said. “And so does Agent Red. So let’s get down to the Map Room and have a look.” They all marched from Morrison’s office and by Betty’s desk. Keeton winked cheekily as he passed her.

  Down at the Big Map, Specialist Banks appeared and shook hands with Keeton, the respect evident in his demeanor. He showed Keeton the East Berlin factory that he had circled with the grease pencil two days earlier. “This is where the dispatch put them, sir. Our files read this to be a medium-size machining shop that makes piping, by the name of Sonstige Industrierohr Berlin. Supplies mostly other East German companies. You can imagine this is a popular commodity for their heavy industry. It’s a very busy place, running three shifts five days a week.”

  “Make credentials as a worker, get into the factory, reconnoiter,” Keeton said absently in thought. “Then follow up with the rescue.”

  “That would make sense,” Williams said. “If we didn’t just receive this scrambled egg.” He was holding a piece of Teletype paper. The blue edging signified that the message had come through the one-time cipher system, an unbreakable code. He handed the paper to Keeton.

  START

  AUGUST 01, 1964 0107 GMT

  URGENT—IMMEDIATE DELIVERY LEADERSHIP

  FROM STATION EBSH3

  TRANSFER VIA CP OB. RETRANSMIT FROM STATION WBSH1

  RE: STATUS AGENT RED

  MALE EAST GERMAN SECONDHAND INFORMANT (GIVEN CODE NAME WHISPER, FIRSTHAND INFORMANT ZEPPELIN) CLAIMS TO HAVE INFORMATION ABOUT A PRISONER HELD IN BASEMENT OF SONSTIGE INDUSTRIEROHR BERLIN FACTORY. REQUESTS MEETING WITH AUTHORIZED AGENT TO DISCUSS INTEL REGARDING FACTORY AND OTHER RELEVANT OBSERVATIONS, IN EXCHANGE FOR DEFECTION OF DAUGHTER AND GRANDSON AS EARLY AS POSSIBLE. HAS PENSIONER’S PAPERS TO CROSS OVER ON AUGUST 6.

  STATION REQUESTS GUIDANCE ON WHISPER’S REQUEST FOR MEETING.

  ZEPPELIN OBSERVATION OF FACTORY. PATTERNS OF VEHICLES ARRIVING AND DEPARTING INDICATES REGULAR AND CONSTANT OVERSIGHT OR INTERROGATION. NO IDENTIFICATION YET OF PASSENGERS OR DRIVERS. OBSERVATION CONTINUES WITH PERIODIC CONTACT.

  END

  “This was sent last night,” Keeton said, examining the printout. “Let’s see…composed about nine o’clock Eastern time at the Number Three Safe House in East Berlin, taken across at Checkpoint Oberbaumbrücke several hours later, and transmitted from the primary West safe house twenty minutes ago. Older guy, pensioner w
ith a grandson. Wants his family brought across. It doesn’t say what he claims to know.”

  He handed the Teletype to Morrison, who quickly scanned it. “Secondhand means he’s an acquaintance of our Zeppelin source. It also doesn’t give any particulars about that. Close friend, neighbor, guy he met at the bar—could be anything.” The director looked up at Keeton. “After Dominik, I expect you might be a little suspicious of friends of friends.”

  “None of these are friends,” Keeton answered somewhat coldly. “But the AD is right; this changes the landscape. August sixth doesn’t give us much time to prep. And I’ll need two covers, maybe three.”

  “One to meet Whisper and one for the recovery of Red,” Morrison confirmed. “And maybe a third to get back across.”

  “You don’t have to be the one who meets Whisper,” Williams interjected. “Your team is already headed to WB by orders.”

  “I know, but I think it makes sense that I handle it,” Keeton said. He glanced over at Morrison, who nodded. Then Keeton continued. “I need to be able to see this guy and ask him the right questions on the ground. And you never know when I’ll need some backup. Banks, can you get me prints of the factory aerial, and some of the surrounding area? Have it sent over to Camp Peary?”

  “Yes, sir,” Banks confirmed briskly. “Good luck, sir.” He turned and left them.

  “If anyone can train up on two covers in two days, it’s you,” Morrison told him.

  “We’ll make them both Germans,” Williams said. “I’ll call over to Donny Boyle and let him know.”

  “The trip back is going to be hell,” Morrison said to Keeton when they were alone at the Big Map. “You’ll lose half a day flying east, and you’re not going into West Germany as Andrew Keeton.”

  “I’ll be fine,” Keeton said stoically. “I’d like to get in touch with Roy and Philippe as soon as they get to the West safe house.”

  “They’ve got an egg scrambler down at Peary,” Morrison said. “Donny and the team will take care of you. The car should be waiting down in the garage to take you to Dulles. What else?”