“You leave tomorrow evening from New York, at eight o’clock. Six and half hours to London; in Tuesday morning. We’ll have you booked in as Andrew Keeton in the same hotel as before, but you’ll leave as Reimund Huber, right? Then on to West Berlin the next morning, Wednesday. You could connect on Tuesday, but I want you to get plenty of rest and to have time to put on the Reimund Huber cover.”
“I’ll catch the puddle jumper to New York, then?” Keeton asked.
“Exactly,” Donny confirmed. “We’ll get you to the Big Apple tomorrow afternoon, from here. If there’s any kind of delay in London, we can adapt. There are daily flights into Berlin in the morning and afternoon, and the London hotel rooms are set for whenever you need them—thanks to your friends in MI6. The meeting with Whisper is set for Thursday afternoon at four thirty. We’ll confirm all this with Philippe with a scrambled egg in a little while.”
“You think I’m ready?” Keeton asked.
“We might do a little more practice tomorrow,” Donny answered. “But yes, you’re ready. Get some rest now, Agent Orange.”
Keeton did just that, entirely spent from another full day of preparation. Despite his keen nervousness about departing for his mission the next day, he was asleep immediately after lights-out for the second night in a row.
***
“The new survival kit,” Donny announced dramatically. “The last thing to show you before you leave.” They were back in the library, after a light breakfast of toast and coffee. Keeton had found and donned the new suit they had provided for his upcoming trip back to England and then Germany. The Irishman had foregone additional cover training or practice, insisting that Keeton was fully prepared. Instead he had produced a locked metal case, from which, after dialing in the quadruple combination, he had produced a number of seemingly everyday items. Mangold and Tong looked on.
“What do you see here?” Donny asked Keeton.
“A real nice wardrobe,” Keeton answered sarcastically. He already knew that each of the items either hid, or was itself, a piece of field gear. “The buttons on the shirt are cyanide, the shoe heels contain pockets of plastic explosive, and the belt has a secret compartment filled with various currencies.”
Donny shook his head gravely. “Not even close. The shoes are here just to hold the laces—the laces, however, are reinforced triweave steel cords wrapped in a cotton sheath. Flexible but durable. Rated to hold up to two hundred fifty pounds. They can be used in many ways, either separately or perhaps tied together: a strangling garrote, binding an enemy’s hands or feet, or even as a Tyrolean traverse—if you know what that is.”
“Throw them over an inclined wire or rope and slide down,” Keeton said.
“Exactly,” Donny answered. Then he picked up the black leather belt. “Now, this does contain hidden compartments, but not for money. Inside are all the components needed to construct a crystal radio receiver: wire, diode, capacitor, and a miniature earpiece—the so-called foxhole radio. By fitting the windings exactly to spec, you’ll be able to pick up shortwave radio messages from your team, in the event they lose contact and suspect you’re alone out in the field. The specs and instructions are printed on a small slip of paper embedded along with the other parts.”
“I’ve worked with this kind before,” Keeton commented. “I just need to know the configuration.”
Donny nodded. “Good. OK then, the buttons on this shirt don’t do anything other than hold the garment on your body. Sorry about that. But if we pull out these collar stays”—he flipped the shirt collar up and removed the thin metal tabs from the pockets near the points of the collar—“you’ll notice that each one is actually two pieces, one inside the other.” He took one of the tabs and delicately pulled it apart, like a sword being extracted from its sheath. “The sharp end I’ve just pulled out is coated with a poison concoction. The silver tab will disable, the brass one will kill, both within ten seconds. Either just needs to penetrate the skin by a sixteenth of an inch. You’ll find a pair of these in your luggage, along with the radio belt and several of the steel shoe laces.”
“So no cyanide capsules?” Keeton asked dryly.
“It’s called a survival kit for a reason,” Donny said with a sideways look. “There are a few more tricky items here, so listen up…” Donny explained several more pieces of clandestine gear that Keeton would take with him, then, finally, it was time for the flight to New York. Keeton thanked Mangold and Tong for their training and accepted their good-luck wishes, then rode with Donny back to the airstrip to find the Cessna waiting for him.
“Your suitcase is loaded up in the plane,” Donny called out over the noisy engines. “There are extra clothes in the hotel room in London as well, and your team will have other gear you might need. Should be all set. Here’s to a successful mission, Orange.”
Keeton shook his hand and nodded, then climbed into the little plane. The pilot—the same man who had flown him in from Dulles—simply said hello and immediately throttled the engines. Keeton turned his head just in time to see Donny give him a final wave.
Once they were in the air and leveled off, the pilot handed Keeton a headset. “Call me Jack,” he told Keeton. “Not my real name, but what’s that matter, right?”
“I guess so,” Keeton answered through his microphone. “How long to New York?”
“We’ll get there in a little over an hour,” Jack answered. “Hey, you fly yourself?”
Keeton looked over at him and smiled wryly. “Only when necessary.”
Chapter 5. Rendezvous
“Welcome back to England, Mr. Keeton,” the customs official said after scrutinizing the agent’s passport. “And good luck with that real estate deal, sir.”
“Thank you,” Keeton answered. He picked up the suitcase and headed toward the exit. Should have slept more, he thought. It was a long and boring flight, anyway, without the conversation with…
“Mr. Keeton?” the voice over to his right called. He looked around and stopped walking, amazed. It was Lynette, replete in the blue BOAC uniform that was tailored to accent her trim figure. She walked over to him. “I honestly cannot believe this! I was just thinking about the last time I saw you, in Washington.”
“Hello. Yes, I was also…well…uh, let’s just say this is quite amazing,” he stammered. “You weren’t on the flight in from New York, were you?”
“Oh, no, I came back yesterday,” she said, lightly swinging the famous BOAC bag between them as they walked together. “And then I agreed to take the assignment of a friend who was ill. Went out yesterday evening to Paris and turned right around at daybreak to come home. It earned me nearly a week until my next scheduled flight—I’m on call, though, so I’m stuck in London. The Paris trip wasn’t much fun, I must say. Not like those long flights where you actually get a chance to meet someone.” She looked up into his face.
“I agree completely,” he said, sensing the return of the warmth they had shared at Dulles. “Can I ask you a personal question?”
“Can you?” she mocked playfully. “I thought I was going to have to send you a singing telegram to get your attention.”
“That won’t be necessary, I assure you. All right then, I might have more than one personal question for you. Probably many.”
“I’m not afraid,” she said, switching the bag to her other hand and slipping her right arm through his left. “Just give me your top three.”
“What’s your last name, Lynette?”
“Crest, with a C.”
“Lynette Crest. Got it. OK, now number two: Do you live in London?”
“I do.” She nodded emphatically. “I have a flat in Hounslow West. It’s actually only a few miles from here. And no, I don’t have a roommate.”
He looked down at her. “That wasn’t my third question, by the way. So that’s not fair. I believe I still have one more to go.”
“Now wait just a minute, Mr. Keeton…”
“Really? It’s Andrew, please.”
“Andrew, fairness is you answering a few questions from me now.”
“Sure, of course,” he answered, knowing full well that it would be nearly impossible for him to do that.
“Do you have a regular place here in London?” she asked.
“Actually, no,” Keeton said. “I’m staying at the hotel called the Regal Briton.”
“I know it,” Lynette said. “It’s just about as close to the airport as my flat.”
“It’s the damnedest thing, though,” he started. “Well, you see, I have to leave again tomorrow, for the Continent.” He held the door for her, and together they proceeded toward the taxi rank. “Listen, I have an idea. I happen to think it’s a wonderful idea. Of course, you’ll have to judge for yourself, but I can only tell you what it is if you answer my third personal question.”
“I’m listening, Andrew,” she said patiently.
“Are you seeing anyone at the moment?” he asked, noting the immediate smile on her face that told him this was the question she was waiting for.
“No, I’m not,” she said, stopping to turn toward him. “And your idea?”
“I’m a little fatigued from the flight, didn’t sleep much, and I have a few reports to start before tomorrow. So I was thinking that we could both take the morning or so to freshen up and then meet for an early dinner.”
“And then?” she asked.
“I’d love to learn more about Hounslow West,” he said. “If you don’t mind a little sightseeing.”
“That sounds lovely,” she said with another smile. “I’ll warn you—this close to the airport, things can get a bit loud.”
“I’ll adapt, with your assistance,” he said, watching the slight flush run across her cheeks.
“It’s a date,” she declared as they reached the rank. Suddenly she suggested they share a taxi to her flat, so that he would know where to pick her up for dinner. He agreed, on the condition that he pay for the taxi. They rode together for the fifteen minutes to the neat three-story building where Lynette lived. On the drive they discussed overseas travel and the hazards of being a modern-day airhostess. As usual, Keeton kept the conversation away from himself. The driver, hearing Keeton’s American accent, offered some tidbits about the area and its history as they entered Hounslow.
“Well, should we say four o’clock?” Lynette asked as the cabbie retrieved her bag and opened the door for her. For a brief moment the glance they exchanged suggested an immediate rendezvous, but Keeton shook this off. He really did need some time for rest and readiness for the Whisper mission, despite his attraction to the willing girl sitting close to him in the taxi.
“Four o’clock it is,” he said after a few seconds. “Until then.”
“Until then, Andrew,” she said and leaned over to give him the slightest kiss on the cheek. Then she slung her legs over and accepted the cabbie’s hand to help lift her to her feet. Keeton watched her walk up to the building’s front door and bring out a key. The cabbie had closed the back door and climbed in the driver’s seat.
“Yes, sir?” he asked Keeton.
“Regal Briton Hotel, please,” Keeton said. “By the way, would you be able to pick me up from the hotel at three thirty this afternoon and bring me back here?”
“Of course, sir. It would be my pleasure,” the cabbie said. “Three thirty it is. And, if I may say so, sir, that is a very fine young woman.”
“You may say so,” Keeton said with a slight laugh. “Yes, you may.”
***
“Yes, of course, Mr. Keeton, we’re happy to see you’ve arrived safe and sound.” The manager of the Regal Briton smiled broadly as Keeton signed his name in the register. He handed the American his room key and a small padded envelope that had been left at the hotel earlier in the day. A gentleman booking, and paying in advance, the deluxe suite for a full week received special attention from the proprietor and the staff. In this case, the manager insisted on handling the transaction himself while the regular desk clerk looked on. “And do not hesitate to let me know personally should you need anything at all.” He handed Keeton a business card.
“Thank you, Mister…Haverton,” Keeton said. “Actually, there are a couple details I could use your help with. I’m afraid the long flight has taken its toll on my wardrobe. What are the chances of getting this suit and a few other items in my suitcase cleaned and pressed by, say, two o’clock this afternoon?” Keeton winced, expecting his absurd request to meet a patronizing glance.
Instead, Mr. Haverton smiled confidently. “Chances? Why, one hundred percent, sir! My uncle owns a dry cleaning and laundry business in Chiswick. It will be no trouble. Just call down when you have the garments ready to be sent over.”
“That’s very fine of you, Mr. Haverton,” Keeton said politely. “Well, since I have your good graces—I had an excellent meal in your restaurant last week but I wonder if you might recommend a nice place for an early dinner, say around four or five o’clock? For two—me and a young lady. Somewhat private would be preferred.”
“Consider it done, Mr. Keeton,” Haverton stated. “I know a wonderful establishment, actually quite the value if you lean toward excellent ambiance and exceptional food without the snooty overpricing. And not much noise from the”—he pointed toward the ceiling and whistled—“jet age. I will handle everything and secure reservations for, let’s say five o’clock?”
“Terrific,” Keeton said, reaching into his pocket and handing Haverton a generous tip. “I already have a taxi arranged, but I appreciate you taking such great care of me.”
“It’s my pleasure,” Haverton said graciously. “May I call the porter?”
Keeton lifted the single suitcase to waist level and shook his head. “No need. I’ve got it.”
“Very good, sir,” Haverton answered and disappeared into a back office to make Keeton’s arrangements, leaving the clerk to attend to other guests who might appear.
Keeton walked to the lift and was greeted by the operator, who took him up to the sixth floor of the seven-story building. The very top floor was reserved for executive-suite guests. He waited until the lift doors were closed before making his way to Suite 4, putting down the suitcase, and kneeling to tie his shoe. In reality he was examining the seam where the door and jamb were pressed together, where he found the expected fiber affixed across the seam, indicating that the door had not been opened since Lionel had placed it there earlier that morning. Keeton scratched the fiber off the door and flicked it away, then stood and entered the suite with his suitcase.
“What a damned job,” he said aloud, echoing his frequent thoughts about being a Cavalry agent. He liked the rooms and felt pampered by the whole combination of first-class air travel and upscale accommodations. These privileges were part of his various covers, the penance for which was a profession of mortal hazards. You’ll need to compartmentalize your feelings, he recalled Morrison telling him time and again during his early years. To his chagrin, he now accepted that violence and danger would exist alongside etiquette. Today that dichotomy was manifested by a date with a pleasant stewardess preceding by less than twenty-four hours the rendezvous with a presumed East German traitor. And after that, a likely attempt to rescue Agent Red from captivity and torture, assuming he was even still alive.
Enjoy your hotel and your date with Lynette, Agent Orange, he told himself grimly as he sat down at the desk in the suite’s little office nook. He had examined the special seals on the envelope’s flap when Haverton had handed it to him, so now he simply tore it open and poured the contents onto the desk. This consisted only of the hotel’s key to Suite 2, already booked under the name of the West German journalist Reimund Huber, and a handwritten note signed L, with a flourish:
SIR,
BRIT CONFIRMS THAT YOUR TRAVEL ARRANGEMENTS FOR TOMORROW ARE ALL SET. P AND R ARE IN PLACE. CALL LOCAL OFFICE IF ANYTHING NEEDED—ROOM PHONE OK.
L
Keeton stood, emptied all of his pockets onto the desk, and used his lighter
to incinerate the note in the nearby aluminum ashtray. Then he went to the bedroom and laid the suitcase on the bed and opened it. Donny and the crew had packed a sport coat, trousers, two shirts, a striped tie, two pairs of dress socks, underclothes, and various toiletries. He was already wearing most of the field gear Donny had shown him; the false bottom of the shaving mug and the hollow handle of the shaving brush were large enough to conceal the rest.
Shouldn’t need any of it tonight, he thought and smiled. Then the tiny pang of guilt hit his consciousness. He lit a cigarette, picked up the phone, and dialed out to the local number he knew to be the intelligence liaison exchange.
“Hello,” a British voice answered tersely.
“Hello, may I speak to the manager?” Keeton asked, using the official flash code.
“One moment, please.” Several clicks followed, indicating the series of electrical impedance tests being run on the telephone circuit to detect illicit listeners. Then, “Code in.”
“C-O 229. Omicron. Authorization 121258.” Keeton spoke precisely and slowly enough so as not to be forced to repeat the key. Two failed verbal attempts would shut his authorization down completely and require a site visit to ensure that he was OK. That might ruin the evening, he thought.
“Confirmed. Please hold.” Two more clicks. “Keeton, this is Lionel! Good to hear from you, but I hope everything is going well.”
“Everything’s fine, thanks,” Keeton said. “I’m in the Regal, and I got your note. Looks like we’re on track. I just wanted to inform you that I’ll be out with an acquaintance tonight. Nothing heavy, but in case you or Eddy come looking for me.”
Agent Orange Page 9