Читать книгу The Aegis Conspiracy: A Novel - Galen Winter - Страница 11

Chapter 6

Den sat in his apartment, the ice cubes slowly melting in his untouched drink. He was preoccupied. Teddy’s description of McCarthy’s death didn’t come close to satisfying him. There had to be more information available.

Den decided he would ask for a file search. He’d find and read the Damascus report of the killing. He was sure it would give a more complete picture of what had happened. When he asked for the file, he was told it was not available. He asked “Why?’ It was a simple question. The answer was equally simple. “The file is not available to you because it is classified.”

It took three dinners with a rather plain girl who had access to the Agency’s Classified Information records. Without authorization, she let Den read the file he sought. The report of the circumstances surrounding McCarthy’s death was brief and overly concise. It contained no reference to any investigation into the death. It reported only that Agent McCarthy was killed in Damascus by a group of terrorists. Date, time, and location were reported - only basic information, the facts that might satisfy a statistician, but nothing more.

It was as sterile and barren as Teddy’s description. Den was more than merely dissatisfied. He was angry. He wanted to know the specifics of the death of his SEAL comrade - the man who once saved his life. Why couldn’t he find out exactly what had happened to him?

Den’s instincts told him there was more to the story of the death of Mick McCarthy. The small voice living deep within him was again whispering. That same voice had warned him when he crossed the tarmac at the Saddam Hussein airfield in Baghdad. It told him something was astir during his first meeting with Teddy Smith. Den had disregarded the little voice when it told him to quit the Agency and forget Teddy’s offer. Now it was again telling him something was wrong.

Why was the report so lacking in corroborating fact? What was so secret about it? Why had it been classified? Was someone trying to hide what happened to Mick McCarthy? Was someone trying to avoid any record that might cause someone else to become curious and ask questions? Who was the agent with Mick when the shooting started? Why doesn’t the report identify him?

Den decided he would look for that man. He would find him and talk with him. He’d find out what happened to Mick. But how could he identify the agent who stood with Mick McCarthy in Damascus? Where would he begin his search? Den found a way to answer those questions when he remembered Ferdie Robbins. “Ferdie might be able to help,” he thought.

Ferdie Robbins looked like a cartoonist’s idea of an accountant. He was narrow framed and weighed, maybe, a hundred and fifty pounds. His face seemed too small for the large tortoise shell rimmed glasses he wore. He was a quiet man - an introvert, just a bit uncomfortable in the presence of anyone. It had been facetiously rumored that he was part mouse. Certainly, he wasn’t flamboyant and, certainly, he wasn’t courageous.

Secretly, Ferdie dreamed about being an undercover agent. He fantasized about meeting and overcoming the kinds of desperate peril found in Hollywood’s lurid spy movies. In real life, however, Ferdie avoided any kind of potential danger with the same indefatigable attentions he would employ to avoid the Black Plague. Though he spent much of his time badgered by varying degrees of fright, he performed his work at Langley with efficiency and intelligence.

Ferdie worked in the Agency’s Clandestine Service. He arranged transportation for CIA field agents. He also provided another special service. If an agent traveled for some covert purpose, it was Ferdie who prepared the cover, the passport and other documents that would prove he was anyone from a Chicago plumbing contractor to a Belgian investment banker.

It was Ferdie who arranged Den’s transportation to Santiago as well as the alternate identity he might assume in the event of any unforeseen problem with Chilean authorities. Because of Ferdie’s job responsibilities, he was collaterally involved in many of the Agency’s covert operations. Den knew Ferdie probably managed the transportation of every person who had been sent to Syria.

Ferdie would know who was in Damascus when Mick was killed. He would probably be able to name every officer who might have been with Mick the night he died. If Mick was involved in some secret operation, Ferdie would know about it. He would have provided the necessary cover. Den’s problem was getting Ferdie to tell what he knew. Ferdie was tight lipped. He made a clam look like a Hollywood gossip columnist.

In the spying business, a covert agent’s fear of exposure is constant. That kind of fear can migrate to other people in the intelligence services who are not involved in covert operations. Suspicion is pernicious. If a man is suspected of treachery, his friends and associates also become suspect.

When the suspicions of the presence of a Soviet penetration of the CIA’s Langley offices were high, many in the Agency, from secretaries on up, wondered who could they trust. Perhaps the man at the next desk was a Soviet mole. To be able to work in an atmosphere of such widespread mutual suspicion is difficult.

When Soviet moles were uncovered and the leaks were plugged, much of the fear subsided. Ferdie Robbins, however, remained alarmed by the possibility of being accused of disloyalty. True to his cautious and timid nature, Ferdie became inordinately fearful of the consequences of being seen outside the office with anyone associated with the CIA. It could start rumors. It could cause trouble. In fact, Ferdie was convinced, soon or late, it would cause trouble.

Like many others in the Agency, Ferdie disliked Jake Jacobson. Ferdie made the arrangements to move Jacobson from Damascus back to the United States. After he had been promoted into the Projects Branch, Jacobson called Ferdie and complained about the quality of his temporary motel facilities. He insisted on better accommodation in any future hotel/motel stay and warned Ferdie of dire consequences if he ever overlooked those demands.

Jake’s imperious attitude led Ferdie to make careful inquiries. Who was this man? Was he as important as his manner indicated? Ferdie’s acquaintances in the Project Branch were unanimous in reporting their dislike of Jacobson. One went so far as to call Jake “a sneaky, egocentric asshole,” and a secretary from the Damascus Station, being transferred to New Delhi, said she believed Jacobson might have caused the death of a fellow agent.

It was easy for Ferdie to identify the fellow agent who had been killed. During the time Jacobson was in Syria, only one man, Sean “Mick” McCarthy, had been killed in Damascus.

When Jacobson learned Ferdie had questioned his Projects Branch associates, he charged into Ferdie’s office. In a voice loud enough to be heard in surrounding offices, he gave him a tongue-lashing. It was Ferdie’s dislike of Jacobson that induced him to talk to Den Clark.

“I’m going to trust you,” Ferdie almost whispered. It was early in the evening. He and Den shared a back booth in an Arlington cocktail lounge. A few customers were at the bar, but the booths adjacent to Den and Ferdie were empty. Ferdie wanted it that way. He had screwed up his courage to meet with Den and, temporarily at least, he overcame some of his usually timidity. He wanted to cause trouble - trouble for Jake Jacobson.

“I’m going to trust you,” he repeated and immediately added the disclaimer: “It’s only a rumor, nothing more.” He drank from his Coca Cola before he spoke again. “I’m going to trust you to forget about where you heard this.” Den nodded and Ferdie continued. “Jake Jacobson might have had something to do with Mick McCarthy’s death. Whatever that ‘something’ was, it might have been covered up.”

Den asked no questions. He knew Ferdie Robbins would tell only what he wanted to tell and not another single syllable. Ferdie appreciated the silence. He didn’t want cross-examination. Any cross examination could become very dangerous. The mere fact that someone had asked questions of him was dangerous. It could ruin his future in the Agency. If he answered any of those questions, he might, inadvertently, give away some terribly important Agency secret.

After a moment, Ferdie looked up from the soft drink he had been nervously studying. “He’s sucked up to Teddy Smith something fierce,” he said. “He even took an apartment close to him so he could jog with him. Teddy relies on him. Jake is as powerful as he is pompous. He can get you transferred to the backwoods of Ecuador. He can get you fired. Behind his back he’s called ‘that asshole’, and for good reason. The man is dangerous.”

Ferdie again looked down at his Coca Cola and tried to find a way to tell Den what he suspected had really happened to Mick McCarthy. “You’ve read the file, I suppose?”

Den nodded his head. “It doesn’t say much. Mick and I were friends - good friends. I want to know what happened and there’s nothing in the file that will help me.”

This time it was Ferdie who nodded in agreement. He waited a few seconds and then said: “Well, I’d like to help you, but that’s all I know.” He looked around to be sure no one was eavesdropping and slid out from behind the booth table. “Thanks for the drink. I’ve got to go now.” As he put on his overcoat, he tried to casually change the subject.

“I suppose you don’t know any of the people in the Damascus Station? They’re a nice bunch. I just finished moving one of them back to the States. She’s being re-assigned. Her name is G. G. Grant. She’s at the Four Points Sheraton right now.” Ferdie scrunched his head down into the protection of his upturned coat collar and walked toward the lounge’s door. Without looking back at Den, he added: “Room 310.”

“Gigi!” Den thought. “She’s here! She’s back in Washington.” Den’s looks and actions did not betray the feelings he had unsuccessfully tried to deny since he and Gigi went their separate ways. Those feelings were filed away in his memory, but never far from the surface where they could make fleeting re-appearances. They often came to him during those early morning seconds when the mind hovers briefly between consciousness and sleep.

Den’s memories of Gigi again emerged from their partial exile. Again they commanded his attention. “Gigi!” he repeated. “She’s here.”

Den left his unfinished Scotch and water, dropped a ten on the table and walked to the lounge’s bank of telephones. He called the Four Points Sheraton and asked for a connection with room 310. He hoped Gigi hadn’t left for dinner and was relieved when he heard her voice.

“Hello, hon, this is Den.”

“Den! For God’s sakes, where are you?”

“I’m here in Washington and I want to see you.”

Gigi paused before answering. She was not in one of her better moods. Being brought back to Langley for re-assignment often signaled an opportunity for advancement, but she knew her recall meant the end of her Central Intelligence Agency career. She knew she had incurred the displeasure of the “powers that be” in Langley. Her investigation of the death of Agent McCarthy had stepped on someone’s toes.

“I’d love to see you again,” she told him, “but I’ll warn you, I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”

“What’s wrong, hon? Can I help?”

“No. Nobody can help. Thanks, anyway. Don’t worry. It isn’t the end of the world.”

Den knew Gigi was worried. It wasn’t only the words she had spoken. Her voice was flat, even a bit sad.

“You’ll survive, hon,” he said, attempting reassurance. “We’re both survivors. We can handle anything. I’ll be over in twenty minutes. Have you eaten?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll talk.”

“I’d like that.”

Den hung the phone. Gigi might be able to tell him what happened to Mick, but she sounded like she had her own problems, problems causing her to speak in short sentences, volunteering little and devoid of her usual, almost lilting effervescence. He didn’t know the reason for her uncharacteristic depression. Whatever it was, Gigi’s tone made it sound serious and Den knew it was no time for her to be alone.

He also knew it was no time for him to question her about Mick. Den would defer his interest in what happened to his friend. Gigi needed cheering up and he would give her the sympathetic support she needed. Den left the lounge, hailed a taxi and made his way the Four Points Sheraton.

Since receiving notice of recall to Langley, Gigi had to face the reality of closing what turned out to be an unpleasant chapter of her life. She had expected so much from her career in the CIA. Now, her disillusion dismayed her. Alone in her room at the Sheraton, again and again she went over the sanitizing of her investigation of Jake Jacobson and the punishment she was suffering because she told the truth. She had lost two years of her life. Damn Jake Jacobson, Damn Henry Putnam. Damn the CIA.

Two emotions fought for ascendancy within her. She felt the frustration of being victimized by office politics, the frustration of being penalized because she had been right. She also felt the helplessness of being unable to defend herself. Her thoughts swung back and forth between the anger born of her frustration and the depression that came from the realization of her inability to do anything about it. She couldn’t fight the bureaucracy.

Den’s call lifted her spirits. If there ever was a time when a lady needed a friend, this was it. She knew Den Clark was, indeed, a friend. He had been much more than a friend. She was transported back to their days together in the Sherman Kent School for Intelligence Analysis. It was more than fun. They had shared their lives, honestly and completely.

When Gigi heard the knock on her door, the lingering feeling of isolation - of being alone - left her. The sense of relief she felt when she answered the phone and recognized Den’s voice returned to her. She hoped Den hadn’t changed. She hoped he was still the man she knew so well at the Kent School. She needed more than just a friend. She needed someone to hold her.

When Gigi opened the door, Den saw the pretty woman who had attracted him in that cafeteria two years earlier, but her smile seemed to be a bit tentative. Den thought she showed signs of stress. He wondered if she had changed. He wondered if she had moved on with her life. He wondered if she was the same woman who shared his life at the Kent School. He hoped so.

At first, they spoke in short impersonal sentences. Den said she looked great. She said he did, too. Could he come in? Yes, of course. Sit. Make yourself at home. Good to see you again. You too. Then, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Den removed any reason for further embarrassment. He wasted no time. “What’s wrong, hon. I’m someone who loves you. Remember me? I’m on your side. You can talk to me.”

Gigi was reassured. This was the Den she knew. He could always read her moods. His sympathy was never false. He was more than a once-upon-a-time lover. He was her most intimate friend. She knew she could trust him.

Gigi wanted someone to know how Jacobson stole money from a CIA account and tried to use it to bribe a terrorist. She wanted someone to know how Jacobson feared a double cross and used an unsuspicious Mick McCarthy to deliver the bribe. She wanted someone to know how Jacobson had driven from the scene at the first sign of trouble, leaving McCarthy alone to face terrorist gunfire. She wanted someone to know the Agency had engaged in a cover-up. Her story might never become a part of the official record, but she wanted someone to know it.

Gigi told Den everything she had uncovered during her investigation of McCarthy’s death. When she had finished, she leaned back in the chair. “Jacobson tried to get me to whitewash him. Of course, I wouldn’t do it. I gave my report to Henry Putnam. He’s the Station Chief. He took it to Langley. When he came back, he showed me a doctored document. Jacobson wasn’t even mentioned.

“He said he was told to change it by top echelon people. The reason wasn’t explained: ‘Need to know’ basis only and I, of course, didn’t need to know. I was told to destroy my report and keep my mouth shut. Henry filed the doctored report and Jacobson was given a position in the Projects Branch.”

The cover up was obvious and it was extensive. Even Gigi’s, watered down investigation report was not made a part of the record. Something, indeed, had been wrong in Damascus. Ferdie Robbins told him Jake Jacobson was involved in Mick’s death. Gigi showed him Jake was more than merely involved.

Den showed no outward reaction to her revelations, but, inside, his anger increased. It was an anger caused by his empathy with the pain Gigi had to endure and, equally, by his own reaction to the CIA protection of the man who embezzled funds - the man who caused the death of Mick McCarthy.

Before Den could say anything, Gigi made an additional statement. “I’ve been recalled for reassignment. It won’t be a promotion. Tomorrow, I’ll be offered a transfer. I suspect it will be to a file clerk’s position in the lowest level basement of the Langley complex. Jake Jacobson and whoever is protecting him are behind it. They want me out of the Agency. I know too much about Jacobson.”

Den asked her: “What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m not going to do anything about it. McCarthy’s case is closed and nobody is going to re-open it. I can’t fight the Agency. I’m going to quit. I’ll going to put all this behind me. I’m going to Tucson and I’m going to hang out my shingle. From tomorrow on, I’ll be ‘G. G. Grant - Attorney and Counselor at Law’. If you ever need a divorce, care to start a corporation or want me to probate your estate, look me up.”

Then, for the first time, she smiled. “I feel much better now,” she said.

“You’ve had a tough time, hon,” Den said. He expressed his own feelings as well as hers when he said: “Jacobson is a bastard - and so are his friends in the Agency. You’ve made the right choice. Get out of here and start again in Arizona. You don’t want Jacobson or his friends in your life.” He put his hands on her shoulders and, face-to-face, told her he would make Jacobson pay.

Gigi almost melted when Den put his arms around her and held her to him. They talked about how they had met, the good times they had shared. The talk of happier times helped to restore her. Perhaps life wasn’t so bad after all. She asked him if he remembered their first kiss. He did. He also remembered the first time they slept together. So did Gigi. She looked up at him and, ever so slightly, raised her chin.

“I’d like to kiss you,” Den said.

“That would be nice.” She answered, “very, very nice.”

The sun had risen when they awoke. They showered together and breakfasted in Gigi’s room. When it came time to leave, they kissed again and Den promised he would be there for her, should she ever need anything.