by Gil Hogg
I awoke from jagged dreams when we were skimming smoothly across the entrance to Montego Bay, toward a mooring. I thought it wise, however, to avoid the bay, and get our skipper to drop us at a more quiet spot along the coast, to avoid the coastguards and immigration police. A few miles on, we waded ashore at a green inlet with a few yards of deserted beach, and hired a local person to drive us in his car to the Montego Grand Hotel.
Since we were both grubby, in rags, and without any appreciable luggage, I had to embroider a story of the privations of big game fishing at sea, at the reception of the Montego, Grand Hotel, but the production of a large bundle of US banknotes, and a lavish tip, enabled us to get luxurious rooms, shower, and sleep overnight.
In the morning, we ventured into the boutiques to buy clothes. We spent a day eating and drinking and contemplating our good fortune. That evening I sent another message to C3 requesting new documentation to enable us to fly to the US from Jamaica. When the documentation arrived via the US Embassy, I crushed the satphone with my shoe and dropped it in a dumpster. In the two or three days this formality took, Yarham and I had a vacation by the sea. We still had about two hundred thousand dollars of our supply left, and I debated with Yarham what its fate ought to be.
“Suppose we each take a hundred thousand and leave the rest for Uncle Sam?” I suggested.
Yarham moved his jaw around, and said after a while, “I’m very grateful for the offer, and I don’t want you to think I’m moralistic about this, but I’d prefer not to.”
“Too much? Take a smaller slice.”
“It’s not that, sir. I can manage without any of it.”
“Good for you, Yarham. I was just testing to see if the shield of truth, and the sword of honour, were in place.”
Of course, I had been thinking that the Kershaw method ought to apply, but I marvelled, not at Yarham’s probity, which every good batman ought to have, but at the fact that clearly the money wasn’t important to him, even though we were sampling the delights of a five-thousand-dollar-a-day suite at the Grand. Yarham was the man who was happy with things as they were. I was the man who was yearning for an ever more brilliant future. Other than purchasing a greenhide Vuitton bag to contain the money – and the stylish clothes I had bought I made no decision about it.
We returned to Washington on a sunny afternoon, well rested, to be met by C3 agents and taken to the Georgetown office for a preliminary debriefing. Gerry Clark was there to greet me, unctuous and expectant. I had glanced at the newspapers on the flight, and apart from the usual rumblings in the Middle East, there was nothing to suggest that the US mainland had been in danger from terrorists. Cuba was not mentioned.
“We’re all waiting to hear how you did this, Roger. It’s quite a coup for C3. Yeah, it’s turned out differently than we expected – but then field ops often do. We thought we’d be dealing with the threat from here.”
“There was no time. I had to deal with it, as I’ll explain.”
In the presense of Clark and two senior C3 agents whom I knew only slightly, I spun my story of cooperation with the CIA in the person of Carmelli, Harkness and Burton; buying information and arms through Dolores and Arias; surveillance of the Campesino and the Mariel launching site; Kershaw’s unfortunate discovery and death; a skirmish with Cuban coastguards on a reconnaissance in which Carmelli and Harkness were killed, and Burton taken prisoner; and my decision to attack at the Campesino, based on intelligence from Dolores that a launch of the missiles was imminent. I spoke of talks with the local CIA in which my leadership was accepted. I admitted that none of us had anticipated that the Campesino would be so heavily defended, but with Dolores Martinez, a wounded Wayne, and Yarham, I went on to destroy the opposition and the Mariel site.
It was a neat, sequential account, only at variance with the facts in immaterial respects. I calculated that criticism of Carmelli’s thuggery, and the fiasco with the Cuban coastguards would do nobody, including myself, any good. The only problem could possibly be Burton, who I anticipated would probably serve a few years in a Cuban prison for drug dealing, if the Cuban legal machinery was allowed to come to rest without intervention by the US. And even if diplomatic pressure led to his release, there would be little he could contradict that would bring him credit. I would simply challenge his memory of events if necessary.
Clark & Co were astonished at what I had undeniably accomplished, and not in a mood to probe my story. And characteristically, the loss of Kershaw, Dolores and the CIA agents evoked no more than a casual mutter of regret from them.
Later, after I had filed a full written report, in view of the public silence about our exploits, I instructed Yarham to get busy on the OPB files and find out how my standing was in the agency. As I expected, it was accepted that I acted with speed of thought and valour, and avoided a national disaster and an international crisis. The Disciples seemed to be reconciled to not being able to play political brinkmanship with the presidential candidates on this occasion.
Much was made in departmental memos of the astonishing cooperation between C3 and the CIA, as though the concept of frankly sharing information with a fellow agency was novel, startling, and slightly risque. Actually working together in the field was as unusual as intergalactic travel. And for two agencies to agree to be led operationally by a member of one of them was against the laws of nature. A new era of cooperation between agencies was heralded by the more far-seeing, and it was recommended that I should spearhead this, and be promoted to director level. A number of the big brass commented that I would make an ideal director of the CIA – certainly true. Only my lack of US citizenship stood in the way of this consideration.
I was conscious that Yarham, who had shared my adventures, was still plugging along as grade GSO2, an administrative grade which meant that in reporting terms he didn’t exist. I recommended that he be promoted to a grade1 field agent. I am a grade AAA special agent and I was assured that subject to passing a few tests which I knew would not deter the wily Yarham, that would happen. Gerry Clark supported me wholeheartedy. He was getting a piggy-back ride to distinction on all of this, as the wise and discerning manager of agents. I couldn’t begrudge him a benefit I would have taken myself.
The other avenue which I instructed Yarham to pursue was a list of the names of all C3 agents with British or US citizenship – I was mindful of the debacle with Dolores, and I was determined to know, on all subsequent missions, who my agents were. After much trouble, Yarham was able to produce a list containing names and grades, derived from the payroll computers. Dolores was there – for the moment – listed as a grade A special agent. I felt sad whenever I thought of Dolores.
A few days after I arrived from Jamaica I was summoned to the office of Rachel Fernandez. She sat on her high throne and looked down on me. She was very tense. She had my written report in her hand. After a few moments she stood up and descended to the floor level where I was, and sat in a chair next to me. I was in the aura of her heady perfume. She looked rigid, older, her skin as stiff as parchment.
“I’ve read your report, Roger, and you’ve done a superb job, but I want you to tell me in your own words about your mission.”
I never drop my guard for a second with any members of the intelligence services, high or low. I gave her my now well-worn spiel, which was no doubt recorded on her office tapes as I spoke.
“Tell me more about your contacts with Dolores Martinez.”
Ah, Senora Fernandez had a personal interest, but I remained deadpan. “She arranged the arms purchase, and gave the dispositions of the terrorists. I spoke to her only fleetingly on this.”
“How did she know the dispositions?”
“I don’t know. She had some kind of contact with the terrorists.”
“Why was she at this rancho place when the CIA attacked?”
“Maybe she was with them.”
“Where was she at… the end?”
“With our group. She died in hand-to-hand fighting at the mi
ssile site.”
“Your group…?”
“Yarham and myself at this stage.”
“How do you actually know that she died?”
“I saw her body.”
“How do you know – in the heat of a gun-battle – that she was dead, actually… dead?”
I was expressionless before Rachel’s imploring tones. “You don’t want to know that. Believe me, if she had any sign of life, I would have taken her with me.”
Rachel Fernandez was hurt and frustrated by this thin story, but the people in the secret services are, in the end, the victims of their own parsimony with information. She put her hand, holding a white handkerchief, to her forehead. “She’s my niece, you see, and we were very close.”
It was a touching display, and I could have told a tale of heroism but I didn’t. Rachel Fernandez would have to accept the limitations of the service. If the details of Dolores’ exploits were unravelled, questions would be asked about my performance of my duties. I moved on a different tack. “You mean she was a C3 agent? I didn’t know that. It might have been helpful to know. As far as I was concerned, she was a friendly contact. She died bravely, that’s all I can say.”
“How can you say that? Do you really know?” Fernandez said fiercely, seizing on my generosity of spirit.
I maintained a sympathetically wooden expression. “Because all our group died bravely, fighting against madmen who were determined to die themselves. Dolores survived the Mercados raid with Jack Wayne, a wounded CIA agent. Wayne and Dolores made up the four of our party to attack the Mariel missile site. Dolores was helping Wayne to hospital when he was murdered, and she was taken hostage. In the final showdown, she freed herself and fought against the terrorists with Yarham and I, but she died.”
After a long, withdrawn silence, Rachel Fernandez said, “Thank you, Roger, for telling me.”
At home in my apartment, which Yarham had swept afresh and found to be bug-free, I had reclaimed the cat, disposed of the pile of bills, circulars and letters which nearly blocked me from opening the door, and read Laurie’s loving letters. There was also a note from Sally Greengloss suggesting dinner, and one from Carol Clark, saying she knew I was back (breach of security by Gerry) and was looking forward to seeing me soon. She left a mobile number for me to call. The soon was underlined in a way that I felt was threatening rather than affectionate, but Carol was the doorway to Marie the cook, whose heavy, sculpted breasts and lidded eyes I couldn’t get out of my mind.
As I had expected, Gerry Clark gave me a dinner invitation after a few days, which I assumed was an assignation with the group of Disciples who concerned themselves with me. In the meantime, minor stories had appeared in the newspapers about insurgency in Cuba, and a huge industrial blaze in Mariel, but the articles, which hinted at US involvement, were speculative, and my story remained under wraps.
I called Carol and we met in a coffee shop on M Street. She confirmed that Amory, Bolding and Reich would be at the dinner. I was looking forward to basking in their admiration. But instead of suggesting a threesome including Marie, as a preliminary to the official dinner, I opted for a separate date when Gerry was away. The risk of trying to combine the visit with a top-level conference was too much even for my iron nerve, and one must be in a position to linger over such pleasures. Carol’s attitude when I joked about another threesome was to be slightly put off. “So you really liked Marie?” she pressed, as though I shouldn’t really have noticed the vibrant woman who jumped into our bed with glee.
“I hardly had time to shake her hand, Carol. I thought your idea was a good one, and we ought to give it a chance.”
“OK, I’ll fix it,” she said coolly.
I could see Carol wasn’t a woman of catholic sensuality. She wanted to please me. I thought that she was becoming dangerously attached.
I was surprised to get a call from Sally Greengloss, insistent that we meet for dinner. I couldn’t remember how she got my apartment phone number, which I’m cautious about handing out. I had disregarded her note, because I had always been disturbed by the Nick Stavros affair, and the grim threat of the Disciples as Nick saw them. There was no point in dwelling on it; Sally reminded me of Nick. However, I didn’t feel all that strongly, and I responded to Sally’s pressure in the way one often does when there is a warm and inviting voice at the other end of the telephone. We made a date.
I mentioned my concern about Nick Stavros to Yarham, and happened to add that I was having dinner with his ex-girfriend. A day or two later when we were perambulating around the park, Yarham said, “I assume you noticed from the list, sir, that Sally Greengloss is a C3 agent.”
“This is getting to be a habit with my women. Is Laurie on the list?”
29
I was jolted by Yarham’s revelation because it hit me like a splash of cold water that I had amateurishly failed to appreciate Sally Greengloss. “How the devil did you find out?” I asked irritably, knowing that in the matter of getting such details right, Yarham was supreme.
“The list. I happened to be looking through it and noticed her name. It’s unusual. Could that mean she’s on the job with you, sir?”
I took some time to consider. Sally knew Nick and I were in the same unit; she had assumed that, and I had admitted it. If she wanted to be friendly, why couldn’t she reveal she was too? Unless, as Yarham suggested… “What job could she be doing on me, do you think?”
“Some kind of staff loyalty check?”
“I suppose that’s feasible. I know C3 does it, all the agencies do. Finding out whether the business of the Disciples shakes me. A mid-term report. It would make sense.”
As a result of these thoughts, my dinner at the Cirico’s Restaurant with Sally was much less carefree than I would have wished, although I didn’t show it. We drank champagne, and followed it with a Chardonnay to accompany the red snapper. The wine and food were delightful, the conversation not so, because I suspected a double edge to it. To Sally’s questions about where I had been recently, I answered, “On holiday in Florida, lying on the beach.”
“Well, you have a little tan, but surely you weren’t alone?”
“No, Sally, I wasn’t,” and I gave her a wink – enough to stop this line of questions. I doubted that Sally would have been told officially about my mission. She might have got the buzz from C3, if she ever mixed with other agents, that I was the man of the hour. And she could have linked that with the increasing stream of still inconclusive newspaper reports of US involvement in Cuba. In any event, she changed direction.
“I’ve been thinking about Nick a lot recently. Do you ever think about him?” she asked in a melancholy voice.
“Well, no, to be honest. His death was very sad, but I didn’t know him all that well.”
“You know Nick talked to me before he died about the Disciples?”
She was homing in directly on what I had assumed was her real preoccupation. I gave her a blank look. “Sorry, you’ve lost me.”
“You’ve never heard of the Disciples?”
“At Bible class when I was a kid. Did Nick get religious?”
“Don’t the C3 guys talk about them in the bar?”
“C3 guys don’t talk together much, and never about the job.”
“Nick said the Disciples were a clique in the intelligence services on both sides of the Atlantic. He was worried about them.”
She was watching me intently. “So what?” I asked.
“He told me he told you about the Disciples, and you were coming to Washington to talk it over with him.”
“I don’t know what Nick said to you. What he said to me was he had some worries about the job, and maybe if I came to Washington some time we could talk. Nothing specific. He was a cautious guy. He didn’t even tell me what he was doing.”
Sally didn’t seem satisfied. She wanted to know if I’d ever heard any talk about a powerful clique in the intelligence services. I fudged the answer, saying there were all sorts of myths in
every organisation about who held the power, and I let my attention drift rudely to the occupants of other tables, only half-listening to her. There was a certain stiffness between us at the end of the meal, and we didn’t linger. Neither of us seemed to be able to move the conversation back into personal intimacies.
When the cab arrived at Du Pont Circle, I responded to Sally’s weak suggestion that I should come up for a nightcap, by saying I had a pile of work to do tomorrow, and needed an early night. On the way home in the cab, alone, I concluded I had passed the steadfastness test with Ms Greengloss, if that is what it was intended to be.
However, the conversation with Sally Greengloss re-aroused my curiosity about Nick Stavros. I asked Yarham to find out all he could in his OPB browsings, and he approached me a few days later with his efforts.
“It’s all a bit past its sell-by date now, Captain, and a lot of the files have gone into the shredder. But the story I’ve picked up from half a dozen sources, and spliced together, is that Stavros was involved in a black bag mission in Washington which went wrong. A member of the public was killed. There was a powerful intervention in the case before any charges were laid – somebody from the Disciples, I don’t know – and our man responsible for the killing, none other than Kershaw, walked free. Stavros went to pieces. He didn’t want to work for this kind of outfit. He might even have threatened to talk. There were internal enquiries and proceedings. He was declared unfit for work on medical grounds, suspended on full pay – and you know the rest.”
“Do you think he could have been murdered, Yarham? I mean this is Washington, not Kabul.”
“Do you remember what Rachel Fernandez said in her induction address to us, sir? We sometimes have to break our own laws. I’d like to say Stavros couldn’t possibly have been killed by our own people, but I can’t.”
“Sally Greengloss and her hypodermic,” I said, remember-ing my fumblings in her medicine cabinet in the middle of the night. Actually, I could accept that Sally Greengloss might be a loyalty examiner for C3, but not that this lightweight slip of a woman could be a part-time executioner of wayward C3 agents.