The Aegis Conspiracy

by Galen Winter

  Den ran through the kitchen and into the living room. It was empty. The front door of the cottage was open. One of the bedroom doors was also open. Den looked at the front door and then at the bedroom. Someone standing inside it would have a clear view of anyone leaving the cottage. Instead of running to the front door, Den looked inside the bedroom. He quickly pulled his head back.

  As he suspected, Humberto del Valle was standing in the shadows at the side of the bed. He was pointing a Tokarev automatic at the open front door. Screaming “hijo de puta” he fired twice at Den’s disappearing head. Den again appeared and fired back.

  The bullet hit del Valle in the chest and knocked him back against the wall. The Tokarev fell from his hand. Del Valle’s blood stained the wall as he slid to the floor.

  There were no nearby houses and there were many pine trees in the surrounding forest to muffle the sounds of the gunfire. Though the chances of someone finding him at the scene were small, Den quickly left the area. A difficult two mile cross country hike brought him to a rural road where he had hidden his rented automobile.

  The sun had set when he arrived in Santiago. Twenty four hours later, he was in the Arturo Merino Benitez Airport, awaiting his flight back to the United States. Den had operated quickly and silently.

  Teddy listened to Den’s report with few interruptions. When it was finished, he showed no interest in the man whose murder he had planned. He asked only one question. “How did you explain your absences to the guys at the station?”

  “I told them I was going fishing or sightseeing” Den answered. “There were a lot of good excuses for two and three day excursions. I even went fishing a few times - in the line of duty of course.” Both Den and Teddy smiled. “To establish my bona fides, I gave a mess of trout to the people in the car rental Agency.”

  “Good enough,” Teddy said. “Did they buy it? Do you think anyone at the Station has an inkling of what you were up to?”

  “I don’t think so. As far as they were concerned, I was clipping newspaper stories, attending embassy parties, meeting the important and nearly important locals and sending reports, observations and gossip to Langley once every week - all standard work. On my own time I was fishing and sightseeing. I didn’t see or hear a thing to suggest anyone may have suspected the other mission.”

  “I know it was a tough assignment, Den. You came through it with flying colors. One of the truly unfortunate aspects of our job is the fact that successes aren’t acknowledged. A few of us know the important work you have performed. You didn’t fail us. I wish I could do more for you.”

  Teddy left the couch and returned to his desk. He opened the middle drawer and removed a thick envelope. “Here’s some walking around money and a ticket to Bozeman.” He smiled when he added: “It’s first class and it’s an aisle seat. There’ll be a car waiting for you at Hertz and I’ve booked a week at one of the best fishing lodges on the Madison River. This isn’t a lot, but it will give you a hint about how much we all appreciate your work.”

  Dealing with the news of Mick McCarthy’s death had to be postponed during Den’s report to Teddy Smith. Now it forced its way to center stage. Surely Teddy could answer his question. “I hope you appreciate me enough to give me some information.” He didn’t wait for any response. He asked: “How did Mick McCarthy die?”

  Teddy Smith’s face remained expressionless. It didn’t betray his immediate reaction to Den’s questions. “Why does he ask? What does he know?” With equal speed, Teddy divined the answers to his questions. “It was Den who recommended we get McCarthy into the Agency. They had to be friends from back in their SEAL days. Den Clark doesn’t suspect a thing. How could he? This is nothing more than natural curiosity.”

  “There’s not much to tell. It was Agent McCarthy’s first assignment. I think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hadn’t been in Damascus for more than a few days. He and another agent got ambushed. I’d guess one of those crazy Palestinian groups may have discovered the other agent’s identity and tried to engineer a kidnapping. Hold him for ransom and get publicity - their usual procedure. Our guys fought them off, but McCarthy was wounded and died before he could get help.”

  Teddy leaned back and watched for any sign that would tell him Den might suspect what had really happened. He saw none, but, after Den left his office, he experienced an uneasy feeling. Teddy decided to warn Jake Jacobson. “I think Jake should get a heads-up on this one,” he thought

  Jake Jacobson was in grade school in Massachusetts when he earned the nickname “Weasel”. He was a small kid with glasses and braces and big ears. Jake was never able to develop any close friendships. He was always the last one picked when the boys chose sides for sandlot baseball. With the cruelty common in children, the boys in his neighborhood picked on him and laughed at him. He was the butt of their jokes.

  Young Jake reacted by becoming introspective. He satisfied his ego by dreaming of revenges that were never acted out. As he matured, he found he could build his self-image by detracting from others. He took delight in ridicule and sarcasm.

  Later, at the university, he enjoyed publicly criticizing fellow students, corrosively exposing any weakness he could uncover. His sarcasm goaded a few of them into hitting him. When confronted, Jake’s immediate and unvarying response was to run. He was widely disliked.

  Jake’s had an excellent academic record, but his post-college employments always ended abruptly. He alienated his immediate superiors as well as those who worked with him. The personnel manager who fired him from his third job suggested he might try government work where, he believed, discharge because of personality defects was rare. Jake was hired by the Central Intelligence Agency.

  During indoctrination and initial preparatory assignments, Jake succeeded in keeping his assessments of his associates to himself. He had learned that open antagonism to others produced an equal and opposite antagonism toward him - a condition which not uncommonly resulted in being fired. While in Washington, Jake Jacobson developed the reputation of being a loner, smart enough, but not at all friendly.

  His first off-shore post was Damascus, where he quickly concluded the station chief was an imbecile and his associates uniformly moronic. He began looking for some scheme that would show his obvious superiority and result in promotion from the field and back to Langley.

  When he was called back to Washington after his failed attempt at bribery caused the death of Agent Mick McCarthy, Jake knew he would again be fired. He intended to defend his actions. He’d fight back, but he knew he wouldn’t get a fair hearing. The old timers would hang together, although, certainly, they must have long ago recognized the incompetence of that old fool, Henry Putman.

  If it hadn’t been for Gigi Grant, the nosey little bitch, he could have blamed everything on that big, dumb ox, Mick McCarthy. But she had seen through him. McCarthy hadn’t been in Syria when Jake took the money from the Agency’s concealed account.

  Jake tried to reason with Grant. After all he was just trying to do some good work for the Station and the Agency. The Agency got the money back. Who would be hurt if his “misstep” wasn’t mentioned in her report? But, no, she wouldn’t listen to common sense. There was nothing he could do about it right now. He had to satisfy himself by promising to get back at her someday.

  To Jake’s surprise, he wasn’t called on the carpet. He didn’t have to defend his actions. No one mentioned his Syrian “misstep”. He was re-assigned to the CIA’s Directorate of Operations. At first Jake could not believe his good fortune. He believed it had to be a trick. The scenarios he developed to explain the reason for the pleasant treatment he received at Langley reflected his innate paranoia.

  Perhaps the CIA didn’t want to fire him immediately for fear of some newsman uncovering his failed bribery and learn the facts surrounding the death of Mick McCarthy. Perhaps they would keep him in the Agency until the Damascus matter was obscured by the mists of time. Then, in a year of so, they would sack him.


  Jake produced an even deadlier scenario. Perhaps the CIA couldn’t run any risk of his Damascus debacle becoming known. Perhaps they intended to insure against any such possibility by waiting for a year or so and then killing him. That is what he would propose if he were in their shoes.

  Teddy Smith dispelled Jake’s fears when he invited him into the Aegis group. Jake was a willing recruit. He was more than comfortable in his conspiratorial assignments. He reveled in it. What Jake thought would be the end of his CIA career turned out to be his ticket to a position of higher responsibility.

  He was promoted and given a post in the sensitive area of planning covert operations. Jake had a position in the Project Branch of the Clandestine Service. His boss was Teddy Smith. For the first time in his career, Jake Jacobson had a boss who protected him.

  Most of the other people in the Project Branch had an idea of what Jake did. He designed programs to further the development of foreign intelligence. No one knew he served additional undisclosed functions. Jake was the man Teddy Smith called upon whenever he faced a special problem requiring an extra degree of duplicity and deception. He also called on him when he needed to surreptitiously insinuate an Aegis assassination into some project already approved by the Directorate of Operations.

  Teddy knew Jake had an IQ substantially above the national average. He suspected Jake would enjoy the intrigue involved in fulfilling the requirements of Teddy’s special Aegis assignments. It didn’t take Teddy long to confirm his suspicion.

  Of course, Teddy also knew Jake was woefully deficient in the personality department. Jake’s many detractors in the Projects Branch couldn’t bring themselves to admit how bright he was. They preferred to characterize his intelligence as a kind of well-developed, animal cunning.

  Jake soon established a reputation as a ruthless office politician. If Jacobson didn’t like an associate, that man could expect trouble. Jake Jacobson was both hated and feared by the people who worked with him. Being hated didn’t bother Jake. Being feared pleased him.

  The more he was feared, the more he could intimidate others and the higher his self-esteem. Jake’s ego blossomed. He had power and he enjoyed the protection of Teddy Smith. He thought no one would dare to challenge him.

  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.”