The Aegis Conspiracy: A Novel. Galen Winter

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