by Todd Turner
Derrick’s other call could have dire consequences on his career; it would blow protocol and chain of command to hell. Yet contacting Craig Stout was precisely what his gut told him. Scrolling through his phone, he found the email address Craig had given him when he’d attended a special training course at the CIA’s “Farm” the previous summer.
June 25, 15:42 EDT
Washington, D.C.
There is nothing like the bureaucracy of Washington, D.C., to mire the progress of anything.
“I swear to God this place is a black hole where time and decisions go to die a slow death. What should take a few minutes for a person of action takes an eternity in this city,” proclaimed an exasperated Craig Stout as he exited the committee room of the Capitol Building.
This was exactly like every other briefing by the Subcommittee on Terrorism/HUMINT, Analysis and Counterintelligence, the congressional committee charged with oversight of the nation’s sixteen intelligence operations. Even though Craig wasn’t a ranking director for any of these agencies, he was frequently asked to provide a picture of what he was experiencing in the field, an unfiltered analysis of threat and assessment.
Craig always felt these sessions were a waste of time. No one in Congress had a clue about just how ugly the world of intelligence is, nor would they have the stomach for it if they did. They thought politics was brutal; hah! Unlike politics, his business didn’t involve swaying to the whims of the public. He preferred to have a direction and stick to it—well aware this dog-headedness was both asset and liability.
The president himself had instigated Craig’s involvement in these briefings. Both the committee and Craig were less than enthusiastic supporters of that idea, which matters little when the request comes from the Oval Office. As for Craig, he went along as a favor to a friend.
Craig realized president John Barton had won office in an extremely tight election: the third such event in two decades; and without a mandate, the president is something of a lame duck going into office—especially when partisans on the other side of the aisle will do and say anything to stymie progress. Craig suspected nothing was lost on Barton, who, with such a keen intellect and an amazing ability to read between the lines, probably would have been better suited as the director of the CIA.
◆◆◆
John Barton hadn’t spent decades in political life before becoming president. As a one-and-a-half-term governor of Colorado and erstwhile mayor of Colorado Springs, he’d been anything but a shoo-in for president. His lack of political experience and his direct, Western approach to addressing the issues, though, made him particularly appealing to a wide swath of the electorate. In many ways, he was an intellectual Democratic version of George W. Bush, who had won on his affable good ol’ boy demeanor. Bush’s two terms had left the country with no shortage of enemies around the world.
One of the president’s two sons, Scott, had been friends with Craig Stout since Craig and his family had moved to Colorado Springs when he was in junior high. Scott and Craig immediately hit it off and began spending most of their free time together. Biking, hiking, kayaking, camping, fishing, snowboarding, they were outdoor enthusiasts seizing every opportunity to be outside.
There were additional reasons for this type of activity aside from the fact they both enjoyed the outdoors so much. Being away from the prying eyes of their respective families also gave them the opportunity to explore their intimate feelings for each other. They felt their families would never understand; and even at a young age, they were astute enough to understand the value of “keeping the peace.”
Being gay wasn’t something either of them accepted with ease. They both resisted their desires and fought against their feelings. Scott’s family was always progressive thinking. His parents had gay friends, and gay couples, men and women, were in his life and around him since his childhood. For Scott, there was no barrier to believing that two men or two women could love each other. He feared, though, what his peers would think of him. His desire to be accepted among them was important to Scott—that is, until Craig convinced him their classmates had even less of a clue about what was important to their future lives than they did.
As for Craig, accepting he was gay would take another decade. It would require undoing and redefining instilled perceptions of manhood and what manly behavior was. Ideas ingrained in his psyche from careless comments made over the years by his cement contractor father would make him feel that being gay was not just wrong but degrading.
After high school, both decided to pursue their own paths, especially when it came to college. They, Craig more than Scott, foolishly thought the physical separation might somehow prove they were just infatuated kids and would outgrow their desires.
November 8, 2006
Los Angeles, CA
A phone ringing in the middle of the night is never good news, even in a frat house, where activity doesn’t necessarily end at what mature people consider a civilized hour. Four a.m., though, is late even for hormone-driven youth with inhibitions numbed by alcohol to be calling their buds, totally incognizant of the time.
It was such a call, on this November night, unusually warm as a result of the gusty Santa Ana winds, that would forever change the course of Craig’s life. Through the muddled fog of sleep, Craig identified a deep gravelly voice that said he was with the Arizona Highway Patrol. Craig recalled initially being annoyed, having been awakened and failing to find the context of why this guy might be calling. After all, he was in California, and couldn’t think of why the Arizona Highway Patrol would be calling him.
Just as the cobwebs were beginning to clear, his heart skipped when he remembered his parents were driving from Colorado to visit. The official-sounding voice asked, “Is this Craig Stout? Are you the son of Richard and Nancy Stout?”
Craig had a feeling of dread so intense it produced a terror that began at his throat and spread rapidly down to his gut and swept over him, sending a cold sweat down his spine completely at odds with the warmth of the night. He swallowed the lump in his throat and responded, “Yes, sir.”
After a pause the officer continued. “Mr. Stout, this is Major Tom Reynolds. Your parents were involved in an accident on the scenic route between Flagstaff and Sedona, in Oak Creek Canyon. It would seem that a car traveling the other direction was in their lane as your parents rounded a turn. It looks like your father swerved to avoid a collision, but lost control of the vehicle. There is no easy way to say this. Their motor home went through the guardrail and down the ravine. It took rescue teams a little over two hours to reach the wreckage . . . I’m sorry. Your parents are deceased. There was nothing anyone could do.”
That conversation would play out like a sickening movie in his mind over the years, like a dream, just a vague collection of memories. This was how Craig Stout learned he had become an orphan—not as one begging for a bowl of porridge, but as an only child, for the first time in his life, well and truly alone. The panic and ensuing sorrow gave him two epiphanies: that this horrible feeling of sinking into darkness is reserved solely for those whom the deceased leave behind; and that recognizing this fear for what it is allowed him to get control of that feeling. He now knew death was nothing to fear. It is living that is difficult and at times almost unbearably painful—and at the same time, paradoxically, beautiful.
November 12, 2006
Denver, Colorado
The memorial was awkward. Craig and his grandparents (on his mother’s side), and his dad’s brother, Uncle Bill, were the sole survivors. Uncle Bill took over planning the service and reception, leveraging the Stouts’ relationship with the governor, and the service was held at St. Paul Lutheran Church, one block north of the capitol building in downtown Denver. Governor Barton, along with his wife, Elizabeth, and their sons Trent and Scott were there, sitting in the second pew behind the family. Craig hadn’t seen Scott in a little over two years, and while they still talked on the phone and exchanged email, even that had dwindled in the past se
veral months.
When Craig proceeded into the chapel to take his place in the first pew, he saw Scott standing in the row behind; now he knew he would make it through the day. He couldn’t manage a smile, but Scott could tell from his calmer expression that Craig was pleased to see him. As Craig sat, Scott reached forward and gave Craig’s shoulder a firm squeeze. The soft “Thank you,” whispered in a sigh, was a clear signal that the gesture was very much appreciated.
What followed, for Craig, was a blur. Walking away seemed surreal. What, I just leave them here? was all he could think as he moved from the grave toward the limo, anxious and yet reticent to leave.
The governor had offered the governor’s mansion for the reception. Even though Craig always suspected Scott’s father knew—or at least had a suspicion of the true nature of his friendship with his son—it was clear that the man who would become president had a sense that Craig was in some way good for his son.
Scott, for his part, never had the kind of love-hate relationship so prevalent with political families, partly because his dad hadn’t planned to enter politics. He was a businessman—and a damn good one—one of the few CEOs who had the respect and admiration of employees and stockholders alike.
The Colorado Democratic Party recruited him specifically to run for governor against a Republican incumbent. He genuinely thought they all had lost their marbles. Turns out that the party had a wildcard up their sleeve, a piece of dirt that would bury the opponent. They could have run a chimpanzee and won with the dirty bomb they had.
Had Barton ever known of the plan, he would have had nothing to do with it. Once elected, though, he decided to do what he could to spearhead cleaning up the electoral process, at least in the state of Colorado.
Scott’s respect for his father, at a level of maturity uncommon at his age, is what kept him from feeling the need to have his relationship with Craig acknowledged by his dad. That and the minor detail that he never honestly knew what the hell the relationship was to begin with. Scott and Craig were friends, and yes, they had been intimate, but he never considered Craig a boyfriend, mostly because he feared his true feeling would ultimately be unrequited.
They trusted each other. They were in many ways more like brothers in the way they felt, except for, of course, those times they were intimate. Even then, it was the time afterward, when they were completely relaxed and calm, that they shared their greatest fears, and also their greatest hopes. That pillow talk is always when they felt closest.
This unspoken acceptance of the relationship kept things on an even keel. While both young men knew they couldn’t have the live-in relationship most couples assume, they also managed to convince themselves that neither wanted that, at least not yet.
During the reception, the governor approached and asked Craig if he could have a chat with him in his office down the hall. Walking into the office, Craig noticed a man in one of the brown leather club chairs. Barton’s office looked more like a gentlemen’s club, or a dark cigar bar. It exuded masculinity, with its deep, rich colors, heavy furniture and thick rugs; a great place for men to bond. Governor Barton said, “Craig, I’d like you to meet Mr. Pecone. He’s with the CIA.”
◆◆◆
What Craig didn’t learn until later was that Pecone was the CIA’s most successful recruiter. For the past two years Pecone had been stalking Craig, his dream recruit. Pecone saw Craig as a vital, intelligent, physical man with secrets and the deep-seated need to prove something, in no small part because of those secrets.
So, Pecone convinced the governor to arrange the introduction. Barton was so appalled and disgusted with the timing (he called it “piss-poor judgment” to do it at the funeral) that he wanted no part and made that clear by leaving the room.
Craig later learned that with a track record of finding not just officers but the most talented operatives in the agency’s roster, golden was the term used to describe any of Pecone’s recruits at the CIA’s training facility, affectionately called “the farm.”
Pecone’s fame was such that he was even portrayed in Hollywood films, much to the chagrin of the CIA, an organization that zealously guards its secrecy. One of several agency recruiters, Pecone was, in terms of numbers, the lowest producer of trainees. He preferred to research his recruits, know their character faults and what made them tick, and most especially, what vulnerabilities could be leveraged and manipulated by the agency.
His recruits were usually singled out for worse treatment at the CIA’s not-so-secret training camp nestled in the Virginia woods. In a high-stakes version of internecine politics, camp trainers felt it necessary to break one of Pecone’s special recruits, as a way to show him up. And it all occurred, of course, behind the backs of those responsible for the camp’s operation. In a twisted irony it was precisely this treatment that made Pecone’s officers the success they were.
Pecone called himself a people reader but not in some supernatural way; rather, he could pick up on subtle clues, the ones most people can’t see. Pecone was intensely proud of his ability to learn a few basic facts, then see into a person’s soul: to know unerringly what made that person tick. Of course, there weren’t many whom Pecone would call friends. Most found his unique abilities disarming and downright spooky, not to mention invasive and annoying. His talent was great for recruiting spooks, but not so much for a social life.
Craig’s being gay was, of course, the secret. Pecone saw that as both a liability and an asset: while he could keep a secret—clearly an asset—the liability was that Craig also had something to prove. As a young man growing up gay in Colorado, no doubt he would be insecure and feel conflicted about the expectations of who he was supposed to be. Yeah, that could be used.
Pecone could tell that Craig’s intelligence was far beyond what standard tests show even though his methods are not recognized and established. Sure, he’d received good grades all through school, but anyone who applied himself can do that. Study the material given. Take the test on the material given, and voila! You’re a 4.0 student.
The intelligence needed to be a good operative, however, is demonstrated by a person’s ability to reason, and discover the story out of pieces of information, and develop assessments based on observations and logic, not just an ability to remember facts. Tests had been developed to measure these abilities as well, but Pecone didn’t need a test. He could see it, and Craig had it.
Pecone didn’t try to make friends with new recruits and then spring on them this idea of an incredible opportunity. His approach was more direct. He asked Craig straight out, “Don’t you want to do something with your life?”
Craig stood there in shock, feeling both insulted and called out; mostly, though, he was disquieted by the fact that Mr. Pecone was right. He didn’t feel that he was doing anything important with his life.
◆◆◆
Had Craig known then what he later learned, he’d understand that recruiters for secretive government agencies tend to focus on introducing the idea of “contributing” to the nation at a time when their recruits are most vulnerable emotionally. That includes as well right after an attack, as on September 11. When that went down, hundreds of people rushed into recruiting offices desperately wanting to “do something.”
Pecone (if that was even his name, which Craig thought doubtful) started by expressing his deep-felt condolences for Craig’s loss.
“I know you are feeling a bit lost at sea, both literally and figuratively. A loss like you’ve just encountered shakes the very foundation of your life. You no longer feel grounded. I am deeply sorry.”
Craig was taken aback. He’d heard at least a hundred condolences over the last few days but nothing like that. He quietly responded with a thank you and then awkwardness, as he couldn’t understand who this stranger was or why he was here.
Recruitment candidates—that is, if they are worth two bits—will always view the gregarious approach of a stranger with suspicion. People don’t just express an interest in you and
your life without wanting something. Craig would give Pecone that what the hell do you want? look, and though Craig couldn’t have known it, Pecone wasn’t disappointed.
When the recruiter invited Craig out for a drink, he could smell the suspicion.
“Let me explain,” said Pecone. “I want to pitch you something. An offer, actually.”
Ever the skeptic and always slow to lower his guard, Craig’s “Yeah, really?” wasn’t so much disrespectful as it was closed off. He wasn’t much for letting people through his barriers these days.
Pecone’s humph was his only answer. It meant, “Yeah, I know you want to close yourself off from everyone right now, but you’ll soon realize if you keep wallowing in self-pity the rut you’ve put yourself in.” The message wasn’t lost.
“Sorry … I’m just impatient and a little distrustful these days. What’s the offer?”
Deciding on the spot, Pecone came right out and told him. “I am a recruiter for the CIA, and not to be boastful, but my officers are some of the best the agency has. They’re all going high places.”
“Sounds exciting and interesting, but I’ve never thought of myself as James Bond or anyone like him, and when it comes to living under the confines of military like discipline, that’s definitely not my style.”
“I wish I could promise you the adventure-packed thrill of being James Bond. The problem is, he’s a fictional character. Being an operative, especially in this day and age, is neither romantic nor exciting. It’s terror-filled and messy.”
