“I certainly did. His name was Barry Durand, he worked for me once before. He was a geologist. Smart as hell, and dedicated. I thought he was the perfect person to put in the Tengiz oil fields. They are one of the largest in the world, and all of the major countries are trying to gain control. Now he is gone. Someone obviously realized that he worked for us, probably the Russians. It was not just murder Roger. It was a message.”
Emmett’s pipe had gone out some time ago. He paused, and vigorously emptied its dead contents in a nearby ashtray.
“It used to be that agents would never kill another agent, unless they had to,” he continued. It was important to him that the young man knew what the real world was like.
“But, things are changing. New people new protocol. Putin recently said in a press conference in Ukraine that the secret services live by their own laws, and those laws are well known to all secret service co-workers, but I guess that doesn’t apply to other agents—just theirs,” Emmett added sadly.
“I’m very sorry he is gone”, Roger offered as he edged out the door, leaving Emmett alone with his thoughts.
Son of bitch, Emmett swore to himself. What a way for a good man to go. There must have been a fight, Barry was very strong, and would not let someone in his room he did not know.
There is always something terribly sad about the death of an agent. They usually died alone unheralded in some crazy place. No one will ever know what they have done to protect their country. The only recognition they get is a star, among the many, on the wall in the lobby at Langley.
Now he was even more short-handed than before in Kazakhstan. There was only that fellow working as the Commercial Attaché in the American Embassy in Almaty, and Charlie Connelly, of course. But, Christ, what could two people do in the ninth largest country in the world?
What can be done now he wondered? You just have to make do with what you have he guessed. That’s why he was paid the big bucks, he thought to himself with a sardonic laugh.
But my God, was he ever as young as Roger--and as dumb he wondered. Probably, he concluded, but it was different then, no one knew any better. After all, the young man had finished at the top of his class at The Farm at Camp Peary, and that ‘s not easy. It’s just that things were so much different now from when he started.
Emmett glanced at his watch. He had a few more things he wanted to do before leaving for the weekend. Anyway, there was nothing waiting for him at home, other than a small apartment in a resident hotel. It was not always like that, but since his wife died, there was no particular incentive in trading his small office for a lonely apartment. Here, at least, he had the world at his fingertips.
3.
After Roger left for the weekend, Emmett let out a deep sigh. He could barely remember when he was that age. Then some of the old memories began to flicker erratically across the movie screen of his mind. Parachuting into France, working with the underground, and then when his cover was broken, having to be smuggled-out in the hold of a stinking fishing boat.
He blinked his eyes tightly, and shook his head slightly, futilely attempting to prevent the next sequence of events that invariably followed. The recurring mental picture was of him and his Czech associates huddling together in a dank and dirty cellar in the center of Prague. He was attempting to radio Washington to inform them of the calamity that was rapidly and unexpectedly taking place. All the while, on the cobblestone streets above, Russian tanks rumbled menacingly through the city-center, destroying everything and everyone in their path. He could hear them yet.
The Agency had dispatched him there during the “Prague Spring” to set-up an underground cell to impede the Russians should they feel required to crackdown on the increasing liberalization of the local puppet Czech government. Now that the time had arrived, Washington ordered him out. He reluctantly abandoned his friends, and then was extricated to neutral Switzerland before the Russians knew he had been there. He was the only one of his undercover cell to survive, and always regretted what he had done. He vowed to never again abandon his people—and he never did.
Years before, men like Emmett had, perhaps unknowingly, but certainly willingly, denied themselves the advantages of nostalgia that psychologically supported many of their contemporaries. In doing so, they freely devoted their lives to the cult of intelligence in a monastic manner without benefit of a recognized creed or companionship afforded by membership in an established church. However, they did this with few regrets, and it was now far too late to look back.
To stem the tide of even more recollections, he unlocked the top drawer of his desk and removed a file with Secret stamped in block letters on the cover.
His pipe had gone out long ago, and he carefully refilled the bowl before opening the file. He knew he should stop smoking so much but what the hell, it hadn’t killed him yet, and he had faced much worse than tobacco during his long career.
Inside the file was a recent internal report relating to Russia’s strategic approach to its former Soviet Republics. It was disquieting to say the least, but held no great surprises for Emmett. Reading further, he found the report merely confirmed his previous suspicions. With the break-up of the Soviet Union, Russia struggled with its own economy that had been previously stimulated solely by the enforced productivity of its former satellites. Once these countries were no longer under Soviet control, it was critical for the Politburo to concentrate on its own economy. They privatized their local industries and began selling them off to a select group of oligarchs. These men took full advantage of the profit motive to run their former enterprises far more effectively than they ever did in their previous apparatchik role. One of the most improved sectors was the previously inefficiently run oil industry. Fortunately, at the same time, the global price of crude began to skyrocket enabling Russia to replenish its once empty treasury, and eventually become a more powerful player on the international scene.
Almost simultaneously, the United States had concentrated its efforts on the Mideast to the exclusion of its other less pressing, interests in the breakaway republics. Russia was more than willing to fill this void, all the while benefitting from the global financial crisis.
As he read, smoke billowed from his ancient Meerschaum, rapidly filling the small office with its noxious odor that to Emmett seemed highly aromatic.
Putin was now using the country’s expanding financial resources to strengthen ties with Germany, France, Italy and Spain. As a result, these countries were becoming Russia’s closest partners in Europe. At the same time, Russia was actively, and often clandestinely, acquiring industrial and energy assets in the Baltic’s, Belarus, Ukraine, and Central Asia.
Emmett had read enough. It was the same old stuff, torn right out of their cold war playbook he remembered so well. Closing the file, he carefully returned the classified document to his desk, and carefully spun the lock.
What he read was upsetting, but he was still glad to be back. There really isn’t a hell of a lot a retired spy can do to remain active. He can’t go to work for another country. If he did that he would be sure to end up in some gutter with a bullet in his head, either from his outfit or some other. A few of them write books, but that was not the type of thing that appealed to a man like Emmett. He knew of a few old spies (he even hated to think that term) who were consulting for the private sector, but he knew too many secrets for the Agency to be comfortable with that. Overall, he thought it was good to be back, up to his neck in the same old crap.
The music had stopped some time ago. He searched through his collection of CDs and found what he was looking for. It was Yo Yo Ma’s Silk Road Suite. He listened intently for several minutes before reaching for the phone. After first setting the scrambler, he entered a familiar number. A curt response from late-night Vienna quickly followed.
“Hello Emmett, how goes the battle?”
“Badly Vincent, sometimes I fear the dragon is devouring the knights.”
Vincent St. Clair was now head of the Glo
bal Bank Corp in Vienna. He and Emmett had worked together years ago when they were both young; Vincent with the British MI6 and Emmett the CIA man in London and acting as liaison with the vastly more experienced English intelligence agency.
Many years later, at the continued urging of his wife, Vincent had agreed to hang-up his cloak and sheath his dagger. He then relied on the vast international knowledge and many contacts he had developed through the years to become an investment banker, quickly rising to the top of the international development efforts at the powerful GBC.
Through the passing years, the two men kept in close contact. They had much in common. Both had lived and thrived on a secret life that on the surface never existed and remained shrouded in shadows. In spite of their continued sacrifices, they both remained fascinated by the intricacies of the black science of foreign intrigue that was the hallmark of their profession.
They also loved their respective countries, but were still able to acknowledge their own nation’s political shortcomings without becoming disillusioned and cynical. The two aging cold warriors had both lost their wives of many years. Without this connection, combined with the critical nature of their jobs, they gradually grew apart from their children. They now filled the resulting void by devoting their entire attention to the daily demands of their individual professions. Tied together by the bonds of friendship and shared experiences more tightly than any organizational allegiance could ever establish, they often relied on each other’s assistance to accomplish what they might be unable to do under the constraints of a slow moving and traditional bureaucracy.
Normally, the CIA will use the State Department’s foreign embassy staffs, or the Department of Commerce’s trade missions, to establish cover for their agents. While convenient, this can often present problems since foreign government officials can more readily identify the agents and monitor their activities. In contrast, a representative of a nongovernmental development organization such as the Global Bank Corp is far less likely to draw a foreign government’s attention.
Most recently, because of their close personal ties, Vincent was occasionally willing to ignore the usual NGO policy of avoiding any perceived association with national intelligence agencies. The two covertly worked together to provide a legend for some of the Agency’s unofficial representatives. Earlier, this association was the basis for the assignment of Charlie Connelly in Ukraine, and it was now the reason the Global Bank Corp. employed him for the project in Kazakhstan.
“I take it,” Vincent observed wryly “that your Operation Silk Road is not exactly progressing as you wished.”
“Not exactly is an understatement. One of the problems working off the books for the CIA is that you have access to very limited resources. Congress is currently budgeting around $80 billion for intelligence, and I have limited resources. My most scarce resource is manpower. I have a new hire working for me straight out of the Ivy League. His only exposure to the Agency was during the recruit training program at Camp Peary.
I have two more people in Kyrgyzstan who are busy trying to keep their heads down while the revolt there is taking place. Besides Charlie, I had two more men in Kazakhstan. Now, damn it, we just heard that the one who was working undercover in the oil fields was found in his hotel room with his throat cut.
“I am sure that somehow his death will be eventually traced back to the Russians. Dear old Vladimir continues to see Central Asia as his god-given stomping grounds. Now he is in a better position to use his petroleum resources to buy his way back in control of the region. However, Russia’s new intelligence organization seems unwilling to rely on just economic power.
“The FBI recently broke-up a ring of eleven Russian spies here in the U.S. They were apparently operating out of Moscow Center and were living under “deep cover” in a sleeper cell with tentacles reaching up and down our entire East Coast. It turned out that, along with obtaining research on nuclear “bunker buster” bombs, they also wanted to acquire information on the Administration’s real policy toward Central Asia. It appears, they couldn’t believe what they saw us doing in the area actually reflected our real policy.”
Vincent interrupted, “I even read about that over here in the European press. It was big news. The Agency can’t be too happy to learn that what the Russians are seeing on the surface is just too simple to be believed.”
“On top of that,” Emmett added slouching further in his chair, ”after we generously sent their operatives back to Russia, Putin embarrassed us even more by awarding all of them the Russian Medal of Honor. Hell, one of them even got her own reality show.”
“The one with the...ah…ah,”
“Yes, yes, that’s the one,” Emmett snapped. Her code name was chesty for obvious reasons.
Why the hell did you ever send them back?” Vincent inquired incredulously.
“Beats the hell out of me old friend,” Emmett exclaimed waving his hand in the air. “It seems that we want to be loved rather than feared.
“Neither you nor I would have ever done that, but it’s a totally new generation here. Unfortunately, our desire for friendship doesn’t seem to be widely shared. We have the Russians trying to reassert control over Central Asia. The Chinese are relentless in their view of the area as part of their original domain, as well as an important source of necessary gas and mineral resources. Then, of course, the US and NATO continue to need the region as a supply route to reduce the exposure of their convoys coming over the Khyber Pass on their way to Afghanistan.
“Other than that, Vincent old chum, everything is progressing just seamlessly. Thanks so much for asking,” Emmett added in a voice tinged with sarcasm.
“In our business, as you well know”, Vincent reminded him “you learn early on that nothing is what it seems on the surface. Perhaps your country’s strategy of benign neglect is not as incomprehensible as it appears to the Russians—and to you.
“Is Charlie traveling heavy?” Vincent asked changing the subject
“I hope to God you’re right regarding our policy. On Charlie, I just don’t know. Bringing a gun to a knife fight is the Chicago way, and Charlie lives in Chicago. So maybe he is, but I doubt it. If necessary, could you possibly get something to him Vincent?”
“No way! I can’t compromise my own people that way. Did you ever think you may be getting a little too old for this type of thing?” Vincent chided his old friend,
“Constantly, but discarding any semblance of humility, you and I both know that I am the most knowledgeable cold warrior they have available. I used to eat and breathe fighting Russia. After we won, the others either died or became consultants, so I am the best they have. Now, I desperately need time to get more agents into the field, and I can’t do that without being able to point to some tangible successes. That’s why I am grateful to you, Vincent old boy, helping me get Charlie somewhere operable. He is competent, as you well know--this is not his first rodeo, and since he is on the GBC payroll, he is cheap. You can’t beat that combination in my type of work. That’s why I wanted to call to thank you for your help.”
Vincent gave up trying to figure out Emmett’s “rodeo” reference, probably some obscure American colloquialism. He wasn’t completely sure what he had meant about the “Chicago way” either. Sometimes he thought that the Americans had a language all of their own, but decided it was far too late at night to pursue the subject any further.
“Glad to help old man. If you are successful, both the Agency and our bank will benefit. Actually, I really have nothing at risk. If Charlie screws up there is an adequate basis for plausible deniability to cover my old ass. You might have a small problem, but that comes with the territory. Of course, if that happens you can always cut him loose, and see if he can operate on his own. We have both had to do that before.”
There was no response from Emmett, so Vincent closed the conversation with “Good night my friend, and have a good weekend.”
The line went dead. Emmett’s music had finished se
veral minutes earlier. He replaced the receiver and turned off his stereo. Staring glumly around the office he finally decided there was no reasonable alternative but to go home. He called the Marine guard at the gate to order his car.
Before Emmett could make it to the door, a red light flashed on his desk, and his phone emitted a light hum indicating a scrambled overseas call was coming through. He returned to his desk quite quickly for a man his age.
“What?”what?" he asked briskly. “There is no one else? You are sure. Then I will have to,” he told the caller sadly. “I don’t even know his ex-wife. I am not sure she is even aware that her husband was with the Agency. They often don’t know. However, she deserves to learn that he died a patriot. It’s just that after all of these years I have never been very good at notifying someone their loved one has lost their life in the service of their country.”
Death on the Silk Road Page 3
