by Galen Winter
Den asked no questions. He knew Ferdie Robbins would tell only what he wanted to tell and not another single syllable. Ferdie appreciated the silence. He didn’t want cross-examination. Any cross examination could become very dangerous. The mere fact that someone had asked questions of him was dangerous. It could ruin his future in the Agency. If he answered any of those questions, he might, inadvertently, give away some terribly important Agency secret.
After a moment, Ferdie looked up from the soft drink he had been nervously studying. “He’s sucked up to Teddy Smith something fierce,” he said. “He even took an apartment close to him so he could jog with him. Teddy relies on him. Jake is as powerful as he is pompous. He can get you transferred to the backwoods of Ecuador. He can get you fired. Behind his back he’s called ‘that asshole’, and for good reason. The man is dangerous.”
Ferdie again looked down at his Coca Cola and tried to find a way to tell Den what he suspected had really happened to Mick McCarthy. “You’ve read the file, I suppose?”
Den nodded his head. “It doesn’t say much. Mick and I were friends - good friends. I want to know what happened and there’s nothing in the file that will help me.”
This time it was Ferdie who nodded in agreement. He waited a few seconds and then said: “Well, I’d like to help you, but that’s all I know.” He looked around to be sure no one was eavesdropping and slid out from behind the booth table. “Thanks for the drink. I’ve got to go now.” As he put on his overcoat, he tried to casually change the subject.
“I suppose you don’t know any of the people in the Damascus Station? They’re a nice bunch. I just finished moving one of them back to the States. She’s being re-assigned. Her name is G. G. Grant. She’s at the Four Points Sheraton right now.” Ferdie scrunched his head down into the protection of his upturned coat collar and walked toward the lounge’s door. Without looking back at Den, he added: “Room 310.”
“Gigi!” Den thought. “She’s here! She’s back in Washington.” Den’s looks and actions did not betray the feelings he had unsuccessfully tried to deny since he and Gigi went their separate ways. Those feelings were filed away in his memory, but never far from the surface where they could make fleeting re-appearances. They often came to him during those early morning seconds when the mind hovers briefly between consciousness and sleep.
Den’s memories of Gigi again emerged from their partial exile. Again they commanded his attention. “Gigi!” he repeated. “She’s here.”
Den left his unfinished Scotch and water, dropped a ten on the table and walked to the lounge’s bank of telephones. He called the Four Points Sheraton and asked for a connection with room 310. He hoped Gigi hadn’t left for dinner and was relieved when he heard her voice.
“Hello, hon, this is Den.”
“Den! For God’s sakes, where are you?”
“I’m here in Washington and I want to see you.”
Gigi paused before answering. She was not in one of her better moods. Being brought back to Langley for re-assignment often signaled an opportunity for advancement, but she knew her recall meant the end of her Central Intelligence Agency career. She knew she had incurred the displeasure of the “powers that be” in Langley. Her investigation of the death of Agent McCarthy had stepped on someone’s toes.
“I’d love to see you again,” she told him, “but I’ll warn you, I don’t think I’ll be very good company.”
“What’s wrong, hon? Can I help?”
“No. Nobody can help. Thanks, anyway. Don’t worry. It isn’t the end of the world.”
Den knew Gigi was worried. It wasn’t only the words she had spoken. Her voice was flat, even a bit sad.
“You’ll survive, hon,” he said, attempting reassurance. “We’re both survivors. We can handle anything. I’ll be over in twenty minutes. Have you eaten?”
“Yes.”
“Then we’ll talk.”
“I’d like that.”
Den hung the phone. Gigi might be able to tell him what happened to Mick, but she sounded like she had her own problems, problems causing her to speak in short sentences, volunteering little and devoid of her usual, almost lilting effervescence. He didn’t know the reason for her uncharacteristic depression. Whatever it was, Gigi’s tone made it sound serious and Den knew it was no time for her to be alone.
He also knew it was no time for him to question her about Mick. Den would defer his interest in what happened to his friend. Gigi needed cheering up and he would give her the sympathetic support she needed. Den left the lounge, hailed a taxi and made his way the Four Points Sheraton.
Since receiving notice of recall to Langley, Gigi had to face the reality of closing what turned out to be an unpleasant chapter of her life. She had expected so much from her career in the CIA. Now, her disillusion dismayed her. Alone in her room at the Sheraton, again and again she went over the sanitizing of her investigation of Jake Jacobson and the punishment she was suffering because she told the truth. She had lost two years of her life. Damn Jake Jacobson, Damn Henry Putnam. Damn the CIA.
Two emotions fought for ascendancy within her. She felt the frustration of being victimized by office politics, the frustration of being penalized because she had been right. She also felt the helplessness of being unable to defend herself. Her thoughts swung back and forth between the anger born of her frustration and the depression that came from the realization of her inability to do anything about it. She couldn’t fight the bureaucracy.
Den’s call lifted her spirits. If there ever was a time when a lady needed a friend, this was it. She knew Den Clark was, indeed, a friend. He had been much more than a friend. She was transported back to their days together in the Sherman Kent School for Intelligence Analysis. It was more than fun. They had shared their lives, honestly and completely.
When Gigi heard the knock on her door, the lingering feeling of isolation - of being alone - left her. The sense of relief she felt when she answered the phone and recognized Den’s voice returned to her. She hoped Den hadn’t changed. She hoped he was still the man she knew so well at the Kent School. She needed more than just a friend. She needed someone to hold her.
When Gigi opened the door, Den saw the pretty woman who had attracted him in that cafeteria two years earlier, but her smile seemed to be a bit tentative. Den thought she showed signs of stress. He wondered if she had changed. He wondered if she had moved on with her life. He wondered if she was the same woman who shared his life at the Kent School. He hoped so.
At first, they spoke in short impersonal sentences. Den said she looked great. She said he did, too. Could he come in? Yes, of course. Sit. Make yourself at home. Good to see you again. You too. Then, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Den removed any reason for further embarrassment. He wasted no time. “What’s wrong, hon. I’m someone who loves you. Remember me? I’m on your side. You can talk to me.”
Gigi was reassured. This was the Den she knew. He could always read her moods. His sympathy was never false. He was more than a once-upon-a-time lover. He was her most intimate friend. She knew she could trust him.
Gigi wanted someone to know how Jacobson stole money from a CIA account and tried to use it to bribe a terrorist. She wanted someone to know how Jacobson feared a double cross and used an unsuspicious Mick McCarthy to deliver the bribe. She wanted someone to know how Jacobson had driven from the scene at the first sign of trouble, leaving McCarthy alone to face terrorist gunfire. She wanted someone to know the Agency had engaged in a cover-up. Her story might never become a part of the official record, but she wanted someone to know it.
Gigi told Den everything she had uncovered during her investigation of McCarthy’s death. When she had finished, she leaned back in the chair. “Jacobson tried to get me to whitewash him. Of course, I wouldn’t do it. I gave my report to Henry Putnam. He’s the Station Chief. He took it to Langley. When he came back, he showed me a doctored document. Jacobson wasn’t even mentioned.
“He said he
was told to change it by top echelon people. The reason wasn’t explained: ‘Need to know’ basis only and I, of course, didn’t need to know. I was told to destroy my report and keep my mouth shut. Henry filed the doctored report and Jacobson was given a position in the Projects Branch.”
The cover up was obvious and it was extensive. Even Gigi’s, watered down investigation report was not made a part of the record. Something, indeed, had been wrong in Damascus. Ferdie Robbins told him Jake Jacobson was involved in Mick’s death. Gigi showed him Jake was more than merely involved.
Den showed no outward reaction to her revelations, but, inside, his anger increased. It was an anger caused by his empathy with the pain Gigi had to endure and, equally, by his own reaction to the CIA protection of the man who embezzled funds - the man who caused the death of Mick McCarthy.
Before Den could say anything, Gigi made an additional statement. “I’ve been recalled for reassignment. It won’t be a promotion. Tomorrow, I’ll be offered a transfer. I suspect it will be to a file clerk’s position in the lowest level basement of the Langley complex. Jake Jacobson and whoever is protecting him are behind it. They want me out of the Agency. I know too much about Jacobson.”
Den asked her: “What are you going to do about it?”
“I’m not going to do anything about it. McCarthy’s case is closed and nobody is going to re-open it. I can’t fight the Agency. I’m going to quit. I’ll going to put all this behind me. I’m going to Tucson and I’m going to hang out my shingle. From tomorrow on, I’ll be ‘G. G. Grant - Attorney and Counselor at Law’. If you ever need a divorce, care to start a corporation or want me to probate your estate, look me up.”
Then, for the first time, she smiled. “I feel much better now,” she said.
“You’ve had a tough time, hon,” Den said. He expressed his own feelings as well as hers when he said: “Jacobson is a bastard - and so are his friends in the Agency. You’ve made the right choice. Get out of here and start again in Arizona. You don’t want Jacobson or his friends in your life.” He put his hands on her shoulders and, face-to-face, told her he would make Jacobson pay.
Gigi almost melted when Den put his arms around her and held her to him. They talked about how they had met, the good times they had shared. The talk of happier times helped to restore her. Perhaps life wasn’t so bad after all. She asked him if he remembered their first kiss. He did. He also remembered the first time they slept together. So did Gigi. She looked up at him and, ever so slightly, raised her chin.
“I’d like to kiss you,” Den said.
“That would be nice.” She answered, “very, very nice.”
The sun had risen when they awoke. They showered together and breakfasted in Gigi’s room. When it came time to leave, they kissed again and Den promised he would be there for her, should she ever need anything.
Chapter 7
After he left the Four Points Sheraton Den’s thoughts moved from Gigi to Damascus to Mick McCarthy and then to Jake Jacobson. Now he knew what happened to Mick. Jake Jacobson put him in a dangerous situation and when the fight started, he deserted him. That was the act of a coward, an act completely foreign to Den’s character. A man who would leave a comrade in danger was detestable.
Den wondered why the son of a bitch was not exposed. Why wasn’t he kicked out of the Agency? Jake showed his true colors in Damascus, but he was still in Clandestine Operations. As he drove to his apartment, Den remembered Ferdie’s warnings: Teddy Smith relies on him. Jake Jacobson is powerful. The man is dangerous.
Jake was now assigned to Teddy’s Projects Branch. No one was assigned to that Branch without the most careful of background checks. Teddy was aware of Den’s birth name, his favorite brand of single malt Scotch and even his preference for bulkhead aisle seats in airplanes. Surely, he must have known what Jacobson did in Damascus. Was it a case of someone telling Teddy to bring Jake into the Projects Branch?
Or could Teddy be Jake’s benefactor? Teddy said Mick was killed while working with another agent. Why didn’t Teddy tell him that agent was Jake Jacobson?
There was no point in trying to make Jacobson pay for what he did by going through official channels. When the Syria Station chief came to Langley, he must have talked with somebody who had enough clout to be able to scrub the record clean and move Jake into the Projects Branch. Someone up there liked the little bastard. Den had no doubts. Jacobson’s friends would continue to protect him.
Den promised himself Jake Jacobson was not going to get away with abandoning Mick. He wasn’t going to get away with forcing Gigi out of the Agency.
Later that morning, Gigi Grant was notified of reassignment to a station of such modest significance that those who went there were considered by their fellow agents to have received early retirement. As Jacobson had presumed, Gigi Grant immediately resigned from the Central Intelligence Agency. She went to Tucson and reactivated her membership in the Arizona Bar Association.
Jake Jacobson learned important lessons from his disastrous bribery attempt in Damascus. He had long known it was all right to denigrate people below him in the chain of command. It was also entirely proper to quietly attack the competence and credibility of those who shared his same level in the organization chart. Since they were his competition for positions up the corporate ladder, Jake believed their reputations had to be destroyed.
Prior to Damascus, Jake had been almost completely insensitive to the concept of deferring to the people above him in the chain of command. They were the men he wanted to replace, so he had adopted the practice of attacking them. It was his way to show what he truly believed was his own intellectual superiority. He would look for real or imagined defects in his immediate superiors. He would bring them to light, often. He made no effort to disguise his signs of disrespect. The signs were not missed by the targets of his attacks.
After Damascus, Jake learned the value of a friend with clout. He learned it was a terrible mistake to treat superiors with anything but sycophantic respect. The boss’s ability to think may be on a par with that of a garden slug, but keep your mouth shut. Praise him. In times of adversity, he can help you. Putnam could have helped Jake, but he didn’t. Why should he? Why should Putnam or anyone else help a man who so obviously held him in contempt?
Jake knew he had been unreasonably lucky in Syria. Henry Putnam was a spineless idiot. If he had any guts at all, Jake would have been peremptorily fired. It took Teddy Smith, a perfect stranger, to convince Putnam to protect him. Putnam could have prepared his own report. He could have provided him with cover, but he didn’t. Teddy was the one who saved his ass. The lesson was clear. It was essential for a man to have friends “up the line”.
In Langley, Jake carefully cultivated Teddy. He agreed with whatever Teddy said. He complimented him whenever he could find an opportunity. He studied the ways Teddy acceded to Cullen Brewster, the Deputy Director. He tried, unsuccessfully, to be as adept and subtle as Teddy in dealing with his superiors.
Of course, Teddy recognized Jake’s false subservience. It didn’t bother him. He had an accurate assessment of Jake Jacobson. Teddy knew Jake would turn on him if it ever became advantageous for him to do so. Given the same motivation, Teddy would turn on Jake just as quickly. The word “loyalty” could not be found in either Jake or Teddy’s dictionary. As long as Jake bent every effort to please him, Teddy would be happy, but he was careful not to trust him.
Jake’s CIA associates of equal rank didn’t like him. They knew him as a sarcastic and arrogant back-stabber. Whenever one of them used the phrase “that little prick” or “that asshole” everyone knew he was referring to Jake Jacobson. As long as Jake had the support of Teddy, if made no difference what his fellow planners in the Projects Branch called him. He didn’t give a damn what they thought of him.
At four o’clock in the afternoon, Jake left his office in the CIA complex at Langley. The office regularly closed at five o’clock. Jake often left early. It was an action that did not go
unnoticed by his associates. He enjoyed his little game of “conspicuous early exit”.
Leaving at four gave him the advantage of missing some of the late afternoon traffic, but Jake did it for another reason. It was a quiet and pointed reminder to everyone in the Section that he was a man of special privilege. He could violate the rules without fear of reprimand.
A half hour after leaving Langley, Jake arrived at The Bellavista, an apartment building in nearby McLean. The Bellavista’s management catered to career government employees in the upper quadrants of pay grades. Jake hadn’t yet reached that income level, but The Bellavista address was a status symbol and Jake Jacobson was abundantly sensitive to status symbols.
There was another reason for Jake’s selection of The Bellavista. It was less than a quarter mile from the apartment of Teddy Smith. The selection of The Bellavista was part of Jake’s plan to develop a friendly and personal relationship with Teddy. Living close to him helped create that relationship. Jake would sometimes jog with Teddy and afterwards, on weekends, they would occasionally breakfast together.
Arriving at The Bellavista, Jake pressed the button on his garage door opener and the security gate to the building’s underground parking area slid open. He parked his Audi in the place assigned to him and took the elevator to the third floor. As he walked down the corridor, his sense of satisfaction was complete. He was protected by Teddy Smith, feared by his associates and envied by his inferiors. Vain and arrogant, Jake Jacobson was pleased with his life.
He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket and inserted one of them into the lock of his apartment door. As soon as the door swung open, someone came from behind him and struck him between the shoulder blades with such force that Jake’s dark glasses flew from his face and he was propelled inside the room and onto the floor.
As Jacobson got to his knees, he was kicked in the ribs. He fell against the hallway table, sending the vase and flower arrangement crashing to the parquet floor. In pain and gulping air, Jake struggled to his feet. He was grabbed by his coat lapel and jerked upright. A fist was driven into his stomach and, as he doubled forward, he was hit on the side of his face. His jaw was broken.
