The Aegis Conspiracy

by Galen Winter

  Gigi was standing behind her desk when Den came into her office. She didn’t really know how to behave. She wanted to put her arms around him, but hesitated. Maybe he didn’t share her wish. She knew she shouldn’t just sit there and treat him with the impersonality that attended appointments with clients. Den’s actions settled the matter. He came around the desk and hugged her. He didn’t kiss her, but it was certainly more than a mere friendly embrace.

  “It’s so good to see you, Den. I’ve missed you. Where are you staying? How long will you be in town? What’s happening in your life?”

  Gigi knew Den. She could read the subtle nuances in the tone of voice and the postures of his body language. She recognized a tiny tentative quality in his conversation. At first she thought it was a sign of Den asking the same question she asked herself. Did the other one still harbor the same feelings they once shared when they attended the Kent school?

  There was something else, too. Den avoided any reference to his work at the Central Intelligence Agency. It seemed odd. Even if he was on a sensitive assignment, it would be entirely natural for him to tell her, in general terms, of Agency gossip. Something seemed to be out of kilter. Gigi couldn’t have guessed just how far “out of kilter”.

  Den had decided to tell Gigi everything about his association with Aegis. It would not be an easy conversation for him. He knew he loved her. He hoped she would understand he loved her. He hoped he would not destroy her love for him. He feared she might believe he had become little more than a cold blooded assassin. He knew he had to tell her this would be their last meeting. He intended to disappear and never return.

  Den told her about his first meeting with Teddy Smith and his recruitment into the organization hidden within the Agency. Though he knew the assassinations were illegal and unapproved by the Agency, he believed Aegis was engaged in removing threats to his country. He was convinced it was work that had to be done.

  After Teddy Smith arranged his transfer to the Clandestine Service, he expected to be sent to some station in Latin America where he would do the work of a covert operative. He expected to be occasionally contacted by the men who called themselves Aegis and asked to undertake an assassination project. Then he described how his work with Aegis was a journey to disillusion, anger and frustration. He told her how Aegis misled and used him.

  Den had not expected to receive three Aegis assignments in rapid succession. Those three missions, he told her, offering only minimal protection of national interests. Gigi sat behind her desk, quietly listening as Den disclosed his assassinations. Gigi agreed Humberto del Valle was some kind of a monster. She also agreed he was no serious threat to the United States. Joselito Montoya’s Bolivian cocaine cartel was an obscenity. It might be argued that drug trafficking represented some kind of a menace to the country, she conceded, but still…

  Den reported how his confidence in the value of Aegis was strengthened when his mission to Guatemala was explained. He couldn’t look at Gigi when he told her of his part in the killing of the students. He told her everything that happened. The Guatemalan Colonel’s death squad attempts to kill him, Teddy’s lies, Ferdie’s proof that Operation Ocelot was meant to end in his death and finally, how he escaped from Washington.

  Den berated himself for agreeing to work with Teddy Smith, for not suspecting the dark side of Aegis and for becoming nothing more than a murderer.

  Gigi tried to soften the charges he made against himself. She told him there was no way he could have guessed the true Aegis agenda. Den only looked away and shook his head. He was unwilling to absolve himself from his responsibility in the murders on that rural Guatemalan road. He took a deep breath to compose himself before continuing.

  Den was capable of exposing Aegis and Aegis could not run the risk of exposure. The people inside the conspiracy were well aware of the danger he presented. They would do everything possible to eliminate that danger. Den explained why he felt he had to remain silent. He finished his story by saying he needed a secure place to hide. He needed a few weeks to find a way to disappear so completely that Aegis could never find him. He told her he wanted her to know everything about Aegis “just in case”.

  Gigi remembered the way the report of her investigation into the death of Mick McCarthy had been re-written. She was only momentarily surprised by the existence of a hidden cell within the CIA. She might have anticipated Jake Jacobson being a part of the conspiracy. Gigi didn’t question anything Den told her, but she caught her breath when she heard the words “just in case”.

  Gigi knew what Den meant. In spite of his efforts to disappear, Den understood he might be killed. Gigi didn’t hesitate. She told him she would help in any way she could. After a moment’s silence, Den reached over the desk and took her hand. He needed help, but he didn’t want to expose her to any danger.

  “Think long and hard before helping me, hon,” he told her. “If Aegis thinks they can keep their secrets by killing both of us, they will do it in a minute. You’ve got to know that. It’s a fact. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  Gigi needed no time to reconsider. She knew what she wanted to do. Slowly, emphasizing each word, she said: “You need me, Den, and I need you. That’s all there is to it.”

  Den and Gigi left her office together. She didn’t introduce him to Charlotte. It was not an oversight. It was intentional. It would be best if no one knew Den was in Arizona.

  In the parking lot, Den pointed to his second-hand pick-up truck. He told her Aegis might never learn he and Ernest Adams, the name appearing on the Pennsylvania Registration Certificate, were one and the same person. If they did, they would still have to find the truck and then find him. Gigi paid little attention to his words. She had a more important thought in mind.

  “I know just the place for your stay in Arizona,” she said. She got into Den’s truck and showed him the way to McCord Court, a cul-de-sac in one of Tucson’s residential districts. “Next apartment building. Go up the far driveway. Stop at the side door.” Den did as directed. When he stopped, Gigi leaned across the seat, kissed him lightly on the cheek and said: “This is where I live.”

  Den followed Gigi into her first floor apartment. Passing through the kitchen and living area, he saw an open doorway leading from the living room. It opened into Gigi’s bedroom. Without saying a word, Den entered it and put his luggage on the floor. Then he turned. Gigi was next to him. He kissed her.

  It was the long sensuous kind of kiss they had enjoyed when they lived together during their Kent School training. Den moved his hands down her back until they cupped her buns. He pulled her close to him. She pressed her body tightly against him. Den moved slightly to the side. He gently took her left hand from his neck and moved it down below his belt. He moved his hand to her breast. His fingers remembered them. Their lips separated and, gently moving their hands, they looked at each other, smiling.

  They unbuttoned blouse and shirt. Gigi raised her chin while Den kissed her throat and loosened her brassier. Then his lips moved down her throat, pausing at both pink areolas and now erect nipples. Gigi unclasped Den’s belt before she sat on the bed, leaned back and encouraged him to kiss her stomach. She kicked off her shoes and Den pulled her slacks and panties down past her knees and onto the floor.

  Den removed his remaining clothing and kissed her again, first on her stomach and then lower. They stayed in bed until after five in the afternoon. They were hungry. They would dress and go out for dinner.

  Chapter 20

  While Den and Gigi were driving to her apartment on McCord Court, Jake Jacobson sat in his Tucson motel room, watching morning television and waiting for Abdul’s phone call announcing his presence in Arizona. He was becoming increasingly nervous.

  Abdul was a cold fish. He seemed to have no readable body language. Jake never knew what thoughts were stirring behind his dark, unsmiling eyes. Jake’s old concerns ran through his mind. Abdul’s promises were worthless. Jake didn’t know if he was on his way to Tu
cson or on his way to Damascus.

  Jake reviewed a possible timetable. If Abdul had immediately left Monterrey for Nogales, he could have met with Montenegro, crossed the border and gotten into Flores sometime after sundown. He could have picked up the automobile at the garage sometime after midnight, perhaps by two, or three, or maybe four o’clock in the morning. It would take less than two hours to drive from Flores to Tucson. He could have been in town by six in the morning. Why hadn’t he called?

  Jake calmed himself by giving reasons why Abdul would be delayed. Perhaps it took more time to get to Nogales. Perhaps he had trouble finding the coyote. Perhaps Montenegro wasted a day before bringing him to the border. Perhaps it took more time for Abdul to get to the garage in Flores. Maybe the Border Patrol caught him. There was another possibility haunting Jake. It was the specter of a smiling Abdul flying back to Syria with a lot of CIA money tucked into his carry-on.

  Shoes off, but otherwise fully dressed, Jake slumped in the chair beside the motel room table. The mid-morning Arizona sunlight shined through the window. He was nodding off when the phone rang. Jake turned off the television and picked up the phone, hoping it wasn’t Teddy. It was Abdul.

  “I’m here,” he said and then hung up. Jake was relieved. Abdul had not jumped ship. Again, the fears that badgered him disappeared instantly. He told himself he had no cause for concern. Abdul was in Tucson and ready to kill Gigi Grant.

  Abdul looked upon his first assassination assignment as an easy proposition. “This is a CIA test of my abilities?” he asked himself. “It’s not a test. It’s child’s play.” The project contained no foreseeable complications. Ex-agent Gigi Grant had no bodyguards or other special protections. She was unaware of the plan to kill her. He could walk up to her. There was no way she could identify him as a dangerous adversary. There would be no problem in killing her. “Fifteen thousand dollars for this? I don’t believe it.”

  Abdul’s plan was simple. He would go to the woman’s law office and wait until she was alone. Then he would shoot her. He’d meet with Jacobson and collect the balance of his bounty. He didn’t know what to do with the automobile. He’d return it to Flores or leave it somewhere in the desert unless Jacobson gave him different directions. He could be back in Mexico before the next sunrise.

  After the brief call to Jacobson, Abdul checked the telephone directory for the address of the G. G. Grant Law Office. He looked at the note Jake had given him. It was the same address. He found the directory’s city map and located the office. It was after eleven o’clock when Abdul drove his automobile onto the office building’s blacktopped parking area. Gigi and Den had driven from the lot in his second-hand Chevrolet pick-up only minutes before Abdul’s arrival.

  Abdul found Gigi’s black Cherokee and compared the number on its license plate with the one Jacobson had provided. “Her Jeep is here,” he thought. “Soon it will be the time when the Americans take their noon meal.” Abdul parked next to the Jeep. He was careful to straddle the painted line dividing the two spaces to the left of Gigi’s Cherokee. It would keep anyone from parking between him and the Jeep and, at the same time would put about six feet between him and the driver’s side door of the Cherokee.

  When the woman came out for lunch, she would walk to the driver’s side of her automobile. Abdul would point his weapon through his rolled down window and kill her. He wouldn’t have to leave his car. He repeated the description Jacobson had given. The Grant woman was 5 feet 8 inches tall. She usually wore a business suit and no hat. She had light brown, almost blonde hair and weighed a hundred and twenty-five pounds.

  Abdul watched the few people who entered and left the building. He saw no one closely matching Grant’s description and no one approached the lawyer’s Jeep. Abdul waited until a half hour after mid-day. Finally he concluded the woman would not leave for lunch. She must be eating in her office.

  Abdul checked the magazine in his Beretta. He pulled back the slide, let it snap forward and a bullet entered the chamber. Then he returned the weapon to its under-arm holster and walked to the entrance of the office building. The lobby was empty. Abdul was alone. He went to the door with the identifying sign: Law Offices of G. G. Grant. He turned the doorknob. It was locked. He knocked at the door. No answer. He knocked again. No answer. He knocked once more.

  After Gigi left the office with her ten o’clock appointment without bothering to introduce him or tell her where she was going or when she’d return, Charlotte Novitski was sure the two were old friends. She was equally sure they had been lovers. That made her smile. Her speculations ended when she remembered she had some work to do.

  She typed out the few letters and status reports that had accumulated. She reviewed the monthly billings, noting the ones needing attention. She made a list of the dates and times and places and subjects of Gigi’s upcoming court appearances. It was twelve o’clock when she was satisfied she was up-to-date with her work.

  Charlotte locked the waiting room door, returned to her desk and unwrapped her lunch - a chicken salad sandwich, an apple, a diet soft drink and a homemade brownie. She finished her meal and was reading the novel she kept in her desk drawer when she heard the office door handle turn. It was followed by a knock.

  “Damn,” she thought, “If I’m quiet, maybe it will go away.” A second knock followed. Then a third. “Damn,” she thought again and went to the door.

  After his third knocking at the door, Abdul hear the sounds of someone approaching from the inner office. He heard the lock click and saw the doorknob turn. The door opened and a honey blonde fitting G. G. Grant’s description informed him: “We are closed until one o’clock and are taking no more appointments until Monday. If you will call on …” Charlotte never finished the sentence. She hardly had time to see the man, standing only a few feet in front of her, was holding a gun.

  Charlotte was killed instantly. The force of impact of the bullet knocked her over backwards. She fell into the office. Abdul closed the door, turned and calmly walked out of the building. He got into his automobile and drove until he found a McDonald’s. A hamburger, French fries and a malted milk were a tasty lunch. He could get used to American cooking.

  After finishing his meal, instead of calling Jacobson, Abdul went to the place where the restaurant’s telephone directory was chained to the wall. He opened the yellow pages to the motel section and matched the number Jake had given him in Monterrey with that of a Tucson motel. He wrote down the address of the Sahuaro Inn and found its location in the directory’s map.

  Jake answered the knock on his motel door. He did not expect to find Abdul standing before him. Abdul said nothing. He walked past Jake, pulled the chair from the room’s table and sat. He let Jake start the conversation. Did he have any trouble finding Montenegro? No. Was the border crossing easy? Yes.

  Abdul’s monosyllabic answers were somewhat irritating. Jake wanted information, but all he got were “yeses” and “noes” - no explanations, no embellishments, nothing else. He stopped asking questions and began to suggest how Abdul might approach Gigi Grant. Abdul held up his hand, palm outward, like a parent silencing a talkative child. “It is taken care of,” he said. When Jake showed his surprise, Abdul smiled the smile of satisfaction. He had impressed Jacobson.

  “You’re sure she is dead?

  “Of course.”

  “You’re sure it was Grant?”

  “Of course. Her Jeep was in her office parking lot. She fit your description. I killed her. Now, let’s talk about another more important matter.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Money.”

  “Oh. The money. Of course. It will be sent to the Nuevo Mundo. I think you can expect it in four or five days.”

  Abdul opened the single button in the front of his jacket and leaned forward in his chair. The shoulder holster and the butt of his Beretta were visible. As was intended, Jake saw them.

  “Ah, I see,” Abdul said. “Now I understand. You want me to trust you
. I should go back to Monterrey and sit patiently in that mildewed room in that decomposing hotel and wait for you to send my money.” His sarcasm was pointed.

  Jake met sarcasm with sarcasm. “Ah. I see,” he mimicked. “Now I understand. You want me to trust you. You want me to take your word that Gigi Grant is dead. I shouldn’t be allowed to confirm her death. I should pay for services without knowing whether or not they have been properly rendered.”

  Stalemate.

  Abdul thought for a moment. Then he nodded, leaned back and rebuttoned his jacket. “Why don’t we stay here and enjoy each other’s company until the television reports of the evening news?”

  Jake lay on the motel room bed. Propped up by pillows, he leaned against the headboard. A towel, draped over his chest, was meant to catch the dripping from the wedge of pizza he held in his hand. A half empty can of beer rested on the night stand beside him. Abdul was eating his second slice of the delivered pizza. He sat at the motel table sharing its surface with a glass of milk and the flat, opened carton that contained the uneaten balance of their pizza order.

  At six o’clock, the KXTC news program appeared on the TV screen. The newscaster, trying his best to reproduce the sound and cadence of the voice of Ted Koppel, reported the international disasters and then turned to the local news. The death of Gigi’s secretary was the lead story.

  “Murder, most foul, has again visited Tucson. Charlotte Novitski, a secretary in the G. G. Grant law firm, was shot to death sometime this afternoon. Her body was found minutes ago by Darlene Hacker. Now let me take you directly to the scene of the crime where Sandy is waiting with an exclusive interview with Miss Hacker - live.”

  Then the announcer grinned broadly, obviously pleased with his station’s technical ability. His fixed smile remained on the screen for a few seconds more. Then he said: “live” again and, finally, the connection was made.