The Aegis Conspiracy

by Galen Winter

  It was a nice day, warm with very little wind. It would be a good day to visit the islands laying close to the Mazatlán Pacific shore. When the coffee was brought to him, hot and strong and black, the way he liked it, Den had finished reading the front page of the Times. The international news gave him no cause for alarm. The paper blamed a few riots in the Near East on the Administration in Washington and there was another financial mis-management scandal at the United Nations. Nothing new.

  Den turned to the Times reports of national news and waved at the waiter. Without direction of any sort, he brought more coffee to the table. Then Den saw the headline of a story that made him draw in his breath. The waiter wondered why the gringo tourist ordered a second cup of coffee, but didn’t touch it. He wondered why he sat at the table for such a long time, staring out at the ocean. He wondered why he didn’t finish reading his newspaper. The reason for Den’s behavior was the story appearing as a small item in the middle pages of the Times. Teddy Smith had been murdered.

  Den hadn’t expected Jake would kill Teddy. Perhaps, he should not have been surprised. During their confrontation in the Sahuaro Inn, in order to distract Jake, he taunted him with the claim of Teddy trying to get rid of him. Den was well aware of Jake’s nearly pathological need to punish anyone who injured or threatened him. Two plus two equals four. Jake killed Teddy.

  That morning, as Den sat at the restaurant, with coffee cooling on the table before him, he again considered a re-emerging question. With Teddy dead, did it make any difference if Aegis was really a web of people inside the CIA or merely a hoax Teddy had used to turn him into an assassin?

  Den’s answer was: “No.” The death of Teddy changed nothing. As long as Aegis existed, he and Gigi ran the risk of sudden death. If Teddy told the truth, though there may be no continuing threat from Aegis, the threat from Jake remained.

  Nothing had changed. Their safety still lay in flight and concealment.

  Gigi, half awake, rolled on her side and reached out, expecting to feel Den’s warm body next to her. She awakened abruptly when her hand couldn’t find him. Then she smiled and remembered how he would sometimes quietly leave their morning bed without disturbing her. He’d go out for coffee. Then he’d come back and they’d go to a restaurant for breakfast. Gigi was dressed when he returned to their room.

  The pleasant prospect of a day on a boat with Den had brightened her spirits. Her mood changed as soon as Den entered their room. Perhaps it was Den’s just a bit subdued greeting or Gigi’s recognition of a subtle hint of distraction. Something had happened. Then she saw the newspaper Den carried in his hand.

  “What is it Den?” she asked. “What’s happened? Is there something in the newspaper?” Den nodded. He found the report of Teddy’s murder tucked away in the center of the paper. He spread the Times on the table where Gigi could read it.

  “Theodore James Smith, an officer in the Central Intelligence Agency, was murdered yesterday morning while jogging in Kensington Park in McLean, a suburb of Washington, D.C. He was killed by repeated blows to the head. His empty wallet was found at the scene. Police suspect robbery as the motive for the killing.”

  The story reported Teddy’s position in the CIA as that of a senior analyst and briefly described a bland version of his history in the Agency. The story concluded with reference to the growing number of assaults and muggings in the DC park system.

  Gigi hoped the death of Teddy Smith might mean she and Den would no longer need to hide. That hope quickly disappeared. Jake was still alive and, as before, there was no evidence to show Aegis was no longer active. Gigi believed as did Den - the death of Teddy Smith didn’t change anything. Jake Jacobson and, possibly, the rest of the men in Aegis continued to imperil them.

  Gigi looked up at Den. “Jake killed him, didn’t he?”

  Den nodded.

  Her next question was, “Is he going to get away with it?”

  Den was unable to answer her question. He hoped Jake would have to face justice, but he believed it was a forlorn hope at best. He told Gigi there was little they could do, but he had something in mind. He would send a letter to Langley accusing Jake of murdering Teddy. Would it do any good? Den doubted it.

  His letter might be received by an Aegis conspirator who would destroy it. It might be received by someone outside the conspiracy, but Den knew his reputation in the Agency had been blackened. After his disappearance from Washington, Teddy, Jake and their unknown Aegis friends would immediately build their defense against exposure by damning and slandering him. They would completely destroy his credibility. His letter would probably be disregarded. Nevertheless, he would send it.

  The letter wouldn’t mention Gigi. The letter wouldn’t mention Aegis. Den had a reason for those omissions. The way the Central Intelligence Agency treated the letter could provide evidence to show Aegis was still alive and consisted of more than just Teddy and Jake.

  The letter would detail Jake Jacobson’s involvement in the killing of Agent Mick McCarthy in Damascus. It would recount Den’s friendship with McCarthy and his decision to make Jacobson pay for his Damascus deceit. Den would admit administering the beating at The Bellavista Apartments and report Jake’s subsequent attempt to kill him, first in Guatemala, and, later, in Arlington.

  The letter would report his late night telephone call to Teddy Smith and tell of the struggle in the Sahuaro Inn. It would emphasize Jake’s anger at discovering it was Teddy who gave him Jake’s Tucson address. Having established a motive, the letter would accuse Jake of murdering Teddy Smith.

  If the CIA decided to thoroughly investigate the charge and if Jake was subsequently accused of murder, Jake might offer to tell everything he knew about Aegis in exchange for a favorable sentence. If that happened, the newspapers would have a field day reporting it and Aegis, if it existed, would have been exposed by Jake, not by Den and Gigi. After being exposed, there would be no reason to kill either of them.

  On the other hand, there might be no investigation or accusation. Den’s letter might never come to light. It might actually “go up in smoke.” His letter might not cause a ripple. For Jake and the Project Branch, it might be business as usual. If nothing happened to Jake, to be on the safe side, Den would have to presume Aegis protected him just as it protected him in Damascus.

  If Jake was not prosecuted, nothing would be proven. The letter could have been disregarded because Den had lost all credibility. The letter could have been disregarded because of a cover-up engineered by Aegis - or by the CIA itself.

  Den explained his reasoning to Gigi. She listened to his analysis and boiled in down to a simple sentence. “Your letter can’t hurt us,” she said, “and it might help us.”

  Den didn’t tell Gigi everything he was thinking. If the CIA shoved his letter under the rug and Jake was not accused of Teddy’s murder. Den would have to return to Washington and kill him.

  Den drafted his letter and decided to send it to Deputy Director Cullen Brewster. The only thing Den knew about Brewster was his reputation as a “cold, smart, independent, patrician son of a bitch.” Den would mail the letter from Guadalajara. It was over two hundred and fifty from Mazatlán. It was far enough away to mislead anyone attempting to find them.

  Any pursuer would spend days searching for them in Guadalajara. Before they found any trace of him, he and Gigi would leave Ernest and Maggie Adams in Mexico and vanish into other identities at another place.

  Den and Gigi drove to Guadalajara. There was no need to hurry. They spent the night there. In the morning, Den Fed-ex’d the letter to Cullen Brewster and mailed his other statements to a few trustworthy SEAL friends.

  Chapter 28

  In Langley, Deputy Director Cullen Brewster studied a letter received in the overnight mail. He closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair. It helped him focus on problems and clear his mind of inconsequential matters. Den Clark’s letter gave him cause for concern. The letter from Clark, the information received from Jake Jacobson and th
e report of Teddy Smith all pointed in different directions.

  Any one of them, or all of them, could be false. People were always lying to him. He expected it, but this matter involved the additional element of urgency. Unless the truth was uncovered and protective measures taken, the Agency could be faced with major problems.

  Teddy Smith said Den Clark had become a rogue agent, a killer for hire. Jake Jacobson said Clark was trafficking in drugs and killed Teddy Smith. Clark said Jacobson had murdered Teddy Smith was trying to murder him.

  The Agency couldn’t stand the heat occasioned by the publicity that would develop if it became known that one of their men had become a hired assassin. It couldn’t stand the publicity that would develop if it became known that a cocaine trafficker was operating within the Agency’s Clandestine Service. It couldn’t stand the publicity that would develop if it became known that Teddy Smith was murdered by a CIA officer and not by some unknown mugger.

  Cullen Brewster had to put out three fires and he had to do it quickly. He wondered which one of the stories contained truth. More accurately, he wondered what parts of each story may have contained an element of truth. He relaxed and considered the character of each of the three informants, hoping his sub-conscious mind and his intuition would come to his assistance.

  Clark had appropriate credentials. His SEAL record was impeccable and there was no hint of drug trafficking or use in his file, He had produced an excellent report on narcotics activities in Bolivia, but he was a new man. As far as the Agency was concerned, he was still an unknown quantity. There was a lot of money in the assassination business as well as in the drug business. Love of money is the root of evil.

  Jacobson’s story was the least credible. Cullen Brewster was aware of the Damascus cover-up. Jacobson’s history in Syria was not one calculated to establish a reputation for honesty. The opinions of Jacobson’s associates in the Agency did nothing to support the profile of a trustworthy man. Still, even pimps and prostitutes and drug addicts and crooks often produced valid information.

  Teddy, on the other hand, had a good track record. Brewster had known him for years and was inclined to believe him. He also knew Teddy was capable of disregarding the rules. He smiled when he recalled how Teddy had saved him when, so many years ago, he sat in that old Barranquilla prison. After an ill-thought out plan to blow a hole in the prison wall failed, Teddy paid no attention to his superiors or to the rules. He used Agency funds to bribe prison guards. Teddy set Brewster free.

  Still, Cullen Brewster was not satisfied with Teddy’s version of the Clark matter. One single fact put Teddy’s story into question. Police Incident Reports showed someone shot a hole through Clark’s apartment window on the night before he disappeared.

  When Teddy told him Clark was a rogue agent, he also said he’d done a thorough search for Clark and had visited his Bellavista apartment. Surely he knew about the window and the attempt on Clark’s life. Why had he withheld that information? Was it possible Clark ran because someone shot at him? Was Clark a target and neither a paid assassin nor a drug trafficker?

  Jacobson’s story disclosed the bullet hole in Clark’s window and claimed his disappearance was drug related. His story of Clark’s involvement in the drug trade would be a good reason for running. Jake’s report contradicted Teddy, but it did not automatically make his version true.

  The story Clark told in his letter from Mexico could have been the truth, but, clearly, his version was meant to save his own posterior. Still, Jacobson’s reputation bothered him and Teddy Smith’s failure to disclose the attempt on Clark’s life was strange. Deputy Director Cullen Brewster stared out the window for another half hour. His old friend Teddy Smith, he reluctantly concluded, had tried to mislead him. He returned to his desk. He had made a decision.

  Den and Gigi knew the Agency would know he was in Mexico as soon as Cullen Brewster received the letter. They expected the CIA to arrive in Guadalajara and begin a search for him within 24 hours of its receipt. Den planned to leave no trail for Aegis to follow. He would leave as few footprints as possible. If he could help it, there would be no clue that might help Jake or anyone else follow him from Guadalajara to Mazatlán.

  The pick-up truck was a problem. If it were found, its license plates would lead to the Pennsylvania Department of Motor Vehicles. There, the truck’s registration records would identify the owner as Ernest Adams. That name could be found in the Guadalajara hotel guest registration book. If the truck were found, it would be better if it were found in Guadalajara. It would let their pursuers falsely narrow the area of their search.

  Automobiles stolen in the United States find good markets in Mexico. Securing a bogus local registration may not be legal, but it is not a difficult operation. The Mexican government officials who issued Certificates of Registration welcomed any source of extra income.

  Den sold his truck at a used car lot in Guadalajara. When Den admitted he had no Registration Certificate, the lot operator merely shrugged and reduced the amount of his offer - “because of special additional expenses” was the way he put it.

  Den carried his Pennsylvania license plates with him when he and Gigi embarked on what might be described as the ordeal of a two hundred and fifty mile trip in a Mexican bus. Den planned to throw the license plates into the Pacific Ocean when they got back to the Fiesta Hotel. Then he and Gigi would begin their new life.

  In his McLean apartment, Jake used his forefinger to move the ice cubes around in his highball. He was pleased by the way his life was moving. He could hardly believe Teddy Smith had turned on him. If he hadn’t been cautious when he opened the door of his Sahuaro Inn motel room, Den would have killed him. But he was alive and it was Teddy Smith, the treacherous son of a bitch, who was dead.

  Jake was particularly pleased with the way he directed suspicion to Clark. It was hard to read Cullen Brewster. He never gave an indication of what he was thinking. Still, Jake believed he had given him good reason to believe Den killed Teddy.

  Jake was ready to plan his next step. Jake knew Brewster had a problem. An agent in the Clandestine Services was thought to be a drug trafficker as well as the murderer of Teddy Smith. Jake knew the Deputy Director couldn’t allow the CIA to be exposed to the publicity that would surely occur if it became know that an ex-CIA Agent and drug trafficker murdered Teddy Smith.

  To add to the Deputy’s concerns, the presence of an international drug trafficker within the structure of the Agency’s Clandestine Services could destroy the stuffy Boston reputation of Cullen Brewster.

  If it were up to Jake, he’d solve the problem in a hurry. He’d order the quiet and quick elimination of Den Clark. Cullen Brewster, that wimpy, eastern, patrician, son of a bitch, would never do it because Executive Order 12333 wouldn’t allow it. Brewster’s only alternative was to do nothing - let the whole thing slide.

  “Well,” he thought, “I’m in no hurry. I can wait.”

  A small group of intellectuals living within the Belt Line, together with the much larger group of Washingtonians who want to be considered as intellectuals, view Hollywood productions as a kind of opiate of the masses. Foreign films, on the other hand, draw their attendance and, on very rare occasions, their very mild criticism.

  McLean’s Cine Clasique specialized in showing foreign films. Jake Jacobson often spent Saturday afternoons there. Watching the sub-titles of some strangely plotted foreign movie was, somehow, pleasing to his ego. He told himself he understood the subtle nuances of the story which, he was sure, must have dealt with some profound problem of the human psyche. And there was always the chance that someone in a position of authority might see him there and be impressed.

  Jake left the Cine Clasique and started to walk across the street to the lot where his Audi was conspicuously parked. He made his way between the cars lining the street in front of the theatre. When he got to the traffic lane, another car was double-parked to his left, its driver apparently waiting to pick up a movie patron.


  Suddenly the vehicle surged forward, as if someone had stepped on the gas pedal by mistake. The middle of the vehicle’s bumper smashed into Jake’s legs and knocked him backwards onto the pavement. The car’s tires rolled over him as it sped away. The driver made no attempt to stop.

  Thomas Rosenow, the Special-Agent-in Charge of the FBI’s Phoenix office was unhappy. Washington had advised him of the pending arrival of a visitor. Rosenow was asked to fully cooperate with him. It was all “hush-hush”. It was a matter of national security.

  Alone in his office and awaiting the arrival of the visitor, Rosenow snorted: “A matter of national security! Fully cooperate!” He knew what that meant. It was the cloak and dagger boys, the goddamned CIA. They were going to stick their noses into his operations. They were going to come in, take charge and tell him what to do. He couldn’t do a thing about it.

  When Washington spoke to him, Tom Rosenow knew he had to be a good soldier and fully cooperate. He even had to appear to be happy to cooperate. There might be a half dozen of them taking up office space, propositioning his secretaries and screwing up office routines, but he had to put up with them. The only satisfaction he had came from his knowledge that no one in Washington or in the entire world could keep him from hoping his visitors would get the hell out of Phoenix in a hurry.

  Tom Rosenow’s foul mood changed soon after Llewellyn Keating entered his office. Keating didn’t fit Rosenow’s preconceived notion of what a CIA man should look like. He didn’t wear a dark suit or dark glasses and he didn’t have a lean and mean look about him.

  Llewellyn Keating wore a sport coat. It covered a decidedly unflat stomach that would have been better covered if the sport jacket had been an inch or so wider. The man was not yet middle-aged, but he was balding. He had a pleasant expression and showed no signs of being an aggressive or hostile sort. Best of all, he wasn’t accompanied by a crew of associates. He was alone.