by Cole Reid
“Y’all can make the coffee and pour it. I’ll sit here and supervise. I’m a supervisor. It’s my job description,” said the one who pulls rank, Kevin.
“If anyone needs supervision to make coffee that person should not be here.” He was level-headed and practical, Renato—Ren.
“So I should step out then,” said Philip
“And do us a favor,” said the passive aggressive, Bob.
While five spoke, two were quiet at the table. One was Georgia. The other was Gael Barron, a Senior Director in the Agency’s National Clandestine Service. His eyes moved but not much. He just sat. A few file folders were stacked in front of him. He ran his fingers back-and-forth over the tie that bound the stack together. That was all he did. He didn’t say a word. He exhibited the outer patience and inner anxiety of a dam about to break.
The Room didn’t hold sarcasm well, all kidding was easily ventilated. An anthropomorphic silence walked confidently into the Room. The silence could speak for itself. Its voice was emasculating. It affected everyone except for Georgia. She never had a problem with silence—especially with men. To her, the cover of silence trumped the cover of darkness. In darkness she could sneak; in silence she could peek. And she sat with eyes lit on Gael.
There were seven participants in the Room. There were always seven, enough to run the gamut. Seven people could adequately discuss the things to be decided and there would always be a majority. All participants had to vote. There was no abstaining. There had to be a majority. Attempting to abstain in the Room was career suicide; all other participants would see to that. Abstaining meant you didn’t deserve to be in the Room. There had never been abstinence. It went against the idea of the Room. The Room was a place to decided. Georgia was the only woman to ever sit in the Room. She had to vote.
• • •
“What’s on the table now is Plan B,” Gael opened, “Plan A would have been the events that ended with Mason Keig being captured.”
“Did Plan A have a name?” asked Ren.
“Plan A’s official designation was Project Filartiga,” said Gael.
“Were there multiple Plan As?” asked Bob.
“No, there was just Filartiga,” said Gael.
“Filartiga was Venezuela?” asked Edward.
“Yes,” said Gael.
“Was there anything else?” asked Bob.
“Why would there be?” asked Gael.
“Why wouldn’t there be?” asked Bob.
“What I’m saying is Filartiga was Venezuela,” said Gael.
“You mean all of it?” asked Philip.
“I do mean all of it,” said Gael.
“What were its objectives?” asked Edward.
“You’ve all heard of Petbol?” Gael inquired.
“Yeah,” said Kevin and Philip simultaneously.
“Ok” said Bob.
“It’s Venezuelan,” said Ren.
Edward glared at the blue wall behind Georgia.
“It’s the nickname for Petróleos Bolivarian,” said Edward, the only one in the Room who could pronounce the name without sounding uneasy. Edward by birth was Eduardo de la Maria. He was born and raised in Miami to a Cuban father and Venezuelan mother. In addition to English and Spanish, he spoke fluent Russian. He was an incredibly deft field operative. Now, he was Deputy Director of the Regional & Transnational Issues Division.
“Petbol was created back in late 2003,” Gael continued, “We created Petbol as a way to keep an eye on Venezuela’s oil industry. OPEC and the Energy Department always have different numbers on Venezuela’s output capacity. They range anywhere from 500,000 barrels a day to over 5 million. If you ask the Venezuelans they always come up with a number at the top of that range. And they’re sitting on what used to be the largest oil reserves in the Americas. Since the 2010 discovery, they’re the largest in the world. The endgame of Filartiga was to let the Venezuelan government believe it was responsible for setting up Petbol. That way Petbol could just operate.”
“How did you get Venezuela to think it was responsible for setting up Petbol?” asked Bob.
“It’s South America, just hand the man in charge a few keys of blow and say you wanna set up an oil company,” quipped Philip. His sense of humor might have been funny in space, in a wormhole where everything got sucked in. But his humor was bleached in the Room. Instead of being sucked in, it was whited-out.
“Small minds and big projects don’t mix,” Georgia cut in. “In case you’re wondering why Filartiga wasn’t your priority. Let the man talk.” Her glare did its job. Philip didn’t try to make a comeback. Gael’s status as the Alpha male reassured, he felt comfortable to continue.
“We had to make the whole thing as organic as possible,” said Gael, “We first operated a coup d état in Venezuela back in ’02. That triggered a change in the Venezuelan government for about two days. Hugo Chavez was held by the military and a guy named Carmona took over as interim president. We had agents on both sides of the coup but neither side knew it. Our agents leading the anti-Chavez campaign around the Presidential Palace were under instructions not to give orders to fire at the Chavistas when they marched on the Palace. As a result, the Chavistas took the Palace back without ever firing a shot. And just like that, Chavez was President again.” Gael eyed every warm body.
“Why operate a coup that only lasts for two days?” asked Ren, “Especially if the palace was retaken without any tactical exchange?”
“Because we didn’t need it to last, we just needed it to happen,” said Gael, “We needed the pictures on CNN. We didn’t need a body count. It wasn’t about sympathy or stirring shit. It just had to happen.”
“A prelude,” said Bob.
Gael angled his eyes toward Bob before taking a sip of water. “The coup d’état in April set the stage for our main project later that same year.”
“El paro,” said Edward.
“What was el paro?” asked Bob.
“It’s a work-stoppage or just a strike,” said Edward leaning back.
“Ok,” said Bob.
“There was a government protest in late 2002 that lasted a few months in ’03—that started with calls for Chavez to step down and ended with a massive strike at the Venezuelan state-owned oil company, Petróleos de Venezuela, PDV,” said Edward taking the floor from Gael. Edward saw himself as most qualified to report on a country where his mother was born and grandparents still lived.
“Your mother’s Venezuelan?” Georgia asked Edward, remembering a personal detail meant to soften an otherwise hard man.
“Yeah,” said Edward, “She kept calling me during the strike. She had cousins working for PDV and kept asking me what I thought they should do.”
“What did you tell her?” asked Georgia.
“I told her to tell them to do what everyone else did. It was a strike,” said Edward.
Venezuela was still Gael’s domain, he was still Alpha. Georgia resigned herself not to say anything for the next half hour.
“In December, we got a team aboard a PDV oil tanker called Pílín León and they got the ship’s captain to drop anchor at the mouth of Lake Maracaibo,” said Gael, “The ship stayed there and blocked the shipping channel. PDV had about a dozen or so other tankers but with Maracaibo blocked they couldn’t go anywhere. We already had people in place at PDV management with instructions not to show up for work after the tankers were stopped. There were some employees who did report to work but we had fractured PDV’s upper management and stopped its ships. Most people, like Edward just mentioned, joined the strike. Like in April, PDV workers were calling for Chavez to step down. That part we didn’t even focus so much on, after the April coup the protests spawned organically. Which was great,” said Gael.
“But Chavez never stepped down,” reminded Ren.
“Nope,” said Gael.
“You didn’t want him to,” said Edward.
“We didn’t want him gone,” said Gael, “We wanted him to pay attention. It was never
the purpose of Filartiga to get rid of Hugo Chavez.” Gael paused and inhaled, drawing in years of experience.
“Redecorating is for the OCD guys,” said Gael using the code word for an agency-sponsored regime change, “When you redecorate there are so many fucking moving parts, you never know whether one group will back the new guy or make a martyr of the old guy. You create a hero for one side and an enemy for another. And it’s hard to erase your finger prints from the thing. Plus, you never know what the new guy’s gonna do.”
“That’s for damn sure,” said Kevin.
“The guy’s got no track record,” said Gael, “That’s what makes him the new guy. Even if he was the number two guy, there’s no argument for what he’s gonna do when he gets the top job. That’s why we never had a reason to redecorate Venezuela. We already knew how the country worked and what it looked like inside and out. I mean Chavez was a first-class asshole but we knew the motherfucker. That made him reliable. That was the whole point of Filartiga—that we could rely on Chavez.”
“How did you rely on Chavez?” asked Kevin.
“Well, once you realize how hard it is to be smart and how easy it is to be stupid you’re always on the lookout for patterns of behavior,” said Gael, “That doesn’t necessarily make you smart but it makes it easier to be smart. And Chavez’s patterns of behavior are defined by obtuse paranoia. That’s why he pushed for further control of PDV in the first place. He wanted PDV profits to contribute more to his government. That pissed PDV off and gave us steam for Filartiga. Chavez never liked to tolerate factors beyond his control. If you remember back in 2000, Chavez was the one who called a meeting of OPEC members in Caracas to try to get OPEC countries to stick to their quotas. After PDV was shut down, Venezuela risked defaulting on its oil supply contracts. That is—in fact—what eventually happened. And it fucked up Venezuela’s quotas, which Chavez had been so strict about. They had to start importing oil in order to service their own contracts. But they couldn’t sustain it and they defaulted. That had never happened before and it was an embarrassment. A founding member of OPEC couldn’t meet its oil supply contracts. So it made its impact on Chavez, who had been making moves to re-establish Venezuela’s position in OPEC. When we shut down PDV we shut down pretty much all of Venezuela’s oil industry. And we did it for one reason.”
“What?” asked Ren.
“To teach Hugo Chavez the error of his ways,” said Gael.
“That it was a mistake to tighten his grip on PDV,” said Bob.
“That it was a mistake to have only one company to tighten his grip on,” said Gael, “The grip tightening wasn’t the mistake, the mistake was PDV and it’s monopoly.” Gael paused and took a sip of water.
“So after the coup d’ état the coup de grace,” said Ren. Gael held his right hand out flat and motioned in Ren’s direction as a tacit recognition, and there you have it.
“What was next?” asked Kevin.
“Next was to convince Chavez to let us setup Petbol,” said Gael.
“How did you do that?” asked Ren.
“The anvil fell on a guy named Victor Fuentes,” said Gael.
“Why does that name sound familiar, who was he?” asked Kevin.
“He was the son of a deputy minister in the Venezuelan Mineral & Oil Ministry, a guy named Amadeo Fuentes,” said Gael, “The dad was one of the architects of the nationalization of the Venezuelan oil industry in the 70’s and first chairman of the board of PDV. Amadeo Fuentes sent his son to be educated at Georgia Tech for Industrial Engineering. Measures were taken to make sure he became westernized. A survey was made of the youngest agents, two were chosen with engineering backgrounds—one male, one female. They were enrolled at Georgia Tech. They took industrial engineering as a major and we made sure they shared some of the same electives as Victor Fuentes. The boy pledged Delta Sig. We got him in the same classes as Victor Fuentes. The boy was told to befriend Fuentes; the girl was to have a supporting role. The boy started inviting Fuentes to frat parties and making sure he got laid and so on. He was a college-level cultural attaché if you will. We gave the boy $1,000 a month and told him to cater to Fuentes—anything he wanted. Booze, condoms, drugs, whatever, if he couldn’t get it for Fuentes it would be taken care of on our end.”
“I’m assuming the whole thing worked out,” said Kevin.
“Yeah,” Gael almost coughed, “Better than we expected, the two actually became close.”
“Do we know these kids, this boy and this girl?” asked Ren.
“The project manager put in a request to keep names omitted from reporting. But the project was named Hanzel and Gretel,” said Gael.
“Both were asked to consider whether Fuentes was recruitable,” said Gael.
“How did he do?” asked Ren
“He had a bit of bravado, he was lead on prank runs with the Delta Sig boys even though he wasn’t a member,” said Gael flipping the page in his file, “He was known to get drunk and grope a girl or two—the usual—smashed beer bottles, a cock fight every now and then with a frat boy. He was described as, I’m quoting here ‘not temperamental to any serious degree but often eager to show off his macho side when provoked’.”
“How was his recruitment handled?” asked Kevin.
“The specifics were handled by codename Gretel,” said Gael.
“Really?” asked Ren.
“Hanzel wrote that Fuentes had a keenness to prove his masculinity, who better to test his manhood, than a woman?” Gael paused, “In whatever direction he chose to swing it.”
Philip had to laugh. Georgia’s appeal for him to stay silent couldn’t erase his sense of humor. He was the youngest of the bunch and the quickest to heal.
“So she whipped him,” said Kevin.
“Gretel logged three sexual encounters between herself and Fuentes,” said Gael, “There were probably more. She was under instruction to serve as background support for Hanzel.”
“But she stayed in the foreground by letting him hit it,” said Philip.
Bob exhaled through his nostrils and eyed Philip with a look saying well said. Georgia looked down at the table and stared off into Cherrywood space. She would have liked to meet Gretel—she knew they had notes in common.
“They were never an item, Fuentes and the girl, Gretel,” said Gael.
“Friends with benefits,” said Bob supplying his own definition.
“She was a mainstay in his group of friends, but she wasn’t dating him,” said Gael, “The project manager wanted her to get close to him and pull away, to keep Fuentes’ emotions toward Gretel in flux. After both Hanzel and Gretel reported that Fuentes would be a strong candidate for recruitment, Gretel asked Fuentes if he would meet someone. That someone was Sullivan Taylor, who at that time was South American Recruitment Director.”
“Sully?” said Kevin.
“Did Hanzel come out from behind the curtain?” asked Ren.
“No,” said Gael, “We felt that it was good housekeeping to let Fuentes think that Hanzel had spotted him not stalked him. Hanzel really did consider himself Fuentes’ friend. He wanted to keep it that way.” Gael mentioned his involvement with Hanzel and Gretel for the first time and peeked Georgia’s interest.
“How did it proceed?” asked Kevin.
“After graduation, Fuentes stayed in the US for one year under the auspices of looking for a job, while he did entry training and psyche eval,” said Gael, “We got him an internship at Century Exploration for a few months to pad his resume before returning him to Venezuela under the excuse of a soon-expiring visa.”
“What happened when he got back to Venezuela?” asked Edward.
“He could write his own ticket,” said Gael, “He had a B.S. in Industrial Engineering from a US school and his dad was board chair at PDV. He gave us a palette to paint a landscape picture.”
“Venezuela,” said Ren with a look that saying ta-da! Gael glanced in Ren’s direction and the right corner of his mouth creased without warning.
Georgia began to remember what she had forgotten about Gael. He was taken by braggadocio.
“We let his dad do the legwork,” said Gael, leaving out what he considered unimportant.
“Victor Fuentes’ dad had offered him a management role in some department, it might have been quality control,” said Gael, “We never really dug for gold we just kept finding it. It was good form to take the job and not for the younger Fuentes to seem too cocky. He then suggested to his dad to merge his department with Resource Management—where we needed him. It was a waiting game that we were inclined to win.”
“What was the trigger?” asked Ren.
“The drop in oil prices in the 80s,” said Gael, “The elder Fuentes set his priority as employing as many people as he could conceive of. He thought that PDV was in business because of its access to the resources of the Venezuelan people, so he should create as many jobs as he could for Venezuelans. He changed his tone after oil prices fell off a cliff in the early 80s. He thought it better to keep PDV lean to avoid any future shocks—so he consolidated. And Victor Fuentes was merged into Resource Management in ’85. So we got what we wanted.”
“Where’d you go from there?” asked Ren.
“The point of Filartiga was to keep track of Venezuela’s oil and mineral stocks,” said Gael, “Once we had Fuentes in house, we gave him a list of the things we wanted: supply contracts; quotas; output capacity; output rates; financing; R&D; growth projections, the kitchen sink.”
“And you got all of it?” asked Kevin.
“Absolutely,” said Gael.
“If you had access to the information that was the endgame of Filartiga, what would be the point in creating Petbol?” asked Kevin.
Gael sat back in his chair and gripped each armrest. He rolled his head back and looked up at the old ceiling tile.
“From an intelligence standpoint, would you prefer to be in first-class sipping vodka tonics and waiting for flight updates or would you rather be in the cockpit manning the controls and steering the plane?” asked Gael, speaking directly to the ceiling and indirectly to everyone else. No one answered.
