the consequences of being seen outside the office with anyone associated with the CIA. It could start rumors. It could cause trouble. In fact, Ferdie was convinced, soon or late, it would cause trouble.
Like many others in the Agency, Ferdie disliked Jake Jacobson. Ferdie made the arrangements to move Jacobson from Damascus back to the United States. After he had been promoted into the Projects Branch, Jacobson called Ferdie and complained about the quality of his temporary motel facilities. He insisted on better accommodation in any future hotel/motel stay and warned Ferdie of dire consequences if he ever overlooked those demands.
Jake’s imperious attitude led Ferdie to make careful inquiries. Who was this man? Was he as important as his manner indicated? Ferdie’s acquaintances in the Project Branch were unanimous in reporting their dislike of Jacobson. One went so far as to call Jake “a sneaky, egocentric asshole,” and a secretary from the Damascus Station, being transferred to New Delhi, said she believed Jacobson might have caused the death of a fellow agent.
It was easy for Ferdie to identify the fellow agent who had been killed. During the time Jacobson was in Syria, only one man, Sean “Mick” McCarthy, had been killed in Damascus.
When Jacobson learned Ferdie had questioned his Projects Branch associates, he charged into Ferdie’s office. In a voice loud enough to be heard in surrounding offices, he gave him a tongue-lashing. It was Ferdie’s dislike of Jacobson that induced him to talk to Den Clark.
“I’m going to trust you,” Ferdie almost whispered. It was early in the evening. He and Den shared a back booth in an Arlington cocktail lounge. A few customers were at the bar, but the booths adjacent to Den and Ferdie were empty. Ferdie wanted it that way. He had screwed up his courage to meet with Den and, temporarily at least, he overcame some of his usually timidity. He wanted to cause trouble - trouble for Jake Jacobson.
“I’m going to trust you,” he repeated and immediately added the disclaimer: “It’s only a rumor, nothing more.” He drank from his Coca Cola before he spoke again. “I’m going to trust you to forget about where you heard this.” Den nodded and Ferdie continued. “Jake Jacobson might have had something to do with Mick McCarthy’s death. Whatever that ‘something’ was, it might have been covered up.”
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