of the killing. He was sure it would give a more complete picture of what had happened. When he asked for the file, he was told it was not available. He asked “Why?’ It was a simple question. The answer was equally simple. “The file is not available to you because it is classified.”
It took three dinners with a rather plain girl who had access to the Agency’s Classified Information records. Without authorization, she let Den read the file he sought. The report of the circumstances surrounding McCarthy’s death was brief and overly concise. It contained no reference to any investigation into the death. It reported only that Agent McCarthy was killed in Damascus by a group of terrorists. Date, time, and location were reported - only basic information, the facts that might satisfy a statistician, but nothing more.
It was as sterile and barren as Teddy’s description. Den was more than merely dissatisfied. He was angry. He wanted to know the specifics of the death of his SEAL comrade - the man who once saved his life. Why couldn’t he find out exactly what had happened to him?
Den’s instincts told him there was more to the story of the death of Mick McCarthy. The small voice living deep within him was again whispering. That same voice had warned him when he crossed the tarmac at the Saddam Hussein airfield in Baghdad. It told him something was astir during his first meeting with Teddy Smith. Den had disregarded the little voice when it told him to quit the Agency and forget Teddy’s offer. Now it was again telling him something was wrong.
Why was the report so lacking in corroborating fact? What was so secret about it? Why had it been classified? Was someone trying to hide what happened to Mick McCarthy? Was someone trying to avoid any record that might cause someone else to become curious and ask questions? Who was the agent with Mick when the shooting started? Why doesn’t the report identify him?
Den decided he would look for that man. He would find him and talk with him. He’d find out what happened to Mick. But how could he identify the agent who stood with Mick McCarthy in Damascus? Where would he begin his search? Den found a way to answer those questions when he remembered Ferdie Robbins. “Ferdie might be able to help,” he thought.
Ferdie Robbins looked like a cartoonist’s idea of an accountant. He was narrow framed and weighed, maybe, a hundred and fifty pounds. His face seemed too small for the large tortoise shell rimmed glasses he wore. He was a quiet man - an introvert, just a bit uncomfortable in the presence of anyone. It had been facetiously rumored that he was part mouse. Certainly, he wasn’t flamboyant and, certainly, he wasn’t courageous.
Secretly, Ferdie dreamed about being an undercover agent. He fantasized about meeting and overcoming the kinds of desperate peril found in Hollywood’s lurid spy movies. In real life, however, Ferdie avoided any kind of potential danger with the same indefatigable attentions he would employ to avoid the Black Plague. Though he spent much of his time badgered by varying degrees of fright, he performed his work at Langley with efficiency and intelligence.
Ferdie worked in the Agency’s Clandestine Service. He arranged transportation for CIA field agents. He also provided another special service. If an agent traveled for some covert purpose, it was Ferdie who prepared the cover, the passport and other documents that would prove he was anyone from a Chicago plumbing contractor to a Belgian investment banker.
It was Ferdie who arranged Den’s transportation to Santiago as well as the alternate identity he might assume in the event of any unforeseen problem with Chilean authorities. Because of Ferdie’s job responsibilities, he was collaterally involved in many of the Agency’s covert operations. Den knew Ferdie probably managed the transportation of every person who had been sent to Syria.
Ferdie would know who was in Damascus when Mick was killed. He would probably be able to name every officer who might have been with Mick the night he died. If Mick was involved in some secret operation, Ferdie would know about it. He would have provided the necessary cover. Den’s problem was getting Ferdie to tell what he knew. Ferdie was tight lipped. He made a clam look like a Hollywood gossip columnist.
In the spying business, a covert agent’s fear of exposure is constant. That kind of fear can migrate to other people in the intelligence services who are not involved in covert operations. Suspicion is pernicious. If a man is suspected of treachery, his friends and associates also become suspect.
When the suspicions of the presence of a Soviet penetration of the CIA’s Langley offices were high, many in the Agency, from secretaries on up, wondered who could they trust. Perhaps the man at the next desk was a Soviet mole. To be able to work in an atmosphere of such widespread mutual suspicion is difficult.
When Soviet moles were uncovered and the leaks were plugged, much of the fear subsided. Ferdie Robbins, however, remained alarmed by the possibility of being accused of disloyalty. True to his cautious and timid nature, Ferdie became inordinately fearful of 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
