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 call lifted her spirits. If there ever was a time when a lady needed a friend, this was it. She knew Den Clark was, indeed, a friend. He had been much more than a friend. She was transported back to their days together in the Sherman Kent School for Intelligence Analysis. It was more than fun. They had shared their lives, honestly and completely.
When Gigi heard the knock on her door, the lingering feeling of isolation - of being alone - left her. The sense of relief she felt when she answered the phone and recognized Den’s voice returned to her. She hoped Den hadn’t changed. She hoped he was still the man she knew so well at the Kent School. She needed more than just a friend. She needed someone to hold her.
When Gigi opened the door, Den saw the pretty woman who had attracted him in that cafeteria two years earlier, but her smile seemed to be a bit tentative. Den thought she showed signs of stress. He wondered if she had changed. He wondered if she had moved on with her life. He wondered if she was the same woman who shared his life at the Kent School. He hoped so.
At first, they spoke in short impersonal sentences. Den said she looked great. She said he did, too. Could he come in? Yes, of course. Sit. Make yourself at home. Good to see you again. You too. Then, after a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Den removed any reason for further embarrassment. He wasted no time. “What’s wrong, hon. I’m someone who loves you. Remember me? I’m on your side. You can talk to me.”
Gigi was reassured. This was the Den she knew. He could always read her moods. His sympathy was never false. He was more than a once-upon-a-time lover. He was her most intimate friend. She knew she could trust him.
Gigi wanted someone to know how Jacobson stole money from a CIA account and tried to use it to bribe a terrorist. She wanted someone to know how Jacobson feared a double cross and used an unsuspicious Mick McCarthy to deliver the bribe. She wanted someone to know how Jacobson had driven from the scene at the first sign of trouble, leaving McCarthy alone to face terrorist gunfire. She wanted someone to know the Agency had engaged in a cover-up. Her story might never become a part of the official record, but she wanted someone to know it.
Gigi told Den everything she had uncovered during her investigation of McCarthy’s death. When she had finished, she leaned back in the chair. “Jacobson tried to get me to whitewash him. Of course, I wouldn’t do it. I gave my report to Henry Putnam. He’s the Station Chief. He took it to Langley.
