Landslide, page 4
“Don’t worry, Doug. I’m not about to expose you to all these nice folks. But I am tired of the BS. I know enough to know you’re lying and something isn’t right.”
I could see Doug contemplating the direction of the conversation and his role in it. I continued rotating my glass, slowly turning it once, twice, three times. Waiters weaved in and around tables, and conversations clucked with few discernible words. The occasional car horn echoed across the square, and the angels of God looked down from Église de Saint Germain de Prés, judging it all.
“Let’s take a walk,” Doug finally said.
Doug knocked back the remainder of his scotch and popped up from his chair before tossing a few euros on the table. The tenor of our meeting instantly changed.
I remained seated for an additional moment. I honestly hadn’t known what to expect coming here to confront Doug. Perhaps denial, perhaps a refusal to talk at all. But this … I had a suspicion Doug felt compelled to reveal something to me but loathed to do so, like a professor having to give a student an “A” on a paper even though the haughty child, barely an adult, never bothered to attend class.
A sense of wariness—mixed with a strong notion of curiosity—crept inside me. I stood and took up a position abreast of Doug. We crossed the intersection and headed east along Rue de l’Abbaye.
“I need you to listen very carefully,” Doug began, the afternoon shadows making it seem later than it actually was. “I’m about to break a whole host of rules by telling you this. But, ya know, fuck it. I’m tired of the charade myself.”
I studied Doug and saw the tautness of his jawline, the movement of his eyes against corners, windows, and cars, and the speed of his walk, which was a hair faster than a relaxed stroll. His demeanor gave me a small sense of hope as well as apprehension, as if on the edge of a great precipice. A cliff, perhaps, which up until a few hours ago hadn’t existed, but which now brought into question the events surrounding one of the most painful memories of my life.
“Yes, I’m CIA, have been since we first met. But you already knew that,” Doug began. “What I’m about to tell you is highly classified. The majority of people who pass through CIA’s halls know nothing of what I’ll call the Program, and most presidents don’t find out until their second year in office, after being vetted, so to speak. You following me?”
I nodded, keeping pace with Doug, with my gaze focused straight ahead at the avenue before us.
“All right. For the past twenty years I’ve been involved in the Program, which goes all the way back to the end of World War II. When our forefathers drafted the charter for CIA and enshrined into law the intel community’s authorities, they were very precise about one authority in particular—covert action.
“Not that crap you see on TV—black masks and guns and rock-star spies—but real covert action. Knocking the crap out of the Reds, but with deniability. Hiding the hand of the US government. Shaping the world according to our wants and desires—all in the name of freedom and democracy, fucking city on a high hill—and making the masses and their leaders think someone else was behind it or that it just happened. Still with me?”
“I’ve read a bit of history.”
“Right, sure you have. But what you haven’t read about is the real covert action we do. The Bay of Pigs, the Phoenix Program—they were all big CIA covert ops, but the deniability was in statement only. Paper-thin. Perfectly transparent. Everyone knew it was us.
“No, what I’m talking about is the real deal. Complete, total, and utter deniability and nonattribution. So secret only a handful of people ever know the truth. Records so classified and vague no one will ever get at them or leak whatever they think they might find.
“You see, even back in the forties they knew we’d have to do some very sensitive stuff. Nasty stuff. Stuff maybe the American people couldn’t stomach, going against everything we think we are—the righteous beacon of democracy—so we could defeat our enemies and protect our allies, and so the world would go the way we needed it to go. You understand?”
“Yes,” I replied, a witness to America’s virtuous influence long ago and still sickened by it.
“Good. So, this—”
“Are you in charge of it?” I interrupted.
“The Program? No. Let’s say I’m involved.”
“Right,” I muttered, wondering if involved was the same as observe.
“So, the Program, it’s a long-term type of operation, generational. We need people with unquestionable loyalty and dedication, with certain skills, but who have no ties to America, who can go forth and do God’s work. But the typical idea of recruiting foreigners to do our bidding was found … problematic. We needed full control with no uncertainty. Beyond reproach. So how do we do this? Where do we find these people?” Doug asked rhetorically.
I didn’t answer, and we rounded the corner onto Rue de Buci.
“We make them.”
“You make them?”
“Yeah. These people with special skills, with loyalty, who are willing to give up everything—they have to die so they can live.”
“What?”
“Since the 1950s we’ve been faking the deaths of special operatives so they could assume the identity of someone else entirely. But not merely a made-up name with a passport and pictures of kids on swing sets who don’t exist. They needed to assume the life of someone real. Everything had to be real.”
“I’m not following.”
“Someone who’d been born, who had parents, a job, hobbies, a hairstyle, a background that if checked would turn up a bona fide history. But as you can imagine, only certain types of profiles are suitable. Candidates’ lives had to be foreign, minimal social and familial ties, of similar ages and appearances to the American operative whom they were paired with. I won’t go through it all, but you get the idea.”
“Yeah, sure. I’m just, I guess, skeptical about you switching out lives like that. Wouldn’t the candidate’s friends and family know?”
“It takes the right kind of profile, where there isn’t a risk.”
“No ties, no family left?”
“In a sense, yeah.”
“And what happens to these people—the candidates—whose lives you’re taking over?”
“Good question. They have to disappear. Sometimes people are willing to give up their identity for a new one, then settle in the heart of America. Back in the day, Soviet defectors coming out from behind the Iron Curtain fit that bill nicely.”
“And what if someone didn’t want to give up their life?”
Doug shrugged. “We find a different candidate. We don’t kill them if that’s what you’re inferring. A lot of preparation goes into this thing, and we know long before we approach someone whether they’ll do it or not.”
“So sure of yourselves.”
“Yes,” replied Doug firmly.
“I’m guessing Gomez is part of this?”
“Yes. Gomez, now Delgado, is what we call a consultant—all people like Delgado are—and his former life ended on that stretcher back in Ramadi. His heart really did stop—medically controlled, of course—and he was put in a body bag. There was a battlefield funeral and a burial at Arlington. And his next of kin—a father and mother, I think—were presented an American flag on behalf of a grateful nation. For all intents and purposes, he died and was reborn in the life of another—Henry Delgado—to continue serving his country.”
“Wait. Gomez knew this was going to happen?”
“Of course he did. We’d been planning his disappearance for about a year. We recruited him, and he agreed to join the Program to become a consultant.”
“What?” I tried to hide my astonishment, but my voice betrayed me.
“I know you two were close. He told us, and it’s part of his file.”
“File … wait. Back up.” The fact that Doug knew Gomez and I had been tight meant nothing. It was the other thing he’d said. “It doesn’t surprise me Gomez volunteered for this thing. I get it. He was that kind of guy. But are you telling me you orchestrated his fake death in Ramadi in the middle of a war?”
“No. We’re good, but we’re not that good.”
“And the risk,” I went on. “If the people you recruit for this Program are so special, top operatives—consultants—how could you risk him leading a scout sniper platoon in the heart of darkness? He could have been killed for real any day out there.”
“Let me explain.”
“Yes. Please do.”
“Gomez insisted he deploy with you guys one last time. And he knew the risk, and so did we. He couldn’t back out. Wouldn’t be right. He owed it to you guys even though he knew eventually he’d have to disappear. And that’s one of the reasons we wanted him for the Program: loyalty and dedication.”
“But that battle … the day he died …”
“Don’t think for a moment we staged a battle and got all those people killed only to fake a death. That day was real, every bit of it, including Gomez’s injuries.”
“And my injuries, and those of my men.”
“Yeah. That was a real op, planned and executed by you and your battalion.”
“And what about those ops the men in suits questioned me on? Are they connected to this?”
“No. Those were different. Unrelated to Gomez.”
I exhaled, making my lungs go empty, refusing to allow my mind to fall into those dark memories but also trying to digest what I was hearing.
“Back to Gomez,” continued Doug. “Once things turned out the way they did, we took advantage of the opportunity. We’re agile in that regard. Our docs came in, regulated the appearance of his death with a shot in the arm, and Kevin Gomez disappeared forever, fated to live again as someone else.”
“And Henry Delgado?”
“The real Henrique Delgado was a near-perfect twin of Gomez. All of us have them, people who look almost identical. Maybe someone who lives on the other side of the world, or someone who lived fifty years ago, but they exist. Just so happens Henrique Delgado fit all the other requirements too.”
“And what happened to him?”
“He was from Spain, a loner with no family. We helped him disappear the same year. I hear he’s living a quiet life in the Rockies in a nice cabin courtesy of US taxpayers.”
I stayed silent for a time, walking, looking but not seeing anything, trying to make sense of what Doug had told me. But I couldn’t, not yet. Hours from now, once everything had settled, I might make sense of it, but I’d have a million questions. At the moment what resonated with me was Gomez’s involvement in covert operations so secret, he erased his entire past to do … what?
“Why was he in Ukraine?” I asked.
“He was on a mission. That’s all I’ll say.”
“Really? That’s all you’ll say? A mission. The big mish.”
“He was looking into something. Something that threatens the balance of power between governments and international corporations. Don’t ask any more questions.”
I shot Doug a look, wondering what the hell he meant by the balance of power between governments and corporations, but chose not to press the matter. “Okay, fine. But why tell me the other stuff?”
“I have immense respect for Delgado—the man you knew as Gomez—and he obviously wanted you to know the truth, particularly if he thought he might never have an opportunity to tell you himself.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just that. I suspect he wanted you to know the truth.”
“But … my God.” A realization hit me like a hammer. “You’re not going to get him, are you?”
“No, we’re not,” Doug replied flatly.
“Why not? If everything you told me is true, that Gomez and the other consultants like him are sooo special, how can you abandon him?”
“Tough choices. It’s the mission.”
“It’s disgraceful.”
“Think what you want. Delgado knew the deal. We all do.”
“Oh, don’t give me that shit. You make it sound all selfless and pure. For the good of the country, you abandon your best people? You could get him out if you wanted to, couldn’t you?” I said, levying the question more as a challenge.
Doug shrugged.
“Right. ’Course you won’t, because it might compromise the Program.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Is it?”
“Yes. What do you think he was doing over there?”
“I don’t know. You won’t tell me.”
“He was going up against the fucking Russians and the bloody mercenaries and conglomerates of death undermining the world and threatening mom and apple pie. Serious business and I bet a hell of a lot worse than we think.”
“Yeah, I’ve seen the news. Governments and international financiers aren’t playing by the rules anymore either. Big surprise. Glad to hear you’re on top of it.”
“Fuck off. Let me put it this way for you. The Russians are invading their neighbors on an annual basis, knocking off their enemies with plutonium appetizers, using your traditional GRU and SVR types, but also employing the new-age mercenary companies to do the real dirty work that even Putin doesn’t want to be associated with. He likes hobnobbing with the international business types—the oligarchs and international citizens who owe loyalty to no nation—and then covertly backing them for cutthroat shit that turns a profit.
“And when I say cutthroat, I mean it, literally and figuratively depending on who and where. And if you ask me, there’s men and women out there—beyond the Kremlin’s heavy hand—who may be worse because they are rewriting the playbook as we try to catch up. Where we see borders and talk about international relations and norms, they see none of it—borders and national loyalties are antiquated ways of thinking. Power is shifting elsewhere.
“So, if we got caught trying to rescue Delgado in the mix of something we don’t fully understand, the blowback would be catastrophic. The enemy might not nuke Washington, but don’t think for a second they won’t launch a stray rocket in Syria or run a live-fire exercise in the North Sea too close to one of our ships. And targeting our own spies, officials, and economic interests would be a given. Show up on the doorstep of the family home in Arlington, Virginia, kill everyone inside with a spray of gunfire from a suppressed submachine gun, and then sabotage a natural gas pipeline so they can scoop up the market. Putin could back it, or someone else we don’t know anything about could order it.
“We’re not prepared to go down that road for one man. It’d compromise everything else we have going on.”
“It’s disgraceful, what you’re doing. Or let me rephrase, what you’re unwilling to do.”
“You were a marine, so I’ll cut you some slack. Things were black and white for you, loyalty and honor, leave no man behind. You can do that when the marines hit the beach because everyone knows you’re there, nothing to hide. You plant fucking flags on mountains. But this is the world of espionage and covert action. Lies, double-crosses, admit nothing, deny everything—it’s on the recruiting poster.”
“Even against your own people,” I said, my disgust catching in my throat.
“Like I said, Kevin knew the game. That’s the reason he was out there on the edge. He was under no illusion what would happen if he got caught. Everyone in the Program knows.”
“So that’s it?”
“Think whatever you want. I’ve already told you more than I should have, but I did it because Delgado liked you and I know you from Iraq.”
“You know they’ll torture and kill him, right? You just said it—you think it’s the fucking Russians or some merc outfit who have him. Torture, extracting information, a convenient bullet to the head—it’s a national sport for them.”
“Yeah. But let me ask this—why do you care? Your friend has been dead for over fifteen years and he chose this life, and he didn’t tell you anything. He chose to keep you in the dark, until now. So why do you care about someone who did that?”
I paused, finding Doug’s words sharp. I couldn’t deny his point, but it wasn’t that plain for me. I understood what Gomez did, choosing that life. He was a natural. Talented, with instincts that let him walk away from tight spots he shouldn’t have. And he must have known severing his past life was how it had to be … but now things had changed. He’d reached out to a trusted friend—me.
“The email,” I finally said.
“I wouldn’t read too much into it. I think he wanted you to know the truth, but nothing more. He told me as much,” Doug remarked with a shrug.
I noted a change in his tone like he was making an effort to sound indifferent. Moments ago he’d been wound tighter than my Catholic grandmother when she met Billy Graham. Doug’s words and movements had been measured and rehearsed; but now, nonchalance had entered the mix.
“What happens if Gomez—ehh—Delgado talks?” I asked. “Won’t that expose everything?”
“Delgado is tough, you know that, and his cover is one of the best. Plus, we won’t acknowledge anything.”
“Do you know if they caught him in the act, whatever he was doing?”
“Sources indicate he was caught under suspicious conditions.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“Exactly what you think it means. Suspicious circumstances.”
“Do you think they’ll kill him?”
“I won’t speculate.”
“I’m asking what you think.”
Doug hesitated another moment, then offered, “They will eventually.”
“But not till they squeeze what they can out of him.”
Doug nodded slowly.
I snorted, looking up at the street signs. We’d ended up at the intersection of Quai des Grands Augustins and the bridge of Pont Neuf. I shook my head and veered off, stopping by the wall overseeing the River Seine. I rested my palms on the cool stone and watched a riverboat pass underneath the bridge, hearing the ding of the captain’s bell.
