Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
This is the first story I have ever posted anywhere, so, gentle reader, be kind.
The Agent, the Girl, and the Fidelistas
Chapter One
Content reviewed and approved by CIA censor, per public disclosure laws with 25 year time passage from actual events. Required redactions are in { }
The operation was fucked up from the beginning! I knew it. My handler knew it. I think his boss knew it but was afraid buck the top boys. But the god-damned political boys hanging around the office of DDO (Deputy Director of Operations) and even DCIA (Director, Central Intelligence Agency), thought they were geniuses and had invented a new way to do covert!
It was a simple enough mission to begin with. If was summer 1960, and we wanted to contact in person some of the local anti-Castros that I had developed over several years in the south-west of Cuba. They were near the coast and I would have to go by boat. My handler, {Wragg} , is good guy and always looking out for my safety. He forced me to go over and over the details until it was as close to perfect as possible.
I would use the excellent cover I’d developed over the years as a Canadian entrepreneur on a sailing vacation in the Carib. I used to crew on Bermuda Cup Races on my vacations so I’m overqualified for a 25 ft private sloop. One man can handle it well if he knows what he’s doing.
I would spend a week sailing around Jamaica, snorkeling and hitting the bars. We knew Castro had agents placed there more or less continually. I would drink and throw money around (the Agency was always good about funding the appearance of wealth) and tell how my company had just made a big deal so I was taking a month in the Carib snorkeling and sailing. Next stop South East Cuba. I would ask about bars and ways to spend money there. We knew the communists were getting desperate for foreign exchange since US had cracked down. We figured the agents would tell their buddies back in Cuba to leave me alone and let me spend.
All was going along well and we had the boat arranged and the money and the itinerary, when in the early fall, {Wragg} and I were called to a meeting by the Section Chief, {thehangingtree}. When we arrived in the room, there were a couple of the new boys there, looking very smug. The chief asked us to go over our plan. {Wragg} objected, for, as dangerous a mission as this, we rarely gave details to anyone else, and then only on a NTK (need to know) basis. The Chief looked embarrassed, as if he had been caught with his knickers down in a DC men’s room with a highly placed FBI administrator. But one of the punks spoke up in a superior voice and said, “DDI (Deputy Director of Intelligence - the guys who read secret cables and thought deeply, and had no idea what work in the field was like!) needs to know and he authorized us to get the info.” (He seemed quite proud of using the term, “info” as if he had invented it. Before I could gag, I saw the Chief nod his head, “Please, {Apostate}, tell us the details.
So we went over every thing, slowly so the smart boys from Yale could follow. When we finished, the second, slightly older one (maybe 31), gave us his concern.
“We have a really big show we are preparing that will lift off (honest to God and I swear on Allen Welsh Dulles’ grave, the twit said "really big show" and “lift off”) early next year. We could use some additional information from your sources in that exact area, and we, of course, don’t want your ah, mission, compromising ours.”
Before I lunged at the dear man to show him how good I am at compromising missions of bullcrap, my handler put his hand firmly on my shoulder and said in a cold, hard voice, {Apostate} has never compromised a mission. If you bother to look at the files, you will see that he has one of the best success rates in the whole agency.”
The other twit tried to back off a little and made noises about great confidence in me. I decided I would wait until I ran into either of them in a dark alley behind headquarters to show them some confidence.
The meeting soon broke up and we went back to {Wragg} office to hit his 10 year old Scotch and complain about things we had no control over.
Three days later we were back in the Chief’s office with the older SOB, being briefed on the changes the “guys up top” (I swear, that’s what he said!) had made. He said they thought there would be better cover if I took along a second agent who would be presented as my fiancé. And this would allow them to implant an agent who know what their “Big Show” was and gather appropriate info (again with “info”) from my contacts.
We could see it was a done deal, so only mildly objected. We threw out names of some female agents we thought would work, but twit boy immediately shot it down. The “guys up top” had already chosen my sidekick. Waving aside any issues, he tapped the intercom and asked for Agent {Barbara Moore} to be sent in.
Censor's comment: name of agent Moore should be redacted, but due to subsequent events, it is not a concern.
The door opened and in walked a very attractive young woman. I must be honest and say all I could think of was what a knock-out she was! And how young she was!
The Agent, the Girl, and the Fidelistas
Chapter One
Content reviewed and approved by CIA censor, per public disclosure laws with 25 year time passage from actual events. Required redactions are in { }
The operation was fucked up from the beginning! I knew it. My handler knew it. I think his boss knew it but was afraid buck the top boys. But the god-damned political boys hanging around the office of DDO (Deputy Director of Operations) and even DCIA (Director, Central Intelligence Agency), thought they were geniuses and had invented a new way to do covert!
It was a simple enough mission to begin with. If was summer 1960, and we wanted to contact in person some of the local anti-Castros that I had developed over several years in the south-west of Cuba. They were near the coast and I would have to go by boat. My handler, {Wragg} , is good guy and always looking out for my safety. He forced me to go over and over the details until it was as close to perfect as possible.
I would use the excellent cover I’d developed over the years as a Canadian entrepreneur on a sailing vacation in the Carib. I used to crew on Bermuda Cup Races on my vacations so I’m overqualified for a 25 ft private sloop. One man can handle it well if he knows what he’s doing.
I would spend a week sailing around Jamaica, snorkeling and hitting the bars. We knew Castro had agents placed there more or less continually. I would drink and throw money around (the Agency was always good about funding the appearance of wealth) and tell how my company had just made a big deal so I was taking a month in the Carib snorkeling and sailing. Next stop South East Cuba. I would ask about bars and ways to spend money there. We knew the communists were getting desperate for foreign exchange since US had cracked down. We figured the agents would tell their buddies back in Cuba to leave me alone and let me spend.
All was going along well and we had the boat arranged and the money and the itinerary, when in the early fall, {Wragg} and I were called to a meeting by the Section Chief, {thehangingtree}. When we arrived in the room, there were a couple of the new boys there, looking very smug. The chief asked us to go over our plan. {Wragg} objected, for, as dangerous a mission as this, we rarely gave details to anyone else, and then only on a NTK (need to know) basis. The Chief looked embarrassed, as if he had been caught with his knickers down in a DC men’s room with a highly placed FBI administrator. But one of the punks spoke up in a superior voice and said, “DDI (Deputy Director of Intelligence - the guys who read secret cables and thought deeply, and had no idea what work in the field was like!) needs to know and he authorized us to get the info.” (He seemed quite proud of using the term, “info” as if he had invented it. Before I could gag, I saw the Chief nod his head, “Please, {Apostate}, tell us the details.
So we went over every thing, slowly so the smart boys from Yale could follow. When we finished, the second, slightly older one (maybe 31), gave us his concern.
“We have a really big show we are preparing that will lift off (honest to God and I swear on Allen Welsh Dulles’ grave, the twit said "really big show" and “lift off”) early next year. We could use some additional information from your sources in that exact area, and we, of course, don’t want your ah, mission, compromising ours.”
Before I lunged at the dear man to show him how good I am at compromising missions of bullcrap, my handler put his hand firmly on my shoulder and said in a cold, hard voice, {Apostate} has never compromised a mission. If you bother to look at the files, you will see that he has one of the best success rates in the whole agency.”
The other twit tried to back off a little and made noises about great confidence in me. I decided I would wait until I ran into either of them in a dark alley behind headquarters to show them some confidence.
The meeting soon broke up and we went back to {Wragg} office to hit his 10 year old Scotch and complain about things we had no control over.
Three days later we were back in the Chief’s office with the older SOB, being briefed on the changes the “guys up top” (I swear, that’s what he said!) had made. He said they thought there would be better cover if I took along a second agent who would be presented as my fiancé. And this would allow them to implant an agent who know what their “Big Show” was and gather appropriate info (again with “info”) from my contacts.
We could see it was a done deal, so only mildly objected. We threw out names of some female agents we thought would work, but twit boy immediately shot it down. The “guys up top” had already chosen my sidekick. Waving aside any issues, he tapped the intercom and asked for Agent {Barbara Moore} to be sent in.
Censor's comment: name of agent Moore should be redacted, but due to subsequent events, it is not a concern.
The door opened and in walked a very attractive young woman. I must be honest and say all I could think of was what a knock-out she was! And how young she was!
