The Aegis Conspiracy Read online

  THE AEGIS

  CONSPIRACY

  A NOVEL BY

  GALEN WINTER

  The Aegis Conspiracy: A Novel

  Copyright ©2011 by Galen Winter

  ISBN-13 978-1-926918-97-6

  Second Edition

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Winter, Galen, 1926-

  The aegis conspiracy : a novel / written by Galen Winter – 2nd ed.

  ISBN 978-1-926918-97-6

  Also available in print format.

  I. Title.

  PS3573.I565A74 2010 813'.54 C2010-900227-X

  Additional cataloguing data available from Library and Archives Canada

  Disclaimer: The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Extreme care has been taken to ensure that all information presented in this book is accurate and up to date at the time of publishing. Neither the author nor the publisher can be held responsible for any errors or omissions. Additionally, neither is any liability assumed for damages resulting from the use of the information contained herein.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the express written permission of the publisher.

  Publisher: CCB Publishing

  British Columbia, Canada

  www.ccbpublishing.com

  In Memoriam

  Douglas Robert Winter

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  CODA

  Chapter 1

  The man sat alone at a table in a restaurant in the Arturo Merino Benitez airport in Santiago. It was cold outside in the Chilean winter night, but comfortably warm in the section of the airport reserved for international travelers. For ten minutes, the man had been engrossed in reading the La Prensa articles describing the discovery of the body of Humberto del Valle. Without looking up, he reached for the small cup of coffee that rested on the table in front of him. He brought it to his lips. The coffee was cold. He glanced at the waiter and nodded slightly.

  The waiter came to the table and the man said: “Otro cafecito, por favor.”

  The waiter answered “Si. Senor,” and walked to the restaurant counter for another cup of the strong, black coffee the traveler seemed to prefer.

  Though the government of General Augusto Pinochet Ugarte had been out of power for some time, the recollections of his administration’s jailing and murder of left-wingers, opposition politicians and student dissidents had not faded. The report of the death of Humberto del Valle, the man who organized the vicious abuses, was front-page news.

  His body was found in a cottage near Puerto Montt, a city only five hundred and fifty miles to the south of Santiago. One of the editorial writers wondered if friends within the current Chilean government might have provided del Valle with the sanctuary he enjoyed until only a few days ago.

  Humberto del Valle disappeared when the Pinochet government fell from power. For years he had eluded his pursuers and avoided facing the consequences of his crimes. At various times he was reported to be hiding in Paraguay, in Spain and in Argentina. Protected by friends and fascist elements in those countries, he was consistently a step ahead of those who looked for him. Now he was dead. Someone had found him.

  Two bodyguards protected del Valle. The body of one of them was found in a wooded area near the entrance to the Puerto Montt cottage. His neck was broken. The other bodyguard lay inside the building on the kitchen floor, a single bullet hole in the center of his chest.

  Humberto del Valle carried a similar wound. He lay crumpled against the wall of his bedroom. A 9 mm Tokarev pistol was on the floor at his side. Empty cartridges found near his body and holes in the wall near the bedroom door confirmed it had been fired twice.

  The man seated in the airport restaurant again read La Prensa’s reports and editorial comment about del Valle’s violent death. He studied each word and phrase to uncover any subtle suggestions they might contain. The newspaper articles and the government news release gave no indication there would be a serious attempt to find the man or men who killed del Valle.

  The editorial writer of La Prensa was the exception. He wanted them found, honored and given lifetime government pensions. Like most Chileans, the writer was pleased to learn of del Valle’s death. The man responsible for so much torture and killing was gone forever. It was the common presumption someone avenging the murder of a friend or a family member had performed the long overdue act. No one would shed tears for him.

  The waiter returned with more coffee. Showing no reaction to the story, the man put the newspaper on the table, picked up the cup and drank from it. He looked around at his fellow passengers. It was easy to recognize the North American tourists and businessmen who wandered in and out of the tax-free stores lining the walls of the international flight waiting area. They congregated in separate groups, drawing attention by their dress and their conduct. They talked and laughed just a bit louder than Latinos. There was just a touch of flamboyant self-assurance in their gestures and in the way they walked.

  Den Clark was indistinguishable from the Chilean nationals who were bound for the United States. Although he was a North American, his clothing and his demeanor were as theirs. He was reserved and drew no attention to himself. His spoken Spanish carried no hint of a gringo accent.

  In his youth and early teens, Den Clark lived in Bogotá where his father managed the Colombian distribution office of an American business machine manufacturer. It was there he learned to speak the Spanish language as it is spoken in Colombia. It was there he developed both knowledge of and appreciation for Latin American culture.

  When his flight was called and after the first class passengers received their preferential treatment, Den boarded the Chilean Linea Aerea Nacional jet together with the remaining travelers. He found his assigned row and eased himself into the aisle bulkhead seat. Den Clark was two inches over six feet tall and weighed a muscular 200 pounds. He needed the extra room provided by bulkhead seating.

  Flights between Santiago and the United States leave Chile in the evening. On the following afternoon, they arrive in Washington D. C. It’s a long trip - over eighteen hours. Spending that amount of time strapped in a seat, apparently designed to fit the body of a five-and-a-half-foot tall anorectic, was not a pleasant prospect for a man of his size, but Den always traveled in the tourist class section of the airplane.

  A stewardess might remember a first class passenger. Few would remember a quiet traveler shoehorned into the crowded back section of the plane. Den Clark preferred the anonymity of tourist class passage. He was an agent in the Clandestine Services of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was returning to Washington after completing his mission in Chile. It had been his first assassination.

  As a
SEAL, Den had killed men. Killing the enemy was part of the Navy’s Sea/Air/Land training and purpose. SEAL missions were team operations. Each man supported and was supported by his teammates. Den’s Puerto Montt assignment was different.

  The assassination of Humberto del Valle was a solo effort - one man entirely on his own. It was especially designed to be hidden behind the screen of secrecy. It was disclosed to no one except the men who conceived and organized it and the one man who carried it out. It was an operation carrying the faint odor of something that might be unacceptable if exposed to the light of day.

  When the LAN flight was in the air, Den tried to relax. La Prensa’s speculations about the death of Humberto del Valle were reassuring. Everyone assumed he had been killed by Chileans. There wasn’t a suspicion the murder might have been planned and carried out by the CIA. Still, Den Clark was not at ease. When the flight attendant pushed the beverage cart down the aisle, a Scotch and water helped him unbend. It helped quiet the tiny whispering voice of disapproval.

  Den knew the del Valle killing was a test. It was a necessary test. Those who planned it had to know if he was able to skillfully carry out an assassination. Den knew he had performed well. He proved he was resourceful and efficient. He passed their test. He told himself his future missions would have a stronger national purpose. It was a thought that made him feel better.

  After dinner, eaten tourist class fashion with his arms pressed tightly against his sides, Den took the pillow offered by the flight attendant. He removed his shoes and tried to find a comfortable position. Two hours later there were few overhead lights shining in the cabin. It was quiet. Only the people who were unable to sleep on airplanes were still awake. Den was one of them.

  He shifted his weight and crammed the tiny pillow behind his head, trying unsuccessfully to make it do the work of two. He couldn’t tilt his seat backwards without disturbing the lady and the baby who sat behind him. At least the infant was not squalling. Stretching his legs seemed like a good idea. He decided he wouldn’t walk to the flight attendant’s station. The modest exercise and the coffee he would probably drink would keep him awake.

  Den reshaped the tiny pillow and put it behind his neck. It didn’t help. Sleep continued to elude him. He shut his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He thought about Gigi Grant. He wondered where she was. He wondered what she was doing. He told himself she would approve of what he did in the isolated cottage in the forest near Puerto Montt. He told himself she would have understood. It was a comforting thought.

  For a few years before she came to Washington, G. G. Grant was one of the newer associates in a prestigious Phoenix law firm. The firm was large and her work was routine. Gigi was smarter and worked harder than most of the younger attorneys, but she was assigned mundane duties. Her male counterparts got the more interesting work. They were also the first to be advanced. Later, Gigi would refer to that part of her life as “my factory worker phase”. She left the firm when her application for Central Intelligence Agency service was accepted.

  Den Clark met Gigi Grant during their CIA indoctrination training. She was a pretty woman and the competition for her favors was active. Gigi was not displeased by the attentions she received from the new agents, but she was well aware of the usually narrow focus of their intentions.

  One of the agents she met in the cafeteria, however, treated her as if she were a human being and not merely an example of the female of the species. Gigi selected Den and that was that. Any further male attempts to attract her interest were unmistakably and immediately frozen into cold immobility.

  Den and Gigi’s affair was intense, but short-lived. Neither had any serious interests in the commitments and the compromises that lead to permanent engagements. They enjoyed the laughter, the companionship and the fun of each other. However, they knew their chosen work denied the possibilities of a long-term relationship. The lives they planned for themselves wouldn’t allow it.

  When the time came to end the affair, they parted as good friends. They told themselves it was over. It was time to turn the page. Now, only a few years later, in their reveries, each would often revisit the time they spent together and each would smile.

  Den remembered waking in the early morning and feeling the warmth of Gigi’s body. They had slept, pressed against each other like two spoons. He remembered when he softly moved his arm that held her to him and left the bed, careful not to disturb her. Minutes later, he returned with her coffee mug - the one that carried the legend: QUIET!! DON’T TALK UNTIL I’VE FINISHED THIS. He remembered her bright surprise when he kissed her awake.

  Those were happy days filled with smiles and fulfilled expectations. Now they were memories - good ones with only a touch of the bittersweet. Gigi was in the Near East. She had been sent to the Damascus Station. After a boring period of basic analyst’s labors, Den found his home in the Central Intelligence Agency’s Directorate of Operations. In the Agency’s descriptive shorthand, it was called “Clandestine Services”. They both thought they would probably never meet again, but they had great memories.

  Recalling Gigi’s smile and the sounds of her voice and laughter and in spite of the cramped LAN tourist class accommodation, Den Clark finally went to sleep.

  Chapter 2

  Denver Clark was named after a paternal grandparent who was born in the railroad station on the evening the infant’s homesteading parents’ arrival in Denver. Two generations later, someone had to carry on grandfather’s name and the new-born baby, unable to defend himself, was elected. Though he wasn’t pleased with that decision, the child was glad his grandfather had been born in Denver rather than in Bismarck, North Dakota or, even worse, in Florence, Wisconsin.

  Denver Clark seldom acknowledged his first name and preferred to be called “Den”. By the time the Clark family moved from Bogotá to a Minneapolis suburb, no one knew him as “Denver”. In Minnesota, Den Clark became an avid hunter and fisherman, a fact that explained why his face and hands were well tanned.

  He also developed the attractive characteristics of self-assurance and self-reliance. Perhaps it was a result of the experiences derived from life in different cultures or perhaps it was that same undefined genetic quirk that caused his great grandfather to migrate to Colorado and his father to take a position in South America.

  In any event, when he reached university age, Den was afflicted with both a strong sense of independence and an irresistible curiosity. He had “sand in his shoes”. His idea of hell would be an eternity of routine. He could not - would not - reduce his life to an endless series of boring tomorrows, each one a carbon copy of its pointless predecessor. It was his temperament and his curiosity that caused him to disappoint his parents by dropping out of Cornell and joining the Navy. Den Clark became a SEAL and acquired the scars that now marked his body.

  During the first weeks of the Second Gulf War, Den and his SEAL team were inside the military portion of the Saddam International Airport some ten miles to the west of Baghdad. They had already found and radioed the positions of the airfield’s defensive installations. Beginning on the morning of April third, his team began their attacks on the reinforced aircraft shelters where Republican Guards were awaiting the arrival of the advancing American armies.

  Only two of Den’s team survived the ensuing firefights. Only one would have survived except for the courage of a big Chicago Irishman. When Den was shot while crossing an open landing strip, Mick McCarthy left the comparative safety of a hanger and, under fire, ran to where Den lay bleeding in the middle of the tarmac runway. He grabbed Den and dragged him back to the hanger, receiving two small arms gun fire wounds in the process.

  Later that day, when 3rd Army infantrymen arrived and drove most of the Iraqis from the field, they searched the airfield for pockets of resistance and found Mick McCarthy weakly calling out to them. He insisted an unconscious Den Clark was still alive. The two men received medical attention from the corpsmen and were helicoptered to a hospital ship in the Gulf.
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  Mick recovered quickly and returned to active duty in SEALS. Den’s wounds required more time to heal. He was still in the hospital when he was interviewed by the Central Intelligence Agency. SEAL training and native-like fluency in Spanish were special qualifications. Den guessed the Agency was looking for a man to perform covert operations in Latin America. What more could a man want.

  As soon as Den was recruited into the Agency, he called Mick McCarthy and told him what had happened. Mick didn’t show the unhappiness he felt when he heard of Den’s decision. He and Den had become close friends during their years in the SEALS. He knew the life of a CIA foreign intelligence officer would certainly appeal to Den. It would be a great job for him. Mick also knew he would miss Den and he suspected Den would miss him.

  He encouraged Den and then thought: “What the hell. Why not? ” He asked Den to tell him how to apply for a job with the CIA and then asked him to recommend him for the same work Den was going to do. Or, at least, the sort of work Den thought he was going to do.

  After completing his training at the CIA’s Sherman Kent Center, Den received a disappointment. He did not become a covert agent in some CIA Latin America station. He was assigned to the CIA’s complex in Langley. He became an analyst specializing in reviewing facts and events developing in Spanish speaking countries. The work of an Agency analyst inside the Belt Line held little appeal for him. Perhaps it was only a temporary warehousing and his abilities would soon be put to their proper use.

  Den invested one full year behind a desk heaped with reports and Spanish language newspapers. He spent hours studying them. Looking for needles in the haystacks of trivia that were piled on his desk became unbearably boring. His expectation to become one of the Agency’s field officers went unfulfilled.