Alone in his underground office, Thomas dissected his fear. Despite having read all the reported research into Abra, fear of the unknown was inescapable; the consequences of his attempts to communicate were impossible to know. He was fearful of just talking to Abra, so alien was it and so strange had been his first experience. Deeper down, there lay personal mortal fear and a visceral sense of widescale doom. If he was found out by his superiors, he could expect any form of Agency retribution. Abra could well play a part in exposing him in ways that lay beyond his control and foresight. The soldiers were an even bigger risk but they were manageable. At a national and even global level, Thomas could barely imagine how badly things might go if, somehow, it turned out that he was about to make an irreversible mistake by facing Abra.
His mind spun through scenarios: what Harriett had said about the crash in ‘47 being possibly set up to initiate contact; Abra being some kind of malevolent probe; mankind not being of actual interest; some kind of looming invasion that hinged on someone like Thomas carelessly letting slip some key piece of unknown information. He tried to picture a scene in the Director’s office as he took the blame for the eradication of the human race. He blurted out a loud, single laugh.
Fuck it, that’s probably not the worst scenario. Admitting you screwed up for whatever reason just before the world as we know it ends isn’t that hard to deal with. It’s carrying a cross for the rest of a long enough life that’s hard.
The war and most of his life since had revolved around some form of risk-taking behaviour, be it calculated and mitigated, or off-the-charts and luck-bound. COATHANGER had become a grinding exercise in stifled clandestine management and perhaps it was the lack of risk that was the cause of such slow progress. Deep down, Thomas knew that it was his own ego and curiosity that had ultimately driven him to this point. He could have taken a transfer, quit the Agency, or just crawled along until he was put out to pasture. Instead, he had initiated a vague plan with few defined objectives beyond trying to know just a little more, just ahead of the Directors, in order to have some form of personal control over - in his eyes - a clearly rogue Agency. Why did he give a shit? If he just towed the line he could probably benefit enormously from complying with the official agenda: embrace what the CIA and the USA was becoming, ride that wave and get rich and successful. That path was clear and well trodden by many who considered him a friend and trusted colleague. And yet, he’d chosen this. It didn’t make him better, just different. He was lucky that Harriett liked his kind of different because she recognised that he was as flawed as the rest of them. That James, Sal and Bart were his kind of different too, and that they were the best men and friends he had known, allowed him to believe that what they had chosen was something to do with morals, ethics and the right thing.
His analytical bent demanded he consider other angles.
Right now, I have abused my access and skills to build a money laundering network with the intent to commit anything from salvation to espionage and possible sedition. The power and the risk lie in the same place: being able to keep everything we’ve built out of sight and subject to our whims. Abra could be the key to doing the right thing if we can make a communications breakthrough. Then again, we might remain in the dark and guessing, get found out or simply fall foul of doing the wrong thing…
What’s the worst that could happen? Abra’s kind or masters take over the place thanks to my misguided actions… In which case, the Agency’s power plays and nefarious, murderous bullshit are suddenly relegated by some pressing existential fight for species-wide survival. Well, that’s one way of us counterbalancing the Agency - by rendering it practically irrelevant.
If that scenario came to pass, it would go down in history as two things: the biggest asymmetric move in the history of guerrilla warfare; the first and most infamous inside job in the history of human (intergalactic) intelligence agencies. He began to laugh to and at himself. His mind flashed to his family and friends.
But if this hurts her or them? What for? We survived the hell of war. Why can’t I just enjoy the spoils?
He knew why. He was just one of those guys cursed to ask “why?” or “how?” when everyone else stopped asking out loud. That’s why he would never get any higher. Now, he had the chance to ask Abra why and how, on his own terms. That chance wouldn’t be there forever but he could live to regret taking it on a monumental, existential scale.
He sat at the desk, staring at the wall, searching inside for some sense, some emotion, some insight. He waited, hoping for external sign or guidance. He wasn’t one for prayer.
Fuck it. Gamble.
No matter how intelligent, deep or complex humans might be, they always came down to a binary state or choice: do or do not; one or zero; something or nothing. Add one binary choice to another, over and over, and apparent complexity can appear to emerge. Look closer and for most it’s all just a string of punts on red or black, ad infinitum. Those in the know occasionally pick zero.
Of all the people in the world, why is it me here and now, choosing this?
He was one bag of atoms on an unknowably large planet, in an unknowably infinite universe, in what was probably just one plane of awareness.
Why not me? I’ve made choices, survived events and journeyed to this point. Whether it was because of me or because of something or someone else, what does it matter? I’m as worthy as anyone else and as much of a shyster as the next guy.
But I am not in Command, and I am not alone.
He slid back to memories of France.
In Paris he’d overplayed his cover in public and they’d nearly died for it. He’d been in a bar, observing the German troops and officers that frequented the place in order to build intel that might have been shaken loose by the booze. His German was poor but his Resistance colleagues around the table were up to speed. Thomas was more focussed on watching for behaviours and networks in the hope that he could find locals whose places he could bug - collaborators, whores, local girlfriends and boyfriends - anyone that could lead to information on the occupiers. He’d gotten too comfortable and confident, drank too much and triggered suspicion. Alone in the toilets he’d missed the pissoir and hit his own shoes.
“Shiiiit!”, he had accidentally muttered out loud in his mother tongue. A few seconds later, one of the German officers from the bar took a place beside him. The Officer must have come in without Thomas knowing and no doubt heard his English. Thomas fought down panic while trying to act sufficiently drunk as to be oblivious, praying that he would be spared a direct challenge. He staggered out of the toilets then subtly exited past his buddies, signalling by scratching his beard as he passed them by. In the cold air, he gave the signal again then immediately made for their cold cab, parked two streets away. Under the next street light, he repeated the signal as he picked up the pace then clung to the darkness on the quiet road, away from the light on the pavements. As he broke off down the first side street, he peeked back round the corner at the bar’s entrance. Sure enough, the Officer and three soldiers emerged. He and Marcel were now running a full-on escape and evasion plan.
Thomas ran as light of foot as he could along the next street to the final turn towards the parked up cab. A distant sound of smashing glass rang out somewhere to the right. Marcel had seen his signal and initiated his end of the escape plan. From his overwatch position, Marcel had distracted the Germans by catapulting a heavy glass bottle into a window down their street far enough to draw them away from the bar and the direction of their cab.
At the cab, Thomas slid underneath on his back and used his heavy belt to dangle from a hook attached to the car’s frame. He stuffed his feet where he could to keep his legs up and the same with his arms so that he could keep clear of the car’s prop shaft. Moments later, rapid footsteps approached. A familiar voice spoke out in a soft Parisian accent.
“Coucou. Is he ready?”
“The egg is in the nest.”
Marcel hopped into the cab and gently drove away, clearing the arrondissement. They never went near the Café de Flore again.
The memories of a single moment that could have been catastrophic for a whole team brought reality back into the frame. He had been close to capitulating to impatience, carelessness and delusion. There in S4, the easy thing was to talk to Abra. The hard thing was to consider what he had learned from Bukowski’s team, involve his friends and make a measured decision together. It was the easy choice that would kill him quicker.
He dialled Bukowski.
“Monitoring station.”
“Sergeant Bukowski, it’s Harold. Do you have a moment?”
“Certainly, Mr. Burbank, Sir. Go ahead.”
“We’re going to delay my interactions with Abra for the time being. There’s been a shift in priorities thanks to your insights. Would you care to join me for lunch again tomorrow? I would like to consult with all three of you on possible ways forward.”
“Err…” Surprise was to be expected. Thomas imagined Bukowski mouthing and gesticulating to his friends in the few seconds of quiet. “The delay’s copied, Sir, no problem. Lunch again? No sane soldier would ever say no to a free feed, never mind a little intrigue! We’ll be on a two-hour split from 1230, so we’ll be right along if that works, Sir?”
“Marvellous, Sergeant. I appreciate your support… on a need to know basis, as per my orders. Enjoy the rest of your day, I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Recruitment was usually a slow, measured process. Their recruitment was likely to take far, far longer to complete and even longer before it bore fruit.
No time like the present.
12 years had passed since Thomas, James and Sal had met in a stairwell to conspire. Their years of patience and care now afforded them degrees of comfort. There was zero indication that they were under any form of suspicion. Their laundering operations comfortably handled tens of millions of dollars and spanned cash retail businesses through to boutique investment and VC shops. There was the capacity to handle a lot more money should the need or clear purpose arise. They had connected to three long-standing senators who had an interest in subtle oversight of intelligence and military affairs, whom they kept at arm’s distance. Having established a seemingly robust money supply, manpower would become the focus. This was by far the harder task.
As soon as he arrived back in Langley, Thomas was summoned to Director Colby’s office. James was there, as Thomas knew he would be.
“Thomas, sorry to drag you straight here,” Colby began. “James had a window here in Langley and it’s best we hammer this out face-to-face now so you guys can crack on unimpeded by me afterwards. James, if you would…” Colby gestured for Thomas to take a seat as he stood and poured three malts, indicating that this was a serious operational chat and not a crucifixion, but Thomas and James already knew that.
“Thanks, Sir. Yes, Tom, sorry for the rush,” began James. “I think we need to instigate a flying review of SCANATE. Tighten up on the work so far. It’s spread out a bit.”
A flying review was unannounced and designed to catch people off guard in order to get as raw a look at progress, costs and security standards as possible. It was a normal but unpredictable standard operating procedure.
“Any key concerns or suspicions, Jim, or just a general precaution?”
“Bit of both. The weirdness of SCANATE’s work means there’s some very loose methods being employed across Joint Services. We’re into the world of hippies and highs with this stuff, and we need to make sure our people are keeping a decent initial grip on all this stuff. Costs-wise, some of this stuff should be dirt cheap because it doesn’t have much tech input - it’s all training and development. Even if some of them are blotto on LSD, the budget shouldn’t be allowed to get big. This stuff just doesn’t naturally mesh with soldiers either. If we don’t let them know there’s discipline and purpose, it could wander off. Security-wise…” James cocked an eyebrow.
“The unpredictability of the methods, the arena and the goals mean we don’t actually know the risks and the best means of containment.” Thomas chipped in. “I’m all for it. We can jump on them all with a flying review now, but maybe…” He feigned mulling an instantaneous idea. “…If your office can handle it, why don’t we formalise managerial oversight on a monthly basis? First three months we observe. Then set a reasonable but clear performance target for each of the research streams. We could meet monthly but keep the projects on flying reviews. That would mean they couldn’t get too comfortable on a known schedule. I’m as keen as you to progress what works and dump what doesn’t. What do you think, Jim? Sir?”
Thomas waited for a response. James pretended he hadn’t known what was coming and took a sip of his scotch. Colby broke into a smile.
“I’m blessed, aren’t I? I barely need to be here. Pro-active, accountable management and an eye on value is exactly what I like, especially with this stuff. Gottlieb and ULTRA spent decades making a fucking mockery of our trust and our reputation. Between you and me, I don’t think the return was worth the exposure. The money didn’t matter that much but Christ! The fucking commission and investigations… We’re not going through that again.” Colby laughed with disdain. “Good job Helms knew what he was doing and had good men helping, whom he could trust.”
“Amen,” said James as they raised their glasses.
“Jim, I need a day to deal with my trip then I can make time for SCANATE. I’ll hold a secure suite all week. Can you pull a list of heads together that we need to drag in and we can get a schedule sorted? We’ll have to factor site visits as well. I’d prefer the element of surprise where possible.”
“Agreed. Sir, are you happy with that?”
“Gentlemen, you know what needs to be done. Do it how you see fit. Hang on…” Colby lifted his phone. “Miriam, clear James and Thomas for full personal transport this month, please.” He covered the mouthpiece and looked back at them, mouthing “the ladies?”. Thomas and James looked at each other and shrugged. Colby nodded positively and winked. “Yep… and Miriam, be ready to attach independent executive spousal travel as well. Yep… And block out a secure suite all month too. They’ll let you know when they don’t need it.” Colby winked as he hung up. “Well, I think that takes care of that. If you need more, just call directly. Now, just one other matter. What are your handicaps these days? I’ve got a game in me the week after next.”
The two men left the Director’s office with more authorised face time than they’d had in twelve years. They would be able to come up with a plan for COATHANGER and Abra, and now had the ability to travel on SCANATE business with practically zero oversight. Sal would be roped in. Bart was off the SCANATE radar, still attached to law enforcement but they’d find a way via either business or pleasure. They strolled slowly through the executive suite to the empty dining room where they took a table and ordered coffee.
“I’ve befriended three long term assets in Nevada. It’s unconventional. If we sponsor their development and education we can recruit them now in position and integrate them into whatever the future might become.” Thomas quietly explained his assessment of Bukowski, Philips and Caron. At his lunch with them, Thomas had offered them direct sponsorship through college once they finished their service. Provided their performance was adequate, they would go on to take up management positions in a private defence contractor company that had an eye on the distant future. If, for some reason, that company didn’t need them, they’d have had a free education. In the meantime, Thomas had told them that Burbank’s research effort would change methods and would seek to involve the three men under formal clearances that they would retain for the future. It had been years since Thomas had done any field recruitment or run agents. It was the first time he’d formally recruited from his own side.
“Good. Our road trips should give us opportunity to start feeling out more potential recruits and building lists. Bart’s so well in with law and counter-intel now that he’ll probably have a full bag of ideas and working networks.” James sipped and thought. “How about we look at a foreign corporate entity? Totally off-shored, disconnected, recruiting operators. Secure some contract government work for security. Africa has a lot of opportunity. That would give the right kind of guys a decent load of work, and in time we could establish a full training and ops protocol of our own.”
“Yeah… depending upon how my three new buddies feel about keeping their hand in, they could head out there on occasion to up skill. One day, they could be overseeing whatever tool that all becomes?” James nodded. “On a different note, I’ve got a music recommendation for you.” Thomas handed James a cassette marked Hemi-Sync. “See what you think. It gets better the more you listen to it.”
My extensive “four-letter” vocabulary would be my demise long before any salutation.