The Simple Truth

What youre saying then, one of the white-haired men said as he poked the cigarette-smoke-filled air with a slender, slightly quivering finger, is that along with Lockhart we have to kill a Federal agent. The man shook his head incredulously. Why kill one of our own? It can only lead to disaster.

The gentleman at the head of the table nodded thoughtfully. Robert Thornhill was the CIAs most distinguished Cold War soldier, a man whose status at the agency was unique. His reputation was unassailable, his compilation of professional victories unmatched, his intelligence, experience, and instincts, irreplaceable. He was the agencys ultimate free safety, a troubleshooter extraordinaire, a man given virtually limitless authority to carry out his missions. It was Thornhill who had first organized this select group. It was he who had remembered that this bloated time capsule existed far underground. And it was Thornhill who had found the money to bring the chamber back to working condition and upgrade its facilities secretly. There were thousands of little taxpayer-funded toys like it sprinkled around the country, many of them gone to complete waste. Thornhill smiled to himself: Well, if governments didnt waste their citizens hard-earned money then what would be left for governments to do? Even now, as he ran his hand over the stainless-steel console with its quaint built-in ashtrays, sniffed the filtered air, and felt the protective coolness of the earth all around, Thornhills mind wandered back to the intensely gratifying times of the Cold War. The world was far more unpredictable now. At least there was a measure of certainty with the hammer and sickle. Thornhill would take the lumbering Russian bull over the agile sand snake that you never knew was out there until it flung its venom into you. And killed you dead. Thornhills hair was a distinguished, wavy silver, his eyes gray and active. The blunt angle of his chin bespoke iron resolve. His voice was cultured, deep, and impressive. Thornhill still wore three-piece suits and favored pipe smoking over cigarettes and cigars. The man could have retired and led the pleasant life of a former public servant, well traveled, erudite. He had no thought of leaving this career behind however. And the reason why was very clear. For the last ten years the responsibilities and budgets of Thornhills agency had been decimated. It was a disastrous development for the firestorms that were popping up across the world, now often involving fanatical minds accountable to no political body and possessing the capability to obtain weapons of mass destruction. While the CIA had begun recruiting again, the vast majority of hires were college graduates, adept at computers, foreign languages, and analysis of information. Important as those skills were, the recruits would last all of ten minutes in the field. The problem was Thornhill needed ways togetthe information for these very smart, young people to analyze. A Princeton-educated twenty-two-year-old whitebread who could play a Mac computer like the ivories of a Steinway wasnt going to cut it in the worlds hot spots even if he could speak Farsi, Arabic, or even Mandarin fluently. Thornhill had a small group of skilled operatives within the agency completely loyal to him and his private agenda. Many of them were free-lancers who could go anywhere in the world when Thornhill needed them to. They had worked hard to regain for the agency its former prominence. Now Thornhill finally had the vehicle to implement his plan to build a global intelligence network that would dwarf anything that had come before. It was the time-honored and highly effective strategy of VIP blackmail. Thornhill would see his budgets revived, his manpower skyrocket, his agencys scope of responsibility in the world returned to its rightful place. And there was always the added bonus of pulling the rug out from under the hated FBI. The added irony that he was orchestrating a J. Edgar Hoover was also not lost on him. It was no coincidence that the FBI had flourished under the late FBI director and his bulging files on the secret lives of presidents and other powerful political figures. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Touch�Ed. Now watch me do you one better, boy. Thornhill focused back on the men clustered around him. That would, of course, be ideal, he said. However, the fact is, the FBI have her under round-the-clock stealth security at home. Her office is problematic. Our person would almost certainly be caught. The only time shes truly vulnerable is when she goes to the cottage. They may place her in witness protection without warning, so we have to hit them at the cottage. Immediately.

Another man spoke up. Okay, we kill Lockhart, but let the FBI agent live.

Thornhill shook his head. The risk is too great. Now I dont like killing a fellow agent any more than you do. Its deplorable. But to shirk our duty now would be a catastrophic mistake.

Dammit, Bob, the first man to protest said, do you know what will happen if the FBI learns we took out one of their people?

If we cant keep a secret like that, we have no business doing what we do, Thornhill snapped. Another member of the group leaned forward in his chair. He was the youngest of them. He had, however, earned the respect of the group with his intelligence and his ability to exercise extreme, focused ruthlessness.

Weve only really looked at the scenario of killing Lockhart to forestall the FBIs investigation into Da

Thornhill looked at his younger colleague in a disappointed fashion. And how would you propose going about explaining to the FBI director why we wish him to do so?

How about the truth? the younger man said. Even in the intelligence business theres sometimes room for that, isnt there?

Thornhill tapped his fingers impatiently on the tabletop. He truly saw the FBI as one of the worst offenders in trying to usurp the CIAs powers. And his colleague wanted essentially, to partner with them.Idiot! He smiled warmly. So I should say to the FBI director, who by the way would love to see us all permanently interred in a museum, that we wish him to call off his potentially blockbuster investigation so that the CIA can trump his agency. Brilliant. Why didnt I think of that? And where would you like to serveyourprison term?

For Chrissakes, Bob, weworkwith the FBI now. This isnt 1960 anymore. Dont forget about CTC. CTC stood for the Counter Terrorism Center, a joint, cooperative effort between the CIA and the FBI to fight terrorism, by sharing intelligence and resources. The CTC encouraged relationships at both the senior and field levels between two agencies that had, historically, been more enemies than allies. An impetus behind the CTC was to stop the jurisdictional-hogging, ego-driven bickering between the two behemoths, and encourage working together for the good of the country. It received substantial funding from the federal government, and had been generally deemed a success by those involved. To Thornhill, it was simply another way for the FBI to stick its tenacious fingers in his business.

I happen to be involved in CTC in a modest way, Thornhill said. I find it an ideal perch on which to keep tabs on the bureau and what theyre up to, which is usually no good, as far as were concerned.

Come on, were all on the same team, Bob.

Thornhills eyes focused on the younger man in such a way that everyone in the room froze. I would request that you never utter those words in my presence again, Thornhill said. The man paled, and sat back in his chair. Thornhill clenched his pipe between his teeth. Would you like me to give you concrete examples of the FBI taking the credit, the glory for work done by our agency? For the blood spilled by our field agents? For the countless times weve saved the whole bloody world from a