Deadly Deceits Read Free

other intelligence agencies—may be the best way to keep them from straying from their legitimate intelligence-gathering mission.

INTRODUCTION
    IT was late one night in December 1968 in Gia Dinh province near Saigon. Angered and miserable, I was sitting alone in the living room of a villa sparsely furnished with standard government-issue rattan tables and kapok-cushioned sofa and chairs. A bare coffee table and empty bookshelves signaled the recent transition from one CIA occupant to another. A framed picture of artificial-looking flowers broke up only slightly the monotony of the harsh yellow walls. The lone tape left by my predecessor played on the stereo and Nancy Sinatra sang for the hundredth time “Such a Pretty World Today,” soon to be followed by “End of the World.” Outside, helicopter gunships circled and off in the distance B-52s dropped another string of bombs on South Vietnamese men, women, and children.
    I sat there in agony thinking about all that had led me to this private hell. My idealism, my patriotism, my ambition, my plans to be a good intelligence officer to help my country fight the Communist scourge—what in hell had happened? Why did we have to bomb the people we were trying to save? Why were we napalming young children? Why did the CIA, my employer for 16 years, report lies instead of the truth?
    I hated my part in this charade of murder and horror. My efforts were contributing to the deaths, to the burning alive of children—especially the children. The photographs of young Vietnamese children burned by napalm destroyed me. I wanted out of this massacre. Angrily I thought back to the year before in Thailand when I had worked in the rural villages and learned some painful truths about the nature of an Asian revolution. I had faced the undeniable evidencethat the Communists had infiltrated much deeper into Asian society than we had ever imagined or reported, and I had devised what I thought was a humane way to beat them. Why had the Agency first accepted that information and then, in spite of countless proofs of its accuracy, denied it? When presented with a viable alternative, why was it following the same old methods that resulted only in more killing and more futility?
    I wanted to end this maddening turmoil. I thought about the loaded AR-15 by my bed upstairs and the small loaded pistol in my nightstand. I could kill myself. It would be easy. But if I did, I rationalized, my death should accomplish some purpose, like those of the monks who burned themselves in downtown Saigon. Maybe if I made a huge banner saying “THE CIA LIES” or “FUCK THE CIA” and hung it from the roof of the Agency’s Due Hotel and then jumped off.… I hated my inaction and myself, but to die in those circumstances would only bring shame to my family—and poverty, for the Agency was vengeful and would withhold the death benefits. Even if I could hang the banner and jump, the Agency would quickly cover up what happened and issue a statement saying that I was crazy. There seemed no way.
    I wondered if I was merely making excuses. Did I lack the guts to do it? Why not just quit the Agency? But then how could I support two children in college and two more at home? In my mental state it would be impossible to find a new career. Anybody in their right mind would send me to an institution, not hire me. No, quitting was out: either I would kill myself, or stay and struggle and suffer. There were no other paths. I stared at the bare light bulb on the ceiling. Outside there was a pause in the bombing and for a brief moment all was peaceful, silent. My hand trembled, I gulped down my drink, and then broke down in tears. Here I was, a former Notre Dame football player, now a macho CIA case officer, weeping like a baby.
    It was at this moment of utter despair back in that ugly room in Gia Dinh in 1968 that the seed of this book was first planted. For I realized then that if I