Robert Smith - The Planner

“Six months now.”

The Lodge Master rose from the desk chair and stood facing the window out into the moonlit night. “Tragic. Tragic. Your wife was from such a good family, such a caring and intelligent lady. And your daughter too. So, so sad. Nobody should have to endure such loss. And we all feel it in the Lodge; your loss is our loss. I must say, though, you have controlled your grief well. I think that shows your deep strength of character.”

“Thank you, Sir”, replied Planner, barely able to communicate on the subject.

The Lodge Master turned slowly to face Planner. “Generally we don’t like to pressure our brothers; Especially in such circumstances; But we need your skills. Not just your technical skills in radar and aircraft, but also coordination skills. And the vision for our cause. Indeed, the Lodge Council all agree that you are ready for the Inner Circle, I think, by the end of year. You’ll be the youngest member of the Inner Circle in our history.”

Planner was in his mid-forties, had never been the youngest anywhere, he stammered, “That is a huge honour. I am… not worthy…” Immediately biting his lip for the crass comment.

The Lodge Master replied quickly, offering a friendly arm to Planner’s shoulder even before Planner had uttered his words, “Now, now. We are as one. Until death. Your success is my success”.

And Planner repeated as if it was a mantra, “And your success is my success”.

“…And you will be a success. We have a task for you, as you know. The Big Event!” The Lodge Master chortled. “Sometimes referred to as BE2 within polite company. Hardly an original code name, but reasonably apt all things considered. This has already been discussed with the Agency, I think you ought to know, we’re moving you up to a coordination role. For this you’ll be reporting directly to me. Your existing management team will only handle administration. Don’t worry, they’ve been informed.”

Planner raised a single eyebrow.

The Lodge Master continued. “You may have suspected as much, but you’ll discover that this Big Event is special. A lot hangs on it. You will need nerves of steel to see it through. There will be considerable unpleasantness…”

“I’ve been involved in some pretty bleak activities in the past”, Planner replied in monotone.

“Air crashes, yes. All for the greater good; as you are no doubt aware,” he smiled paternally.

Planner was silent.

The Lodge Master turned to a painting, the ruins of the Tower of Babel, and released a catch on the frame. The picture swung outwards to reveal a wall safe with a combination dial. The Lodge Master spun the dial with seeming inattention and continued, “But this is our lot, to safeguard our future we must secure that future, with no expectation of public recognition of our personal effort. And we are expecting something extraordinary from you. To deliver the event will be the dividing line between the twentieth century and the twenty-first. It will be a catalysing event to bring in the New American Century”.

Planner nodded uncertainly.

“You start tomorrow,” stated the Lodge Master returning to his desk chair. “The details are in this pack. The pass phrase is Operation Rainbow. They will be expecting you.”

While watching the Lodge Master unwrap a package he had removed from the safe, Planner asked, “My terms of reference?”

“Managing Rainbow and all the coordination for the other seven Big Event operations. Rainbow is the most technically difficult… but there are many important sideshows that need to be kept on track.”

“How many staff? Budget?”

“The Rainbow Team has just been expanded to thirty. Most will need to be indoctrinated and tasked. The technical preparations have been subcontracted. You just need to handle… er… the storyline. You need not worry about budgets, but if you could reduce costs it would keep the auditors off my back,” the Lodge Master winked. “Here is some light reading.”

The Lodge Master had separated a slim folder from other papers in the package. On the front cover is a black and white picture of a city landscape with a sniper sight motif overlaid.

* * * *

Beep-beep-beep. Beep-beep-beep. Planner leaned over and clicked off the alarm clock. 7am, still dark outside. Planner woke up alone in his king’s size double bed with finest Egyptian cotton sheets. He looks at a picture of his wife and young daughter and tried to remember good times past.

After his shower, coffee and selecting the right suit (dark blue), Planner was ready to go. He drove the long way to Langley in order to avoid the hill where the accident occurred.

At the gates of the CIA headquarters, his black Buick LeSabre is flagged down by a guard. Planner shows his identity pass.

“Using a hire car, Sir?” asked the guard politely.

“For the time being. My new car will be arriving this week”, Planner replied without enthusiasm.

“Make sure you fill out the vehicle register form, Sir”, the guard added helpfully.

“It’s on my To-Do list”, Planner replied without humour.

Within the leafy campus, the CIA Headquarters stood like a white monolith, seven stories tall and clad gleaming limestone. Planner drove around the building to a car park at the rear. Overlooking the car loomed a 100 foot long, black, bat-like aircraft mounted on a single pylon; an A-12 Blackbird developed by the CIA in total secrecy in the early 1960s to fly reconnaissance missions. Planner looked at it with a wry smile; he always admired the aggressive lines of this iconic aircraft.

Most staff and visitors to the CIA Headquarters walk pass the CIA Memorial Wall 1which honors CIA employees who died in the line of duty. There were over 70 stars carved into the marble wall, each one representing a CIA officer. Above them, in gold block letters, read the inscription: “In Honor Of Those Members Of The Central Intelligence Agency Who Gave Their Lives In The Service Of Their Country.” Below the stars, the black “Book of Honor” lay encased in an inch-thick plate of glass detailing their deeds. Although even in death, their names are still secret, most officers are not named in the Book of Honor. However, the message was clear, from the aircraft to Memorial Wall, the CIA was still at war while the rest of country seemed at peace.

Despite the long walk from the car park, Planner arrived inside the office at the appointed grid-referenced office exactly on time. The only signs on the door were “G-2-93” and “No Photography. No Cell Phones”. Planner swiped his access card to receive a green light and happy-bleep.

Once through the door, Planner was confronted with a largely empty open plan office, easily capable of holding a hundred people, with good views over the office campus. Most desks were empty, and few people were around. There were small, enclosed meeting rooms either side of the main office area. On the far side, a small bunch of people were huddled around a portable whiteboard in animated discussion.

A slim, middle-aged man with thick, black, swept-back hair and gray suit was sitting at the desk closest to the door. He looked up Planner and beamed a smile.

“Operation Rainbow?” asked Planner.

The man rose from the desk and greeted Planner warmly. “You’re in the right place. You’re the planner, I presume? I’m Bates. I’m the P.A.”

“I didn’t think we used names, well, surnames”, said Planner shaking hands.

“We don’t as such”, Bates replied heartily. “I didn’t want to be called P.A. Don’t worry; the name, Bates, is just a private joke. Just consider it a new, imaginary color. When I introduce you around you’ll find we all have new handles of various er… shades.”

“That’s great”, Planner said, feeling at ease immediately with his garrulous new colleague. “I hope I don’t get the colours mixed up.”