The Zombie Farm

CHAPTER ONE

My name is Mary Z Smith. You will note that there is no period after the Z. That is because my middle name is simply Z. In some situations, people who have no middle name are given one. It is NMN, or NMI. It really doesn’t matter.

With the last name Smith and the first name Mary, like my mother, my parents felt sticking a Z in there might set me apart. You might know that Harry S Truman had simply an S in the middle and no period was needed, even though one was often stuck there. So let me say that from infancy I was called Zee and will be referred to thusly in this volume if I’m permitted to complete it before the CIA rubs me out.

Welcome to the true world of our global undercover super-sleuth organization.

If I had had the lowdown on the Central Intelligence Agency, after graduating from one of the Seven Sisters (I’ll not say which one) other options would have appealed to me – maybe serial killer, sexual predator, everyday housewife, captain of industry, catcher in the rye – there are many more.

To state the obvious, the CIA has a wretched record during its rather short history. The Office of Strategic Services began serving as a clearinghouse for various spy agencies in 1942. The CIA took over from the OSS during 1946-1947; there is some confusion here.

The Korean War in the 1950s helped the floundering organization focus and increase its budget. Then the threat of Communism brought a shower of federal dollars and a huge increase in staff. The major role of the agency is supposedly intelligence, but one would think it was all about covert operations. What’s this?

One of its initial failings is the effort to recruit young men from Ivy League institutions such as Yale University. These scions of wealth, many of whom had gone through the same prep school routine, were not the hard scrabble back-alley types one would generally find in a crack spy agency.

Indeed, the opposite was true. They generally entered the CIA as a lark, savoring the title of spy. Not long after shuffling papers in Northern Virginia they might retire, only to retain the mystique of former spy while shuffling papers in daddy’s business.

Now to mention just a few of the known CIA screw-ups.

Repeated attempts to kill Fidel Castro, including the use of exploding cigars. The Bay of Pigs tragedy – the CIA finally realized it wouldn’t work, but failed to let President Kennedy in on the secret. The infamous mind-control program with the use of LSD. Unwitting participants suffered mental damage, at least one died, others went mad. The agency shredded all documents related to the failed program, which also involved the use of San Francisco prostitutes to dope clients and film the outcome.

Assassins were trained by the agency to get rid of Guatemalan officials in advance of a successful coup that overthrew the democratically elected government. There followed Fascist dictators who ruled the nation by force for the next four decades.

Then there was the agency’s two-decade effort to wipe out leftist elements in Laos, a failed effort. Smarting with defeat, the military was called on to bomb that small nation into the Stone Age during the Vietnam War. There it remains. Most remember President Nixon’s recruiting former CIA officials for the Watergate disaster that brought him down.

Che Guevara was reportedly executed after being debriefed by a CIA field agent.

The CIA was responsible for installing the dictatorship of the Shah of Iran, which bred a revolution that caught the agency entirely by surprise. Another error involving that nation was the Iran-Contra event involving a man named Oliver North. The agency seemed incapable of understanding the Middle East, but tried by throwing money at two employees: Saddam Hussein and Osama bin Laden.

Bin Laden was fighting the Soviets and thus qualified for funds and weaponry. The CIA prevailed upon Iraq to attack Iran and supplied that despot with nerve gas and other weapons of mass destruction, which later became our excuse for invading Iraq – twice.

Working with the Pentagon and the FBI, and despite intelligence already in hand, the agency failed to anticipate the 9/11 attacks.

In addition to the above known screw-ups, there have been hints that the CIA might be involved in domestic assassinations such as John F. Kennedy, Robert F. Kennedy, Martin Luther King, Malcolm X and U.S. Commerce Secretary Ron Brown. These rumors hang by a thread.

The agency’s Black Budget acts with virtual impunity, overseen and regulated by itself, funding itself through secret slush funds, free of the limitations that come from Congressional oversight. This budget is mind bending. Of course the CIA’s budget and number of employees is classified information.

The CIA, for all its misdirected lunacies, has scored victories, some major, mostly minor. But this is my story and I’ll leave the sunny side to others.

So call me naïve. Call me starry eyed. Call me immature. After college, I actually applied for a CIA job. I was not so naïve as to be unaware of the glass ceiling, shattered now and again, but generally firmly in place. As long as women have baby-making equipment the ceiling will endure. The carefree man, the happy warrior, can lead a random (or is it randy?) life.

I won’t go into the training program at this time, but may revisit it later. Nevertheless, after jumping through all the hoops and spending the better part of three months at headquarters in Northern Virginia, I was what you might call over the moon. I had been posted to Istanbul.

What romantic visions danced in my head! The terminal of the Orient Express. The place where East meets West across a narrow stretch of the Bosphorus. Then there is the Golden Horn, magnificent mosques and the bazaars. Many Turks have prided themselves on a westernized version of the Muslim faith, yet there exists a hard core of fundamentalists.

My eyes were still starry when two weeks after arriving on station, I slept with the agent in charge. Maybe alcohol was involved, maybe not. But in my defense there was no encore after I learned he had a wife and two children and a third one on the way in Falls Church.

His name was Kurt Dusenbery and most folks called him Dusty. Mid-thirties, male-pattern balding, professorial paunch, maybe five-nine, one eye slightly out of kilter, round shouldered. Have I just described Prince Charming?

On arrival he told me he would give me a month to get my feet on the ground. Do all the tourist things, take the tours, eat the food, buy a rug for your room, you’ll always be quartered here in the consulate.

Do I call you Mr. Dusenbery?

Call me Dusty. Most people do. Of course I want you to get to know the consulate people too. I’ll introduce you around, and you’ll see them in the lunchroom and at breakfast. For dinner you’re usually on your own. Not everyone lives here in the consulate.

So after stowing my few belongings, off I went to explore this exotic location. The consulate itself, a huge white structure situated on a hill had the looks of a fortress with no windows below the second floor and the upper ones of minimum size. The address itself was odd – Kaplicalar Merki 2. I suppose at one time it was the embassy until the capital was moved to Ankara.

But then, things were not so strange. The CIA had hired me for my linguistic abilities. My Turkish was almost fluent and I spoke a couple of other languages and had a working knowledge of two or three more. I’m one of those people to whom language comes easy. There are many, I’d say a majority, who are just the opposite.

I did all the tourist things as Dusty had recommended, even visited a bazaar where I was given a small glass of hot tea in a metal holder. There I purchased a small rug just as an avalanche of tourists had done who had come before me. I wondered if Agatha Christie had made such a purchase. But probably not, too sophisticated. The rug merchant was a youngish, fairly attractive man who seemed enamored with me. He told me, There is more to life than selling rugs. Certainly an original come on I thought as I stuck my rug under my arm and returned to the consulate.

In retrospect, it may have been wiser to strike up a romance with the rug salesman rather than get involved with Dusty. But no harm done. It was the only ripple in the calm waters of my job for several weeks. I was treated almost like a secretary/file clerk, but the exotic surroundings distracted me from those mundane tasks.

Then, just after two months, I received what seemed to be a genuine spy assignment. I was instructed to dress appropriately and try to win the attentions of a wealthy Chinese businessman staying at a hotel near the Golden Horn.

I’m to romance this man? I asked Dusty.

No. Simply lure him into a romantic situation.

Will I be armed? I had been trained with a Glock and was a fair shot, but there had been no mention of bringing down a Chinese businessman.

Now one thing you might not know. With no accountability for its budget, the CIA throws money at black ops and wet ops; whichever you please, they both lead in the same direction.

Dusty had hired a high fashion Turkish shopper-helper and sent me off to a series of exclusive women’s clothiers. He had either forgotten that I speak the language fluently, or simply didn’t care. Her orders were to trick me out like a femme fatale.

Still taken with my surroundings and duty to my country, thoughts of Mata Hari floated in my immature brain. Many will recall the name, but few will remember she was Dutch, an exotic dancer, quite a seductress and executed by a French firing squad in 1917.

Considering her trade, she had held up well. She was 41 at the time of her untimely death. Neither the French nor the English had real proof that she was a spy. But more than fifty years later German records revealed that the suspicions were well founded.

Tarted up like a dockside whore, I was to hang out in the hotel bar that Mr. Lee was said to inhabit on a nightly basis, chat him up, and if circumstances allowed, invite him to my hotel room. But the room was not my room.

In my mind I had developed a clever ploy. So on the night in question I plopped down at the bar of the hotel and ordered a glass of white wine. Twenty minutes later, no Mr. Lee. I only sipped my drink, and managed to slop it into a nearby potted palm.

The bartender began to chat me up. I ordered a second drink, and he said it was on the house. I smiled and nodded seductively. Still no Mr. Lee.

Leaving my designer purse on the bar (it was empty except for a handful of tissues), I carried my drink to the powder room and dumped it in the toilet.

Returning to the bar, a pair of Chinese gentlemen had arrived. They were a couple of barstools away, but I moved next to the older man, placed my empty glass and purse on the bar, and asked, Do you speak Chinese?

He looked at me as if I were crazed, his eyes large behind thick lenses. Of course, we are Chinese. We speak Mandarin.

I should have known, I replied. I’m an American and so many Chinese in America know nothing of their native language. But then I suppose since they were born in America their native language is English. So they aren’t Chinese at all, are they?

You have a point there, he said, finally smiling. My name is Wen Lee and my young friend here is Jia Lee. What might your name be?

I sensed that he sensed that he was in the presence of an air-headed barfly. My exact intention. How things did work out. I’m Karen from Manhattan. You know we have a Chinatown there. You should taste the food.

Yes, Mr. Lee acknowledged. I’m fond of Chinese food. Often dine on it. Now he was all smiles, as was his friend. But now I had two Lees to deal with. I asked Wen if he and Jia were brothers, although they looked more like father and son.

Not related, he responded. His English was near perfect. Lee is a common name in China. Noticing my empty glass he asked if he might buy me a drink. I bubbled with delight in accepting and the three of us moved to a table.

After a suitable time, I excused myself for a trip to the powder room. It was empty. I grabbed the nearest booth and called Dusty. He answered immediately.

Two Lees and I are sharing drinks and mixed nuts at a table. The older one is Wen and the younger Jia.

It’s the older one we want, but Jia’s probably in on the mission. A pause while Dusty thought things over. I wondered what the mission might be. Apparently I didn’t need to know. Later I learned quite by accident that they were setting up deals to sell what might be considered contraband to countries in the region considered to be rogue. It was all how one looked at it, but we were working hand in hand with Israeli intelligence, the Mossad.

If you can pull it off, invite both of them to your room.

I think it’s highly likely and probably very soon.

Good. Get it done.

Returning to the table, both Lees were in a jovial mood. Obviously they had put their heads together in my absence. I had read that the Chinese were not heavy on morality. They asked if I lived in the hotel.

Why yes, I have a room here. Would you like to see it?

Certainly, the older Lee said. Should I go up and leave Jia here to watch our table?

Why don’t you both come up? It’s a big room. And I have those little drinks in the bar.

Or we could call room service, the older Lee said. I too have a room and I can put the bill on my tab.

That’s such a good plan, I chortled. But we shouldn’t be seen going up there as a group. I’ll go and leave the door ajar while I get changed. It’s 822.

When I left them, they were two happy cowboys. I took the elevator, stopped on the eighth floor in case they were watching that illuminated display that indicates the floors, then continued to the tenth floor. Dusty was waiting in a tenth floor room. When I entered, he offered me a drink. He had a bottle of Pinot Noir and a couple of glasses.

The dark wine tasted good. My heart was beating fast. I didn’t know just what I had done, but I had done it. Dusty suggested we remain in the room for the night as bed partners. I suggested I’d like to get home and into something baggy. There might be a girl or two at the bar he could lure up to his passion pit.

Well, we’re good friends and fellow employees. No harm in a little cross pollination.

I’ll save what remains of my virtue for true love. With your budget and the looks of the girls at the bar, you could easily catch one with a silver hook. Is it safe for me to go now?

Checking his watch, he said, I think so, but one minute. He made a quick phone call, then gave me the OK.

I was glad to get back to my room and out of the so-called glad rags. Whatever I had done didn’t bother me in the least. Maybe I have no conscience. I was wise enough not to ask any questions, But I guessed the Lee twins had likely been weighted with a length of heavy chain, then tumbled into the Bosphorus with a yo heave ho and a fare-thee-well, six fathoms along on the road to hell.

CHAPTER TWO

With the yellow menace out of the way, things were quiet for the next few weeks. I took a trip to Ankara to check out the embassy, but more about that later.

An incident occurred that set the consulate agog with gossip. A secretary, a girl in her mid-twenties who had been recruited locally, was found hanged to death in a vacant apartment. She had used a bed sheet cut into strips and braided together, and she had left a brief note blaming Dusty.

It seemed that she was pregnant, and Dusty had refused marriage. Apparently, this innocent young lady had not known about his wife and family in the States. Such happenings could cause an international scandal on top of a foreign service scandal. The best course of action would have been to fire Dusty and send him packing, and attempt to pacify the girl’s family.

Initially, this was done. Dusty was placed on the first plane to Dulles. But then the CIA intervened. Dusty was a prize employee, knew the Middle East, worked hand in glove with Mossad, had a network of informants, spoke various languages and for toppers, claimed he did not get the young lady pregnant.

He acknowledged sexual contact, in fact multiple times in that very apartment where the girl was found dangling. But he claimed it was protected without exception. The dead girl was of a solid Istanbul family. Of course they were Islamic, but not fanatics. Yet a pregnancy would have scandalized the family and reduced the victim’s chance of marriage to zero, unless she could have been sent abroad to seek a mate. She was a looker. The charge d’affaires worked with the father over a period of days. The victim’s body was quietly cremated. Her mother was shattered, but recovering. Fortunately, there were siblings.

In addition to the CIA stepping in on his behalf, Dusty maligned the girl by claiming she was promiscuous and hung out at the same bar where I had vamped the Chinese. Once again I was called into distasteful action.

This time it was the charge d’ giving the orders in Dusty’s absence. I was given several photos of the girl and tasked to ask around the bar. My first stop was the familiar barstool and a glass of white wine. The bartender recognized me and mentioned that the two Chinese gentlemen I had been chatting with had jumped their hotel bill.

But the desk had likely imprinted a credit card, I said.

No, that’s the strange part. They claimed not to have a credit card, which seems highly unlikely. But they gave the clerk a one hundred dollar U.S. bill to guarantee payment.

Hardly enough.

You bet. They were here several days, paid for several lunches, seemed like regular businessmen, and were dealing with various government officials from the region. You realize Istanbul is maybe the safest meeting place in the area, it’s like an open city. He smiled and winked and drew out the word, Intrigue, then added, Maybe you and I could get together for some intrigue of our own.

The offer wasn’t the worst I had ever had and he was cute and seemed reasonably intelligent. But I replied brightly, For now let’s just be good friends.

Agreed, He said with a smile and a flourish, reaching out and shaking my hand, then kissing it in the style of a Latin lover. After that fake show of affection he told me that the government officials the Lees had dealings with were all over the place with their inquiries. He said they hinted darkly that some funds may have been exchanged and the two Lees absconded by night.

I laughed and said whatever they did they probably did it by the dark of the moon, adding, They seemed full of cheer and bonhomie when I left them. Then I had to tell my bartending buddy the definition of bonhomie. Like many second language speakers he lacked vocabulary, but was eager to learn. This type of person generally loves to pick up idioms and slang words. It crossed my mind to drop in on him now and then. I could use an informant