The Clandestine Education of Owen Roberts

By Richard Snyder

The Iraq War is a raging storm of blood and violence, the Service is fighting for its survival on and off the battlefield, and an Iranian diplomat in Paris reaches out to a retired spy.

 

Enter Owen Roberts, a young, idealistic spy who joins the Service after 9/11 to make a difference. After a tour in Baghdad, he is assigned to an off-the-books operation that plans to steal the Iranian diplomat from underneath the Agency's nose and bring glory to the Service.

 

During his first year on the street, Owen gets in over his head as he tries to recruit the hard-drinking Iranian lothario and capture a Hezbollah terrorist. It's a tough task for a young officer, where things never work out how they should, and where innocence is always the first thing to go. Owen discovers that the Schoolhouse has taught him how to be a spy, but not about the hard lessons that come afterward. It is the street that provides the answers to the big lessons in life: lessons about loyalty, betrayal, and courage, and about friends who are enemies and enemies who are friends.

 

In Richard Snyder's debut spy thriller, we learn that The Clandestine Education of Owen Roberts is a tale of self-discovery. But it's more than just one man's story; it's about the grand arc of espionage, how history never lets go of the present, how the injustices and demons of the past are always with us, lurking beneath the surface, ready to pull us down into the darkness. Along the way, we see Owen's humor, cynicism, and boyish wonderment as he fights in the bare-knuckled arena of espionage. Owen and his comrades and enemies operate in a sphere of deceit and self-delusion, creating paths of destruction wherever they go. No one is ever safe in this world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Incognito Publishing Company
• Release date: Aug 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223339588

Richard Snyder

Richard Snyder is a former intelligence officer who enjoys exploring the moral chaos of espionage. His next novel, Defector in Paradise, is scheduled to be released in the summer of 2024. You can read more about the author and the Owen Roberts' trilogy on his website.

Book preview

THE INVISIBLE MEN

Why did he choose me? It was an innocent question, one I asked myself without much worry at the time. Only later did I realize I should have known better, that I should have heeded the warning lights flashing in front of me. But that’s how it is in my secret world; you follow orders that rot your soul without knowing the great conundrums that await you around the bend. And while you march along a path that can lead to either perdition or salvation, take your pick, your fate reveals itself slowly, like a movie that’s a bit too long, and you think just maybe you can escape the consequences of your actions. But you know there is always a price to pay, so why are you surprised to learn that the road to hell is a tragedy paved with good intentions. But in my defense, let me tell you this: there is nothing I could have done differently. I was a reluctant conscript, not a volunteer.

It was late Friday afternoon in springtime, and I had been minding my own business, sipping wine and gorging myself on hors d’oeuvres at the temporary bar in the back of an airplane hangar. The hangar, a large barnlike structure, sat next to a small airstrip in the woods of southeast Virginia along the York River, and was used to house aircraft flying government VIPs to and from the Schoolhouse. But tonight, it was decked out for a full-blown gala, which happened to be a celebration of the latest graduating class of American spies. The announcement in my coat pocket said there were eighty of them, all young men and women with beaming faces and broad smiles who were milling about the hangar floor, drinks in hand, chatting with the barons of the American intelligence establishment. And make no mistake, this was not your usual graduation, this was a gathering of the nation’s most secret brotherhood, one that introduced a new generation of spies to their battle-hardened masters, proud men with medals and ribbons on their chests who would tell you they had fought and won the Cold War, the same men who had stumbled badly in Iraq and were now taking it on the chin. If you don’t believe me, just read the front page of any newspaper. And for those who ask, yes, attendance was by invitation only, reserved for the few and the privileged.     

Watching these men in dark suits move about the hangar was like staring at sharks circling in the water and knowing you were safe as long as you kept your distance. These men could chew you up and spit you out in a minute. It was what they did for a living, something I knew from experience, but something our newest spies hadn’t learned yet. I had no doubt they would learn in due time, but at the moment, I was experiencing what they call déjà vu, as I had crossed the same stage years earlier, a young man with dreams of adventure and the need to serve my country after 9/11. What I remembered most was the relief of leaving the stage with a diploma in hand and a feeling of exuberance, like a convict awarded an early release from prison, or the disbelief of a mental patient who escapes the looney bin. Most people didn’t understand that half a year inside the Schoolhouse changed how you saw the outside world, forcing you to examine life through a new set of lenses that transformed the average Joe into a target who could be turned upside down and shaken back and forth to get whatever you needed out of him. But on the bright side, the Schoolhouse was about real learning too, the kind of stuff you never forgot, like clever tradecraft and wonderful lessons in the art of the street hustle.

But that was me two years ago. Tonight, our young students were looking to find out their next assignments because tonight was the night of the big reveal. Would it be Paris, Berlin, or Riyadh? What about Beijing? No, Beijing would have to wait since it took months of extra training. I, however, was not going to be the one to burst the bubble of these new spies; let the men in black suits do that because it was no mystery to me where these young graduates were going next. Say hello to Iraq or Afghanistan, and get ready to fight the Global War on Terror, or GWOT, as they liked to say these days. The free booze on the diplomatic circuits would have to wait.

These cynical thoughts were swirling through my brain when the deputy director of the Service, the military intelligence agency I work for, spotted me in the crowd and motioned me to come over with the crook of his finger, changing my life forever. The deputy, a former Marine who served in Vietnam as a grunt, had two Purple Hearts as proof of his patriotism. His hair was steel gray and wiry, and he liked to brag that he hadn’t gained a pound since he left the Corps. He put his arm around me like a long-lost son and whispered into my ear. Owen, I need you to report to my office Monday at nine a.m. I have a new assignment for you. Time for you to get your feet wet. Get your bags packed and be ready to travel.

The thing was, I wanted to tell the man that I had already gotten my feet wet, usually with half-dried blood that stuck to the bottoms of your boots, because that was what you walked through when you worked in the murderous den of Baghdad and had to search torture chambers for intelligence on hostages and their terrorist captors. How did you explain to these young graduates buzzing with pride and ambition that the most depressing days of their professional lives were waiting for them just around the corner? How did you explain the feeling of pervasive evil that fell over you like a cloud of black poison when you entered one of those charnel houses in a backstreet of Baghdad, when you saw electric drills spattered with flecks of blood, car batteries attached to frayed cables and metal clamps, and schedules for videotaped executions posted on the walls? How could you ever be the same? Well, the short answer was that you couldn’t. The images seared your brain like spilled acid; all you could do was lock up those memories in the oubliette of your mind and throw away the keys.

But none of these remembrances were as alerting as was my meeting with the deputy director the Monday following the Schoolhouse graduation. The trip to the seventh floor of Service headquarters was like entering a portal to another dimension. I was greeted with the silence of still air, the kind of silence you feel when walking inside the great cathedrals of worship, the silence of true believers toiling away quietly at their desks, doing the Lord’s work, just as the Reverend Johnson had preached to the students during his benediction.

I entered the deputy’s chamber through opaque glass doors, and who was standing next to him but one of the graduation speakers, Garret Langston, a veritable legend of the Service! Seventy-two hours ago, he had spoken to our young students, enthralling these future spies with wild tales of inept and bungling case officers and stories of heart-pounding bravery in the field. I watched this man who looked like General Patton make the audience laugh and cry at the same time. He knew how to connect with people. Never think for a minute, he said, that you’ve got it all figured out because you never do. That kind of hubris will get you killed. You never get the full story about anything or understand the full gauntlet of threats that await you as you sit alone in your hotel room far from the shores of the United States. Your agents will always lie to keep the money coming in so they can live the life they think they deserve. Your sparring partners, the foreign intelligence services, are becoming more clever by the day, and headquarters is never as smart as they think they are.

Well, as you can imagine, that last line did not go over well with the powers that be, but brutal honesty was apparently something you could get away with when you were a legend of the Service. And get away with it, he did, because the hangar was as quiet as an empty church when Garret spoke. You could tell some people had been through it all, and Garret was one of those. He warned our young crusaders about the invisible weight of espionage, the burden of becoming different people, and forgetting who you really were over time. But you had to offer the students hope as well, and Garret did that too, telling stories of officers who had made a difference far beyond their stations in life. He took issue with those in Congress who questioned the need for the Service, knowing full well that five congressmen were seated in the first row. There are those who ask what we gain by having a clandestine service within the military, Garret said, and say that we are an unnecessary duplication of the Agency. But I say look at what we have accomplished and what we would have lost without it. The answer is never to take yourself off the playing field because you can’t win if you don’t play, and if you can’t win, you’re sure to lose. The thunderous applause of the audience rattled the thin walls of the hangar, and even the five congressmen could be seen clapping earnestly as they sat surrounded by three hundred members of the intelligence community. 

As we took our seats at the deputy’s finely polished rosewood table, I looked around his magnificent office and watched the planes land and take off from Reagan National Airport through the floor-to-ceiling windows that covered an entire wall. I counted one unclassified phone line, three secure phones, and two video phones. His Hall of Fame wall had pictures of him with presidents, congressmen, and more than one secretary of defense. His spider web, I realized, spanned the globe. The man had the world at his fingertips.

The deputy didn’t speak for long, but what he said was far more than we wanted to hear. I have asked the two of you here today because the Service has a mission of great urgency. I looked carefully at Garret as the deputy said this and got the impression he had been down this road before, but I certainly hadn’t. We have been notified that an Iranian diplomat in Paris may be looking to defect, the deputy went on, and I can’t tell you how important it is to the Service that we recruit him as soon as possible. The Service needs a win to stay relevant in the minds of our congressional overseers.

And Garret asked the question that I had been too afraid to ask. Why us?

Because the Iranian has been in touch with your old friend, Jack Freeman, that’s why. And besides, you’re the best; why wouldn’t I want you on this mission?

I noticed, as Garret certainly did, that the deputy said nothing about my presence. Jack has been retired for years, Garret said. How in the world did he get involved?

It’s the wonderful world of espionage, Garret; it’s so unpredictable, you think you know the endings, but they always change. It seems the Iranian diplomat’s father was one of Jack’s contacts during the halcyon days of the Cold War. They’ve kept in touch over the years, and he gave his son Jack’s address for emergency contact purposes.

This time, Garret dropped his poker face, and his eyes widened in amazement, but the deputy threw another curveball that neither of us was expecting. I need to tell you that this mission will be unsponsored, strictly off-the-books. You know what that means, Garret; your activities will have no official backing to those outside of this building. 

If you have ever seen a man ready to explode, it was Garret as he processed the deputy’s declaration, his hands balling up into clenched fists. So, we’re running a rogue op? Why is that? 

Because our good friends at the Agency already took a swing and missed. And this Iranian wants nothing further to do with them. If we let the Agency know we’re going to run with it, they’ll claim bureaucratic primacy like they always do and shoehorn their way back in. This needs to be our operation.

I watched Garret stare down the deputy. He had piercing blue eyes like the sparkling waters you see off the Florida Keys. He spoke in a flat monotone to show his displeasure. So, we’re keeping the Agency in the dark? That takes some balls. You know they’ll find out eventually, but you don’t want the Service to pay the price. It’s our careers that go down the tubes.

I don’t see it that way, Garret. You’re the best we’ve got, plus I’m giving you Alberto DiMara so you can practice the new operational methodology you’ve been preaching to our seniors. Alberto is going to be your clandestine sherpa.

I decided it was time to speak, and that by showing my ignorance, the deputy might reconsider my participation in this career-ending operation. What in the world is a clandestine sherpa?

You tell him, Garret, the deputy replied.

It’s my low-tech solution to a high-tech problem. To improve the security of our operations in the digital age, we need to stay out of as many online databases as possible. That’s because artificial intelligence is getting really good, and our adversaries now have sneaky algorithms that can identify the spending and communication habits of case officers. Combine that with facial recognition and pervasive surveillance, and it’s only a short step before they start identifying and tracking our case officers. So, while we’re in France, Alberto will make all our digital transactions using his cover credentials. Cars, hotels, restaurants, he pays for everything. We go into France under a false passport, but we never show it, and nothing we do in that country ever links back to us online. We become invisible, like we were never there.

Oh, so now we were invisible men with invisible cloaks, but I didn’t feel invisible at all; I felt naked and exposed, with no protection from Uncle Sam other than the human shields provided by a General Patton look-alike and his clandestine sherpa. At least in Baghdad they gave you body armor.

A SMALL VILLAGE IN FRANCE

With the prospect of incoming artillery from all directions, it might be a good idea to know something about your fellow soldiers before joining them in the foxhole.  As I sat in the backseat of a brand new Citroën, listening to the hum of the powerful engine and watching the sun dip below the treetops, I was thankful I had done my homework on my two colleagues, that being Garret in the front passenger seat and Alberto, who was driving.

We had all arrived by separate flights at Brussels Airport and were collected at the arrival terminal by Alberto, who was dutifully performing his role as our clandestine sherpa. From there, it was a short two-hour drive to our destination, a small village north of Paris, to meet and debrief Garret’s longtime friend, Jack Freeman, who would give us the low-down and contact instructions for the mysterious Iranian. The brown road sign we just passed said we had entered the l’Oise region, and I estimated we were thirty kilometers from our destination.

We had been briefed before leaving Washington, D.C., and I thought we would discuss the operation in more detail as we traveled in the car. But I was wrong; little was said, and I sensed I had become an invisible man to my own colleagues. But they were no longer invisible to me because I had done my research. During my inquiries at headquarters, I learned that Alberto had joined the Service ten years ago after he was talent spotted by a public affairs officer at our embassy in Paris. At the time, he was a location scout for Gaumont, a French film company, and knew the south of France like the back of his hand. But the hallway dossier on Alberto was more intriguing. My conversations with those who knew the man revealed a family history steeped in clandestine life, a fact that Alberto downplayed to outsiders by telling them he was from Marseilles, omitting the fact that his ancestry was Corsican with a background in smuggling and the Mafia. What I wasn’t expecting, however, what the hallway gossip did not prepare me for, was the man himself. Alberto was built like a refrigerator with legs, a barrel chest, arms as thick as ropes, and black hair slicked back like a film actor from the 1950s. His hands were as big as boxing gloves. I felt much safer in his presence.

We drove by one of those remote farming villages in the middle of nowhere that you pass through in the blink of an eye, and Garret turned around in his seat to face me. I thought he would share some of his operational thinking with me before the meeting. Instead, an impish smile flashed across his face. Tell me, Owen, have you figured out why you were chosen for this mission?

Well, it can’t be because of my experience, I replied. I was in Iraq for eight months and only returned a short while ago.

He nodded and a look of mandarin wisdom replaced his smile. The simple answer is that we are both expendable.

How could that be? I had read Garret’s curriculum vitae, and the man sitting in front of me was a clandestine wunderkind. He had recruited a Chinese cadre kid and an Iranian nuclear scientist, both national-level operations. You could launch your career on just one of those targets and live off your laurels for years!

That can’t be true, I said, secretly delighted to be included in the same category as the old man. I’m a babe in the woods compared to you, so it seems like I’m the one who is expendable.

I can see why you would think that, but we’re expendable for different reasons. You’ve got your whole career ahead of you to recover from any mistakes. But my career is almost over, so what does it matter if it’s cut short?

That doesn’t seem very noble on behalf of our leadership, and it’s downright exploitative if you ask me.

For whatever reason, my response triggered a booming laugh from Garret. Perhaps it was my naïveté or lack of pretense that amused him, but whatever it was, Garret looked at me differently after that, but not differently enough to spare me the truth. I hear also, he said, that you’re a good report writer. If we recruit the Iranian, we’ll need someone to push out the intel reports.

Report writer? That was my claim to fame? That was a backhanded compliment if I had ever heard one. What about my remarkable tradecraft skills? My acumen in agent handling and impersonal communications?  What about my razzle-dazzle interpersonal skills, my deft ability to charm and manipulate even the most skeptical of targets? Or, had my clandestine reputation been unknowingly sullied by my streak of operational independence, when I had worked sources outside of the Green Zone in violation of my operation officer’s mandate? Didn’t they know I was trying to get something started, that running operations from inside the Green Zone was a dead end that led to dead agents? The Green Zone, you see, had long been infiltrated by terrorist insurgents and sympathizers with hundreds of roving eyes on their payroll. These evil men loved nothing more than to identify the traitors collaborating with the Americans and to collect their bonus for throats that were slit in the middle of the night. 

Garret must have sensed my dismay and decided to share some of his own professional stink. The other reason I’m expendable is that my act is wearing thin on some of our esteemed leadership.

Now, this was inside baseball, and I wasn’t about to interrupt. I let him go on.

It seems I was rude to one of the female staffers on Capitol Hill, a little blonde gal in her thirties, our monitor on the intelligence committee. Anyway, it’s our quarterly meeting on the Hill, where we review our worldwide operations to see what kind of bang we’re getting for the buck. She’s got her staff with her; I have mine. Halfway through the review, she rakes me over the coals about our lack of success against strategic targets like Russia and China. She says we’re focusing too much on Iraq, and oh, by the way, what we had in Iraq was crap. America wasn’t getting its money’s worth. Said I wasn’t doing my job, and it must be time for new blood in the Service.

That must have burned you, I said, chuckling to myself, knowing full well the staffer had lit a stick of dynamite. The last time I checked, our boys weren’t dying in Russia or China.

True, she set me off, but as I was informed afterward by our leadership, we never reveal our fangs to the congressional overlords who sign our checks.

So, what did you say?

I leaned across the table, put my face squarely into hers, and slammed my fist on the table. Told her she was a bitch who wouldn’t know a source if one rose up and bit her in the ass, to stop pretending she knew anything about clandestine operations. You should have seen the look on her face!

What happened afterward?

The staff director of the intelligence committee complained to our director and threatened to cut our budget to teach us a lesson. Now the director wants my head on a platter, and I have been told I will never brief Congress again.

Well, they let you speak at graduation, so perhaps you’re in the clear.

Want to know the best part? Our young officers said afterward that I ‘rocked’ and wished the rest of the leadership had balls as big as mine. High praise from the troops is something you should always cherish.

***

Alberto couldn’t have planned our arrival any better. Our Citroën snuck into the village square under cover of darkness just as the shops were closing, and the waiters at the local café were placing chairs upside down on the outdoor tables. We waited in the car for a few minutes for the lights to go out and the customers to go home, ensuring our invisibility for the night to come.

The village had a postcard quality to it, with quaint stone houses and well-tended gardens with wrought iron fences and tall manicured hedges. Next to the village square was the mayor’s office, an imposing building that reminded the locals where to pay their taxes and where to go when they needed a favor. As I took in the surroundings, I felt like my time had arrived as an intelligence officer and that I was doing what I had trained to do years ago. In Iraq, you spent half your time playing soldier, the other half dodging bloodthirsty street thugs, but here, in this small village in France, it was a new battlefield that tilted in our favor. I was determined to take the fight to the mullahs, the ones who called America the Great Satan, by turning one of their own against them. I would use every Schoolhouse trick in the book to infiltrate their inner sanctum and expose the rot of an Iranian regime ruled by oppression and fear.

The night air was crisp as we crossed the village square and walked along a small lake bordered by trees and Normandy-style chalets and restaurants. A dozen brightly colored paddle boats were tethered to a small dock, presumably for tourists to use on sunny days. It was just the two of us; Garret had told Alberto to wait in the car and that we would be back in a few hours, so off we went in search of Jack’s house. We found our way quickly, and after a few minutes of walking clumsily on cobblestone streets, we turned onto a quiet side street and passed a small hotel that had closed due to a fire. I peeked inside and saw the charred ceiling beams and blackened walls. A for sale sign hung on the outside wall.

The far end of the street was a dead end anchored by a large stone house with a bell tower overlooking the lake. The tower was decorated with bands of blue and white mosaics, giving it the allure of a Moorish citadel, but I knew from my history books that the Moors had never made it this far north. A small courtyard sat behind an ancient stone wall that must have been built in Roman times. This was where Jack lived, Garret informed me, while pointing his finger at the house, and we walked up the steps to the front door, knocked, and were greeted by Marie-Pascal, the wife of Jack Freeman.

I am embarrassed to admit that the first thing I thought of as I introduced myself was the hope that my future wife would look as good as this woman did at her age. Tall and lithe with a short bob of black hair with gray streaks, wearing a white silk blouse with a black skirt, Marie-Pascal exuded a youthfulness and casual elegance that belied her years. She grasped me by the arm like we were old friends and explained that she inherited the house from her parents, and please, excuse the disorder, as she and Jack had decided to restore it and make it their retirement home.

But there was no disorder inside, only a house that was a picture of Renaissance splendor, like a private chateau off the beaten track that you visit in the Loire Valley. Tapestries depicting unicorns and royal maidens hung from the walls, as did paintings of ancient city harbors and ships in peril in storm-tossed seas. Velvet curtains as soft as butter framed twelve-foot-high windows. The living area was stuffed with baroque furniture made of silk fabrics in blue and gold, imprinted with heraldic symbols of salamanders and porcupines.

Garret, I want you to know how wonderful it is to see you again! Marie-Pascal said as we entered the living room. And this young man that you brought with you, he looks like a California surfer, tall and lean, with his long blonde hair and brown eyes.

But there was something wrong with her delivery; both Garret and I saw it at the same time, first in her eyes, and then her lips, which began to tremble.

What’s wrong, Marie-Pascal? Garret asked. Should we have not come?

Oh no, that’s not it at all. Forgive me if I gave you that impression. It’s just that I have bad news. She looked down at the floor, and I had no idea what to expect next. Jack has liver cancer, she announced, with forlorn eyes that could not meet our own. I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but Jack preferred to keep it quiet.

Garret was stunned by the news and looked at Marie-Pascal in disbelief. What is the prognosis? How serious is it?

He has maybe six months to live. He’s taking the news much better than I am.

Marie-Pascal, I’m so ashamed I haven’t stayed in contact with Jack since his retirement; please forgive me.

Garret, there is nothing to forgive. Jack loves you like a brother. He’s had a wonderful life, as he is fond of telling me. Ever since the Iranian came to the house, it’s as if he’s recaptured the magic of his youth when the two of you traveled the world to fight the commies. Now, listen, we’ll chat more later. You go up and see Jack, and I’ll bring some food and drink in a few minutes.

The stairway had one of those electric lift chairs attached to the wall, allowing the infirm to go up and down stairs without assistance. At the top of the stairs, waiting for us in his study, I saw a man in a wheelchair who looked like a scarecrow. Jack's head looked as if it were sitting on top of a pole, the skin on his face gaunt and yellowish, eye sockets sunken in like craters, and ill-fitting clothes hanging loose on his body, like hand-me-downs from an older brother. 

I watched Garret as he lowered himself to his knees and hugged Jack. I felt like an outsider as I watched these cold warriors hold onto each other as their bodies shook with grief, perhaps for the times they had shared in the past, or the times that would now be lost to them forever. I  was jealous of their friendship, though, wondering if I would ever make such a brotherly bond during my time in the Service.

It was Jack who came back to the present first, telling Garret it was okay, patting him on the back like a younger brother. His eyes sparkled with the wonder and merriment of a small child.

Garret, I don’t want you to feel sorry for me, he said. I’m at peace with myself. I have one last good deed left in me; that’s why I asked headquarters to send you. Who’s your handsome young friend? 

This is Owen Roberts. He’s new to the Service and just did a tour in Iraq. He is going to be our report writer. Garret winked at me as he said this, knowing it would get under my skin, which it did, as I felt myself resenting this less than impressive label.

Jack was no fool, though; I could see that, and he knew that case officers liked nothing more than to talk about themselves. Well, the Service needs new blood; after all, look at us! He laughed as he said it, and I could see the laughter bring pain to his eyes.

Tell me about Iraq, he said, looking straight at me. What the hell was it like?

There was something about a dying man showing interest in me that I found humbling and generous in spirit. With that one question, he made me feel as if I were part of their secret club. But I also felt like puffing my chest out a bit, that I was an equal now, trading spy stories with the best of