The CIA, better known as the Greater CIA or CIA II, was formed on Friday, March 7, 2008, at 11:13 p.m. by Seamus O'Malley III.
50 something years of age, Seamus liked to refer to himself as a traveling minstrel. Twice married, twice divorced. During his time in the CIA, Seamus specialized in espionage. Espionage was his life. Only two people in the world knew of Seamus' secret underworld identity--Seamus and an entity known only as "Control." Some believe Control was a mad genius. Others thought he was a computer. Still others believed that Control was God himself. It was debatable if Seamus was the real identity of the man that concerns us, or just a cover story for a greater agent. It is even possible that even Seamus did not know his true identity anymore.
Seamus--like Martin Luther, I suppose--formed CIA II because of great discontent with the status quo. The CIA was full of brilliant people, but in the end they were mere followers. If the president said, "torture," they would torture. If the president said, "Don't torture," they would not torture. Sheep, really. Despite their brilliance, in the end they were mere sheep.
The torture debate did not disturb Seamus. In a way, he was actually in favour of torture. Something inside him welled up, when he thought of the horrors humans committed on other humans. Punishment was deserved or so he felt. But in the end Seamus knew torture was wrong because he himself, Seamus O'Malley III, could not inflict torture on another human being, no matter how misguided that human might be. No, Seamus could not pull the lever or push the button that sent electric shocks into the genitals of an al Qaeda operative. Nor could he waterboard, no matter how vile the victim. Seamus was more concerned with 9/11.
It had been a hard day. Seamus sat outside the mew, looking at a faded document, bewildered.
Agent Seamus O'Malley, donquixote, donquixote8, herc42, holden7, holdenb52, toysoldier5, orpheus3, orpheus7, icarus4, pisquared, radical pi...
Suddenly a rush of wind tore the paper from his hand. Seamus knew he must contact Control. "The wind," thought Seamus. "Control is in the wind. And I know I have to contact him." Crestfallen, Seamus sat and slumped over and stared out across the concrete sidewalk and out across Kensington Avenue at a few parked cars. "Why," thought Seamus, "are there so many God-damned cars in this world?" "Bring back the horse and buggy," he mumbled.
Suddenly, as if in a minor epiphany, Seamus snapped out of his lethargy.
The wind had died now, as it always does, and Seamus spyed the sheet of paper lying on the sidewalk about 10 yards from where he sat. He got up and retrieved the paper, reading its content: "Agent Seamus O'Malley, donquixote, donquixote8 . . ." Seamus then recalled a psychiatrist he had been seeing monthly a few years back. "Yes," thought Seamus. "Dr. Chang. Dr. Jocelyn Chang. She used to refer to the 'many levels' of my personality." Maybe this is what she meant. A list of code names--each signifying something different, each signifying something unique. But Seamus realized quickly that this was all mere distraction from what he really had to do, which was to contact Control.
Through the years in CIA espionage, Seamus knew how to contact any agent in the company. With his special highest level of security clearance it was simple, especially these days. Just log in to Intelink-X and blog away for whomever he needed to reach.
But Control was different. Control was like the wind,and Seamus had never contacted him before. No one he knew had contacted Control either. It was quite possible, too, that no one had ever contacted Control. Perhaps Control was a myth, but, no, Seamus knew Control was real.
Seamus remembered when he was a child of 8 or 10, his father, between flights to the Pentagon, would talk of Control. He worked for J. Edgar Hoover in the FBI; when they still monitored Soviet activity you see. He would tell him, "Remember, at the Pentagon; there Control can tell you the deal, tell you, do you understand me boy?" Seamus knew that if he were to start crying out for Control now, neighbours would worry of his mind. Call the police. Cart Seamus off to the nearest loony bin. He felt Control in his heart and in his gut too. But that would not justify his apparent insanity. He had an idea.
All Seamus would need to do was board a chopper and be secreted away to some top secret room in the pentagon. This was ridiculous, thought Seamus. Always listen to Control. This boy holds the key. Three computers - all company computers were heavily monitored, he knew - he quickly returned to his mew, started up one of his computers, Control existed because he felt him. He felt him in every fibre of his soul. He began to write:
Tell me, Mr. or Mrs Control
Which way should I now fly?
Is it like the days of old?
And am I going to die?
A heavy saber I hold in hand
I wield it to and fro
But where exactly it should land
A pity that I do not know
I'd kill Goliath, I'd break his teeth
I'd cut off his ankles flat
And like Quixote out on a heath
I'd spring like a startled cat
For in a world chuck full of wrong
I'd make it right with my simple song
"Control," thought Seamus, "would soon be in touch."
Several days had passed and still no Control. Seamus lived near the Pentagon. Today he took two photographs of two military choppers taking off from the Pentagon grounds. Seamus felt a strange notion when he saw the helicopters. He thought they were meant for him. He, Seamus, was supposed to be aboard one of those choppers, but, no, the choppers disappeared from sight without him. "Control," thought Seamus, "Control." Before he went to bed, Seamus wrote another one of his poems. It went like this:
In the wind I see Control
Angleton in search of a mole
12 birds perched on a telephone pole
I am a bandit, I'm out on parole
Bring me to the fairy dust
Like George Patton, I must, I must
In Washington whom do you trust?
I have a saber, it's tarnished by rust
The daffodils have sprouted like mad
I am a clown but I am not sad
When I was 14, I once was bad
My father was an FBI dad
So another cigarette I roll
And where are you, Mr. Control?
Seamus blessed himself with his left hand before he went to sleep, wondering if he had committed sacrilege. He didn't think so, really. Seamus was on his way to heaven.