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By Terry Hughes


            At my father’s funeral, my brother and I decided to reveal to his friends and our family that Dad once worked for the CIA.   Not as a direct employee, but as some type of intelligence gathering sub-contractor.  We could reveal this, according to the unwritten rules, because Dad had passed away, taking his secret to the grave.  So well kept were Dad’s covert activities that his very close friends, friends of over fifty years, were shocked at our revelation.  I don’t know if my mother knew or not, but her best friend did not.  My brother and I were never told directly whether or not that Dad was an agent, but we traveled overseas with the family when we were eighteen and nineteen, attending a resident college where Dad was stationed.

We flew into a faraway airport in an exotic country, and were greeted by a “representative” from the embassy.  He told us that our house, and certainly our telephone was bugged, and to be extremely careful about not criticizing the current regime or leadership.   We were instructed not to discuss Dad’s job with anyone, and with those sober directions delivered, we entered into the capital, cloaked deep in the shrouded shadow of Dad’s cover.   At this posting, Dad gathered intelligence forwarded to a U. S. ally which gave that ally a remarkable edge in a war soon to be fought against the country of our residency. 

A few months after our arrival, a building in the American Embassy compound was burned and sacked, and the streets begin to fill with anti-American rioters.  Dad

grabbed my brother and me and took us to his gun safe, opening it to reveal an array of truly impressive weaponry.  Dad selected three twelve gauge shotguns, handing one to my brother and myself.  As he gave us each a box of shells, he said, “Shotguns are legal here, those other weapons aren’t.  If anyone breaches the gate, shoot them in the knees.  Bodies in the yard could lead to questions.” 

We got to the flat roof of our villa, and viewed a crowd of protestors chanting at our front gate.  As soon as Dad, my brother and I gathered at the front of the roof, posting our firepower for all to see, the crowed moved on, running through the streets into the wee hours of the night.  Looking into Dad’s gun safe for the first time that night was when my brother and I realized that our father, indeed, was a ‘company’ man.

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            I cannot reveal other postings he and my mother served, all in countries far away, which were either engaged in war, or about to be entangled in war.  Even today I cannot reveal his cover, or the intelligence gathered, because that cover is most likely in place today.

            It is unconscionable that the highest officers in this country think it is acceptable to reveal the identity or the cover of a CIA agent.  To ‘out’ an agent puts lives at risk, not only the agents’ lives, but the lives of the innocent associates involved in their cover.  The casual revelation of a CIA agent by Dick Cheney, Karl Rove, and Scooter Libby is treason.  It was premeditated, making it high treason.  These traitors have no respect for the brave men and women they place on, or behind, the field of battle.  They should be braced, frog-marched to Guantanamo for ‘rendoring’ without benefit of counsel or family visitation.  Then they should be tried for treason where they can rat each other out.  Please, Lord, let it be on Court  TV.


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