country, it’s not enough.’”
There were moments in Athens, such as when a coup would hit and Henry Kissinger and the rest of the U.S. government would look to Avrakotos, that he would dream of climbing to the Agency’s very top. Then Gust could visualize perfectly the moment when he, Gust Lascaris Avrakotos, from the long line of Greek defenders of the emperors, would be sworn in as director of Central Intelligence.
But those were Avrakotos’s dreams before the intelligence scandals following Watergate rocked the CIA. Before Admiral Stansfield Turner took over the Agency for Jimmy Carter and sent out his cold form letters on October 31, 1977. That purge of the CIA’s Operations Directorate, still known inside the Agency as the Halloween Day Massacre, changed forever the way Avrakotos felt about the CIA.
Until then Avrakotos had never complained about the death threats or the attacks by Congress or the press, because he and every other member of the Clandestine Services believed that “mother CIA would always take care of her own.” It was similar to the confidence that U.S. fighter pilots feel when they are shot down in combat, knowing that everything possible will be done to rescue them, even to the point of risking more lives to save theirs.
That is why he was so stunned in 1978 when four of his agents opened envelopes from the new CIA director containing termination notices. The targets of the purge had all been first-or second-generation Americans, like him. They were the Greek speakers, the ones who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty, the ones Avrakotos believed were the most valuable. When he checked elsewhere he discovered that other new Americans were also being let go: four Japanese from the Tokyo station, three Italians from the Rome station, three Chinese. The criteria seemed to be designed to terminate the men who knew the language and the culture and who had served the longest in one spot, agents just like him.
At first Avrakotos thought perhaps it was a mistake. He convinced two of the four to appeal. Langley’s return cable to one of the men who had requested an explanation stung Gust like nothing he had experienced in his adult life. “We understand you have appealed,” it read. “But you are a native Greek operating on native turf in a native language. You really are not an American.” *
“When they said that about him not being an American, I knew they could say that about me,” recalls Avrakotos. “That’s when I lost my loyalty to the bureaucrats. That’s when I said, ‘I don’t give a fuck about my career or about trying to become the director. I’m going to fight these fuckers to change it and, if I can’t, I’ll leave.’”
The return cable that Avrakotos wrote, signing his friend’s name, read: “I was born in the United States. I’m a second-generation American of Greek heritage. I served in World War II with honor. For you to call me anything else is a disgrace. I would like to send your comments to my senator in New York, Jacob Javits.”
“Well, they shat in their pants. That’s when they gave my friend his stay of execution. And do you know what he did when they reinstated him? He gave them thirty days’ notice and resigned. Isn’t that beautiful?”
Greece was now different for Avrakotos, murky and ambiguous. By 1978 he had been at this game for twelve years. He had been through eleven coups and four attempted coups; he had gone through the murder of his station chief and a thousand different dramas. He was bitter about the firing of his friends, and he had just broken up with his wife. He was burned out, and he didn’t want to subject his son to any of these battles anymore. He put in for a transfer.
When he went to say good-bye to his counterpart, the chief of the Greek Central Intelligence Service, the man told him he was relieved Avrakotos was finally leaving: “You’re good, but they would have gotten you if you’d stayed. It would only have
There were moments in Athens, such as when a coup would hit and Henry Kissinger and the rest of the U.S. government would look to Avrakotos, that he would dream of climbing to the Agency’s very top. Then Gust could visualize perfectly the moment when he, Gust Lascaris Avrakotos, from the long line of Greek defenders of the emperors, would be sworn in as director of Central Intelligence.
But those were Avrakotos’s dreams before the intelligence scandals following Watergate rocked the CIA. Before Admiral Stansfield Turner took over the Agency for Jimmy Carter and sent out his cold form letters on October 31, 1977. That purge of the CIA’s Operations Directorate, still known inside the Agency as the Halloween Day Massacre, changed forever the way Avrakotos felt about the CIA.
Until then Avrakotos had never complained about the death threats or the attacks by Congress or the press, because he and every other member of the Clandestine Services believed that “mother CIA would always take care of her own.” It was similar to the confidence that U.S. fighter pilots feel when they are shot down in combat, knowing that everything possible will be done to rescue them, even to the point of risking more lives to save theirs.
That is why he was so stunned in 1978 when four of his agents opened envelopes from the new CIA director containing termination notices. The targets of the purge had all been first-or second-generation Americans, like him. They were the Greek speakers, the ones who didn’t mind getting their hands dirty, the ones Avrakotos believed were the most valuable. When he checked elsewhere he discovered that other new Americans were also being let go: four Japanese from the Tokyo station, three Italians from the Rome station, three Chinese. The criteria seemed to be designed to terminate the men who knew the language and the culture and who had served the longest in one spot, agents just like him.
At first Avrakotos thought perhaps it was a mistake. He convinced two of the four to appeal. Langley’s return cable to one of the men who had requested an explanation stung Gust like nothing he had experienced in his adult life. “We understand you have appealed,” it read. “But you are a native Greek operating on native turf in a native language. You really are not an American.” *
“When they said that about him not being an American, I knew they could say that about me,” recalls Avrakotos. “That’s when I lost my loyalty to the bureaucrats. That’s when I said, ‘I don’t give a fuck about my career or about trying to become the director. I’m going to fight these fuckers to change it and, if I can’t, I’ll leave.’”
The return cable that Avrakotos wrote, signing his friend’s name, read: “I was born in the United States. I’m a second-generation American of Greek heritage. I served in World War II with honor. For you to call me anything else is a disgrace. I would like to send your comments to my senator in New York, Jacob Javits.”
“Well, they shat in their pants. That’s when they gave my friend his stay of execution. And do you know what he did when they reinstated him? He gave them thirty days’ notice and resigned. Isn’t that beautiful?”
Greece was now different for Avrakotos, murky and ambiguous. By 1978 he had been at this game for twelve years. He had been through eleven coups and four attempted coups; he had gone through the murder of his station chief and a thousand different dramas. He was bitter about the firing of his friends, and he had just broken up with his wife. He was burned out, and he didn’t want to subject his son to any of these battles anymore. He put in for a transfer.
When he went to say good-bye to his counterpart, the chief of the Greek Central Intelligence Service, the man told him he was relieved Avrakotos was finally leaving: “You’re good, but they would have gotten you if you’d stayed. It would only have
Similar Books
