Michael Malone - Weebly

That Thursday afternoon in a Hertz rental car, the
intelligence officers Thom, Dick, and Harry had cruised
east along a Connecticut Interstate near a little private
airport north of a little resort town called Dingley Falls.
Once they discovered the low, leafy entrance to a dirt
road dug some years ago down from the Interstate,
down into woods to the south, it was not that hard to
locate the secret base of Operation Archangel. Their
rented Mercury Marquis bounced like a rodeo ride,
spun its wheels, lurched against trees, as they
approached the secluded compound.
It was CIA assistant underdirector John Dick who
smelled first the dogs, and then Dr. Svatopluk. Ants
crawled all over a hand in which were clutched crumbs
of what Dick thought must have been a sort of strudel.
The Washingtonians identified the chief of staff by
reading a plastic name tag pinned to Svatopluk's lab
coat.
Inside a shiny building, where mums and marijuana
twined around the door, the stench was worse, and the
three civil servants did not attempt even a rough body
count of all the young male bodies stretched in white on