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Assassination plots, terrorist acts, coups, secret armies, subversion of allied governments, Mafia connections, torture, press manipulation, domestic surveillance–the revelations were endless, a bottomless pit of corruption and criminality being dredged up by the House and Senate panels.

Where was their sense of duty, the code of omerta that had for so long protected those who toil in the shadows, who do the dirty work to keep America fat and safe and happy? What right did these mere senators and representatives have to tell the people–the big dumb dazed mobocracy out there–the truth about what their leaders were doing in their name? They were like children, they could never understand the higher wisdom that guided the elites. Oh, it was a far cry from the old days, back on the Warren Commission, when a good soldier like Jerry Ford knew just what to do: you accepted whatever the agencies told you, and you steered investigations away from anything that might break the code and pierce the shadows.
So Ford seethed. What the hell is wrong over there at the CIA, he complained to his chief of staff, Donald Rumsfeld. Why couldn’t Bill Colby, the director, keep a lid on things? Colby had even come clean about Operation Phoenix, for Christ’s sake. More than 20,000 Vietnamese murdered in the CIA-run program–did Joe Lunchbucket really need to know about that?
What next? Are they going to find about Reinhard Gehlen, too: the Nazi spy who joined the CIA and recruited thousands of Hitler’s best and brightest–including Klaus Barbie and a cadre of SS veterans–to work for the Agency? Sure, it would look bad, but come on: Gehlen was championed by Allen Dulles himself–the founding father of the CIA, the hotshot lawyer who kept Prescott Bush’s name out of the papers when Pres was caught trading with the Nazis in 1942. Dulles and those Yale boys knew what was best–but try explaining that to some poor schmuck whose father got killed at Normandy or Auschwitz or some other godforsaken hole, eh?
As it happened, the ‘Gehlen Organization’ stayed secret for another 26 years. But in July 1975, Ford had still more worries. A top White House aide, Dick Cheney, sent a memo to Rumsfeld, warning him about an upcoming lawsuit. The family of Frank Olson had found out–through the Congressional investigations–that he had been secretly drugged by the CIA not long before he took that fall from the hotel window. Now they were suing the government for damages.
The lawsuit could be bad business, Cheney told Rumsfeld. ‘It might be necessary to disclose highly classified national security information’ during the trial. That would include the truth about Olson: the CIA connection, biochemical weapons, the mind-control and torture experiments based on Nazi death-camp ‘research,’ and the Agency fingerprints all over Olson’s last days in New York City. The case might even reveal the existence of special ‘CIA Assassination Manuals,’ like the one issued in the year of Olson’s death, 1953, stating: ‘The most efficient accident, in simple assassinations, is a fall of 75 feet or more onto a hard surface. Elevator shafts, stairwells, unscreened windows and bridges will serve. [In some cases], it will usually be necessary to stun or drug the subject before dropping him.’
Such revelations had to be avoided at all costs. Rumsfeld and Cheney urged Ford to make a settlement before the trial started. To avoid the courts entirely, they would arrange a private bill in Congress to give the family some cash. The deal would be sweetened by private audiences with both Ford and Colby, apologizing for the CIA’s past ‘mistakes,’ and promising ‘full disclosure’ of all the facts, so the family could at last find peace.
And so it was done. And it was all a lie–beyond the bare fact, already unearthed by Congress, that Olson had been drugged by the CIA. The family got 17 minutes in the Oval Office with Ford–who apologized for the government’s indirect involvement in Olson’s death–that LSD test gone awry. Rogue elements, you know; unauthorized activity. Shouldn’t have happened; never happen again. This was followed by a meeting with Colby, who handed over a thick file: the CIA’s ‘complete’ investigation of the Olson affair–so complete that it forgot to mention that Olson was a CIA official. Or that his colleagues considered him a ‘security risk.’ Little things like that.
Thus began the second cover-up. It took Eric Olson another 27 years to piece together the story, from obscure archives, through lucky accidents, and strained meetings with old CIA hands, who let fall dribs and drabs of the truth. He was even forced to exhume his father’s body: a gruesome process that revealed the original 1953 post-mortem had also been a lie.
That examination had simply confirmed the cover story: poor sap had flung himself through the glass and splattered on the sidewalk below. No autopsy needed. Close the coffin–the body is too busted-up for the family to see–and close the case. But the second examination, decades later, carried out by forensic experts, revealed the truth. There were no marks on the well-preserved cadaver consistent with a self-propelled flight through the window: no cuts on the face or arms. There was, however, a cranial injury entirely consistent with a blow to the head–delivered before the fall.
Earlier this year, the Cheney-Rumsfeld memos came to light, confirming that the Olsons had been deliberately lied to in 1975. It helped fill in some of the remaining pieces of the scattered jigsaw puzzle that was his father’s death–and had become Eric’s life. And although the centerpiece of the puzzle–the fateful moments in that hotel room, before Frank Olson went through the glass–remains forever absent, the picture was as complete as it would ever be, Eric decided. And so he buried his father, again, in the dark Maryland earth.
But Ford, Rumsfeld and Cheney had kept the faith back in those dangerous days of 1975. They had honored omerta. Colby was not so lucky. For his sins–his ‘weakness’ in allowing a few spears of sunlight into the shadows–he was summarily dismissed a few months later. He was replaced by a man who also lived by the code, who would keep the precious Agency–and all its Gehlens, its torturers, its dopers, its shooters–safe from the mobocracy, the ignorant rabble with their pathetic fairy-tale notions about democracy, justice, law and honor. He would guard the shadow world so well that one day the headquarters of the CIA would proudly bear his name:
George Herbert Walker Bush.