The Book of Honor (48 page)

The next morning Freedman was to fly back to Washington and then on to Somalia. McMillan met him for breakfast in the coffee shop of the local Sheraton. Freedman seemed ebullient. He was headed for action. He was also, he said, deeply in love with someone from the Agency. “I don't have to justify my work to her,” he said. McMillan sensed that Freedman was thinking marriage.

McMillan just listened. He knew not to ask Freedman where he was headed or what he was going to do. Besides, Freedman would not have told him. Anyone he counted a friend understood that such questions would be unwelcomed. But McMillan had something he wanted to say to him, something he knew Freedman would not want to hear.

“Go in the rest room,” McMillan told him, “and look at all the white in your hair. It means you better start slowing down and let the young guys take the risk.”

Freedman shrugged it off.

“Mac,” he said, “you know I'm doing what I love to do. If I have to go, what better way to go?”

When Freedman arrived in Somalia in December 1992, he was dressed in faded blue jeans and a khaki field jacket. He wore a tan Harley-Davidson hat that could not contain the cascades of long curly white locks that broke down his bull-like neck. His beard was nearly all white, and his eyes were hidden by a pair of dark aviator sunglasses.

A photo of him taken on December 18 captures him in a moment of impish delight, a black automatic weapon slung across his wide chest, a field radio pressed to his ear, and the broad grin of someone hamming it up, enjoying every moment. But for his age, he might easily have been mistaken for a kid at camp rather than a CIA operative in the vanguard of Operation Restore Hope.

Not long after he arrived, he and a team of three other combat-seasoned men set out to examine the situation around Bardera and its airport, some two hundred miles to the west of the capital, Mogadishu. It was of little strategic value but was squarely in what had become known as the famine belt. Feuding warlords and gun-toting thugs had completely disrupted the flow of relief. Some three hundred people a day were dying of hunger there.

The date was December 23, 1992. Freedman sat behind the wheel of a civilian vehicle as the four-member team took to the road. Along the way, Freedman stopped the vehicle and walked out to the edge of the bush to relieve himself. Someone snapped a picture of him from behind. Freedman laughed. He was in high spirits.

The journey resumed. But on a remote and dusty stretch of road outside Bardera at just about nine o'clock that Wednesday morning, the vehicle hit a land mine. In one hellacious nanosecond, fire and black smoke, red-hot shards of metal, and a deafening concussion filled the air.

And when it settled and the quiet returned, Larry Freedman lay dead.

He had suffered a massive head wound, his lower right leg had been blown off, and the right side of his chest was opened. Death had been instantaneous as surely as if one of Freedman's own sniper bullets had unerringly found its mark. The other men were wounded but alive.

Freedman's body and the three survivors were flown by chopper to the USS
Tripoli,
a helicopter carrier off Mogadishu. There Lieutenant Commander David A. Beatty, a U.S. Navy doctor, filled out the death certificate for Freedman. It listed Freedman as a civilian employee of the Department of Defense, a GS-12. His next of kin was listed as “unknown,” as was his Social Security number.

So flamboyant a life was now masked in the cover language provided by the Agency. Those responsible for concealing Freedman's Agency identity and the identities of the other three men disseminated a mix of fact and falsehood. It was said the three survivors had been State Department security officers. Doubtful. Their names were never released. Nor was the nature of their mission. The mine was described as of Russian origin, an older model. How long it had been there was anyone's guess. Later it was whispered at the CIA and Delta that Freedman had been warned not to take that road, that it was not safe. And yet he chose to take it anyway. Maybe it was true, maybe not. It just seemed to fit into the myth that was already taking shape around Larry Freedman.

The day after Freedman was killed a battalion of marines entered Bardera and prepared to distribute food to the thousands of starving Somalis who gathered about. They would later spend Christmas Eve on the airstrip that Freedman had been assigned to.

Most of the marines had no inkling who Freedman was, but one senior officer did attempt to express his appreciation and debt to him. Lieutenant General R. B. Johnston of the Combined Task Force Somalia sat down and typed a letter addressed “To the Larry Freedman Family.”

“There are many young Marines and Soldiers who can take credit for the early success of our operation in Somalia,” he wrote. “But there are also a number of very special people like Larry who made the most significant contribution by performing missions that gave us the highest possible guarantee that our troops could enter the major relief centers safely. I cannot underscore how important was the performance of Larry and his fellow team members. They courageously put themselves in harm's way and took personal risks on behalf of our entire force . . . I know I speak for every man and woman in uniform here in Somalia in expressing to Larry's family our deepest sympathy.”

The letter was dated December 24, 1992. That was the day Freedman's name was released to the press. At the CIA in Langley his colleagues were reeling from the loss. No one was more devastated than the woman Freedman had hoped to spend the rest of his life with.

But if December 24 was a day of mourning for some at Langley, it was a day of celebration for others. That very day, President George Bush, former head of the CIA, granted pardons to three Agency officials— Duane Clarridge, Alan Fiers, and Clare George—for their role in the Iran-Contra scandal. Bush had effectively put an end to further inquiries into the affair. That was just fine with the CIA.

On December 29, 1992, Freedman's funeral was held at the Fort Myer Chapel at Arlington National Cemetery. Even before the funeral got under way, Colonel Sanford Dresin, the officiating chaplain and a rabbi, assembled the family for a ritualistic rending of black cloth, a Jewish custom symbolic of grief and remembrance. But there was no black cloth to be found in the chapel and no pins with which to fasten it. So the rabbi had to make do with black construction paper which was torn into strips and attached to lapels with paper clips. Freedman, he observed, was an expert in resourcefulness and would have appreciated such field expediency.

Those who gathered in the chapel might just as well have come from a series of diverse Hollywood sets. Senior government officials arrived by limousine. From Langley came representatives of the Agency's clandestine service, men and women in black suits and silvered sunglasses. From Fort Bragg came beefy Special Forces types—Green Berets and Delta Force. Bikers from who knows where arrived on Harleys and Nortons. From Philadelphia came the old gang from the days at the Pit.

One of those was Petey Altman. He and his pals slowly walked behind the gleaming black caisson drawn by six white stallions as it made its way through the twisting paths of Arlington carrying Freedman's coffin. It came to a stop at the corner of Patton and Eisenhower where Freedman was to be buried. Four of the horses were mounted by soldiers, two were riderless, and one bore reversed boots in the stirrups, for the one who had brought them all together and was not here.

It was a cold Tuesday that threatened rain. Freedman's flag-draped coffin was protected by a plastic sheet. His family took their places in velvet-draped chairs as the rabbi, under shelter of a canopy, began the graveside service.

Freedman would have liked this. In a way, his final cover story— that he was a “civilian employee of the Defense Department”—was closer to the truth than even the Agency knew. Yes, he was CIA, but he had never seen himself as an Agency man. He was a soldier and he was going out that way.

Only the stone that Teresa had picked was, perhaps, at variance with what he would have wanted. Instead of one of the simple white stones the government provides and that dot the verdant hills in dizzying numbers, she selected a block of jet-black granite. She had her reasons. When she had gone to look at markers, she noticed that the men cutting the stones were Harley bikers. She took this as a sign that they were meant to inscribe her husband's headstone. On it is a Star of David, a Green Beret, and a paratrooper's wings. Inscribed are the words:

Lawrence N. Freedman
Sergeant Major
April 13, 1941—Dec. 23, 1992
“The Life of the Dead is Placed in the
Memory of the Living.”

The day after the funeral, on the afternoon of December 30, 1992, a memorial service for Freedman was held in the John F. Kennedy Memorial Chapel at Fort Bragg. There Brigadier General Richard Potter gave the eulogy to a chapel spilling over with Freedman's friends from Delta and other Special Forces detachments, as well as those second-generation combatants he had trained. General Potter cited a passage from Isaiah to explain what he called Freedman's “warrior ethic,” his willingness to serve wherever, whenever:

And I heard the voice of the Lord say “Who shall I
send and who will go for us?” and I answered,
“Here I am, send me.”

Years later, in retirement, General Potter mused over the fuss shown over Freedman's passing and the interest of an inquiring journalist. “I will tell you that wherever Larry is in Valhalla up there with all the other warriors, he would probably be laughing that we are having this conversation.”

Remembering Larry Freedman would take many forms:

In Buundo, Ethiopia, a bridge built by U.S. troops that supported tons of food for the starving bears his name. On a steel plate, in white paint, is stenciled “Lawrence R. Freedman Bridge.” Never mind that his middle initial was “N” not “R.”

In Keystone, South Dakota, just below Mount Rushmore, is a small wooden plaque that reads, “In Memory of Larry Freedman.” It is affixed to a picnic shelter where Freedman often escaped the August heat on his annual pilgrimage to the Sturgis motorcycle rally.

In Fayetteville, North Carolina, in the Special Forces Memorial Plaza, his name appears on a plaque dedicated to those who died in the Somalia campaign, though here the CIA's cover story became entangled in yet another cover story. He is listed as an employee of the State Department, not the Pentagon.

And not far away, in the JFK Special Forces Museum, is a small stage named for him: the Larry “Superjew” Freedman Theater, a fitting tribute to a man with a keen sense of theater.

But it was the Agency's memorial service to Freedman the morning of January 5, 1993, that his family remembers best. The CIA assembled Freedman's colleagues and family in “the Bubble,” the auditorium across from the headquarters building. Just inside the entrance was a life-sized portrait of Freedman set upon an easel. The room was filled with covert operatives and Agency brass. Even Colin Powell was there. Director Bob Gates spoke briefly, and then one of Freedman's colleagues offered a few remarks about the friend he missed:

“He was blessed with a sense of street savvy, which numbered Larry in that small handful whom, without hesitation, you can trust with covering your six o'clock when you walked into the woodline on a tactical mission . . . Pick a continent, pick a decade, Larry was there . . .”

Moments later the lights were lowered, Bette Midler's rendition of “The Wind Beneath My Wings” was played, and from floor to ceiling was projected a giant picture of Freedman against the left wall. It was a touch of drama Freedman could only have applauded.

Three days after the ceremony, on January 8, 1993, President George Bush, fresh from a trip to Somalia, visited Langley and addressed CIA employees. Langley was a special place for Bush and he could count on receiving a warm welcome there. It was not so with many of his successors. These were troubled times for the Agency.

“Last November,” Bush told them, “when Bob [Gates] became director, I noted that the men and women of the intelligence community faced a new mission in a dramatically different world . . . I wish all of you could have been with me on this visit to Somalia. It was very moving. And we are doing the right thing.” It was to be a pep talk designed to inspire the Agency personnel at a time when there was an increasing chorus of voices questioning the need for a CIA in a post–Cold War environment.

“The dangers that we face are real,” Bush told them. “I still get emotionally convinced of that when I see the stars out in the hall of this building . . . So I came to say thank you.” No reference was made to Freedman. Not long after, a nameless star was added to the wall and to the Book of Honor.

For some, Freedman's death remains a dark tragedy. In Fayetteville, North Carolina, his widow, Teresa, has created a kind of unseen shrine to him. She has kept his heavy black Harley-Davidson jacket with fringe sleeves as well as the dress uniform she had pressed in the belief that he could be buried in it. That was before she was told the coffin could not be opened. Behind the headboard of their king-sized bed are boxes and boxes of medals and memorabilia—Bronze Stars, a Purple Heart, pins and service ribbons, the otoscope of a medic, a piece of a gun, an old buck knife, dog tags from Vietnam, a Star of David, and a sterling-silver “Chi,” Hebrew for “life.” Here, too, hidden away, is the palm-sized gold medallion that reads, “Central Intelligence Agency For Valor: Lawrence N. Freedman 1992.” It was awarded by CIA Director Robert Gates only eight days after Freedman's death. But it took three years before the Agency would consent to send the medal to Freedman's widow. It is an honor that even now she is not to put on display.

But if there are those who are still in mourning, there are others who find such solemnity ill-suited to one as lusty and vital as Larry Freedman. It seemed somehow fitting when his sister, Sylvia, and his rowdy friends from Philadelphia decided to throw a party in Larry's memory. It was a raucous evening. As the video camera rolled, each friend outdid the other with outrageous stories of Freedman. In the background was a huge cake with the name Gus on it and a life-sized portrait in icing of Freedman, complete with his rakish smile and the desperado's mustache. No one dared cut a slice anywhere near his face. To this day, it remains in a Philadelphia freezer.