by Galen Winter
Teddy shifted his eyes and studied the ceiling of his office, “If you were in the top level of the Agency and you knew the public exposure of an assassination plot could destroy the CIA as well as, perhaps, the President and his Administration, you wouldn’t want anyone to be able to identify your associates, would you? And if you, yourself, were involved in executing such a plan, wouldn’t it be better if you didn’t have any such dangerous information?”
Den nodded. “Give me a few days.”
Teddy got his answer the next morning.
A week later, Den was sent to the CIA station in Santiago, Chile. Officially, he was expected to perform the jobs usually given to agents on their first overseas posting. His station associates didn’t know he had been given another unannounced assignment. Aegis provided him with the reported location of a political murderer who had successfully hidden from the justice that, long ago, should have been meted out.
The few attempts to capture Humberto del Valle had been frustrated. Carefully developed information of his whereabouts was consistently accurate and consistently stale. Den’s assignment was to determine if Humberto del Valle was in Puerto Montt. If he found him, he was told to kill him.
Chapter 4
A few days after Den left for Chile, Henry Putnam was ushered into Teddy Smith’s office. Henry Putnam still had some hair. He combed it around on this pate to try to make it look like there was more of it. He wore rimless glasses and, unlike Teddy, he had developed a paunch. Henry was a bit optimistic when he considered himself to be middle aged. Psychologically, at least, he had moved far beyond that classification.
Henry Putnam had been in the Agency since the 1970s. As the years went by, he recognized how Congresses and various Administrations clamped down on the Agency’s clandestine operations. Like Teddy Smith, he watched the CIA become what he considered to be a bureaucratic monstrosity. Henry’s morale went into a steeper decline in each succeeding year.
Now he was the Chief of Station in Damascus and, unlike Teddy Smith, he had no professional interest in anything, except marking time until he could retire and enjoy the condo he owned in Hawaii. Henry Putnam’s professional life was governed by three rules: (a) Follow orders, (b) Cover your ass, and (c) Don’t screw up.
Teddy Smith and Henry Putnam were casual acquaintances. Over the years they had met and talked a few times. On rare occasions, they may have had a drink or two together. However, a stranger listening to Teddy’s jovial greeting would think they were the closest of old friends.
When Henry entered his office, Teddy, smiling his broadest of smiles, got to his feet. “Henry, great to see you. You look good. Syria must agree with you.” He shook Putnam’s hand and, as usual, held his visitor’s elbow with his left hand.
Teddy exuded friendly interest. “Great history in Syria. I was surprised to learn Damascus is the oldest continuously inhabited city on the planet. Must be a very interesting place. Sometimes I wish I were there with you instead of being chair bound here in Langley. Come. Sit. Not there. Here on the couch. The chairs are for strangers. The couch is for friends.”
Teddy’s few minutes of practiced inconsequential chatter followed before he asked: “What brings you here, Henry? What can I do for you?”
Henry took off his glasses and slowly wiped them. It was an affectation he often used for the purpose of getting a few seconds to think about what he was going to say and how he was going to begin.
Henry faced a problem. Covering his ass and keeping his head down had run into a serious conflict with the requirements of Agency policy. There was a slight chance that his worrisome problem might not exist. To learn if, in fact, he had a problem, he had to bring Teddy into his confidence. That, too, was dangerous, but he was reassured by Teddy’s friendly welcome
“Well,” Henry began, “I’ve got a little problem, Teddy.”
Teddy quickly interrupted. “If I can help, of course, I will. After all, what are good friends for?”
“We’ve got a younger guy in Damascus and he seems to be some kind of a maverick. He took it upon himself to do a free lance operation,” Then Henry quickly added: “I didn’t know about it and I didn’t have anything to do with it. It was purely his idea. I don’t want anybody up here to think I was in on this guy’s scheme.”
Teddy nodded. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure nothing rubs off on you. Now tell me what happened. Tell me everything. I’ll need to know it all.”
“This guy - his name is Jacobson - decided to bribe a terrorist in order to get a list of local and traveling Palestinians who were engaged in killing Israelis, kidnapping westerners, blowing up airplanes and the like.” Putnam paused, audibly exhaled and slowly shook his head. “Without any authorization of any kind, Jacobson took money from an Agency account to fund his bribery. I didn’t have a thing to do with it, Teddy.”
Teddy nodded sympathetically. “How much did you lose?”
“We didn’t lose a cent, the bribe was never delivered.”
“Then you don’t have much of a problem. What nobody knows won’t hurt you.”
“There’s a complication,” Putnam said in an uneasy tone. “When Jacobson tried to pull it off, one of our guys got killed. I’m pretty sure he wasn’t in on it. He hadn’t been in Damascus for more than a couple of days. I think Jacobson talked him into being a delivery boy. Because of Jacobson’s unauthorized bribery, one of our men is dead.” Putnam emphasized the word “unauthorized”.
“Of course, I called for an investigation. I assigned it to another of our newer people, Agent G. G. Grant. She did a good job - possibly too good a job. She dug up the whole story. I’ve got her report with me. Here it is.” He handed a folder to Teddy, saying: “Take a look at it. I’m afraid Jacobson might lie to save his skin and try to implicate me.”
Teddy quickly skimmed the report. “Have you filed this thing, yet?”
“No, I haven’t.” The purpose of Henry Putnam’s visit then became apparent. “I hoped, maybe, you might have given Jacobson some special Projects Branch work?” Putnam’s rising inflection changed the statement into a question. “I know you don’t have to tell me anything, but I have to ask you: Was Jacobson operating under some kind of Clandestine Operations authorization? If he was, I can file my report and be in the clear.”
Obviously, Henry Putnam was a very worried man.
Teddy saw the potential of an advantage coming out of Putnam’s dilemma. He wouldn’t let Henry think it was as easy as Teddy knew it to be. When Teddy solved his problem, Henry Putnam would be obligated to him. Bread upon the waters. At some future date, Teddy might need help from him. Teddy picked up the report and told Putnam he needed time to think about it. “Can you come back tomorrow?” he asked. “I do my very best to find a way to get you out of this mess.”
That evening, propped up by pillows, Teddy leaned against the headboard of his bed. Agent G. G. Grant’s report of Jacobson’s theft and insubordination and the extent of his involvement in the death of Agent Mick McCarthy lay beside him. Teddy smiled when he remembered how he had operated without Chief of Station authorization. He was on a drug assignment in Colombia. A fellow agent had been detained by the Baranquilla police and was being held in the city’s colonial-age prison.
The plan to liberate the man consisted of packing a car with explosives, parking it next to the prison’s central exercise area and blowing a hole in the wall. Teddy objected to the scheme as dangerous and unnecessarily complicated. The Chief of Station overruled him.
At three o’clock, when the prisoners were allowed a half-hour of recreation outside of their cells, a Jeep was parked adjacent to the prison courtyard. The driver left the vehicle and, when a safe distance away, pressed a button setting off the charges hidden inside the car. The blast made no more than a dent in the prison’s five-foot wide eighteenth century wall.
The explosion had two immediate effects. It blew the hell out of the Jeep and it scared a burro. Wild eyed, the animal, carrying a bundle of fire w
ood, galloped down a narrow street, its owner trying his best to keep up with it. The explosion also set the stage for potential disaster.
At the very least, the as yet unidentified prisoner would be found to be an American. It would be a miracle if some of the editors of the anti-gringo press didn’t claim he was a CIA agent. In any event, the incident was sure to result in new rounds of gringo bashing.
Without authorization, Teddy withdrew funds from a hidden agency account and walked to the prison. Within the hour, the agent was free. The two guards who escorted him from the old fortress were each ten thousand pesos richer. The newspapers printed the rumor that the escaped prisoner was a Canadian drug dealer, busted out of confinement by local drug lords. Teddy received a commendation.
That was thirty years ago. If he tried it today, like Jacobson, Teddy would run the risk of being cashiered.
Now, as the head of a Section of the Projects Branch, Teddy was not known as a maverick. He had the reputation of being an administrator who was more than merely competent. He was dedicated to the work of the Central Intelligence Agency in general and specifically to the undertakings of the Clandestine Service.
Teddy enjoyed the respect of his superiors. He was reliable. His ability to successfully manage covert operations was impressive. The Deputy Director of the Foreign Intelligence Service, Cullen Brewster, had nearly absolute confidence in him.
Teddy Smith was regarded as an intelligent, good humored and pleasant man. Beneath that façade, less obvious qualities were hidden. Teddy Smith was a consummate pragmatist. He was as cold, as calculating, and as ruthless as he was ambitious. If his family had a coat of arms, its motto would be: The ends justify the means.
Teddy’s personal life was carefully regulated. He never married. Except for an occasional professional, he had no time for women. Teddy’s associates incorrectly assumed he enjoyed social functions. Others had also been misled. Teddy attended Washington parties only as a matter of office politics. Whenever he saw someone who had or might some day have a position of authority, Teddy found a way to meet him. He smiled and was charming. Silently wondered how that someone might some day be useful.
Henry Putnam may have thought he had a problem. Teddy didn’t think so. If it ever became necessary to “adjust” a Station’s financial records, the work would have to be done very carefully. In Langley, accountants were meticulous in their review of foreign station money management. They were responsible for catching more than one man with his hand in the till.
But no money had been lost from Damascus accounts. It was not necessary to adjust the Station’s financial records. Poor old Henry Putnam didn’t have to face that most difficult problem of hiding a completed embezzlement. With no bogus financial records for some zealous Agency Finance Officer to question, the balance of Henry’s problems would be easy to manage.
A clean record of the agent’s death and a transfer of Jacobson was all that was needed. Some judicious amendments of Agent Grant’s investigation report and the re-assignment of Jacobson to some place where he could do no harm would clear up everything.
Teddy was ready with a workable suggestion. He glanced at Gigi Grant’s report and considered the necessary changes. If, instead of delivering a bribe, Jacobson and McCarthy were going to meet a man who promised to give them information and if that terrorist had set a trap to kidnap them, Henry would be able to sleep secure in the knowledge that there was nothing in the investigation report that could embarrass him.
Jacobson would certainly keep his mouth shut. Henry would have to make sure Grant didn’t spill the beans. He’d probably tell her it was “orders from above”. Teddy would make sure that only a barren abstract of Agent G. G. Grant’s report of the death of McCarthy would find its way into the Agency’s records.
Teddy put Gigi’s report on the bedside table and re-arranged the pillows. Before he went to sleep, he reviewed Jacobson’s scheme. It was an imaginative plan requiring contact with the terrorist, stealing the Agency funds and, finally, using an innocent to be blamed in the event the plan misfired.
Teddy recognized Jacobson’s mistake. A common bond unites the Palestinian people and those who support them. They all hate the Israelis with an almost unimaginably deep and pervasive hatred. That animosity joins them into a brotherhood with mutual loyalties able to withstand great pressure. An offer of five thousand dollar might get a man’s attention, but it wouldn’t break the kind of bond between people who share deep-seated hatreds.
The amount of the bribe being offered wasn’t nearly enough to insure reliability. Ten thousand up front and another ten when the work was done together with the promise of much more for continued cooperation might have been enough.
Before he went to sleep, Teddy thought: “This man, Jacobson, is not overawed by Agency rules and procedures. I think he might be useful.”
Chapter 5
Den’s return from his Chilean assignment was uneventful. He disembarked from the Linea Aerea Nacional plane in Washington, picked up his luggage and took a cab to his Arlington apartment. He was tired, but knew he had to postpone the few extra hours of bed time his body demanded. There was other work to do. Without taking the time to unpack, he showered, shaved and changed from the clothing he had worn when he left Santiago’s wintry season. Then he taxied to Langley and went directly to the Project Branch. In the anteroom, Den waited to be called into Teddy’s office.
Receptionists and secretaries form an information network of surprising efficiency. Bits and pieces of Agency gossip pass among them with computer-like speed. Teddy’s receptionist knew Den had just returned from South America. She knew he had recommended Sean McCarthy for foreign service work and she also knew McCarthy had been killed in Damascus. She wondered if Den knew his friend had lost his life. Den’s reaction told her he did not.
“Killed? When? Where?”
This was not the first time Den experienced the loss of a SEAL friend. It was to be expected in their line of work, but it was always painful. The men of SEALS are bonded in an exceptional manner.
Den had little time to digest the news of the death of the man who dragged him from danger on the open tarmac of the Saddam International airport - the man who insisted on his timely treatment by the navy corpsman.
Deputy Director Cullen Brewster left Teddy’s office, acknowledged Den’s existence by way of an undersized nod and left the anteroom. After only seconds, the intercom buzzed and Den was ushered into Teddy’s office.
“Den, Den,” Teddy said, faking sincere enthusiasm as he arose from behind his desk and reached out to shake Den’s hand. “You look good, Den. Chile must agree with you. Pretty place. Magnificent scenery. Excellent wine country. I wish I could have been there with you instead of being chair bound here in Langley. Come. Sit. Not there. Here on the couch. The chairs are for strangers. The couch is for friends.”
Teddy spent a few minutes engaged in pleasantries. Den was now accustomed to the ploy. He played the little game. Finally, Teddy got down to business. “Don’t hold me in suspense any longer, Den. I know you pulled it off. I want to know how you did it. I want to know what went right and what went wrong. Give me everything. All of the details.”
There would be no written record of Den’s report of the assassination of Humberto del Valle. There would be no written report of any Aegis associated activity. It was, therefore, important that verbal reports were complete. There was no room for a subsequent “Oh, I forgot to tell you” or a later “Now I remember something else.” During Den’s report, Teddy Smith seldom had to interrupt him for additional information or explanation.
Den confirmed the presence of Humberto del Valle in a cottage a few miles from Puerto Montt on the Gulf of Ancud in Southern Chile. The land and climate there were similar to that of the Pacific Northwest. It can be clouded and wet and cold - that penetrating kind of cold that often accompanies foggy places. Den’s first two trips to Puerto Montt were made for information. The purpose of the third was execution.
Two bodyguards attended del Valle. One of them stayed close to him inside the cottage. The other was usually outside the building. He kept watch in the wooded area surrounding the house and paid special attention to the gate and the lane that led up to it. Del Valle used the same system employed by the residents of Mexico City’s Lomas de Chapultepec district. It is an upper middle class neighborhood where robberies are not uncommon. If a thief kills the outside dog by tossing a poisoned chunk of meat over the wall surrounding a targeted home, the owner’s inside dog will still be able to raise a warning.
The outside bodyguard had placed a chair in the woods. It was near the trail that ran from the roadway through the iron gated entrance and on to the cottage del Valle occupied. Den spent a cold, damp and uncomfortable night, wrapped in a wool blanket, shivering as he leaned against the base of a tree not far from the empty chair.
The sun was not fully above the horizon when the outside bodyguard, carrying a thermos bottle, came from the cottage. It was his practice in the early morning to sit and watch the gate while warming himself with hot coffee. When he was seated, Den silently came up behind him. The man was unable to make a sound before he dropped to the ground. The outside dog was silenced.
Unseen, Den approached the house. He ducked low and, on his hands and knees, he began crawling past the cottage windows as he made his way to the building’s kitchen entrance. He passed under the windows and was approaching the door when it opened. The second bodyguard came out to relieve himself. Den and the man saw each other at the same instant. The bodyguard raced back into the kitchen for his Uzi. Den stood and ran after him.
By the time Den reached the open kitchen door, the bodyguard had picked up his weapon and was swinging its muzzle toward him. Den stepped back putting the kitchen wall between them and dropped to the ground as slugs from the Uzi slammed through the wall only inches above his head. When the burst stopped, Den rolled and, on his stomach at the bottom of the open door, he fired a single shot. As the second bodyguard fell backwards, the man’s fingers tightened and an un-aimed burst of gunfire exploded from the Uzi.
