into one of the inner offices.
A bald man got up from behind an uncluttered desk and, smiling, walked toward him. When men with desk jobs pass beyond the fifty year mark, they tend to go to pot. The man who arose to greet him had avoided that tendency. His stomach was flat. He was tanned and well muscled. He watched his diet, exercised regularly and jogged every morning,
“Good morning, Denver,” the man said. “I’m Teddy Smith and I’ve looked forward to this meeting. I’ve heard good reports about you.” He extended his right hand and used his left to hold Den’s elbow. It was one of Smith’s studied maneuvers, meant to show warmth and friendship.
Den winced. “He called me ‘Denver’. I haven’t used that name in years,” he thought. “How in hell did this guy find it out?”
He was happier when Smith said: “If you get the idea I’m an informal cuss, you’re right. I want you to call me ‘Teddy’. Everyone else does.”
Den was happier because he now had the chance to say: “And I hope you will always call me ‘Den’. No one ever calls me anything else.”
Den immediately realized Teddy Smith must have ordered a careful investigation of his background. Obviously, those inquiries were more than a simple review of the files. Den had taken pains to conceal his actual given name. All Navy and CIA written records and even his passport carried it as Den Clark. Teddy Smith had dug deep enough to learn his birth name.
“I’d offer you a dram of The Macallan,” Smith said, “but I don’t have any. The guys here in Washington are a cautious and timid lot. They’re afraid of the press. If a reporter got even the slightest rumor of there being Scotch whisky in a CIA office, we’d all be painted as a bunch of drunks. I sometimes think the country’s most dangerous enemies aren’t Middle Eastern terrorists. They’re our own gentlemen of the press.”
Smith liked to engage his visitors in friendly conversation. It gave him an opportunity to observe their reactions. It also created a proper atmosphere. A man spoke more freely and, possibly, more honestly if he were comfortable and satisfied that he was talking to a friendly sort of guy.
Den was capable of playing small talk games, but, today, he had no time for them. In his mood, small talk was an irritant. He wanted to know why he had been called to Teddy Smith’s office. He expected to be offered a job he didn’t want and had already decided to refuse. He would resign. He would look for a job with some international personnel security outfit. With his Spanish language ability and background, he would be a natural to act as a bodyguard for an American businessman working in some troubled part of Latin America.
“You may be right about the press, Teddy,” was Den’s non-committal observation. Then, in order to end the interview as quickly as possible, he abruptly changed the subject. “There are three people in your waiting room. I’m sure they have important matters to talk about, but your secretary let me in first. You’ve uncovered the name on my birth certificate and you know my preference for single malt - right down to the brand. Why all the attention, Teddy? Why am I here?”
Teddy Smith was tired of watching Senators and Representatives impose restraints on the Central Intelligence Agency. At one time, if diplomatic maneuvers proved unsuccessful, the CIA could be expected to be used as an instrument for executing foreign policy. The men who, only a few decades ago engineered the overthrow of Mossadiq in Iran and Arbenz in Guatemala would no longer recognize the Agency.
Unequivocally, but quietly, Teddy objected to “Sense of Congress” resolutions, Presidential mandates and Agency policies that shackled the hands and sometimes threatened to punish the men who planned and carried out covert operations. He watched as the Agency’s purpose was slowly changing into one which, he was sure, would ultimately be limited to the collection of information. Satellites, foreign newspaper articles, reports from friends in foreign countries and gossip from embassy parties might, he feared, become the sole arena of CIA activity.
The Agency’s constant development into an ever larger and more complex bureaucracy also discouraged him. Bureaucracy and timely action were seldom close companions. Teddy came to believe an organization’s effectiveness was inversely proportional to its size. His opinion was shared by many of the Agency’s old timers.
As the Central Intelligence Agency grew and changed, Teddy became more restive. When he was a field agent, certain amounts of discretion were allowed. An agent was expected to use his imagination. A rule might be bent a bit or even fractured if the result advanced the mission. Now it seemed as if procedure was far more important that substance.
You might be able to lie or cheat or blackmail to get information, but you couldn’t torture. Everybody knew that. But nobody really knew exactly what constituted torture. Apparently, the definition of torture was subject was to change, depending upon the gravity of the situation.
The old adage of the wild West: “Shoot first and ask questions later” was, Teddy believed, changed into: “Ask a lot of questions first, analyze the hell out of the answers, have some Congressional Committee meet in closed session a few times, leak the deliberations to the press and then think about if you should shoot and what sort of weapon you should use and what you should shoot at.” Teddy became convinced it was time for someone to reverse the trend. Many of the CIA’s old timers were likewise convinced.
And now Denver Clark sat before him, asking why he was here.
On paper, Den Clark was the kind of man Teddy sought. He was a SEAL, trained to handle himself in difficult situations. He was tough and resourceful. He was battle tested. He had courage, a fact that was amply proven by his record. During this short interview, Clark had already shown he was perceptive as well as smart.
Teddy’s problem involved uncovering Den’s core beliefs? How do you find if a man is trustworthy? Teddy would have to make decisions based on the way Den reacted when he got an answer to his question: “Why am I here?”
Teddy took a Dominican Republic cigar from a humidor atop his desk. “Care for one?” he asked. Den shook his head. Teddy lighted the cigar. He studied its glowing end and, satisfied, blew a smoke ring. “Of course you want to know why you’re here and, of course, I’m going to tell you.”
Teddy began by disapproving politicians’ interference in CIA affairs. “It hamstrings the Agency’s ability to effectively perform its functions. For decades they cut our budgets,” he complained. “They nearly destroyed our on-the-ground sources of information,” he continued. “We used to get solid reports from felons, perverts, prostitutes, drug dealers, disreputable types of all sorts. They weren’t nice people so the politicians told us we couldn’t use them.
“As a result, we had no accurate information about the Ayatollah Khomeini when our politicians managed to get us thrown out of Iran. We didn’t even know the man our politicians put in power after that Haitian mess. He was an admirer of Castro. Look at the problems we’ve had in Iraq trying to get local informants.
“We used the Mafia to keep the docks operating in World War II. The OSS used them in Italy, too. That’s all changed. Now our people on the ground have to be squeaky clean. Remember when some fools believed we could get all the information we needed through satellite surveillances?
“These same idiots are busy burying us under layer upon layer of bureaucracy. Defense, State, the military,
