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 wood, 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.”
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
