Denver Clark was named after a paternal grandparent who was born in the railroad station on the evening the infant’s homesteading parents’ arrival in Denver. Two generations later, someone had to carry on grandfather’s name and the new-born baby, unable to defend himself, was elected. Though he wasn’t pleased with that decision, the child was glad his grandfather had been born in Denver rather than in Bismarck, North Dakota or, even worse, in Florence, Wisconsin.
Denver Clark seldom acknowledged his first name and preferred to be called “Den”. By the time the Clark family moved from Bogotá to a Minneapolis suburb, no one knew him as “Denver”. In Minnesota, Den Clark became an avid hunter and fisherman, a fact that explained why his face and hands were well tanned.
He also developed the attractive characteristics of self-assurance and self-reliance. Perhaps it was a result of the experiences derived from life in different cultures or perhaps it was that same undefined genetic quirk that caused his great grandfather to migrate to Colorado and his father to take a position in South America.
In any event, when he reached university age, Den was afflicted with both a strong sense of independence and an irresistible curiosity. He had “sand in his shoes”. His idea of hell would be an eternity of routine. He could not - would not - reduce his life to an endless series of boring tomorrows, each one a carbon copy of its pointless predecessor. It was his temperament and his curiosity that caused him to disappoint his parents by dropping out of Cornell and joining the Navy. Den Clark became a SEAL and acquired the scars that now marked his body.
During the first weeks of the Second Gulf War, Den and his SEAL team were inside the military portion of the Saddam International Airport some ten miles to the west of Baghdad. They had already found and radioed the positions of the airfield’s defensive installations. Beginning on the morning of April third, his team began their attacks on the reinforced aircraft shelters where Republican Guards were awaiting the arrival of the advancing American armies.
Only two of Den’s team survived the ensuing firefights. Only one would have survived except for the courage of a big Chicago Irishman. When Den was shot while crossing an open landing strip, Mick McCarthy left the comparative safety of a hanger and, under fire, ran to where Den lay bleeding in the middle of the tarmac runway. He grabbed Den and dragged him back to the hanger, receiving two small arms gun fire wounds in the process.
Later that day, when 3rd Army infantrymen arrived and drove most of the Iraqis from the field, they searched the airfield for pockets of resistance and found Mick McCarthy weakly calling out to them. He insisted an unconscious Den Clark was still alive. The two men received medical attention from the corpsmen and were helicoptered to a hospital ship in the Gulf.
Mick recovered quickly and returned to active duty in SEALS. Den’s wounds required more time to heal. He was still in the hospital when he was interviewed by the Central Intelligence Agency. SEAL training and native-like fluency in Spanish were special qualifications. Den guessed the Agency was looking for a man to perform covert operations in Latin America. What more could a man want.
As soon as Den was recruited into the Agency, he called Mick McCarthy and told him what had happened. Mick didn’t show the unhappiness he felt when he heard of Den’s decision. He and Den had become close friends during their years in the SEALS. He knew the life of a CIA foreign intelligence officer would certainly appeal to Den. It would be a great job for him. Mick also knew he would miss Den and he suspected Den would miss him.
He encouraged Den and then thought: “What the hell. Why not? ” He asked Den to tell him how to apply for a job with the CIA and then asked him to recommend him for the same work Den was going to do. Or, at least, the sort of work Den thought he was going to do.
After completing his training at the CIA’s Sherman Kent Center, Den received a disappointment. He did not become a covert agent in some CIA Latin America station. He was assigned to the CIA’s complex in Langley. He became an analyst specializing in reviewing facts and events developing in Spanish speaking countries. The work of an Agency analyst inside the Belt Line held little appeal for him. Perhaps it was only a temporary warehousing and his abilities would soon be put to their proper use.
Den invested one full year behind a desk heaped with reports and Spanish language newspapers. He spent hours studying them. Looking for needles in the haystacks of trivia that were piled on his desk became unbearably boring. His expectation to become one of the Agency’s field officers went unfulfilled.
Reluctantly he concluded he had been permanently sentenced to an analyst’s chair. He would have preferred a prison term. There were other alternatives. Den planned to quit the Agency and look for them. Before he could execute his plan, he was called to a meeting with Teddy Smith.
Den didn’t have a clue about the reason for the meeting. After making inquiry, he learned Smith was in the Projects Branch of the CIA’s Foreign Intelligence Service. The Projects Branch screened proposed operations to be undertaken by field operatives. A CIA organizational chart would show both the Projects Branch and the Foreign Intelligence Service were a part of the Directorate of Operations. Also called the Clandestine Service, it was the part of the CIA involved in overseas espionage.
Den suspected he would be interviewed for some sort of planning position in the Projects Branch. It would be another desk job, probably one like preparing logistic support for an off-shore covert plan to break into someone’s office and steal the plans for the enemy’s supersecret portable outhouses. Den was sure it would be a position in which he would slowly sink and drown in the swamps of the Washingtonian bureaucracy.
He wasn’t in a good humor when he arrived at a part of the building he had never before visited in Langley’s complex of 1,400,000 square feet of CIA office space. After being properly identified, a Marine corporal took him through a maze of corridors and, finally, to a door identified only by a number. The corporal led him into a suite of offices, turned and left.
Three people were already seated in the anteroom. They were mildly surprised and somewhat irritated when the receptionist told Den he was expected and immediately ushered him 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.