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 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