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 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