Читать книгу The Aegis Conspiracy: A Novel - Galen Winter - Страница 10

Chapter 5

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 it opened. The second bodyguard came out to relieve himself. Den and the man saw each other at the same instant. The bodyguard raced back into the kitchen for his Uzi. Den stood and ran after him.

By the time Den reached the open kitchen door, the bodyguard had picked up his weapon and was swinging its muzzle toward him. Den stepped back putting the kitchen wall between them and dropped to the ground as slugs from the Uzi slammed through the wall only inches above his head. When the burst stopped, Den rolled and, on his stomach at the bottom of the open door, he fired a single shot. As the second bodyguard fell backwards, the man’s fingers tightened and an un-aimed burst of gunfire exploded from the Uzi.

Den ran through the kitchen and into the living room. It was empty. The front door of the cottage was open. One of the bedroom doors was also open. Den looked at the front door and then at the bedroom. Someone standing inside it would have a clear view of anyone leaving the cottage. Instead of running to the front door, Den looked inside the bedroom. He quickly pulled his head back.

As he suspected, Humberto del Valle was standing in the shadows at the side of the bed. He was pointing a Tokarev automatic at the open front door. Screaming “hijo de puta” he fired twice at Den’s disappearing head. Den again appeared and fired back.

The bullet hit del Valle in the chest and knocked him back against the wall. The Tokarev fell from his hand. Del Valle’s blood stained the wall as he slid to the floor.

There were no nearby houses and there were many pine trees in the surrounding forest to muffle the sounds of the gunfire. Though the chances of someone finding him at the scene were small, Den quickly left the area. A difficult two mile cross country hike brought him to a rural road where he had hidden his rented automobile.

The sun had set when he arrived in Santiago. Twenty four hours later, he was in the Arturo Merino Benitez Airport, awaiting his flight back to the United States. Den had operated quickly and silently.

Teddy listened to Den’s report with few interruptions. When it was finished, he showed no interest in the man whose murder he had planned. He asked only one question. “How did you explain your absences to the guys at the station?”

“I told them I was going fishing or sightseeing” Den answered. “There were a lot of good excuses for two and three day excursions. I even went fishing a few times - in the line of duty of course.” Both Den and Teddy smiled. “To establish my bona fides, I gave a mess of trout to the people in the car rental Agency.”

“Good enough,” Teddy said. “Did they buy it? Do you think anyone at the Station has an inkling of what you were up to?”

“I don’t think so. As far as they were concerned, I was clipping newspaper stories, attending embassy parties, meeting the important and nearly important locals and sending reports, observations and gossip to Langley once every week - all standard work. On my own time I was fishing and sightseeing. I didn’t see or hear a thing to suggest anyone may have suspected the other mission.”

“I know it was a tough assignment, Den. You came through it with flying colors. One of the truly unfortunate aspects of our job is the fact that successes aren’t acknowledged. A few of us know the important work you have performed. You didn’t fail us. I wish I could do more for you.”

Teddy left the couch and returned to his desk. He opened the middle drawer and removed a thick envelope. “Here’s some walking around money and a ticket to Bozeman.” He smiled when he added: “It’s first class and it’s an aisle seat. There’ll be a car waiting for you at Hertz and I’ve booked a week at one of the best fishing lodges on the Madison River. This isn’t a lot, but it will give you a hint about how much we all appreciate your work.”

Dealing with the news of Mick McCarthy’s death had to be postponed during Den’s report to Teddy Smith. Now it forced its way to center stage. Surely Teddy could answer his question. “I hope you appreciate me enough to give me some information.” He didn’t wait for any response. He asked: “How did Mick McCarthy die?”

Teddy Smith’s face remained expressionless. It didn’t betray his immediate reaction to Den’s questions. “Why does he ask? What does he know?” With equal speed, Teddy divined the answers to his questions. “It was Den who recommended we get McCarthy into the Agency. They had to be friends from back in their SEAL days. Den Clark doesn’t suspect a thing. How could he? This is nothing more than natural curiosity.”

“There’s not much to tell. It was Agent McCarthy’s first assignment. I think he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. He hadn’t been in Damascus for more than a few days. He and another agent got ambushed. I’d guess one of those crazy Palestinian groups may have discovered the other agent’s identity and tried to engineer a kidnapping. Hold him for ransom and get publicity - their usual procedure. Our guys fought them off, but McCarthy was wounded and died before he could get help.”

Teddy leaned back and watched for any sign that would tell him Den might suspect what had really happened. He saw none, but, after Den left his office, he experienced an uneasy feeling. Teddy decided to warn Jake Jacobson. “I think Jake should get a heads-up on this one,” he thought

Jake Jacobson was in grade school in Massachusetts when he earned the nickname “Weasel”. He was a small kid with glasses and braces and big ears. Jake was never able to develop any close friendships. He was always the last one picked when the boys chose sides for sandlot baseball. With the cruelty common in children, the boys in his neighborhood picked on him and laughed at him. He was the butt of their jokes.

Young Jake reacted by becoming introspective. He satisfied his ego by dreaming of revenges that were never acted out. As he matured, he found he could build his self-image by detracting from others. He took delight in ridicule and sarcasm.

Later, at the university, he enjoyed publicly criticizing fellow students, corrosively exposing any weakness he could uncover. His sarcasm goaded a few of them into hitting him. When confronted, Jake’s immediate and unvarying response was to run. He was widely disliked.

Jake’s had an excellent academic record, but his post-college employments always ended abruptly. He alienated his immediate superiors as well as those who worked with him. The personnel manager who fired him from his third job suggested he might try government work where, he believed, discharge because of personality defects was rare. Jake was hired by the Central Intelligence Agency.

During indoctrination and initial preparatory assignments, Jake succeeded in keeping his assessments of his associates to himself. He had learned that open antagonism to others produced an equal and opposite antagonism toward him - a condition which not uncommonly resulted in being fired. While in Washington, Jake Jacobson developed the reputation of being a loner, smart enough, but not at all friendly.

His first off-shore post was Damascus, where he quickly concluded the station chief was an imbecile and his associates uniformly moronic. He began looking for some scheme that would show his obvious superiority and result in promotion from the field and back to Langley.

When he was called back to Washington after his failed attempt at bribery caused the death of Agent Mick McCarthy, Jake knew he would again be fired. He intended to defend his actions. He’d fight back, but he knew he wouldn’t get a fair hearing. The old timers would hang together, although, certainly, they must have long ago recognized the incompetence of that old fool, Henry Putman.

If it hadn’t been for Gigi Grant, the nosey little bitch, he could have blamed everything on that big, dumb ox, Mick McCarthy. But she had seen through him. McCarthy hadn’t been in Syria when Jake took the money from the Agency’s concealed account.

Jake tried to reason with Grant. After all he was just trying to do some good work for the Station and the Agency. The Agency got the money back. Who would be hurt if his “misstep” wasn’t mentioned in her report? But, no, she wouldn’t listen to common sense. There was nothing he could do about it right now. He had to satisfy himself by promising to get back at her someday.

To Jake’s surprise, he wasn’t called on the carpet. He didn’t have to defend his actions. No one mentioned his Syrian “misstep”. He was re-assigned to the CIA’s Directorate of Operations. At first Jake could not believe his good fortune. He believed it had to be a trick. The scenarios he developed to explain the reason for the pleasant treatment he received at Langley reflected his innate paranoia.

Perhaps the CIA didn’t want to fire him immediately for fear of some newsman uncovering his failed bribery and learn the facts surrounding the death of Mick McCarthy. Perhaps they would keep him in the Agency until the Damascus matter was obscured by the mists of time. Then, in a year of so, they would sack him.

Jake produced an even deadlier scenario. Perhaps the CIA couldn’t run any risk of his Damascus debacle becoming known. Perhaps they intended to insure against any such possibility by waiting for a year or so and then killing him. That is what he would propose if he were in their shoes.

Teddy Smith dispelled Jake’s fears when he invited him into the Aegis group. Jake was a willing recruit. He was more than comfortable in his conspiratorial assignments. He reveled in it. What Jake thought would be the end of his CIA career turned out to be his ticket to a position of higher responsibility.

He was promoted and given a post in the sensitive area of planning covert operations. Jake had a position in the Project Branch of the Clandestine Service. His boss was Teddy Smith. For the first time in his career, Jake Jacobson had a boss who protected him.

Most of the other people in the Project Branch had an idea of what Jake did. He designed programs to further the development of foreign intelligence. No one knew he served additional undisclosed functions. Jake was the man Teddy Smith called upon whenever he faced a special problem requiring an extra degree of duplicity and deception. He also called on him when he needed to surreptitiously insinuate an Aegis assassination into some project already approved by the Directorate of Operations.

Teddy knew Jake had an IQ substantially above the national average. He suspected Jake would enjoy the intrigue involved in fulfilling the requirements of Teddy’s special Aegis assignments. It didn’t take Teddy long to confirm his suspicion.

Of course, Teddy also knew Jake was woefully deficient in the personality department. Jake’s many detractors in the Projects Branch couldn’t bring themselves to admit how bright he was. They preferred to characterize his intelligence as a kind of well-developed, animal cunning.

Jake soon established a reputation as a ruthless office politician. If Jacobson didn’t like an associate, that man could expect trouble. Jake Jacobson was both hated and feared by the people who worked with him. Being hated didn’t bother Jake. Being feared pleased him.

The more he was feared, the more he could intimidate others and the higher his self-esteem. Jake’s ego blossomed. He had power and he enjoyed the protection of Teddy Smith. He thought no one would dare to challenge him.