by Galen Winter
More punches brought blood from his mouth and nose. A downward blow broke his collarbone and, barely conscious, Jacobson collapsed, falling to the floor where he assumed a protective fetal position. He was kicked again. Finally, he lay unconscious.
Den turned to leave the apartment and spoke for the first time. “There, you miserable son of a bitch. You’re lucky I didn’t kill you.”
Den left Jake Jacobson’s apartment. He took the elevator to the underground parking floor and retrieved his suitcase from where it rested behind one of the cement pillars. Then he stood in the shadows next to the security gate. Within minutes a resident opened the gate as he drove his automobile into the parking area. Before it closed, Clark walked out of the building and continued up the ramp to the street. He waited on the sidewalk until he could hail a passing taxi.
At Reagan National Airport, Den boarded a commercial jet and left Washington. When he arrived at Miami International, he showed a false passport to the clerk at the Aerolineas Argentina counter. She took it from him, looked at the picture and then glanced up at him. The passport picture looked as much like Den as most passport picture look like their owners.
The clerk returned his passport, checked his bag and handed him his flight documents. Then she smiled the same rehearsed smile that automatically appeared whenever she handed a boarding pass to a traveler. Like every well trained Aerolineas Argentina ticket counter clerk, she added the required comment: “I hope you will enjoy your visit to Argentina, Mr. Peabody.”
Den took the ticket, returned an equally meaningless smile and thought: “At least she didn’t say ‘Have a nice day’.” Den didn’t have time for the rote and phony cordialities so common in the English language. When someone asks: “How are you?” he really doesn’t give a tinker’s dam how you are. Den admired the people who answer such empty inquiries with words like “terrible”.
As he waited to board his flight to Buenos Aires, Den reviewed his beating of Jake Jacobson. It had not been a cold and calculated deliberate punishment. It was an expression of anger at the way Jake destroyed Gigi’s career and at the way he put Mick in danger and ran when the shooting began.
What Jake did could not be changed. At least he had let Jake know he knew of his cowardice and his betrayal. At least he had vented his anger and given Jake some sort of repayment for his actions.
Jacobson awoke in a hospital. His jaw was wired shut. His arm and shoulder were in a cast. His ribs were taped. He ached, but it wasn’t only the stabbing torment of his injuries that caused his agonies. Jacobson knew the man who had beaten him was Den Clark.
“Teddy warned me Clark was asking questions,” Jake said to himself. “He must have found out what happened in Damascus. If he doesn’t know, he must have guessed.” Jake tried to forget his pain and analyze his problem. “Yes,” he concluded, “Clark knows and he wants me to know he knows. That’s why he made no attempt to hide his face.”
Jacobson turned his head toward the window and, catching his breath because of the sharp pain the movement caused, he continued his thoughts. “If Clark had firm proof,” he reasoned, “I think he’d try to have me tossed out of the Agency. No, Clark either guessed or else someone told him what happened, but I don’t think he can prove a thing. Otherwise, he would have tried to get me fired. Well, he made the mistake of his lifetime. I’ll get back at him. He’ll pay for this.”
Jacobson lay in the hospital bed and planned the shape of his revenge. “I could whisper in Teddy’s ear,” he thought. Jake knew he could count on Teddy. “Teddy could easily arrange to send the son of a bitch to a permanent posting in the Sahara or to Nome. He could get him reduced to the status of a supply clerk or, better yet, kicked out of the CIA.”
Jacobson quickly rejected those alternatives. He knew Clark wouldn’t go quietly. “If he got canned, he would certainly tell everyone why he beat me up.” Jacobson didn’t want that reason to become public knowledge. Moreover, getting Clark thrown out of the Agency wasn’t nearly enough. Jacobson wanted more, much more. There was only one way he could satisfy himself.
“I will kill him,” he said aloud through his wired jaw and clenched teeth. He nodded his head and slowly repeated, “I will kill you, Den Clark. I’ll get my chance and then I will kill you.”
Chapter 8
Every year, huge quantities of illegal narcotics are smuggled into the United States. They come from Southeast Asia, from the Middle East and from Latin America. It’s a profitable business for the suppliers. There are human costs associated with the business. Violence is its constant companion.
Warfare between cartels and the murder of competing suppliers are only the tip of the iceberg. The robberies and prostitutions committed by those who have no other ways to support their addictions destroy an even larger number of lives. The bill society pays for the illegal drug business is enormous.
The arrests and incarcerations of dealers and drug lords are complemented with programs for the education and treatment of victims. The effect of these activities can be debated. Certainly, the drug associated violent deaths do not seem to diminish. Neither does the volume of illegal drugs imported into the country.
The identification and destruction of drug production and distribution, wherever they are located, is an objective of our government. The phrase “wherever they are located” includes many of the Republics in Latin America. In those Republics, as in other countries of the world, destruction of the drug production is difficult.
Newspaper editors who have the courage to speak out and judges who sentence offenders are threatened and often murdered. Those who remain silent are rewarded. Army officers and policemen and Senators and judges and Mayors and corrupt government officials all become wealthy by looking the other way while cocaine is produced and shipped from and through their countries. As long as there are people who will offer bribes, there will be politicians who will take them.
Any attempt to stop coca leaf production and harvest is nearly impossible. It is an important cash crop for the peons and small farmers who plant it. Funding the programs of Latin American governments to replace the peon producers’ income by cash payment fails when confronted by reality. Government intermediaries steal most of the monies and the small amount that goes to the farmers is welcomed as an addition to the coca leaf income - not a substitute for it.
Rather than try to pay peon farmers to plant other cash crops, it had been argued, a more effective approach would be to terminate such funding and direct more assets to demolishing local production factories and destroying sophisticated international distribution networks. The pervasive corruption of local officials too often stymies those efforts. Cooperation from local army, police and drug enforcement personnel is far from adequate.
Some men believe there is a better way to fight the narcotics wars. They point to the drug lords’ nearly universal practice of murdering their competition. When the surviving drug lords have established their monopolies, these men argue, the deaths of the men who then direct the drug production and distribution networks will be the more effective way to fight the drug war.
Joselito Montoya came from humble origins. He was now a Bolivian millionaire often described as the continent’s most elusive drug lord. His cocaine empire rivaled that of Colombia’s Cali and Medellin cartels. United States Drug Enforcement Agency personnel, working in Bolivia with their local counterparts, were unable to damage his operations.
Urban and rural locations were often raided and buildings were searched. They were always too late. Traps were laid, but no one came close to capturing their quarry. Joselito Montoya had provided himself with the most effective of early warning systems. The Bolivian hounds made a great show of chasing the drug lord fox, but the fox controlled the hounds. Joselito Montoya, through massive bribery, knew the plans of the Drug Enforcement Units as soon as they came off the drawing board.
In Argentina’s northwest Province of Jujuy, a few days after deplaning in Buenos Aires, Den Clark entered the R
epublic of Bolivia. His false passport would carry no Bolivian “entrada” stamp. There would be no record of his entry into the country. Late at night, alone and unburdened by any sort of official approval, he hiked into the country, avoiding Bolivian Custom and Immigration checkpoints. The USA’s local DEA people, their Bolivian counterparts and Joselito Montoya never knew Den Clark was there.
Den was sent to Bolivia to quietly and secretly locate the places where coca leaves were harvested and processed. His assignment also included the identification of Bolivian politicos, police and army officials who accepted drug lord bribes in exchange for protecting Montoya.
Den had another unofficial assignment. It had been planned in Langley by men in the Aegis organization. They were the only few who were aware of it. Den Clark’s undisclosed mission was the assassination of Joselito Montoya.
For months, Den studied Montoya and his organization. From the cities of Trinidad in the Province of El Beni, to San Ignacio in the Province of Santa Cruz and into the country’s more populated cities, Den Clark watched and learned. The outlines of Montoya’s operations were not difficult to discover. They were well-known.
In towns and villages, a handful of Bolivianos spent in a cantina identified places and names, including the names of local officials growing wealthy by cultivating impaired vision. More detailed information required more substantial amounts of Bolivianos. Care and caution had to be exercised because the man who would sell him information about Montoya would also sell Montoya information about Den Clark.
Joselito Montoya was bothered. Not frightened. Not worried. Just bothered. For months he had heard reports of someone asking questions about him. He had been unable to identify the man who was asking the questions and that bothered him.
It wasn’t a gringo. The questioner spoke Spanish without an accent. I wasn’t anyone in the local Bolivian or American drug control units. Montoya knew them all and many of them were on his payroll. If some new program was to be undertaken, Montoya would know its details before it began.
Montoya believed the unknown questioner may have been in the employ of someone who wanted to replace him as head of his cartel. Montoya killed two of his own men who were acting suspiciously, but the reports of the presence of the stranger continued after their death. The stranger had an educated accent. Someone with an educated accent was trying to take over. Could it be someone from Cali or Medellin?
The police in the various Provinces and Montoya’s own men were on the lookout for the man. Montoya was sure they would find him. They would deliver him to Montoya. The usual vigorous method of questioning would be sure to give Joselito the information he most desired: Who sent the man to Bolivia? Then he would be killed.
In the meantime, Joselito added two automatic weapons to the arsenal he carried in his especially armored automobile. He carefully avoided any routine of movement that might endanger him. The only exceptions were his visits to his mistress. His chauffeur and one bodyguard were sufficient protection for those trysts.
Joselito Montoya left an apartment building in an exclusive Sucre neighborhood. It was the place where he kept his mistress. His bodyguard, a well-armed man who seldom left his side, was waiting for him in the hallway. The bodyguard was a large and powerful man. He shielded Montoya as he left the apartment and told him he had neither heard nor seen anything to disturb him while he kept watch at the hallway door.
Together the men took the elevator to the ground floor of the building. They unlocked and walked through the ornate wrought-iron gate that protected the interior of the building from thieves. According to the report of the Sucre police, the man presumed to be Montoya’s chauffeur, his face obscured by a black felt hat, hurried around the automobile and opened the door to the back seat.
When Montoya and his bodyguard approached to enter the car, the chauffeur pulled a weapon from beneath his jacket and killed both of them. Then he calmly walked into the gathering crowd and disappeared. Montoya’s real chauffeur lay dead on the floor of the front seat. No one was able to give a description of the man who killed them.
Shortly after the death of the Montoya, Nathaniel Peabody stepped from the Aerolineas Argentina flight and entered that part of the Miami International Airport where United States Customs officials check passports and occasionally review the contents of luggage being brought into the country. Minutes later, Den Clark, his baggage transferred to the Delta flight to Washington, emerged from Customs.
A few days later, a courier from Washington delivered a thick envelope to the American DEA Office at La Paz. The envelope contained a comprehensive report. It described the operation of the Bolivian drug trade from the collection of coca leaves grown in Northern provinces, through laboratory processing and on to warehousing and shipment out of the country. The report identified national and local politicians as well as Bolivian army Drug Enforcement officials who were in Montoya’s pay.
Nothing happened to any of the politicos. Some of the officers in the Bolivian army’s Special Drug Unit were reassigned or allowed to retire. Other officers were replaced. An American DEA official left a note announcing his resignation and disappeared from the La Paz office.
A few successful drug raids followed. Then the officers who replaced their corrupt predecessors began to show signs of newly acquired wealth and the Bolivian drug trade returned to business as usual.
When Den returned to Langley, Teddy Smith acknowledged the success of his endeavors in Bolivia. The Agency had provided the DEA with a comprehensive picture of the Bolivian drug trade. Both the CIA and the DEA were convinced a rival or an overly ambitious lieutenant in Montoya’s own organization had engineered the man’s murder. They had no suspicion of what really happened.
Den was somewhat surprised when Teddy said he had another assignment and told him he would have to handle it immediately. Teddy told him an across-the-border invasion from Canada was underway. Den would be expected to disrupt it. Then Teddy told him the invasion consisted of migrating Woodcock.
“Take two weeks,” a smiling Teddy said. “I’m sure you will need some special ordnance. I’ll take care of that problem for you.” When Den returned to his apartment building, the doorman handed him a parcel. It contained an engraved Spanish AyA double barrel 28-gauge shotgun. Den left Langley for a hunting vacation in Maine. He hoped Teddy would send him on more and more of these kinds of assignments.
During Den’s work in Bolivia, the Republic of Guatemala began to experience growing political turmoil. A military Junta had been in power for over two years. For decades, there had been what Latinos call “anti-social” elements operating in rural parts of the country. We would call them gangsters and drug traffickers.
The Junta used their presence as an excuse to refuse to hold the elections promised after their successful coup. The Junta’s attempts to control the press and its heavy handed treatment of dissidents fueled a growing popular demand for change. Students protested against the military junta. The church spoke out against it. Support for the movement to overthrow the Junta grew. The Junta reacted as oppressive dictatorships usually react.
They attempted to wipe out the opposition. A reporter was killed. So was an activist priest. Rumors of “death squads” directed by the Junta were circulated. Of course, the Junta’s opposition grew. It was possible that the military Junta would be removed from power. It was also possible that it would be replaced by a government unfriendly to the United States.
In Washington, the military attaché to the Guatemalan Embassy contacted the Department of State. He didn’t bother to fully inform his own Ambassador of the reason for the contact. The Attaché’s disregard of his own country’s Ambassador might be explained by his lack of experience. There was a more accurate explanation of his actions.
Major Ernesto Rodriguez was only recently given an army commission and sent to the Guatemalan Embassy in Washington. He was the nephew of Colonel Máximo Rodriguez, a member of the Guatemalan ruling Junta. The Major was following his uncle�
�s orders.
Colonel Máximo Rodriguez directed the Junta’s Internal Security Forces. It was his responsibility to protect the government by keeping its opposition under control. To perform his function, the Colonel needed help. He sent his nephew to Washington to explain the problem and request assistance.
The State Department quickly denied the Colonel’s request. The United States could not support a repressive military Junta by involving itself in the killing of an opposition leader. The effects of such a killing on relations between the United States and all Latin American Republics far outweighed any temporary (and highly questionable) advantage in Guatemala.
Both the CIA and Director of Clandestine Services had no problem with the State Department’s position. Certainly, such an improper involvement in the internal affairs of another government was unacceptable. It was Teddy Smith who pointed out the dilemma to Deputy Director Cullen Brewster.
Teddy said the Guatemalan drug traffickers would happily fund revolution. If a revolution was successful, the drug lords’ influence in the new government would be enormous. There were plenty of examples of Latin governments’ active cooperation with local drug cartels. In Panama it had required the intervention by United States troops.
Teddy also pointed to another danger. Venezuela’s anti-US postures and its agreements supporting Iran were disquieting. The establishment of another Castro or Chavez kind of anti-US Latin government in Central America was unthinkable, particularly if an alliance with drug traffickers was a potential.
After presenting those problems, Teddy Smith made a suggestion. While giving Colonel Rodriguez the assistance he requested was out of the question, steps might be taken to destroy the cocaine based funding of the Junta’s opposition. A successful program to weaken the drug lords would weaken anti-American Guatemalan revolutionists by removing both organizational and financial support.