LITMIR.BIZ

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cartridges found near his body and holes in the wall near the bedroom door confirmed it had been fired twice.

      The man seated in the airport restaurant again read La Prensa’s reports and editorial comment about del Valle’s violent death. He studied each word and phrase to uncover any subtle suggestions they might contain. The newspaper articles and the government news release gave no indication there would be a serious attempt to find the man or men who killed del Valle.

      The editorial writer of La Prensa was the exception. He wanted them found, honored and given lifetime government pensions. Like most Chileans, the writer was pleased to learn of del Valle’s death. The man responsible for so much torture and killing was gone forever. It was the common presumption someone avenging the murder of a friend or a family member had performed the long overdue act. No one would shed tears for him.

      The waiter returned with more coffee. Showing no reaction to the story, the man put the newspaper on the table, picked up the cup and drank from it. He looked around at his fellow passengers. It was easy to recognize the North American tourists and businessmen who wandered in and out of the tax-free stores lining the walls of the international flight waiting area. They congregated in separate groups, drawing attention by their dress and their conduct. They talked and laughed just a bit louder than Latinos. There was just a touch of flamboyant self-assurance in their gestures and in the way they walked.

      Den Clark was indistinguishable from the Chilean nationals who were bound for the United States. Although he was a North American, his clothing and his demeanor were as theirs. He was reserved and drew no attention to himself. His spoken Spanish carried no hint of a gringo accent.

      In his youth and early teens, Den Clark lived in Bogotá where his father managed the Colombian distribution office of an American business machine manufacturer. It was there he learned to speak the Spanish language as it is spoken in Colombia. It was there he developed both knowledge of and appreciation for Latin American culture.

      When his flight was called and after the first class passengers received their preferential treatment, Den boarded the Chilean Linea Aerea Nacional jet together with the remaining travelers. He found his assigned row and eased himself into the aisle bulkhead seat. Den Clark was two inches over six feet tall and weighed a muscular 200 pounds. He needed the extra room provided by bulkhead seating.

      Flights between Santiago and the United States leave Chile in the evening. On the following afternoon, they arrive in Washington D. C. It’s a long trip - over eighteen hours. Spending that amount of time strapped in a seat, apparently designed to fit the body of a five-and-a-half-foot tall anorectic, was not a pleasant prospect for a man of his size, but Den always traveled in the tourist class section of the airplane.

      A stewardess might remember a first class passenger. Few would remember a quiet traveler shoehorned into the crowded back section of the plane. Den Clark preferred the anonymity of tourist class passage. He was an agent in the Clandestine Services of the Central Intelligence Agency. He was returning to Washington after completing his mission in Chile. It had been his first assassination.

      As a SEAL, Den had killed men. Killing the enemy was part of the Navy’s Sea/Air/Land training and purpose. SEAL missions were team operations. Each man supported and was supported by his teammates. Den’s Puerto Montt assignment was different.

      The assassination of Humberto del Valle was a solo effort - one man entirely on his own. It was especially designed to be hidden behind the screen of secrecy. It was disclosed to no one except the men who conceived and organized it and the one man who carried it out. It was an operation carrying the faint odor of something that might be unacceptable if exposed to the light of day.

      When the LAN flight was in the air, Den tried to relax. La Prensa’s speculations about the death of Humberto del Valle were reassuring. Everyone assumed he had been killed by Chileans. There wasn’t a suspicion the murder might have been planned and carried out by the CIA. Still, Den Clark was not at ease. When the flight attendant pushed the beverage cart down the aisle, a Scotch and water helped him unbend. It helped quiet the tiny whispering voice of disapproval.

      Den knew the del Valle killing was a test. It was a necessary test. Those who planned it had to know if he was able to skillfully carry out an assassination. Den knew he had performed well. He proved he was resourceful and efficient. He passed their test. He told himself his future missions would have a stronger national purpose. It was a thought that made him feel better.

      After dinner, eaten tourist class fashion with his arms pressed tightly against his sides, Den took the pillow offered by the flight attendant. He removed his shoes and tried to find a comfortable position. Two hours later there were few overhead lights shining in the cabin. It was quiet. Only the people who were unable to sleep on airplanes were still awake. Den was one of them.

      He shifted his weight and crammed the tiny pillow behind his head, trying unsuccessfully to make it do the work of two. He couldn’t tilt his seat backwards without disturbing the lady and the baby who sat behind him. At least the infant was not squalling. Stretching his legs seemed like a good idea. He decided he wouldn’t walk to the flight attendant’s station. The modest exercise and the coffee he would probably drink would keep him awake.

      Den reshaped the tiny pillow and put it behind his neck. It didn’t help. Sleep continued to elude him. He shut his eyes and tried to clear his mind. He thought about Gigi Grant. He wondered where she was. He wondered what she was doing. He told himself she would approve of what he did in the isolated cottage in the forest near Puerto Montt. He told himself she would have understood. It was a comforting thought.

      For a few years before she came to Washington, G. G. Grant was one of the newer associates in a prestigious Phoenix law firm. The firm was large and her work was routine. Gigi was smarter and worked harder than most of the younger attorneys, but she was assigned mundane duties. Her male counterparts got the more interesting work. They were also the first to be advanced. Later, Gigi would refer to that part of her life as “my factory worker phase”. She left the firm when her application for Central Intelligence Agency service was accepted.

      Den Clark met Gigi Grant during their CIA indoctrination training. She was a pretty woman and the competition for her favors was active. Gigi was not displeased by the attentions she received from the new agents, but she was well aware of the usually narrow focus of their intentions.

      One of the agents she met in the cafeteria, however, treated her as if she were a human being and not merely an example of the female of the species. Gigi selected Den and that was that. Any further male attempts to attract her interest were unmistakably and immediately frozen into cold immobility.

      Den and Gigi’s affair was intense, but short-lived. Neither had any serious interests in the commitments and the compromises that lead to permanent engagements. They enjoyed the laughter, the companionship and the fun of each other. However, they knew their chosen work denied the possibilities of a long-term relationship. The lives they planned for themselves wouldn’t allow it.

      When the time came to end the affair, they parted as good friends. They told themselves it was over. It was time to turn the page. Now, only a few years later, in their reveries, each would often revisit the time they spent together and each would smile.

      Den remembered waking in the early morning and feeling the warmth of Gigi’s body. They had slept, pressed against each other like two spoons. He remembered when he softly moved his arm that held her to him and left the bed, careful not to disturb her. Minutes later, he returned with her coffee mug - the one that carried the legend: QUIET!! DON’T TALK UNTIL I’VE FINISHED THIS. He remembered her bright surprise when he kissed her awake.

      Those were happy days filled with smiles and fulfilled expectations. Now they were memories - good ones with only a touch of the bittersweet. Gigi was in the Near East. She had been sent to the Damascus Station. After a boring period of basic analyst’s labors, Den found his home in the Central Intelligence Agency’s Directorate of Operations. In the Agency’s descriptive shorthand, it was called “Clandestine Services”. They both thought they would

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