CLOAK & CORKSCREW: 8) RENDEZVOUS
My Saturday Evening Post: A Serial Novel About the CIA & Hollywood
20.
Venezuelan intelligence officer Jose Hernandez had but one assignment in Washington, D.C.: The running of a high level American spy. Until, that is, he was assigned to induce movie star Josh Penner into providing a bevy of Hollywood trophies for his ultimate boss, President Hugo Chavez.
To Jose’s thinking, the running of their spy was the most importation mission of his career and required complete focus, without distraction; certainly without the attention other assignments might bring his way, such as contact with a celebrity.
Before the advent of Penner, Hernandez’s entire working day was devoted to how best to acquire new intelligence while keeping the spy’s identity secure.
Now, during the new moon phase, which is to say, no moon at all, Hernandez had scheduled his own first face-to-face rendezvous with the spy. Moreover, he carried instructions that he suspected would be unwelcome.
Hernandez resided in an apartment block on River Road in Bethesda, less than a mile from Maryland’s border with the District of Columbia.
He assumed, for security’s sake, that he was a target of constant surveillance by FBI counterintelligence. They would have noted his arrival in Washington and it would have piqued their interest, he was certain. They quite likely knew his true job—intelligence officer—but not much more since most of his career had been under the radar screen.
So Hernandez had spent his first few weeks acclimating himself with his local environment: shopping malls, parking lots, restaurants… always on the lookout for side doors, back doors and windows that reflected a tail.
He slowly, in concentric circles, worked his way outward, until there wasn’t a residential street he did not know.
Special agents from the FBI had watched, growing more and more curious about Hernandez’s dedication to detail as he explored a number of neighborhoods, day and night, instead of attending official receptions and networking new contacts. They eventually deduced that he had not arrived to recruit spies but to run one already in place.
The DC field office had reached out to the FBI’s Legat in Caracas who, in conjunction with the CIA station there, determined that Venezuela’s president seemed to be unusually well informed about upcoming policies of the United States toward his country. When el presidente boldly went public with such information, they initially thought him intuitive, because no leader would risk compromising good intelligence. But Chavez, they had come to understand, was different. His need for attention on the international stage had to be satiated with a weekly fix of publicity.
So, working closely with the White House, the CIA and the State Department, the FBI generated bogus information—disinformation—pertaining to Venezuela that they pushed through various agencies.
Listening closely to Chavez’s speeches thereafter, the FBI determined that Chavez’s intelligence had derived from the U.S. Department of State, at a very high level. And they deduced that Hernandez was the spy’s new case officer.
Under these circumstance, Hernandez set out on a moon-less night for his first physical encounter with the codenamed CAHUNA, to a location prearranged by Hernandez’s predecessor. This did not please Hernandez, but commo with CAHUNA was sparse and complex and there was nothing he could do to change the meeting site.
Hernandez commenced an odyssey of dry cleaning his tracks by driving to Starbucks in Westbard center, a short distance from his home. As he sipped a double espresso, he noted a parked, occupied vehicle he had observed three cars behind him on the ride up River Road.
Hernandez anticipated surveillance, so this did not bother him. Better to know for certain they were there, and what they looked like, than be lulled into a false sense of security.
Hernandez drove to Metro Center at Chevy Chase, parked his car and took the subway to Dupont Circle. There, he immediately jumped into a taxi and instructed the cabbie to drive him to M Street, in Georgetown, a main shopping artery.
Still not satisfied that he was without surveillants, Hernandez walked briskly to the bottom of Wisconsin Avenue where it dead-ended near the Potomac River and cut into Chadwicks, a dark saloon beneath the Whitehurst Freeway.
The Venezuelan ordered a coke at the bar, watching to see who might follow him in. Fifteen minutes later, after departing Chadwicks, Hernandez lingered inside the lobby of a nearby movie theater, discreetly watching for watchers.
Finally reassured, he walked quickly to Georgetown Dock and boarded the Potomac Riverboat Company’s water taxi service to Alexandria, Virginia.
At Alexandria Dock he alighted and scooted into the quaint cobblestoned streets of Old Town, working his way inland to North Washington Street, and the Alexandria-Towne Motel.
CAHUNA, he was told, would be waiting in a room checked in under the name Martinelli, for which he would have paid cash.
Hernandez strolled into the motel office. “Which room Mister Martinelli?” he asked.
The proprietor looked up. “Eight,” was all he said.
Hernandez studied the layout of the two-floor motel, found Room Eight across the parking forecourt and tapped the door twice, waited a beat, then thrice more.
It opened a few inches, then wider, and Hernandez entered. The curtains had been drawn; the only illumination came from one bedside lamp.
CAHUNA wore blue jeans, a sweatshirt and baseball cap and, Hernandez noted, had alcohol on his breath.
“My President sends regards.”
“Let’s make this quick,” said CAHUNA. He assumed that Hernandez had used tradecraft to lose any possible surveillance, but in-person meetings made him extremely nervous. He opened a duffle bag, grabbed a handful of flash drives and handed them to the Venezuelan. “This will make Hugo happy.”
Hernandez grunted, pocketing the goodies. “My president has new plan for you.”
CAHUNA grimaced. “What new plan?
Hernandez conveyed what Hugo Chavez wanted from this relationship, and how he, Hernandez, intended to execute it.
CAHUNA listened quietly with growing alarm. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “How much time do I have to think about it?”
“One day,” said Hernandez. He paused. “My president insists we do this.”
CAHUNA shot him a look. “What does that mean?”
Hernandez looked CAHUNA directly in the eye. “My president intends to expose secrets provided by you.”
“Why?” CAHUNA was incredulous.
The Venezuelan shrugged, shaking his head. “I don’t know why. I know only my orders.”
“But that’s crazy,” said CAHUNA. “I am much more valuable here in Washington, collecting more secrets.”
Hernandez shrugged. As an intelligence professional he understood this, as did his boss, the director of DISIP. But the president had a mind of his own. And it was the president’s reasoning, however unreasonable it seemed to others, that always prevailed.
He handed CAHUNA a cheap pay-as-you-go cell phone. “I will call tomorrow. You tell me yes or no, then you drop this phone in river. If you tell me yes, you appear at certain place at certain time written here.” He handed CAHUNA a note card with typed instructions. “This will be next time I see you. If you say no, or no show, I will no see you again, your relationship with our service finished.” Hernandez turned to leave.
“Wait a second,” said CAHUNA, mortified by what he had just heard.
Hernandez turned to face him.
“Don’t you have money for me?” CAHUNA had been expecting ten grand in cash, and confirmation of ten times that amount deposited into a ciphered bank account in Panama.
Hernandez nodded. “It waits you in Caracas.”