HAWES ESCAPES

The wife of Ambassador Kubisch led her guests into the foyer while the maid retrieved their coats.

“I’m so glad you and the children could come tonight,” she told Mrs. Welch. “It doesn’t quite seem like Christmas without children.”

Mrs. Welch gave an uneasy smile, pulled her daughter closer to her side. “Thanks for having us.”

Ambassador Kubisch and Dick Welch stood apart, speaking in low tones. Lately, Dick had been a frequent dinner guest at the official residence, though this was the first time he’d brought his family.

Her husband never told her who did what at the embassy. Last week, Dick’s identity as CIA Station Chief had been revealed in the Eleftheros Typos and other Greek papers. She thought it was irresponsible of them to finger him like that.

Dick looked at her and winked. She smiled.

The men finished their conversation and shook hands. “Merry Christmas, Dick,” said the ambassador. “If I don’t see you.”

What Pegman Saw: Athens

Historical note to this story:

While serving in Latin America, CIA Station Chief Dick Welch, a fanatic about personal security, was always careful to hide his identity. Once he arrived in Athens he was confident that he was at last in a politically stable country and could relax a bit despite the fact that his name and Agency connection had been reported in the Greek newspapers.

On the night of December 23, 1975, he and his family attended a Christmas party at the American Ambassador’s residence. Upon returning home, Dick exited the car to open the main gate. A man appeared amid the darkness and called to him. As he turned, the man blew Dick’s head off with a pistol.

Five days after the attack, a terrorist group called “Revolutionary Organization 17 November” claimed responsibility for Dick’s death. It wasn’t until 2003—almost 28 years later—that the people responsible for the murder of Dick Welch and several other foreign diplomats were caught. They were sentenced for the murders of the diplomats, but escaped conviction for Dick’s death because of a 20-year statute of limitations.

Marisol carefully washed herself in the basin. She used the perfumed soap Olán had given her for her birthday. The lavender scent was strong, but did little to mask the  odor of the businessman’s cologne that seemed to hang about her room.

She went to the dresser and counted the money for a third time. She did not like to touch it. She wished Olán would come home so she could be shut of it.

Perhaps when he returned he would have good news, maybe even a job. He told her every day that he would find work soon, that their fortunes would turn around. That she could stop with these visits from the businessman.

“It is not a choice we make willingly,” he often said. He was careful to always say “we.”

He liked to say that their necessity would negate the sin of all this, that God would understand.

What Pegman Saw

“Triangles is set up, Sire.”

“Very good, Ben,” said the Colonel-General. He’d been wise to bring this boong with him, the most reliable of the lot. “You know, we’re expecting a new crop of convicts. The Sirius should be arriving any day now.”

Ben stared at the floor. “Yes, Sire.”

“And do you know why I had you set up the triangles as you did?”

Ben shook his head, eyes still  down.

The Colonel-General walked around the desk and placed a plump hand on the black man’s gnarled shoulder. “Because, Ben, I need you to use them to help me maintain discipline. I want you to be my good flogging arm. You’d like that, wouldn’t you? To flog the convicts?”

“They’d some of them be white mens, sire?”

“All of them are, Ben. But convicts. Criminals all,  deserving of punishment.”

Ben looked up, smiled. “I reckon then I’d like it well enough, Sire.”

What Pegman Saw

Norfolk Island was a remote adjunct to the British penal colony in New South Wales that was often used as a punishment of last resort for problematic prisoners. It was a literal hell on earth. Floggings of 100 or 200 lashes with with the lead-tipped cat-o-nine-tails were common. If a man fainted on the triangle before he had received his prescribed number of lashes, he was taken down and the remainder doled out when he regained consciousness. If the flogger did not wield the lash with appropriate zeal, he himself would be flogged. Conditions were so vile that in 1814 the British abandoned efforts to colonize it.