Ted was my boss on a day-to-day basis, but I actually reported back to my division chief in Washington in the final analysis. So, I had a unique position. I needed to please Ted and do a good job for my country, but my promotions - or lack thereof - came from Washington. I had been sent to Laos, mostly against my desires, because I was told that not only did I have the skills to do the job there, but that I had the political and personal skills to "survive" Ted Shackley's general disdain for my technical division. I was the sacrificial lamb and gave up being posted to Copenhagen for the dubious honor of jousting with the widely-feared Mr. Shackley. I actually was given a choice, but you know what the future would have dealt had I declined to go to Laos.
Over the months, I performed well and had a chance to work closely with Ted Shackley on a number of projects. He was a stern task master and a man of little humor. This was a war and he had a warrior's face on nearly every waking hour. Eventually, we began to form a bit of a bond of mutual respect. I got so comfortable that I would make jabs at him in private and in meetings, just to loosen him up and let him know that I really did not give a damn. After all, I could have been hanging out at the finest hotels in Copenhagen had it not been for him and his stupid war.
One day I was taking color photos (for slides) of charts on the war's progress - that he was going to use to brief the big military and congressional brass. The material was so highly classified that he took me into the bubble at the Embassy and personally held the posters while I took the shots. After a while, I put the camera down, and said, "Damn, the girls in the lab forgot to put film in the camera." I thought he was going to have a stroke. "Only kidding," I said. I got a steely stare that would have killed a person worried about his future in the Agency. What possessed me to do that, I will never know. It was some kind of early statement that I would not be intimidated by him.
On a holiday, Ted called an emergency meeting. We assembled in the Embassy and the topic was grave indeed. I was seated next to Ted. You could feel the tension in the room. I looked at him and said, "Ted, why is your watch on upside down?" He glanced at it, saw I was right, and shot me another one of his withering stares, perhaps with a hint of a smile. The tension in the room eased. As the saying goes, "a nervous titter went through the room." It was obvious that I just did not give a shit. I was good at my job. I hated being there. And I could not have packed soon enough if Ted had gotten me transferred. But deep down, he knew that I was the only guy in the station with the nerve to pull his chain the way I did.
One night we had a party at the American compound, probably the Marine Corps birthday or some such thing. Ted was pretty shy in public, and somehow I ended up dancing a flamboyant dance with his beautiful and shapely wife, Hazel. I think it was a Tango, although I don't know how to Tango. A few glasses of wine had caused a dancing breakthrough - for both of us. Most everyone stood aside to watch the spectacle. I supposed that people could see me on the next plane out of town after that stunt.
I think it was that same night that I invited everyone over to my house for music and drinks afterward. When I got to my aging Rambler station wagon, it would not start. It took a screwdriver jammed in between the battery connector to finally get going. When I arrived at the house, there was Theodore Shackley, CIA station chief, tending bar. Mind you. I was really just a middle-level flunkie in the grand scheme of things. But, I knew I had broken through the iron curtain. "I'll have a Scotch, Ted." I don't want to give you the impression that we were all a bunch of drunks, but these occasional parties, and they were few, were a needed relief from the war. And trying to keep our families intact in the midst of this madness.
Ted once invited me to a dinner party when William Colby, who later became Director of CIA, was visiting our station in Laos. A nice gesture toward a "middle-level flunkie." Ironically, Bill Colby later gave me a terrific quote for the dust jacket of my first novel. In my letter to him, asking for the quote (which went along with the manuscript), I reminded him that he was the only big shot from HQ who had ever come to Laos who declined our offer to take in the pleasures of the "White Rose." It was my way of complimenting him. Better left unsaid what were the pleasures at the White Rose. Well, there was drinking, some nude dancing in your booth, and ---- but, that's enough of that. I might offend someone from NOW. I hope.
I tell you all of this so that you can appreciate my finest hour. Ted Shackley was selected to take over the CIA station chief job in Saigon. Some of the senior station people in Laos came to me and asked if I would be the master of ceremonies at his going-away dinner - and roast. I was puzzled. "You are about the only one around here who could get away with roasting him. And keep your job." Flattered, I accepted the challenge.
At about this time, General Creighton W. Abrams was taking over in Vietnam from Gen. Westmoreland. TIME magazine ran a huge photo of the General on the cover, with the caption, "New Man in Vietnam." I had an inspiration. I asked Ted Shackley's secretary for a copy of his passport photo, explaining my scheme. She loved the idea and loaned me the photo long enough to make a copy of it in my electronics/photo lab. I then made a copy of the cover of TIME, cut out Gen. Abrams' photo, pasted in Ted's photo, and then printed the thing. It looked pretty legitimate - for a casual glance. It was no Van Gogh knockoff. This was long before Photoshop and the like. It was cut and paste and shoot.
Now, I had a TIME magazine with the photo of the new Saigon CIA station chief, Ted Shackley, with the caption "New Man in Vietnam." One did not go around advertising who CIA station chiefs were, especially the newly-selected one for Saigon. It was, of course, the hottest CIA job on the globe.
The dinner was nice, with everyone in the CIA station there, and the Marines guarding the door to the dining room, so we did not have interlopers. I told a few stories about Ted and poked fun at him from several sides. Even he laughed at some of my material. Then I reached in my briefcase and took out the dummied-up TIME magazine. I forget the exact words I used, but it was something to the effect that "everyone seems to be looking forward to Ted's arrival in Saigon." Ted was quite a ways down the table from me. I had told nobody, other than his secretary, Elsie, about the scam. I handed the phony TIME to the closest person. You could see his eyes bug out and hear a mild gasp. And down the table went the magazine. When it finally got to Ted Shackley, he was primed for the sucker-punch. He was simply stunned when he saw the TIME cover.
In a few moments, either Ted realized that it was a composite or I told him. I hope he still has that magazine cover among his mementos. I did not make a copy, or I would post a .JPG of it here. There is a moral. You can have a lot of fun when the job needs you more than you need it, and you let everyone know it. It allows you, a junior player, to completely skewer one of the top men in CIA, in front of his whole office, and everybody has a good time, probably including the skewee. I love you, Ted. Regards to Hazel. May I have the next dance?
Postscript 2005: Ted Shackley died some time back. His life was an amazing one, and long tributes and critiques of his work ran in most of the major newspapers that I read on the Web. The family asked that anyone who worked with him submit their remembrances of Ted to a Web site run by former intelligence officers. I sent the above article, hoping that Hazel would include it in her stack of memories. And that she would still chuckle about the night she and I danced - whatever wild dance we did - in Vientiane, while Ted sat on the sidelines.
Richard Rhodes
02/07/2002