CHAPTER FOUR

After escorting him off the sales lot, I retreated to the back office and placed a three-day help wanted advertisement in the Washington Post. I had hoped to find a bona fide retiree I could rely upon, but the ad brought instead an endless series of ex-cons, failed drug dealers and welfare recipients. None of the latter had the slightest interest in finding work, and only a very few even bothered to hide the fact; their sole purpose in showing up for an interview was to maintain their eligibility for public assistance by going through the motions of finding a job. 

This surprised me, for I had worked my way through high school, college and a part of graduate school pumping gas; and I had enjoyed it enormously. For a student or an unskilled worker, it paid fairly well. I had liked working outside and, more importantly, I found the clientele endlessly fascinating. The sales lot had proved to be an excellent place for meeting young women; and during my years in college, I gave it full credit for the extensive harem I had assembled.

This and the generous performance bonus offered to me by Bouchey had drawn me to Landmark Mobile. After four years of working as an engineer on construction projects in Texas, Kentucky and Missouri, the chance to relive in part those happy times had persuaded me.

But my initial enthusiasm had faded with frustration and disappointment; and after my confrontation with Jean I looked forward to moving on. Moreover, there were other urgent matters close at hand.

It was now early December, and because of the fading light I had begun jogging in the morning rather than late evening. I had counted out the telephone poles immediately after settling into a rental property on S. Hudson Street in Arlington, but there had been no contact of any sort until Wednesday. By strange coincidence, that was the same day my ad began running in the Post. 

The relationship between agent and handler is one of psychological dependency, and in recent months this unnatural reliance had for me become particularly pronounced.  Although I tried to convince myself that I was tired of this frustrating and thus far fruitless game, on a much deeper level I was desperate for contact. For it was not enough to know what I was doing; I needed validation as well. 

The strict requirement for secrecy had forced upon me a certain division of mind. Although acutely conscious of the fact that I was deeply engaged in a major counterespionage operation, my role within it required me to affect an ordinary life. That and the ongoing demands of the work-a-day world encouraged me to deny this most basic fact of my existence; and as a result it slipped from my conscious awareness for days and even weeks at a time. Then without knowing the cause, I felt lost and anxious as though I had been forever abandoned. 

The sense of isolation that I experienced was near total; and as the years passed it took an increasingly heavy toll. I had begun drinking episodically and sometimes to excess; and this had led to a potentially serious brush with the law. I had been fortunate enough to paper it over; but it had left me both shaken and deeply concerned that a similar situation might reoccur. More troubling still were the nightmares which so haunted my dreams that I slept little, and sometimes not at all. 

Although I knew that I was no more than a pawn in a great unfolding drama, the admission was entirely abstract. For an emotive level, I felt desperately impoverished; and this humble recognition was deeply depressing. Contact provided the sole validation of my secret and increasingly difficult life; and so I was elated to see the chalk mark as I pounded up 6th Street towards Columbia Pike.

My excitement was so great that it was difficult to resist the impulse to turn around and head for home; but fearing the possibility of surveillance I continued my circular run for the full four miles. I was then still in excellent physical condition and, paradoxically, jogging eased the pain I so often experienced in my knee. When I arrived back at my residence, I was not only refreshed but euphoric. 

I had made it a habit to visit the main library in Arlington on a frequent basis at irregular hours, so I felt comfortable making the pickup before going into work. It was then only 9 AM, and I wasn’t due at the station until noon. It took less than 15 minutes to drive to the library, but I carefully invested another half-hour browsing amongst the stacks. Once confident that I was not under close supervision, I slipped the carefully folded quarter sheet of velum from the arched binding of the book. I palmed it as I continued to browse, casually slipping it into my pant pocket before emerging from the shelves.

Back in my basement room by 10:15, I hurriedly began the task of deciphering the message. After locking the door exiting into the backyard and pulling to the drapes, I turned on my stereo and crawled beneath the bedcovers with a flashlight. The “Book of the Month” as I sarcastically called it was Barbara Tuchman’s majestic description of the onset of The Great War, appropriately entitled The Guns of August. It was one of the very few books we used for encryption that I actually read.

When I unfolded the message, I was appalled by its brevity. Most messages contained 60-100 number groups; but this one held only 38. Assuming half a dozen nonsense characters thrown in as stops, which meant the entire communication consisted of less than 32 letters. I was at first angry, and then disappointed. I felt as though I had been slighted; for after so many long months of neglect, I deserved far more.

Dispirited, I began the lengthy process of decryption. Twenty-five minutes later I emerged from under the covers exhilarated, frightened and confused. The message had read: 
 

I quickly burned both the message and the paper on which I had recorded it in the washroom sink, taking care to make sure that all the ashes washed down the spout. As an added precaution, I poured half a bottle of Liquid Plumber in after it. As I waited the prescribed 15 minutes before running the hot water, my mind raced in anticipation.

The message was unique; for in the 11 years that had elapsed since I was first recruited, I had never before been instructed to a specific place. It implied a rendezvous, a face-to -face meeting. Anxiety gave battle to hope, as I wondered if it might at last be coming to an end.

My moods continued to cycle wildly throughout that day and long into the night. Had this following day not been so filled with frustration, they would no doubt have continued. But the irritation of interviewing a score of spurious job seekers had focused my thoughts elsewhere. Only now after the last supposed applicant had departed did my strange excitement return.

I glanced down at my watch to find it was 4:15. In less than 6 hours I would be standing at the appointed place; and with any luck, I hoped that at least some of my questions might at last be answered.

Although I had more than enough time, I decided to leave early again. Pete was scheduled for the night shift again, so I scribbled a note to him and taped it to the cash register out front. After bargaining with Rafael to keep an eye on the sales lot, I climbed into my Monza and headed for home. Rafael’s cooperation had cost me $20, but I reasoned that it was well worth the price.

 I took a quick shower and then headed up Glebe Road to Steak ‘n Eggs for a leisurely meal. Among all the many fast food restaurants in Arlington, the Steak ‘n Eggs was my favorite. The layout of the restaurant provided a panoramic view from the far end of the counter, and the management habitually left the rear door open to the alley that ran behind. From the trailing edge of the counter or the farthest booth I could discretely monitor who came and went; and in the event of an emergency, I could exit quickly out the back. 

I returned home after eating, showered again, shaved and dressed. Because Rumors was then an almost elegant establishment, I considered wearing a three-piece suit; but settled instead upon a dark blue blazer and wool slacks. Because it remained unseasonably warm, I left my overcoat in the closet. 

I arrived at Rumors shortly after 9:00 PM, in the false hope of finding a nearby place to park. After circling the block on which it was located twice in heavy traffic, I drove three blocks east to an open parking lot, and walked back on foot. I arrived at the door at about 9:40, and stood in line 10 minutes before entering the bar.

The place was packed to the rafters, making it almost impossible to move. Given the dense crowd and the dim light, I wondered how my contact would find me. 

I anxiously fought my way through the crowd to the side terrace, squeezing between an enormously obese young woman and the entranceway jam. Astonished by her girth, I paused momentarily to gaze down in wonder. To my amazement, her rear was at least four feet wide.

I emerged out onto the terrace alive, hot, and sweaty. I desperately wanted a beer, but the five or so feet to the bar seemed insurmountable. Although it was only a few minutes after 10, it was already packed at least three deep throughout its entire length. For tonight, at least, the price of a beer would be measured in patience and fortitude.

I wondered if I should not wait outside for my contact, but after a moment’s thought I decided to press on. My instructions were unambiguous, and I felt I should follow then to the letter. My contact would find me or not; but in any case, I was not prepared to jeopardize the operation by disregarding clear orders. And so I began edging through the crowd, at a maddeningly slow pace. 

It took me at least 10 minutes to maneuver into the second rank of customers. From there I attracted the attention of a bartender some five paces down by raising a $20 bill high over my head in true Washington style. Maintaining eye contact, he asked for my order by mouthing the words. Standing on my toes I replied in kind, asking for a Heineken. He nodded, and turned away.

A few minutes later, he was reaching high above the bar in an attempt to pass me the beer. With the crowd behind me and a solid rank of seated customers before me, I could barely move. For balance, I grasped the back of the closest bar stool and reached precariously over the heads of the front line of customers. I clasped the glistening bottle in my right hand as the bartender withdrew the twenty clenched between my fore and middle fingers. As I did so, the young girl perched upon the stool to my right glanced at me quickly across her left shoulder. Locked in a difficult struggle to maintain my balance, I almost failed to notice.

I found myself in a very uncomfortable position, wedged tight between the standing crowd and the barstool of the man in front of me. Despite my best efforts to maintain my position, the mass of bodies pressed me hard against the back of his stool. The very best I could hope for was a break in the crowd that would allow me to retreat.

Instead the stranger forced his way up off the barstool, knocking the beer from my hand. He apologized as it crashed to the floor, and offered me his seat. I accepted gratefully; and after minutes of complicated maneuvering we exchanged places. I squeezed up upon it, happy at last to have found safe refuge.

By now I had given up all hope of making contact; for it was almost 11 PM. Thinking that God could not even find me amongst the mass of humanity crowded into the bar, I laughed to myself sadly and signaled the bartender the bottle.

The crowd had by now thinned slightly; and I could at least reach for my wallet when the bartender brought me another beer. I handed him my American Express card, and asked him to run a tab. By now my knee was throbbing and I wanted to stand; so I slid off my barstool and pushed it as far to my left as I could. 

The girl to my right glanced at me again across shoulder, then turned back to her friends. With nothing else to do, I sipped on my beer and observed them.

After a few minutes I pulled my cigarettes from my coat pocket and lit one. With no ashtray in reach, I tapped the girl on the shoulder and asked if I could use the one before her. She acknowledged me with a flip of her short black hair, and slid the ashtray to me. Surprised by so dismissive an attitude, I thanked her anyway. More curious than miffed, I signaled the bartender to bring her and her friends another round.

When they arrived, she turned back again to acknowledge me in the most perfunctory manner. But before she could turn away again, I stopped her by placing my hand lightly upon her own. She had alternately stared at me or ignored me all night, and I wanted to know why. She laughed, and in a sultry voice denied it before turning away once more.

By now I was laughing myself, for I had no idea what game this girl was playing. But with time on my hands, I decided to find out. 

It was more her attitude than appearance; for she was not overly attractive. She was perhaps five foot two, with black hair that hung straight to her shoulders and dark blue eyes. Her face was finely sculpted, but her eyes were too close and her mouth was overly small. She was moreover flat chested; and from where I stood I could plainly see that her breasts were no more than two pretentious nipples, needlessly graced by a grandiose bra. 

I waited for a lull, and when the girls at last slowed their conversation I tapped her on the shoulder. When she turned to me I handed her another drink, and asked for her name. It was Lea, she said, Lea Myers*, and she worked in retail sales at Tyson’s Corner. I introduced myself, and handed her my business card. Unable to read it in the dim light, I explained to her that I was a former engineer now engaged in small business. She informed me in turn that she was a recent graduate of the University of Maryland, where she had majored in history. This and the fact that she had been a member of the Alpha Delta Pi Sorority appeared to be our only points of reference. Hoping to keep the conversation alive, I told her that I had taken my first undergraduate degree in history; and that my mother had been an Alpha Delta Pi at the University of Missouri many years before. She seemed totally disinterested, a fact that I found more odd than irritating. 

I was well aware of my limitations; but I also knew that most women found me reasonably attractive, and some more than that. Even though I was by now thirty-three, my face retained a long-held indeterminacy, and I could pass for twenty-five or forty as the occasion demanded. Although I stood only 5’9”, I was in excellent condition and that was plainly apparent. I had brown hair and green eyes; and a chiseled face adorned by an impressive mustache. I did not want for dates; and in those days of sexual license, I rarely slept alone except by choice.

But none of this seemed to impress Ms. Myers; and it was only with great difficulty that I was able to keep the conversation going. Had it not been for a continuous supply of liquor, it would have fast come to an unceremonious end. But she seemed content to trade conversation for drinks; and as the time passed, she warmed to me slightly. 

It was only after I mentioned my background in public policy that I saw any real hint of interest; and for the first time I realized she was politically ambitious. Not for herself, for she lacked the passion that political life requires; but rather for a suitor and a spouse. Like so many women in Washington she was impressed by the trappings of power and wanted them badly. For women like these, lengthy and official-sounding titles are an aphrodisiac often sought and rarely resisted. 

This posed an immediate difficulty, for it marked a conceptual gulf that would be difficult to span. I had long ago sensed the vacuity of official Washington; and I was by now more fearful than impressed. From bitter experience I had learned that the government was manned largely by knaves intent only upon self-promotion; and in the depths of my soul, I knew that it could not long last. 

My conservative brethren attributed this to liberalism, but I knew the rot went deeper. I had drunk deeply of history, and from it I had learned that civilizations follow an invariant course of birth, maturation and decay. Cultures arise from faith and burn bright from a holy fire within; and if they are not first crushed by others, their inherent possibilities find expression in great civilizations. But it is in the nature of things that these potentialities are finite and self-limiting; and in time they are exhausted. Money first triumphs over spirit; then cowardice over principle.

For those who were willing to see, it was apparent that European Civilization had shattered upon the killing fields of France in 1914. Although it had since been twice repaired, the flame of faith had flickered in the first Great War, and died altogether in the next. All that remained was a tottering edifice, buttressed by a third of a million American, British and Canadian troops.

Although it had become fashionable in some circles to deny it, the United States was inextricably apart of a civilization in sharp and irreversible retreat; and if the cultural collapse was perhaps less apparent in Great Britain and the Americas, it was nonetheless far advanced. 

For the United States this had first become apparent in the crucible of Indochina. Unwilling to make the sacrifices necessary for victory and unable to confess defeat, the United States had instead engaged in wanton slaughter for more than a decade. And so when the last Americans fled from Saigon under fire in April of 1975, much more was marked than the betrayal of a small and unimposing ally. For with that ignominious act, the United States had abandoned of its principles as well; and in the depths of my soul, I knew that it would not fight for them again.

The darkness was hard upon us, and it was this that drove me onward. If I had at first been a reluctant conscript cast unwillingly into a secret web of espionage and betrayal, time and experience had changed me. Although the West was dying around me, the structure of governments remained; and in theory at least, they protected and nurtured the lives of hundreds of millions. And so while I knew the effort was ultimately doomed to failure, I had nonetheless committed myself to their defense. For in circumstances such as these, moral choice is limited to the possible.

Assured in my own mind that none of this would be of interest to Ms. Myers, I amused her instead with stories and anecdotes from my last Washington incarnation; and as pleasure danced upon her face, I began to find her physically attractive. Wondering if perhaps it was only the beer, I began to plot her seduction.

The first difficulty of course was prying her away from her friends; and a quick calculation told me that it would be difficult if not impossible. So as I regaled her with outrageous – and entirely truthful – tales of my brief stint at the Reagan White House, I took care to insert subtle suggestions. I had before achieved a position of some small eminence in political Washington, and I gently made plain my intention to do so once again.

This might have made the desired impression upon her, had the alcohol not begun to interfere. I had plied her with drinks for more than two hours, with little discernible effect; but now, quite suddenly, her eyes began to slightly glaze. A few moments later the bar lights came on, and the staff began urging the remaining patrons toward the door. Cursing my luck, I downed my beer and offered to walk her and her friends to their car. 

By now her mood had subtly changed from noncommittal acceptance to something else that I could not quite discern; and I sensed within her a certain hardness. And so by the time we had made our way out the main entrance, I had abandoned all hope of an amorous encounter.

By the time we had crossed over 19th Street, I was searching for a graceful exit. Having given her my card and bought her countless drinks, I now felt foolish. To cover my embarrassment, I stopped at the mailbox some twenty feet beyond the crosswalk. And with the best grin I could muster, I playfully suggested that she kiss me goodnight. 

Laughing, she pushed me away. She might kiss me one day, she said, but not in this lifetime. Feigning innocent offense, I reached into my coat and withdrew my checkbook from the breast pocket. Tearing a deposit ticket from the back, I handed it to her and informed her that she had but two choices: to call me for a date, or to make a minimum deposit of $100 into my account. Still laughing, she snatched my checkbook from my hand and scribbled her number inside. “You call me,” she said, “and maybe I’ll go out with you - sometime.” Then she turned, and ran after her friends.

Amused, I leaned against the mailbox and watched her disappear down the street. After she had vanished from sight I began the long walk back to my own car, ignorant and entirely unsuspecting of the disaster I had just set in motion. 

* Name changed at the request of U.S. intelligence officials.