CHAPTER SEVEN

Bouchey's father in law was an implausible mechanic, but he had been a part of the package I inherited when I took over Landmark Mobile.  A refugee from a well-to-do Cuban family, he had fled to the United States shortly after Castro had to come to power in 1959.  I knew little of his personal history, for his English was exceedingly poor.  But I suspected with good reason that he had been deeply involved in the Cuban exile movement. He wasn't particularly well skilled in auto repair, but he was reliable and honest and well liked by his coworkers. If Rafael or myself had to redo his work from time to time, it seemed nonetheless a reasonable trade-off. I also valued him as a backstop; for he reported to Bouchey at regular intervals, and I was sure that his observations had substantiated my own dour reports.

The past six days had been frantic, and I was physically and emotionally exhausted.  I had met with the General the preceding Tuesday; and after leaving his office on Vermont Avenue, I had begun preparing for the next phase of my life.  The most important task had been preparing a coded communication for Jerry; but given the length of the message and the time it would take to encrypt it properly, I had decided to return to the station first. On the ancient typewriter that found refuge in the office, I had typed out a letter of resignation addressed to Jean and copied to Bouchey. After I had finished massaging the wording, I called the latter to let him know that I would be leaving. He was understanding, but nonetheless unhappy and he asked me to stop by his house that evening to bring him up to date.  We haven't talked at any length for several weeks, and I felt that such a discussion was long overdue.  I was also relieved, because I knew that it would be the last time I would have to bear him bad news. He was a nice guy; and regardless of the legalities of the situation, I was appalled by his predicament.  

As was her custom, Jean swept into the station about 4:30 to pick up the paperwork. I asked for a moment of her time; and in the back office I informed her of my intention to resign.  I explained that Gen. Richardson had offered me a position with the Security and Intelligence Foundation, and that I did not feel I could refuse the offer.  Much to my surprise she appeared crest-fallen, and asked if I could remain at the station at least until she found another manager to replace me.

I was surprised by her request, for it implied a belief that Landmark Mobile could remain in operation for some period of time.  A quick calculation told me that she was either delusional, or had a substantial cash reserve tucked away somewhere. Under the circumstances I concluded that it was most likely the latter, and agreed to continue on a part-time basis at night for at least a month.  This was a mutually satisfactory arrangement, for the General had made it abundantly clear that I would not be paid at SIF until such time as I had raised sufficient funds to cover the payroll.  On the basis of past experience, I had calculated that it would take me a week to put together a fund-raising program and another week to implement it; and given the turnaround time involved, it would be at least three weeks before the first contribution arrived.  For that reason, I assumed that it would be at least a month I would have sufficient funds to pay myself. I had a substantial amount of money in my savings account, but for prudential reasons I did not want to tap into it.  It would be far better to maintain a limited cash flow from Landmark Mobile, even if that meant pulling double duty.

Following Jean's departure, I hung out at the station to until 8:00 o'clock. By then the traffic on Duke Street had subsided and, presumably, Bouchey had had time to finish dinner with his family.  To make sure, I picked up the phone and called him to let him know that I was on my way.

Bouchey then lived in Annandale, which is just west of Alexandria. The drive normally took about 15 minutes, but I stopped at the 7-11 on Beauregard Street to get a large cup of coffee. Bouchey was a gracious and generous host, and I knew that he would be serving either wine or liquor.  Because I still had to draft my communiqué to Jerry and post the urgent pick-up signal, I wanted to avoid alcohol.  Arriving with coffee in hand would permit me to politely decline what I knew he would proffer.

His wife met me at the door of their palatial residence.  It was a beautiful home that must have cost hundreds of thousands of dollars, and I had often wondered how he could possibly afford it. Although nonprofit executives in Washington were well paid by any standards, I had once worked for the Council for Inter-American Security. Given the chronic financial difficulties of that organization, I found it difficult to believe that it could pay him salary enough for a house of that size, location, and appointment.  I knew that his wife held a relatively high-ranking position with the State Department, but even with her income it seemed implausible.  Although I never asked, I presumed that Bouchey had inherited a substantial sum from his parents.

I found Bouchey in the living room, and as had expected he offered me a drink.  Extending my cup coffee, I declined.  As soon as I had seated myself, I turned to the subject at hand.

I explained that I had met with Jean after talking with him that afternoon; and I briefly outlined the arrangement that we had made.  For the next month, I would leave SIF at 4 p.m. sharp and proceed directly to the gas station.  I would be there no later than 5; and I would be there on the job until closing at 10.

With that Bouchey's dark mood appeared to lift; and I could see that he still held some hope of retrieving his investment.  Concerned that I might have inadvertently contributed to a foolhardy hope, I quashed any illusions that he might still have regarding Landmark Mobile.  At this point there was no way to avert ruin unless he could pry the books away from Jean; and unless he was prepared to take immediate legal action to obtain them, it was my best judgment that the situation was hopeless.   

He scowled, but thanked me for my candor. He then attempted to turn the conversation to a SIF; but with so much left to do that night, I simply didn’t have time to go into any detail. I told him that I would call him in the morning, and asked him to excuse me.  

By the time I returned to the station it was almost closing time.  I dismissed the cashier and the pump attendant, and turned off the exterior lights.  After locking the door, I closed out the register and made up the deposit.  I dropped it in the bank's night depository on the way home. 

I parked on the street again, and let myself in through the back basement door. Under normal circumstances, I would have encrypted my communications and made the drop at the library before signaling for pickup; but given the time frame involved, I felt that I had to cut corners. I had decided to encrypt the message and post an urgent pickup signal tonight, and make the drop first thing in the morning. So I turned on my stereo; and, with flashlight, felt tipped pen, paper, and the "Book of the Month" in hand, I crawled under the covers of my bed and began the laborious process of crafting my message to Jerry. Using the alphanumeric skip code, it took me more than an hour and a half to complete it.  By the time I had finished, I was seething with anger.

I had once found this exciting, but after 11 years it had worn thin. Although I knew little about codes and ciphers, I was sure that there had to be a better way to effect secure communications.  Moreover, the failure to make contact at Rumors more than a month before had left me in a foul disposition. When the Navy declined to provide an explanation for the failed rendezvous, I had become angry and resentful; and on more than one occasion I had considered breaking contact. The game had cost me much and won me little; and thus far, I had been unable to discern any plausible connection between the operation and the national security. 

Moreover, my Masters had become increasingly intrusive with regard to my personal life. On several occasions they had directed me to break contact with girls I had been seeing; and in the most recent instance, their knowledge of her could have come only from close-in surveillance. I had met her at a bar in Georgetown; and after closing we had taken her car back to her apartment, where we had spent the night together. Although I had reluctantly complied with their demarche in this and other previous instances, I had made a firm decision to disregard their directives in the future. Who I slept with was none of their business, and I was deeply angered by any implication to the contrary.

But for a variety of reasons, I had reluctantly decided to continue with the operation. One of these was self-interest; for I had known from the onset that this was a game of hardball. Had I broken contact, I would pay a price for my insurrection. Moreover, I doubted that they would let me fade from the scene. Had I attempted to walk away, I was reasonably convinced that they would simply rewrite their script and recast me in another role that did not require my cooperation. Given my ignorance, I could only speculate as to what that might be; but I was quite certain that the new part would be even less appealing than the one I now played. Acutely conscious of the fact that I was an expendable commodity, I saw no virtue in diminishing my utility any further.    

But in the end, it was ideology that proved decisive. The West was dying, and I knew that it could not be saved. But I was convinced that its lifespan could be extended, perhaps far beyond my own. There was substantial value in this, and I hoped that by continuing with the operation I might somehow contribute to this end. During rare moments of self-honesty, I knew that I was deeply committed to the effort; for even then a new world order was aborning in the mists. Although its outlines were then no more than a dim mystery, they evoked from me an instinctive revulsion. I was an American, and I had once been a Marine; and I felt a moral obligation to serve my country to the best of my ability. And so I chose to put my anger and resentment aside.

I carefully tore the full sheet of paper in half, and after folding it in thirds I wrapped it in a plastic sheath. I crawled out from under the covers, and began dressing for the run up 6th Street. I pulled on a pair of thermal underwear, and a sweatshirt, and then a winter-weight running suit over it. I found my piece of yellow chalk on the floor behind the stereo cabinet, and stuffed it in my pant pocket along with my communication. Because it was potentially dangerous to leave it unguarded, I decided to keep it on my person until I could make the drop the next morning. 

Before exiting into the darkness, I pulled a knit cap over my head, and struggled into a pair of cloth gloves. As an afterthought, I shoved my wallet into my pocket with the chalk and message.

The night was dark and moonless, perfectly suited to my purpose. In the street I stretched for a few minutes before starting a moderate trot in the direction of 6th Street. The cold was biting, but I knew that in a few minutes my body heat would warm me; and as the exertion sent blood coursing though my veins I felt exhilaration. Running gave me a rare sense of freedom, and I treasured it for that.

It was not until I had covered more than a mile that I felt the first sense of unease. As I watched my shadow grow against an incandescent streetlight, the skin began to crawl on the back of my neck and I was overcome by an eerie feeling. Suddenly on guard, I listened intently for the sound of pursuit. But I heard nothing but the padding of my running shoes on the frozen street beneath me.

After passing a second streetlight I dodged into the shadows and ran in place, gradually extending the intervals between my footsteps and diminishing their impact on the pavement beneath me. It was not much of a ruse; but as I waited in ambush, I hoped that it provide me with a half-second advantage.   
 
But as the seconds turned into a minute or more, no one emerged into the light. If someone was in pursuit, they were more canny - or practiced - than I. The light on the street behind me remained unbroken; and the only sounds I could hear were those of my own making. 

I shrugged it off, and resumed my run; but by then I had already decided to abort the signal. For on an intuitive level, I realized that something was badly amiss. I would complete my run and return home; and tomorrow night, I would try again. If there were any indication of compromise, I would abort again and wait another day before using the alternate signal site - the side of a mailbox, located on Columbia Pike.

If I remained ill at ease, my thought process was entirely rational. But as I turned onto the sidewalk that ran beside the road, I felt a convulsive chill. For the first time afraid, I quickened my pace and kept to the lights. There was no point, I thought, in making myself easy prey.

The sense of danger became more insistent by the time I reached the overpass at Glebe Road. It was an odd, indescribable feeling that someone, somewhere, was trying to touch me in some indefinable way. By now shivering unnaturally, I decided to continue north up the Hill towards Steak 'n Eggs. I would order something to eat, and watch and wait. If nothing developed, I would return home at a leisurely pace. 

By the time I reached Steak 'n Eggs, I was sweaty, hungry and still badly unnerved. Whatever it was that had affected me had not diminished; and I was deeply troubled by my fearful reaction. I handled physical danger better than most; and if I was prone to shaking or convulsion hours or even days after the threat had passed, this did not detract from my performance in the field. But what I had just experienced was different from anything I had confronted in the past. It was as though I had been stalked by a ghost that I could neither see nor stand against. 

I took up my usual position at the back of the restaurant, and ordered a breakfast of bacon and eggs. I ate in silence, with my eyes fixed upon the door. After an hour or so, I paid for my meal; and after first carefully surveying my surroundings, I headed back down Glebe at an easy trot. 

By the time I arrived home I was exhausted. In accordance with standard operating procedure, I destroyed my communication by burning it in the sink; and then without taking off my clothes, I lay down on my bed and fell into a troubled sleep.

The next day passed uneventfully. It was by then Thursday, but the expected call from the General never came. I was not unduly surprised, for I knew that he was exceedingly busy with High Frontier. Moreover, I had long since become familiar with the ways of Washington. In the nation's Capital, almost nothing unfolds according to plan. For despite the frenetic efforts of all involved, there are too many egos to stroke and too many toes to step on for anything to happen according to schedule. I assumed the General was having trouble tracking down SIF's Board of Directors, and shrugged it off.

After returning home late, I repeated the drill from the night before. Having destroyed my encrypted communication the night before, I had to begin the entire process again from scratch. I recounted the original message from memory, including at the end a brief reference to my experience the night before. I stated that as a result of suspected surveillance I had aborted my intended signal; and I asked if there had been any indication of hostile activity during the specified time frame. Repeating my preparations from the night before, I made the run and placed the mark without incident. 

The following day was Thursday; and it had barely begun before turning into a nightmare of frustration and delay. I got up early to make the drop, for I had no way of knowing when Jerry would pick up my signal. But I could not discount the possibility that the signal site was covered by a stationary observation post in one of the nearby buildings; and so to avoid any possibility of miscommunication, it was necessary for me to be at the library when it opened at 9:00 am.

This proved to be a practical impossibility, for light snow had turned to freezing sleet just before dawn. Washington drivers panic easily in inclement conditions, and that day was no exception. Packed with badly delayed rush-hour traffic, the roads proved nearly impassable. Normally a fifteen minute drive, on this day it took me more than an hour to reach the library. But the staff had been delayed as well; and for that reason I was the first to enter the building after they opened its doors at 10:15. I made the drop, and headed for Landmark Mobil.

Rafael had managed to get there by 7:00 am, opening an hour late. But even so, he had been besieged by panicked customers. By the time I arrived, he had a dozen cars lined up at the bays; and I spent most of the day helping him mount snow tires and change out antifreeze. We were so busy that I completely forgot about the General; and by the time I remembered, it was well past 6:00 pm. As I finished mounting the 20th or perhaps 21st set of snow tires on a battered station wagon, I made a mental note to call him the next afternoon if I did not hear from him first. 

In the event, I didn’t hear from the General; and so I called his office a little after 2:00 PM the next day. Bernice Coakley answered the phone, and when I asked for Gen. Richardson she informed me that he had been called out of town. He would be back on Monday morning she said, and asked if she could take a message. I thanked her and declined, and hung up the phone.

I realized that this had all the makings of a disaster. Due to timing, chance and circumstance, there was a very real possibility that Murphy's Law would claim me for its next victim. There could be a problem with the Board of Directors at SIF, and for some reason unknown they might reject me as executive director; or the Navy could turn thumbs down on the deal. Because I had already submitted my resignation at the gas station, I could find myself out on the street without even a part-time income. Way to go, Charlie…

Although the roads had cleared by then, business continued to be brisk so I stayed at the station until closing. Aside from Steve and Christine Schneider, Alan Anderson was my one non-political friend in Washington and I had made plans to meet him at a bar in Georgetown that night. Alan and I had been drinking buddies for many years, and for that reason he would not expect me before midnight. That gave me ample time to make another late night run, to check for an acknowledgement. With any luck, I thought, they had already made the pick up and emplaced their reply today. If so, I would have my answer tomorrow morning.

By the time I reached their signal site, I was breathless with anticipation. But with no moon and only minimal visibility from a lone streetlight some 15 feet beyond, I had little hope of discerning an acknowledgement without staging some sort of pretext. Despite the passage of so many years, we were still using the same color codes; and their blue chalk mark would be almost invisible in the dark.

Just before I reached the telephone pole I stumbled deliberately. Falling forward into the darkness, I broke the fall with my outstretched hands and rolled on my shoulder. I hit the concrete sidewalk harder than I had intended; and so the muffled curses that escaped my lips were altogether genuine.  I got up slowly, massaging first my wrist and then my shoulder; and hobbled painfully to the pole. I leaned against it for a moment, and breathed deeply. If anyone was watching, I had no doubt that they would believe they had witnessed a clumsy runner trip and fall; for that was more true than not. 

But it was well worth the method-acting performance, for their mark was unmistakably there. They had acknowledged the pick up, and now all I had to do was proceed on to see if they had made a deposit. Fifteen telephone poles later in much better light, I was elated to see a small red chalk mark placed just below eye level. Still limping a bit, I completed the rest of the circuit in high spirits.

It was just after midnight when I walked into the bar. It was packed, and I had to fight my way through the crowd; and had I been looking for anyone but Alan, the task might have proved impossible. But fortunately he was over six feet tall; and he had a booming laugh. He was also handsome and charismatic, and exerted a magnetic effect upon women. They were drawn to him by his boyish good looks, and his easy sense of humor. He was also a gentleman; and for that they were clearly grateful. 

There was a momentary lull in the music that boomed from the speakers mounted upon the walls; and I heard him before I could see him. Rounding an ornamental glass partition, I found him surrounded by a half dozen girls.

Alan was then about 40; and he had been mired in an on-again-off-again relationship with a much younger girl for the past several years. Her name was Kelly; and they had first met when she was a sophomore in college. Despite the substantial age difference, they were genuinely fond of one another and, at times, it seemed to me that they were deeply in love. But in the past several months their relationship had been more off than on; and so Alan and I had amused ourselves carousing the bars. Tonight, I could tell, would be no different.

I managed to make my way through the crowd to his table; and I was amazed to find that he had held a seat open for me. This had required a particularly beautiful young lady to sit at the far edge of the conversation; but I happily offered to act as her relay as I sat down. I ordered a drink from the waitress, shook hands with Alan, and winked as slyly as I could. He broke into laughter, and told me to forget it. The girls were his, he said, and he was taking all six of them home with him. If I wanted a lady friend, he said, I could damn well find my own.

We all laughed, and between the musical plays tried to carry on a conversation. It was fun to try, but impossible to practice; so I settled on talking to the girls on either side of me. In those days before the AIDs epidemic, liberated women felt that they could and should emulate male sexuality; and many were quite open in their advances. I quickly inferred that the girl seated to my left was one of these, for each time she left the table momentarily she had made a point of brushing against me in a provocative manner. Her name was Allison, and she was a graduate student studying philosophy at George Washington University; and that night, she had more on her mind than academics. We spent several drinks engaged in a desultory discussion of Nietzsche, before she excused herself for the ladies room.

When she returned it was impossible for me to ignore the fact that she had removed her bra, and unbuttoned her blouse. She had beautiful breasts, and stunning nipples; and as I sat there admiring her, I could not help but become aroused. I ordered another round of drinks; and after the waitress had placed them on the table, Allison propositioned me outright. At some point or another in my life I was sure that I had faced an easier decision; but at the time, I was hard pressed to recall it. I smiled and drained my glass, and we slipped out the door.

We spent the night together, and slept late the next morning. I didn’t have to be at work until 5 PM; and so after we got up and showered together, I took her out for brunch. At the restaurant she remarked upon the obvious: I had clearly picked her up the night before, and everyone could see it; for her elegant skirt and blouse were wrinkled and her 3-inch heels were far out of place on a Friday afternoon. She giggled mischievously. "I'm such a slut," she said, before devouring the omelet in front of her.

I had to laugh. She was not only beautiful and bright, but also funny; and I enjoyed her company immensely. And so before I dropped her off at her apartment, I made a late date with her. This time she promised to bring a change of clothes.

It turned out to be one hell of a weekend, and I was sad to see it end. We made tentative plans to get together again when I took her home Sunday night; but as much as I liked her, I knew that it would never work out. Although we had not talked about politics, it was clear from context that her liberalism was as abundant as her cleavage; and in a town like Washington, romance and politics requires a certain degree of consistency. Had she known my conservative views, I had no doubt that she would have become apoplectic. So I dodged the issue, content to enjoy her company while I could.

But I had other problems to worry about, and chief among them was my future employment. The moment of truth finally arrived at 10 a.m. Monday morning. I still had not heard from the General, so I called him at High Frontier. Bernice put me through without delay; and when he picked up the phone I could tell he was irritated. "Christ, Charlie, where the fuck are you?"

I wasn’t quite sure what to say, so I explained that I was at home. I reminded him that he had told me that he would get back to me on Thursday, but that I hadn’t received his call. "Oh shit, Charlie, I bet I screwed this up all by myself...

"Hey, I’m sorry. I had a really messed up week, and it must have skipped my mind...

"How soon can you be here?"

I explained to him that I had to run some errands, but I could probably be there by 1:00. The General thought about it a minute and then said, "Ah shit, don’t worry about it. Come in tomorrow morning...

"High Frontier has a staff meeting at 9:00, and I'd like you to sit in on it. Gen. Graham and I will introduce you to the troops, and announce your appointment."

Elated, I agreed and hung up the phone. I was about to tell myself that Murphy's Law could kiss my ass when it suddenly hit me. The drop! I forgot the goddamn drop!

I shot to my feet, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. Oh shit, this can't be happening...

What if the bastards say no?

The possibility struck me like a thunderclap. But as my chest tightened and my stomach churned, a fierce resolve began to build within me. Fuck ‘em, I thought. If the Navy doesn’t like it, they can kiss my ass too. 

It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and I was going to do it no matter what they said. 

In keeping with my mood of defiance, I decided to get something to eat before making the pickup. So I drove to the International House of Pancakes on Wilson Boulevard, where I enjoyed a leisurely lunch while perusing The Washington Times. 

When at last I arrived at the Library, I was surprised to find it unnaturally crowded. The local elementary school had apparently scheduled a field trip there; and the building was filled with dazed and disconcerted children. There was little likelihood that the opposition had infiltrated their ranks; but nonetheless, I wanted to make the pickup unobserved. So I browsed the adult section for more than an hour; and when the crowd of milling youngsters was finally ushered from the building I slipped behind the designated stack. I found the book I was looking for, opened it, and pretended to read. When I was quite sure that no one was watching, I slipped the folded piece of paper from the binding and tucked it in my pocket. For no particular reason, I wandered over to the new release section and picked out a book. It was a new history of the CIA and I thought it might prove useful; so I checked it out and took it with me.

I didn’t arrive home until almost 3:00 in the afternoon; and even then, I was inclined to ignore the Master's message. But curiosity soon got the best of me; and so once again I turned on the stereo, and crawled under the covers with my flashlight, felt tipped pen, paper and "Book of the Month." 

The message was short, and it took me less than 20minutes to decipher:
 

SIF APPROVED FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS TO FOLLOW NO INDICATION OF HOSTILE ACTIVITY DATES SPECIFIED

I was relieved and delighted, and almost surprised that they had made no mention of Allison. Although the message was short and to the point, I surmised their approval at this unexpected twist of fate; and wondered if I could count on their support. Given the current situation, SIF had enormous potential; and it took only the slightest wit to see how well the organization could benefit Naval Intelligence. With any luck, they would recognize their own self-interest and put some money into it. It was a pleasant thought; and I hung on to it for a long time.

In accordance to the new schedule, I arrived at the station at precisely 5:00 p.m.; and to make sure the Turismo remained unscathed, I parked it out on the point. After talking with Rafael briefly, I sent him home. There was nothing going on in the bays, and only the slightest traffic out on the sales islands; so I retrieved my book from the car and retreated into the back office. I was caught up on everything, so I decided to make myself comfortable and read until closing.

Two cups of coffee and a half pack of cigarettes later, the phone shimmied in its cradle. Unable to ignore it, I picked it up on the second ring; and much to my amazement, I heard the sultry voice of Lea Myers. 

After our meeting at Rumors I had called her three or four times, but she had never been in. From the reaction of the girls who took my calls - presumably, her roommates - I had eventually surmised that she was involved with someone else. I had left my number, but I really hadn’t expected to hear from her.

Lea apologized for having taken so long in getting back to me, and blamed it upon her roommates. She said that she had been unable to get along with the girls she had been living with, and claimed that they had not given her my messages. It was only after she had moved out that one of them had told her of my calls; and knowing this, she was eager to get back to me. 

From the tone of her voice I knew that she was lying; but this was hardly a surprise. The dating game was deceitful by nature; and at such an early stage, I could hardly disqualify her for a lack of integrity. So I engaged her in small talk, pretending that I was glad she had called. 

After a few minutes, she suggested that we get together. She had moved back home with her father and her stepmother, and she assured me that there would be no further problems communicating. Apparently trying hard to convince me, she said that she thought we would have fun together.  

With no real expectation of ever seeing Allison again, I agreed; and after checking the work schedule posted on the wall outside my door, I asked he if she would like to have dinner Friday night. She sounded excited when she said yes; and so I made a note of her new phone number, and wrote down the directions. I thanked her for calling, and told her I would pick her up at 8:00 PM.

After I put down the receiver, I leaned back in my chair again. One hell of a day, I thought. The perfect job and, perhaps, a new girlfriend...

Oh, the more it changes,

the more it stays the same.

The Hand just rearranges,

the players in the Game