It was almost 10 Am when I turned off Glebe Road onto I-95 South. I was en route to a service station near the Landmark shopping center, where I was to meet Lynn Bouchey and Jean Larson. Bouchey was then president of the Council for Inter-American Security, a conservative think tank where I had briefly worked as a policy analyst in 1981; and Jean was the majority stockholder of Landmark Mobil. Bouchey had invested a substantial sum of money in the business, and was now concerned that he might lose it. The service station had run through a series of managers in recent years, none of whom had turned a profit. To help safeguard his investment, Bouchey had asked me to straighten it out. 

I agreed to take it on a short-term basis, while I looked for a professional position with a think tank. From what he had described to me over the phone, it seemed like a quick and lucrative in and out. But I suspected the actual situation might be more tangled than Bouchey thought; for despite his quick wit and keen intelligence, he was a not a capable businessman. 

Even though I was running late, I was pleased with myself. Although I had only been back in Washington for two days, I was by now fairly well organized. Most importantly, I felt reasonably secure. Although I was then still unaware, this was the last time I would feel safe for 15 years.

It had been almost 2 am when I finally reached my destination three nights before. After checking into the Iwo Jima Motel, I had fallen into an exhausted sleep. I had slept in the following morning until almost noon; and after showering and shaving I had made my way down to the motel’s small restaurant. Much to my surprise, I found it packed with Viet Nam veterans clad in bits and pieces of old uniforms. I asked the hostess for a table in the smoking section, and as I made my way through the sea of faded green, I noticed that nearly all were former Marines. By chance I was wearing an old camouflage blouse that morning, one that still displayed traces of the Marine Corps' Globe and Laurel on the left breast pocket.

The hostess seated me at a small table at the far end of the dining area. To my right were the only two civilians in the room, a man and woman in their late '60s; and at an angle to my left was a table crowded with six former Marines. Across from me and all the way to the door were other ex-Marines, interspersed with an occasional Navy Corpsman or Seabee. 

Although the old couple ignored me as I slid into the vinyl bench that ran the length of the wall, one of the men at the adjacent table noticed me. He raised his glass and we exchanged muted  Semper Fi's. As I opened my Washington Post, he leaned forward across his table and asked if I was in town for the rally. Only then did I remember that this was the Labor Day weekend, and that thousands of Viet Nam veterans were converging on Washington to protest against the government’s continuing inaction on the POW / MIA issue. Taken aback, I stammered out a no, and explained that I had just moved back to DC after an extended absence. He nodded, and said I was welcome to join them. He pointed through the plate glass window to the Iwo Jima Memorial standing upon the hill across Route 50, and explained that the ex-Marines were going to assemble there at dawn on Monday for a prayer service. After that, they would march to the Viet Nam Memorial to link up with veterans of the others services. I thanked him for the information, and said I would consider it.

By then I was awash with emotions. I desperately wanted to talk to them but I was under strict instructions to avoid any discussion of the war, especially with veterans. Questions would inevitably arise to units, dates of service and areas of operations; and these I could not answer. So instead, I buried myself in the Post.

After I had finished eating, I unhitched the U-Haul trailer from my car and wrestled it into a separate parking space. Reasonably confident that no one would steal it, I set off to reacquaint myself with Northern Virginia and the District.

My first stop was Roth's Barber Shop in Clarendon. Hyman Roth was something of a local legend, a barber who had made a fortune in rental housing. I had let a room from him in a house given over to college students when I enrolled at Georgetown in 1977; and despite his churlish ways I wanted to see him again.

We had gotten along well until he had attempted to involve me in a shady scheme to recoup rent money stolen by one of his managers. In accordance with standard practice, the man in question had collected rent checks from the tenants of a house he managed in North Arlington. But instead of turning them over to Roth, he had somehow cashed them and fled. By then I was managing another of his houses nearby, and apparently for that reason Roth had persuaded himself that it was my duty to recover his loss by extorting additional rent from the hapless tenants. In my view the tenants fulfilled their contractual obligation to Roth when they paid his authorized representative, and were under no obligation to pay again; and in any event, I was quite certain that all this fell far from my responsibility. 

Roth didn't see it that way. The fact that the money had been paid was to him irrelevant; in his view, the only thing that mattered was that the funds were never deposited in his account. His emotional illogic and his complete indifference to the fact that his agent had somehow managed to negotiate half a dozen checks made out to his name made me wonder if something else might be amiss. As a result, I had resigned from his service and moved to other premises. He reacted with outrage, mistaking my discretion for yet another act of betrayal.

After the passage of almost eight years, I hoped that he would have changed his mind. Rental housing in Northern Virginia was both scarce and expensive, and he held the lions share of non-corporate properties in Arlington. He had an uncanny grasp of the rental market, and he loved nothing more than to discuss it with anyone who would listen. If he weren't interested in leasing a property to me, I would at least gain an important insight into the housing situation.

As it turned out, he had mellowed only slightly. He remembered me with more bitterness than remorse, so after a few minutes of forced pleasantries I had departed. Realizing that the odds of securing a suitable residence during the holiday weekend were all but impossible, I decided to accept Steve and Christine Schneider’s generous offer of temporary shelter. After leaving Roth’s property I had shared a house with them on 2nd Street South for almost two years; and in the course of that time we had become fast friends. With the exception of Bouchey, they were the only people I had kept in close touch with after leaving. 

I had hoped to avoid staying with them, for in the intervening years they had married and had a child. Their daughter Jillian was still an infant and I did not want to impose upon them. Moreover, our relationship had changed with their marriage. Although they preferred to deny it, their vows took precedence over our friendship; and their parental responsibilities, even more.

Reasonably sure that I would be able to find a short-term lease within the business week, I persuaded myself that a few nights on the Schneider’s couch would do no harm. Thus decided, I set off for a leisurely drive through my old stomping grounds. 

But by then there was more on my mind than mere tourism. As I had pulled out of the motel on my way to Roth’s place, I had an uneasy sense that I was under surveillance.  Since I had provided Jerry with my itinerary before leaving St. Louis, it seemed unlikely that the Navy would have me under close observation. Moreover, I had long since deduced that they kept tabs on me by tracking my telephone calls, bank drafts, and credit card purchases. Since I had charged my room at the Iwo Jima to my Visa, they surely knew by now I had arrived safely and settled in as per plan. That left the opposition.

I picked up Route 50 East at Glebe Road, and headed back towards Washington. As I descended onto Route 50, I began a routine series of maneuvers designed to force unseen observers to expose themselves or to break contact altogether. Mobil countersurveillance is always difficult, and heavy traffic makes it even more so. It requires a great deal of patience, attention to detail and, as I had learned over the years, no small amount of luck even in the best of circumstances. So as I settled into my routine, I hoped that Fortune would favor me.

As I proceeded down Route 50, I changed my rate of speed at irregular intervals and switched lanes several times before exiting onto Ft. Myer Drive in Rosslyn. I took Ft. Myer west to Wilson Boulevard, turning right at the light to pick up the George Washington Parkway at the river front. I crossed the river on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, emerging in Foggy Bottom with no sign of a tail.

With time on my hands and no clear agenda, I decided to proceed onto Georgetown. It had been more than two years since I had last visited; and I hoped it had not changed. I slid through an amber light at Constitution, and proceeded up hill on 23rd Street to Washington Circle. Looping around it, I merged onto Pennsylvania Avenue and headed west. 

I was astonished by the traffic. Despite the tremendous expansion of government that had occurred during the Johnson Administration, Washington was still very much the sleepy village of my childhood when I first returned in 1977. It had grown substantially by the time I departed in 1981, but traffic jams were then still unknown. Even in rush hour, I could reach Capitol Hill from my residence in Arlington in less than 20 minutes. 

In the past four years, Washington had changed dramatically. The metropolitan skyline was littered with tower cranes, attesting to new and expensive construction; and the suburbs had surged southward into Virginia. Even on this Memorial Day Weekend, the streets were clogged with traffic.

As I passed by the elegant high-rise apartments that adorned the block, I glanced back into my mirror to check the traffic. At that instant, a beige Chevrolet emerged from the circle behind me and slid unnaturally across lanes to line upon me. With practiced care, I returned my attention to the road ahead. As I slowed for the light at 25th Street, I leaned forward to adjust the knob of the radio. As I did so, I stole a glance in the passenger-side mirror.

There were four cars separating me from the Chevy, impeding my view. I lit a fresh cigarette, and inhaled deeply as I leaned back into the seat. I waited until the light turned, and glanced up again as I accelerated. Again my view was blocked.

Deciding that mobile countersurveillance was impossible under the circumstances, I decided to try my luck on foot. After merging into M Street, I turned left on 30th and parked my car in front of a meter halfway down the street. Although parking was supposedly free on Saturday afternoons, I deposited eight quarters in quick succession and turned the handle. From bitter experience I had learned that if the metropolitan police were indifferent to murder and mayhem, they roused to frenzy at the sight of a parking violation. After my car had been towed the second time for trivial infractions, I made it a point to always pay obeisance to the City Fathers. 

Twenty yards on down the hill, I stopped to retie my shoe laces. As I knelt down I took advantage of a plate glass window to check my rear. There was no one behind me.

Although disappointed, I was not surprised. Countersurveillance is an exacting and generally unrewarding art form, as is the practice of intelligence itself. Effective countersurveillance requires an enormous investment of time, which ordinary civilians such as myself could not afford. Drycleaning – that is, the practice of making sure that one is not under immediate surveillance – can and often does take the better part of the day. Moreover, it is highly revealing to the trained observer who might chance across one’s path.

Given the constraints I operated under, my only real options were to spot check occasionally and to act upon hunches as I had this day. Although my instincts were more often right than wrong, they were not so by a wide margin. My “rug dance,” as I had come to call it, often failed to produce anything more than frustration and tired feet.

After the passage of a few hours without result, I generally concluded that my tail was clean. But there had been times when I had countersurveilled for hours upon end without success, even though I knew in the depths of my soul that a surveillance team was hard upon me. Countersurveillance is a game of cat and mouse; and those that play it soon learn the cat is most often successful. 

Turning right on K Street, I walked the three blocks to Wisconsin at a leisurely pace. Along the way I made a mental note to kick myself, for the route I had taken would require a steep and painful climb up Wisconsin to M Street. Although my knee had long since healed, stark inclines still served as painful reminders. When I reached the corner I paused to light a cigarette, and to look up ruefully. It was at least 100 yards to M Street, and most of it was at a heavy grade. Resigned, I started up the hill. 

By the time I reached the bridge over the C & O Canal I was hurting. My knee throbbed, and I was breathing heavily from the long hobble up the incline. Pausing to catch my breath, I gazed eastward along the dry canal bed. Ignoring the raucous traffic behind me, I stole a brief moment to enjoy the peaceful and historic view. Entirely unaware of the brutal murder that had occurred on the towpath beneath me some twenty years before, I could not foresee that this killing would draw me inexorably into the dark realm of political assassination. Momentarily safe from the curse of foreknowledge, I flicked away my cigarette and resumed my trek up Wisconsin. There were only another 40 yards to go.

I reached the intersection late, having stopped to explore a sex shop just beyond the bridge. It hadn’t been there when I had last visited; and I was frankly surprised. Although the sexual revolution had struck DC with full force in the late 1960’s, the gravitas of government had always in the past masked the frantic promiscuity of official Washington.

Persuading myself that it was an appropriate time to check for a tail, I sauntered in half-expecting to be greeted by a faded madam dressed in a bustier and six-inch heels. My expectations were miserably disappointed, for the young man who greeted me from behind the sales counter was unmistakably gay, as were most of the other customers. Taken aback by their thinly disguised homosexuality, I pretended to glance around for a few moments before exiting through the door. 

In my embarrassment I forgot to check the street as I emerged out onto the sidewalk. Had I realized it at the time it would have caused my already crimson cheeks to darken even further, but I was too busy cursing my mid-western background to notice. Although hardly a stranger to physical passion, sex remained for me an intensely private matter. Public allusions to sexuality caused me to cringe; and I was completely flustered by the more exotic varieties that had begun to openly flourish in the District.

All this served as a painful reminder of my lack of social grace and sophistication. Although I had been raised with impeccable manners, they were decidedly mid-western and all too revealing. In Washington, style had always claimed precedence over substance; and for that reason I had often found myself ill at ease in social circumstances. On more than one occasion I had been deeply wounded by references to my lack of polish, for I knew them to be all too true.

As I crossed over M Street at the light I narrowly escaped a taxi that careened around the corner. I replied to the blaring horn with a one-finger salute, and sprinted to sidewalk. Forty feet onward I was rewarded by the sight of the Publik House on my left, and the Crazy Horse Saloon farther down on my right. The Publik House was noted for its excellent stakes and fine wines; and the Crazy Horse for its generally drunken and always exuberant crowds. I had dined at the first and crawled from the second many times; and I smiled to myself, knowing that I would do so again. 

A few moments later I stepped up onto the single step leading into Clyde’s, which had been my favored weekend hangout. Clyde’s was more nearly a neighborhood tavern than a big city bar, but it attracted a young and upscale clientele. I had found Friday nights to be particularly productive; and for years the women I had met there had filled my calendar. For young bachelors such as myself, Clyde’s was Washington’s answer to Paradise.

It was by now late afternoon and the front bar was almost deserted. I climbed on a barstool and fished for a cigarette. As I lit it, I glimpsed the stranger reflected in the mirror that ran the length of the wall. Staring back at me, he asked my motive in silent querry: Is it vanity or blind faith or courageous folly?

Had I then answered truthfully, I would have had no choice but to shake my head and say: I do not know. 

I was shocked to hear my name called from the far end of the bar. It was the bartender who had poured for me lagers so many Friday nights past. An excellent bartender, he was good with names, and he knew his customers well. But after four years absence, I could hardly believe that he would remember me. Forgetting the stranger reflected in the mirror, I stood and shook his hand warmly. For it seemed to me a good omen. 

Without asking, he poured me a draft and handed me a menu. Although we hardly knew one another, we talked amiably until a waitress brought my lunch some 15 minutes later. Washington had changed, he said, and Georgetown was no longer the sole center of excitement. New bars and restaurants were opening up in the suburbs and, in fact, a second Clyde’s had opened up at Tyson’s Corner. But he assured me that Georgetown was still the best place to meet single women, and he urged me to come back later. I explained to him that this weekend was out of the question, but promised I would be back the week after when I had settled in. 

After I finished eating, I laid a twenty on the bar and headed back out onto the sidewalk. I took the single step easily, and started down M Street at a rapid stride. But I had not taken more than a few paces when a stranger stopped me and asked me for the time. He was about my age, a little taller, well dressed and obviously affluent. From his speech and manner, I inferred he was also well educated.

I glanced at my watch, but before I could answer bells began to peal in the far distance. He smiled sheepishly and said, “I’m sorry, I should have waited for them.” He nodded curtly, then looked away.  “They’re the bells of St. Clement’s, you know.”

With that he brushed past, leaving me standing on the sidewalk to wonder if he were mad. I stood there for a long time as I watched his back disappear into a crowd that had gathered far down the street, puzzled and uneasy. It was odd, I thought, so very odd…

The incident troubled me as I made my way back to my car, and all that night I had turned it over and over in my mind. It had tugged at me until I had at last fallen into a dreamless sleep, exhausted by the day’s travels. 

Now two days later, I was focused upon the business at hand. But as I eased my car up on the sales lot of Landmark Mobil, it whispered like a half forgotten dream from the shadows of my mind,
 

‘Oranges and lemons,’ say the bells of St. Clement’s, 

‘You owe me three farthings,’ say the bells of St. Martin’s…