Six Car Lengths Behind an Elephant, page 20
When I asked how a security guard could rob us, I was thinking of the security guard that stood at the gate to our apartment building. “That’s easy,” he said. “He just might tell you that he won’t always let your pretty daughter in the gate. You’re not going to take a chance on that, are you?” It was he who explained how we could send and receive mail.
An enterprising American had started an airmail service out of Miami. On a chartered plane, this service would fly letters and parcels to a post office box in a particular building downtown. There was a monthly charge for this service, and we looked into it both for our personal mail and Frank’s business address, after he found an office. It was like the mail service in the military, with an APO Box in Miami.
Setting Up the Office
Frank found office space in a centrally located building which, coincidentally, was also where the mail service was set up. He was supposedly opening a new branch of a company emanating from a very good address in New York. This meant that his office should be well appointed. It was going to be an expensive venture. Frank and I worked together on the furnishings, and found very good-looking things on sale at a furniture store that was closing. The cost of good furniture was unbelievably high. Still, the CIA was appalled at the expense. It appeared that there had never been a deep cover man in Venezuela, living on the economy, and the man Frank was replacing had worked within the embassy. The Agency bean counters behaved as though we were trying to make a profit, as if it just wasn’t possible for furniture to be so expensive. And it was on sale! I sometimes wondered if embassy people looked at a local grocery store in order to be properly shocked . . . and grateful.
Earlier I had become friendly with the wife of the manager of our hotel, and went to have tea with her one day. I expressed my admiration for a woven tapestry on the wall. She told me it came from Peru, and that a stewardess friend of hers had transported it. If I wanted, she would be glad to ask her friend to buy another one for me. I was enthusiastic about buying a tapestry, so I prepaid for the purchase. When I received it, I was delighted. It was very large, a piece that would cover a wall and definitely be the focal point of the room. Unfortunately, it didn’t fit in with the decor of our apartment, because the decor was minimalist and modern, and the tapestry was earthy, woven with heavy wool. Frank liked it and asked if he could hang it in his office, which seemed like a good idea. Otherwise, it would just be stored in a closet until a later date. After we put up a few paintings, the office looked extremely smart; definitely the kind of office his cover company would approve of.
It was going to be dicey hiring a secretary. Frank’s work hours had to be flexible, or it would be clumsy to explain his activities to a secretary. The salary of a bilingual secretary who also worked as a bookkeeper was also far more than the budget allowed. We were faced with the only solution: I would be Frank’s secretary. We thought it would work, because Frank and I got along extremely well, but it was a prickly situation. In this circumstance, there would be very little actual business transacted, and the facade was all that mattered. It was also a perfect place for the representative in the embassy to drop in on Frank to arrange his meetings. The emissary from the embassy was complimentary about the office and admired the tapestry. He was very capable and experienced, and spoke Spanish like a native, which made things easier for Frank. I had the distinct feeling that he looked askance at my presence. I was paid a thousand dollars a month, which was a bargain, but we could use that money for corn flakes and other luxuries. We did tend to be testy around embassy personnel because our experience had not always been pleasant.
Our Social Life
After we moved from the hotel into our new apartment, Johanna was picked up by the school bus at the front gate. It was interesting to note that most of her new friends were the Spanish-speaking Venezuelans, rather than Americans passing through. This was a natural inclination for Johanna, since Spanish was her first language. She started bringing friends home, and I could hear the laughter from her bedroom. The roof terrace was ideal for her to have her friends over in the evening, and we could hear them dancing to the portable stereo. It was a perfect arrangement for Frank and me as well, once again recognizing the safety of having Johanna home, and yet having our own privacy, sitting on the living room balcony defying The Noise.
When the fall play was announced, Johanna auditioned for it and got one of the leading roles. It was amazing and wonderful to see how that changed things. The other cast members became her friends and her circle of friends grew wider. Then, in the spring, auditions were held for Peter Pan, and she was cast in the leading role as Wendy. During rehearsals, other students would drop in to watch, and she became a celebrity of sorts. My most important wish had come true. Johanna was happy.
Frank and I also had great luck meeting “our types” of people. I met a European man at the apartment rental office who seemed very nice—and good looking. I always like that in a man. We exchanged phone numbers and he and his wife soon became a “must” couple in our social calendar. Then Johanna arranged to have her friend’s parents sit with us at her fall play, because she knew we’d like each other. They were gregarious and humorous . . . add them to the list. Then there was the British couple that lived in our building and was also very charming, as were Australian friends of theirs. Add the hotel manager and his wife. Mix well. The ingredients made for a good party. Our social life flourished. I loved our apartment and it was eternal springtime.
The Meetings
Frank was to take over an ongoing agenda of clandestine meetings that had been handled by the man who preceded him. He did not have an official meeting with the chief of station, but he was introduced to him. A liaison officer from the embassy would meet with Frank at our office. Frank’s agent meetings could be arranged at a coffee shop or at hotels, and the modus operandi here was that Frank did not spend the night at the hotels. He carried a small tote bag, checked in, and after the meeting return home. Then he would return to the hotel in the morning, pay the bill, and check out. We had no idea why it was done this way. Perhaps because he always registered in small hotels in obscure areas of the city . . . ? It was probably considered too clumsy to go to the big hotels and take the chance of running into people who knew him. The large hotels there offered memberships for use of their pools and tennis courts, so people we knew might easily be there on a daily basis.
It was not Frank’s place to argue about the set-up of an operation that had been ongoing for some time. In a way, it made life simpler. For the first time, Frank actually found his job boring. After Frank had one meeting with an agent, which was set up by the embassy, he came home and said that he really wanted me to see this guy. When I asked him why, he said, “You’ll see.” He went on to say that the meeting was to be in a very public place, in a shopping mall that was “open air” with a number of mezzanines that had small tables and chairs. I believe they are described as “ice cream chairs,” in other words, very small. “I told them,” Frank said, “that I thought this was a bad idea, because it’s the most popular mall in the city, but they said so what, you could be having coffee with a business client. Nobody will notice you.”
The next time he was to meet with this man, Frank suggested that I just walk by and glance at them, so I would know what he meant by “you have to see this guy.” At the appointed time, I saw Frank sitting at a little white table, with a man whose back was to me, but who was so grossly obese that his buttocks were literally hanging over the side of the chair. He weighed at least three hundred pounds. I caught Frank’s quick glance as I passed, and saw the man’s face. He was seriously cross-eyed, but not with eyeballs crossing toward each other. Both eyeballs were rolling all over the place. Now there was a man nobody would notice.
Robbery
Frank and I had a great time during our stay in Venezuela. It was the same kind of camaraderie we had found in India. All of us were waiting for the cedula, the government pass to leave the country. It was something like parole. Each time a foreigner left the country, whether for a vacation or a business trip, the application for a cedula had to be made. Comically, it did seem like they were trying to keep the inmates in prison. Our Texan friend was right. Everyone hated the place, not just because it was unpleasant, but because the corruption was total, and we were honestly afraid, even the men.
Once again, we had a tiny little car, the purchase of which was made by the cover company. I could park it anywhere. There was a local market for groceries, and that was as far as I would go. This market was much more pleasant than the hotel market and had more variety. Frank never went to the market because he didn’t like the strong smell of the meat, but I became accustomed to it. When I returned from my drive to the market, I asked Frank to meet me in the garage, so he could be there while the gate to the street closed behind me. It closed from side to side and seemed to take forever.
We attended a dinner party once that was in a lovely home with a gorgeous patio. It was a balmy evening with a slight breeze. There were several small tables with pink tablecloths, flowers, and candles. Servants in uniforms darted about. Cocktails were served outdoors. We commented on what a beautiful evening it was, and I felt optimistic. Everyone looked tan and handsome.
When we sat down to dinner, I found myself seated at a table for six with interesting people I hadn’t met before, one of them being a German woman who was talking about her experiences since moving there with her husband. She said that at a dinner party much like this one, with tables outdoors, the guests were accosted by a trio of armed robbers demanding their jewelry. She said she refused to give up her wedding ring. Then she showed me her ring finger, which was hugely scarred and without a ring. The thief had taken a knife from his pocket and said he would cut her finger, and he started to do just that, removing flesh, when she screamed and gave him the ring. I found this story horrifying, and from that date, I never again wore my wedding ring or any other jewelry in Venezuela.
The method of robbery most often described to me was that a robber pulled up beside your car at a red light, usually on a motorcycle, and reaching into the window ripped off your necklace or gold chains. Keeping the windows rolled up seemed like a good idea. It had never occurred to me that we could be robbed so readily at a dinner party in a private home. Although I was impressed by the home, I was glad we lived in an apartment with all those keys.
Staying Alive on Venezuela’s Roads
To drive in downtown traffic, it helped if you were insane. It truly was not unusual to see a car jump the curb and drive down the sidewalk at a high speed, in order to pass, and the sound of horns and yells were a constant. I was warned to cover up my fair hair when I went out, to avoid being accosted by men, and always to keep the windows of my car closed and door locked.
Frank drove the car to his meetings. One evening he had a meeting at the Hilton Hotel, and on the way, he stopped to get gas. When he got back into the car, he noticed that the front license plate had fallen off. He got out, picked it up and put it on the front seat. As he was about to pull away, two policemen stopped him. They had seen what happened, but nevertheless told Frank he was driving illegally without a front license plate. One policeman sat in the back seat, and one in the front. The one in the backseat leaned over and twirled his gun near Frank’s ear. Corny, but effective. It wasn’t until later that Frank realized he should never speak in Spanish, and should pretend to misunderstand when approached by police. We had, however, taken the advice of the Texan, and had a hundred American dollars in cash at all times.
The police told Frank they would have to impound the car, and that it might be difficult for them to remember where it was impounded. They also said they probably would have to take away Frank’s international driver’s license. When he showed them the American cash, they said it really wasn’t enough for both of them, but it would have to do. They did not even pretend that they were legit and going to turn the money over to the police department. They then asked Frank to drive them home to two different locations. It sounds naive on their part to reveal their home locations, but it didn’t matter. They knew that neither Frank nor anyone else would report them. To whom?
A popular place for the police to stop cars was on the road to the airport. If anyone was driving to the airport, there was a time limit involved, either to catch a plane or to pick someone up. Thus there was very little discussion and everyone carried cash to the airport. Although this did not happen to us, we were once stopped in city traffic by a policeman who said we had run a red light. There were no traffic lights on that street, but we didn’t protest and pretended we didn’t understand Spanish. A small piece of paper was handed to Frank through the window, on which was written simply “$100.” A nice, round figure. We gave him the money and carried on. “Do you think I can put this on my expense account?” Frank asked. “Take it out of your 1070,” I said. We couldn’t stop laughing.
We had experienced corruption and thieves in India, but at least they were in our employ, or in business, so we didn’t actually live in fear. Here, we lived in fear.
The Vigil
After we had been in Venezuela for a few months, Frank said he could not see the reason why he’d been singled out for this posting. All the agents he handled were already in place and there was no reason to recruit new ones. He couldn’t figure out why they had specified they needed a man with experience for this sensitive posting. Any intelligence officer who could speak Spanish would have been capable of handling the situation. And I was still the translator at large, whenever written reports were given to Frank. I did this at home, on my bouncy little Brother’s portable typewriter.
One night, Frank had a meeting in a small hotel with an agent. Per usual, I expected him home no later than 11:00 p.m. Johanna and I followed our routine and watched the weekly soap opera together (it was an evening soap opera that aired in prime time). We’d prop ourselves on pillows on my bed to watch the show each week, and we thought it was hilarious. During one dramatic scene, we saw with glee that the backdrop of the set, which was supposedly a wall with a painting on it, wobbled along with the very dramatic lead actor, who was pounding his fist on a desk. With each pound, the set wobbled with equal drama. We were hysterical.
After the soap opera ended, Johanna went to her room and I began to read. It was very late, and there was still no sign of Frank. I felt a stirring of apprehension and began to watch the clock. At 2:00 a.m. I began to worry. I couldn’t sleep, so I got up, made tea, and sat on the balcony where I could see the winding drive that came up the hill to our building. There was almost no traffic on the street. Another hour went by.
Johanna appeared at the balcony and asked if everything was all right, and I said no, that I was worried. She joined me with a cup of tea and we both set our eyes on the road. When I thought about the Venezuelan police, I didn’t even want to imagine how they would treat someone like Frank. I was beyond grateful that Johanna could understand my situation. It was such a comfort. She asked me if I knew where he was that night or whom he was meeting, if I had any reason to be particularly concerned about this evening. I told her that I knew he was always on high alert about possibly being followed by the KGB. We fell silent.
I didn’t know whether I should call Frank’s case officer at home; I didn’t want to disturb him until at least dawn. Johanna asked about the protocol. I told her there were code words we were supposed to use in these situations. She urged me to do so, but I waited until the sky became light. When I checked our address book, I saw that Frank had never written the number there. It was probably under a code name I had forgotten. I called information and to my surprise, the number was listed.
I called and his sleepy voice answered. Riddled with adrenaline, I cryptically tried to explain who I was by using Frank’s code name. It was instantly obvious that he had no idea who I was and didn’t know the code name. I couldn’t chance saying anything more in case the phones were tapped. I said I would call him later at the office. “Hmm . . .” he said.
It was time for Johanna to catch the bus to school and I insisted that she get on it. I wanted things to look as “normal” as possible. Johanna wanted to stay home, but I argued with her. She said it wasn’t fair to expect her to act normal and go through a whole day at school knowing her dad was missing and not being able to talk about it with anyone. I promised that I would call the school under whatever pretense, to alert her with any update. She reluctantly agreed, fighting yawns as she rushed out the door to get to the bus in time.
Not thirty minutes after Johanna left, I heard the private elevator kick into gear. It opened directly into our living room, so I stood in front of our door and waited. It stopped on our floor, the doors opened, and there was Frank. He was filled with remorse because he realized how frightened I must’ve been. He had been taking an antihistamine for allergy, which made him drowsy. When the agent left the room, he started making notes about the meeting and took the medication along with a drink. He then fell asleep. Through the night. Accidentally. He had no resistance to medication, but alcohol didn’t help. I was furious.
I called the school and asked to speak to Johanna. They took her out of class and brought her to the phone in the principal’s office. I said, “Daddy’s home. He’s okay. We’ll talk later.” I don’t know what she told the principal about why she had to take the call.
I was relieved that the chief had been so baffled and so sleepy, and that my early morning call had made no sense to him. It also prompted me to realize that we should review the drill, so that he would be alert under whatever circumstances, should a real situation present itself. I thought about all the married women who only had to be worried about their husbands getting drunk and having sex with a wicked woman. Did they know how lucky they were?
