Six Car Lengths Behind an Elephant, page 3
At a much later date, they were told they had been in Panama.
Dead Drops
This was the term used to describe the delivery or receipt of messages passed to or from an agent to the intelligence officer. For example, if Frank needed information about a particular topic, he would call his agent, use a code word that the agent already understood, and this meant that they were to exchange information at a particular magazine stand. There were different code words used for different locations.
This is how it worked: Frank would go to a newsstand, carrying the latest issue of Time magazine. Tucked inside Frank’s Time magazine was a message for the agent. When the agent arrived at the magazine stand, he would peruse various magazines near Time. Frank would pick up a new Time magazine, and when no one was looking, put the one he was carrying at the top of the stack. The agent would pick up that magazine and take it to the cashier, and Frank, after browsing and perhaps buying another magazine as well as a Time, would pay the cashier and leave. When the agent had the information in writing, he would call Frank with his own code word: the little charade would be reversed. This was remarkably easy to do.
While at the Farm, a “dead drop” test was exercised in New York City. Future spies were exposed to this large city as a way to prepare them for the environs in which they would actually do dead drops in the future. (In whatever country, we were always located in the capital city.)
In the exercise in New York, instructors would play the part of agents. An instructor would call a public phone, the number of which had been noted, and Frank would be waiting to answer it and hear the code word. He would then go to the newsstand, park bench, subway station, or other location designated by the password. The instructor was actually following Frank. Now Frank had to perform the dead drop, constantly looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed, stopping at store windows to check the reflection of anyone behind him, or ducking into a store on the way, for a matter of minutes, to elude his “shadow.” Frank said this first exercise was remarkably unnerving. Four of the dead droppers were caught. Even a simple exercise like this could be blown. There were times in the years to come, when I carried out the dead drop, because Frank could not get away, or did not want to be seen. On these few occasions, I was nervous . . . but I could not deny that it was exciting.
In the ensuing years, a representative of the CIA would occasionally visit us and bring “toys” (as we called them) to demonstrate new and secret forms of communication. The man who did this was always personable, and was usually our guest for dinner. When he was there, it was almost like we were playing a children’s game. He demonstrated a letter written in invisible ink, which when covered with a solution, would become visible. A thick ballpoint pen was actually a camera. Frank was given a new briefcase with a false bottom, which could be opened only by applying pressure at delicately placed locations. There was also a miniature camera, easily carried to take pictures of documents in a matter of seconds. There was also a thermos, commonly carried by people who brought their lunch to work, and this, too, had a false bottom, which could hold the tiny camera, as well as the film. It was cunningly made, and seemed weightless and noiseless.
There were no guns or weapons of any kind. In fact, if any of us had owned a gun, it would have been necessary to turn it in. My apologies to Sean Connery.
Leaving the Farm
When Frank graduated from the Farm, we were surprised to hear that there would actually be a graduation ceremony, such as it was. It apparently was a very guarded celebration of all the new intelligence officers and it was held in the mess hall of the compound. We were told that the colonel from Langley would be there to shake hands, after which many drinks would be consumed. This occasion was only for the men, and did not include their wives or families. Frank was not interested in attending, because the very confines described seemed to him to mark a hollow occasion, and then his instructor said, “You know, Frank, this will be the only time you will ever be recognized by anybody in this outfit, and the only time you will be praised by anybody here.” Frank thought that was not a very compelling reason to sit in the mess hall and drink with the boys, because drinking with the boys had never been big on his schedule, unless the boys were fighter pilots in the Marine Corps. Plus, at age 29, he was the old man of the class, and he was exhausted. He said he just wanted to stay home and have a martini with his wife. It was a dear thing to do. Later in the evening there was a jolly banging on our door, which revealed two happily inebriated classmates, who had stopped to tell Frank that he had been one of the top ten in his class. Of course, he was pleased.
Our time at the Farm had not been difficult for me. Apart from missing Frank, the wives and families had become friendly, and had taken an interest in each other’s problems. We had shared long evenings, and the children had found playmates. My next-door neighbor came over for coffee every morning, bringing her children along, and I looked forward to her company. It is strange to realize that I never saw her again, and never heard any news of where they had been posted.
Frank had definitely made up his mind about working under deep cover, and his instructor said that someone was needed in Spain, but they had not yet found a cover company to make this possible. Nevertheless, he advised Frank to wait, and arrangements would be made for him to attend Berlitz language classes for as long as it took for them to find a host company. “You can live wherever you want,” he said, “we’ll store your furniture here.” He said we would be paid a per diem for cost of living expenses, and that this amount would cover our rent.
Excellent. We could go back to San Francisco, and live in a motel with our two children, and say to our friends, “We’re hoping Frank gets a job in Madrid, so he’s going to study Spanish until he sees an ad in the paper for a job in Spain. No, we don’t have any furniture, but this little motel is just swell.” As ludicrous as this sounds, these are exactly the circumstances in which we found ourselves. During the next year, we moved into and out of five different furnished “places,” as well as one beautiful house offered to us by a friend.
Frank was the eternal optimist, and even as the weeks and months passed, he simply “knew we would hear next week,” and we would begin our exciting adventure. He just couldn’t wait to start playing the game. It seemed to me that it would have been more realistic to keep us at the Farm, employing Frank as an instructor’s assistant, for the sake of cover. I expect that this was a precedent they could not allow.
Limbo
During our wait to find a cover company, we moved in and out of houses that would never appear in Architectural Digest. We stayed in the same area, but finding a furnished house for any period of time was almost impossible because our agenda was so mysterious that we could not lease a place for even six months. Frank bought a used car that allowed us mobility and transportation to and from his daily classes at Berlitz. Living in the same vicinity as our friends again was a mixed blessing. It was nearly impossible to explain our lifestyle and it was embarrassing.
During this long recess, we experienced one of our most difficult periods of trickery that would become our full-time occupation, just explaining what was happening in our lives, and why we were so displaced. And we found we were good at it. We made vague references to our fictitious employer, which we decided to call “Acme” and something, importers and exporters. We thought he could say he was involved in that line of work without revealing any details, and nobody would ask about the details. No one did. We also considered saying that Frank was going to be a “consultant,” a title that to this day means nothing to me and more than likely, means nothing to the “consultant.” “I’m kind of hurt that nobody has enough interest to quiz me,” Frank said, “and I’m all prepared to give an answer.”
During that pause in our life, I found that I was pregnant, which was a source of joy to us because we had planned to have three children. It did throw a wrench into some of our activities, as it was a difficult pregnancy because I was sure I was carrying a kick-boxer, deft at hitting the sciatic nerve. This brought me to my knees in a department store once, sending the other customers fleeing from the scene of an impromptu birth in the men’s underwear section.
I had begun studying Spanish with a tutor, early every morning, which was not the best time for a nauseated mother-to-be. The tutor was an American who had lived in Spain, and he treated us to the strong espresso Spaniards drink, sending my senses reeling with nausea.
One time, we lived in a spacious and beautiful house, lent to us by a friend who was going away for Christmas, thus allowing us to enjoy a terrific Christmas dinner with family and friends. It had a walk-in fireplace, with fieldstone rising to the ceiling, and a huge living room, which was perfect for an informal party on New Year’s Eve. At that time, we had been in limbo for more than six months. My pregnancy allowed us a new story to tell: that we hoped we could stay in the United States for the birth, since conditions in Spain might be dicey. As a matter of fact, there was some truth to the story, as my obstetrician had suggested that childbearing in Spain would be about as up-to-date as spawning my child in an open field somewhere. (This turned out to be wrong from all points of view, which we discovered after living in Spain. We found that their obstetrical care was far superior to ours, involving the participation of the father, and keeping the newborn in a small bassinette beside the mother for several days.)
There was a telephone number that Frank would call on a regular basis, to see if there was any news about our future. We lived very frugally, and were unable to save or invest, which was a precursor that applied to the rest of our lives together. Frank was able to cushion the coffers by exercising his duty with the Marine Corps Reserve. He was flying out of a base on the east coast when he called me, jubilantly relaying the incredible news that we had a cover company to take us to Madrid, and that we were to prepare to move to their headquarters in the Midwest while he trained for his new cover job.
It was sweet relief when we moved into a charming little house. The house had at one time been the chauffeur’s lodging on an old estate. It had a slanted roof that gave the upstairs bedrooms charm, and we were again surrounded with our own furniture. I grew to love that house, and nested so intensely that I actually baked bread. I remember looking out the window at the changing leaves, and smelling the bread baking while John and Kristin were napping. I was content.
My late pregnancy was difficult, as I experienced false labor every few days, finding myself doubling over in the kitchen and watching the hands of the clock, then finding it was a false alarm. When the actual day of birth arrived, Johanna came into the world without the attendance of the doctor, but we did make it to the hospital.
We desperately needed to establish some kind of permanence in our lives. Over one year had passed since we’d left the Farm and we had been homeless for two Christmases.
The insanity was just beginning and we were gathering no moss.
The Briefing
While waiting for the necessary paperwork to be activated, as well as the medical examinations, we lived in a small furnished apartment outside of Washington. Frank had a lot of meetings with unnamed people who explored the intricacies of his job, and his role to play, and then they asked to have an interview with me. I was very fatigued, and at the same time quite nervous about this briefing. I looked at it as a possible interrogation. If I struck them as unsatisfactory material, another wife would be supplied.
Johanna was still being fed three or four times a night. This was long before daddies did any daddying; all ministering to the child was for the person who gave birth. I was exhausted. Upon seeing my reflection in the mirror, I decided that wearing a hat would be a fine addition toward appearing to be a lady of not only style, but class. Good enough to be married to this man. On my last frenzied whirl around the apartment, I discovered that Kristin and John had put apples and oranges in the toilet. My first reaction was to start screaming, so I took a Valium. A blue one. Then I ran for the bus.
It was a cold and blustery February day, and the run for the bus cleared my head. The office to which I was going had a fictitious name. When I entered the building, I found it on the vestibule directory, and when I approached the door, I wondered if I should just walk in or knock. I knocked. The door opened and I was greeted by three gentlemen who offered me a chair at a conference table. I removed my coat, but kept the hat on for effect.
One of the men started to tell me about the history of Spain, going several kings back in time. The radiators hissed. It was very hot and this man was very boring. Between the hissing and the interminable history lesson, I realized that I was nodding off. My hat had a very large brim, and I actually felt it barely touch the table as I nodded. The Valium was a mistake.
I was being asked a question. What? For the sake of my own pride, and not for them, I asked if they could tell me anything about conditions in Spain in this century, such as housing, medical care, schools. This was a mistake. One of the other men began his little lecture, and took to his feet, walking back and forth with his hands behind his back, droning about I know-not-what. I tried very hard to stay awake. I expected Peter Sellers to enter and finish the scene.
I learned nothing. I expect they might have thought I was drunk, regardless that it was nine o’clock in the morning. For God’s sake, I thought, why wouldn’t they find a woman who had lived in Spain to tell me about the fundamentals? Hearing about King Felipe in another century would not get me through a day in Madrid (and they didn’t even tell me the interesting part, that he died of syphilis).
Two hours later, I stumbled down to the street and caught a cab.
Well, at least I had a morning without children, I said to myself. That was a weird trio of whoever they were. I wondered if any one of them had ever been to Spain.
Leaving the U.S.
Before we left for Spain, we were instructed to go to Washington so that each of us could undergo a medical examination. This was the custom for all CIA personnel before being stationed in a foreign country. Our accommodations during the stay consisted of one room with two double beds at Howard Johnson. This was for five people, including a three-month-old. Despite Frank’s plea for two adjoining rooms, we were told that this could not be authorized because three small children should be able to fit in one double bed. It was necessary for us to request a small crib for Johanna.
In order to turn on the television or go to the bathroom, we had to walk across the beds. At this point, I fell apart. Johanna was still waking four times a night and sleep for anyone was impossible. Not only did the beds take up all the floor space, there was no place for us to put twelve suitcases. Our suitcases were large, as we’d been told our furniture would not arrive in Madrid for some time. We had to pile the suitcases on the beds. This certainly did not augur well for what we might expect in the future. There was no consideration for the eighteen months we had just spent literally homeless. Pregnancy and a new baby and two toddlers are difficult enough in one’s own home with all its creature comforts, but under the circumstances we had had to accept, it had been misery. I felt we could have appealed more strongly to someone for my sake and for the children, but Frank was not a boat-rocker, particularly at this embryonic stage of his career. It seemed clear to me that there was no personal interest taken in the case of people like us. It was By The Book.
We were told to be at the doctor’s office, en masse, at 11:00 a.m. on a Thursday. We were further told that our appointment would be under the name of McKenzie, so that no records would be on file under our real names. Of course, our toddlers, who were not crazy about doctors, asked why we had to go if nobody was sick, and we gave them a vague explanation. The office was in a basement apartment in a residential area. We sat in a small waiting area and caught a glimpse of the doctor as a patient left his examining room. He was white-haired, stooped, and wearing a white coat. I figured he was probably a retired doctor who did only this kind of examination. When the receptionist called the name of McKenzie we rose to our feet and John, our three-year-old, said loudly, “That’s not for us! That’s not our name!” I held his wrist very tightly and steered him into the doctor’s examining room.
Our physical examinations were so cursory as to be a joke. Look down the throat, say “aaah.” Look in the ears. Hit the knee with the mallet. Listen to the breathing. One of us could have had leukemia or bleeding ulcers or a brain tumor, and we would have been pronounced as fine specimens and allowed to leave the country. Every two years hence we were subjected to these comical physicals when we had home leave, and we were never able to persuade the powers in Washington that it would be far more feasible to see a doctor in the area in which we lived. Ah, but if we did, my migraines and menstrual cramps might have become public knowledge.
When we had cleared the health hazard, we prepared to leave. I didn’t know how to handle three children on such a long flight, so I planned ahead, forever organized. I had bought an innovative “leash” for both John and Kristin. I thought it would solve the problem of either one of them wandering off. The leashes were made of small straps, which fit around the child’s wrist and then hooked to spiral cords that resembled telephone cords. Each leash was then attached to another band around my own wrist. I thought this would keep my little people near me while I held Johanna, who was four months old.
