Six Car Lengths Behind an Elephant, page 5
I was surprised at how easily impressed Frank was by the “Contessa.” Her arrogance annoyed me, and her attitude, as she swept by or ignored people, was embarrassing to me. This kind of attitude is called muy flamenco in Spain. It is a visual description of the dramatic disdain and pomposity of the flamenco dancer. She had insinuated herself into our lives without invitation, and certainly without any sign of graciousness on my part, but she was oblivious to that. I was disappointed that Frank didn’t see through her.
One day, Frank came home beaming, because Carmen, the Contessa, had invited us all to go to Leon for the weekend to meet her children. I was not prepared to spend four days with people who didn’t speak any English, when I myself could not speak Spanish, except for a few simple phrases. I did not want to face four days in a hotel room with children under any circumstances, and certainly not with an infant. Despite my protests, Frank insisted that we take this opportunity, because she was an invaluable contact. After a year at Berlitz and daily tutoring, Frank could get along well in Spanish and was looking forward to meeting more rich people. I should have said, “Take the children and go. I’ll stay home.” The contacts for Frank’s career had taken top billing in his life.
On the morning that we stocked the station wagon, picked up Carmen, and started the long drive, I was very unhappy. Her nonstop talking, punctuated with slapping my shoulder from the back seat, was building a rage inside me. I looked out the window and let the tears slide down my face. If Frank noticed, he didn’t show it. I again realized that I was not number one on his priority list. I think I was angrier with Frank by then than I was with Carmen.
Carmen’s family members were nice, hospitable people, apparently of some social status, judging from their beautifully appointed home and many servants. They “raised horses,” which I have always considered to be high tone. I found it easier to make an attempt at communication after I had a couple of drinks, because I lost my reservation, and whenever words failed me, I tried to act out the message I was trying to convey. They were highly amused. That was when I discovered that liquor could blur the edges of my fears and apprehension. I thought I was amusing, and I was no longer angry with Frank.
El Gato
Our first all-Spanish evening at our home was memorable. We were entertaining members of Carmen’s family, to reciprocate their great generosity in Leon. I was tense with anxiety, still unsure of myself with the language. It was a chilly November evening, and we had a roaring fire in the fireplace. I had already placed hors d’oeuvres on the coffee table, canapés I had agonized over and prepared myself. Small pots of caviar and sour cream, chopped onion and hard-boiled egg, smoked salmon with triangles toast. The candles were lit. The silver was gleaming. The maid had shrieked upon seeing the chrysanthemums, and their funereal presence had been quickly removed.
The doorbell rang, fashionably late, and Frank and I both stood at the door to greet our guests. The first one was Manolo, Carmen’s son. He was carrying a bouquet of long-stemmed roses and an elaborate box of candy. He had swept in and was bowing to kiss my hand when a sudden screech came from the cat, which had been on the roof and had suddenly fallen down the chimney into the fire. The cat tore across the living room and hurtled into the dining room before Frank could douse her with water. Caviar flew into the air and onto the living room curtains, ashtrays were upside down on the carpet, the maid burst into tears, and Manolo was flat on his back in the dining room, having been knocked over by the blazing cat.
Still on his back, clutching his candy and convulsing with laughter, he chortled: “Que manera de romper el hielo!” (What a way to break the ice!) Indeed. It was the beginning of a fun-filled relationship with Manolo, and every time he visited us, he would dramatically peek around the front door and ask, “Donde esta el gato?” (Where is the cat?)
Fashionably Late
Dinner in Madrid was served at around 10:00 p.m. with cocktails at 9:00. These hours made sense to Spaniards because all business was closed between two in the afternoon until five, remaining open until eight, and the doors of the office did not open until ten in the morning. These hours suited Frank and me well, because we were both night people, but it was terribly hard for most expatriates, especially if they were early-to-bed people. The Spaniards also enjoyed merienda (something like high tea) at five in the afternoon, thereby carrying them through until the late dinner hour. Even children were on this time schedule. The common snack for children was a large slice of French bread with a solid piece of chocolate in the middle, which without doubt kept them on a sugar high until the next meal. I had to make sure that the maid didn’t offer this to our children.
At times, when we were with American friends having dinner in a restaurant, it was obvious that they were fighting sleep when there was still another course to be served. It would have been difficult enough to wait such a long time for dinner without consuming alcohol, but cocktails were served and many wines were consumed, adding, of course, to the sleepiness. Once, when we had American houseguests, they asked if we would mind going to a restaurant at an earlier time, and were stunned to hear that no restaurant began to serve dinner until after nine.
The hours between two and five were still called “siesta” time, but this nap was not routine with the people we knew. On the day we moved into the house, I was bustling along with the movers, giving directions as best that I could, and then suddenly realized they had all disappeared. I looked around and saw them nowhere, despite their truck still parked on the street. I walked out to the street, and there they all were, lying on the grass by the sidewalk, sleeping. I was shocked . . . who did they think they were? I methodically marched down the sidewalk, kicking at their feet and saying “Vamonos!,” one term that I did know, meaning “Let’s go!” They tipped back the peaks of their caps to see what insane person was bothering them and then calmly went back to sleep.
Mr. and Mrs. Spook
It was part of Frank’s job to find and cultivate people who were in a position to acquire intelligence information that would be of help to the United States. He was not interested in acting upon anything that would be of harm to our host country. Throughout his career, Frank was instructed to gather information about dealings with Russia and Russia’s alliances, whether commercial or military.
This was during the Cold War, when our country did not have friendly dealings with Russia, and with nuclear power in Russia’s hands, we wanted to know whatever we could find out. Sources of information were manifold. Introductions to possible sources were intricate operations. Sometimes pure luck would intervene, and Frank would find himself in a position to court the friendship of someone who had access to information he needed. It frequently happened that these people became our friends. Not just Frank’s, but ours. We were the instigators, but in time, friendship would deepen to such an extent that our family and their family would be inter-involved. They knew our children and we knew theirs. They came to John’s first Holy Communion and we attended their son’s wedding. We exchanged birthday and Christmas presents.
It would seem that because we truly liked these people, the job would be made easier. But how could we overlook the initial reason we spent time with them? How could we even think of the possibility of revelation that they were being used? The friendship was real, as was our affection toward each other. Although what Frank was doing was in its own way noble, how could we justify our initial intention?
Because Frank was the manager of the Spanish branch of the American company he represented, he was able to hire anyone he chose, so valuable sources were put on the payroll, and actually did their jobs well, even traveling with Frank. In this way, they were paid for the information Frank gleaned from them. We had to dismiss any feelings of guilt by reminding ourselves that the end justified the means, and that the extrication of information hurt no one. We would converse and a tape recorder installed by a CIA “second story” man picked up the entire conversation. This could be done in a way that obliterated the music that was playing during the conversation.
Later, I would translate the tape and type the manuscript, a long and tedious job. I experienced a number of emotions while doing this, hearing the laughter, picking up the intimacy in the voice of the speaker, our friend, and the feeling of camaraderie that came through, and the trust. This is tacky, I thought. This is shameful. Difficult to justify. But it’s only a job, only a job, only a job.
To oil the wheels, and to loosen the tongue, there was always a lot of alcohol consumed. First cocktails, then wine, then cognac with coffee. It wasn’t until many years of experiencing this kind of emotional turmoil, toward the end of Frank’s career, that I completely understood the need for the unusual clause in our health insurance with the CIA, which offered treatment for alcoholism or substance abuse, and psychiatric care. Frank and I became accustomed to drinking every day and the evening cocktail hour was a must, to calm the nerves. That cocktail “hour” often stretched to two. Over the years, I drank to excess and became clinically depressed. There are more alcoholics and more divorces in the CIA than in any other profession for which percentages are researched.
After Frank’s retirement, when we found ourselves expected to live a normal life, the old habits died hard. Our lifestyle had been nefarious. When we made new friends, Frank would ask them dozens of questions, and was always a very good listener. That was not necessarily a bad thing, because people are flattered when given such attention. I felt he was just slipping into form, smooth as silk.
Several years after living in Spain, we heard that a Spanish friend whose voice we had recorded that evening had died of a heart attack. Frank received this news with calm and seemed unaffected, as though we had just listened to the weather report. That part of his life was over. He had compartmentalized his heart. This was the way he had reinvented himself.
The fabric of our connections with people who were useful to Frank was not easy for me to live with, because I was so close to it all the time. For the first time in my life I had begun to have severe tension headaches, so painful that I sought the advice of a neurologist. He injected novocaine, then cortisone into the knots of muscle. Of course, the headaches were stress induced. I had always been a healthy specimen in “our other life,” as I called it. I also suffered frequent abdominal pain, particularly following a meal shared with Spanish friends, playing my deceptive role.
Having been known as a person so forthright to the point of abrupt, I was not suited to deception. There was just so much that could be pushed into the sub-conscious in the name of what we were supposed to consider as justice. This role would have been easier for a courtesan, vamping and mysterious. Frank was a spontaneous entertainer and I was a planner. I knew that he wished I were more unconstrained and impulsive, because he admired those characteristics in others. I was stuck with who I was. Sometimes I had the uneasy feeling that Frank would be happier with someone else. A role-player. Like him.
The Boris Episode
There were times when Frank needed my help, usually to translate intelligence memos written in Spanish. They could not be translated at the embassy, because there appeared to be no secretaries in the political section who could read and write Spanish. I was unable to help Frank in this way until I had been in Spain for a few years and felt confident about my ability to speak and socialize entirely in Spanish.
Once, there was an intriguing assignment for me. Frank had been meeting with a Spanish-speaking Russian, Boris, who was being highly paid by the CIA for his information. Frank was suspicious that Boris was a double agent, working both sides, as it were, so he asked for my help one evening. The plan was as follows: Boris would have coffee in a small café, taking a seat by the window where Frank could see him. Frank would then drive by the café in a particular Volkswagen. When Boris spotted the car going by, he would walk to a designated corner several blocks away and Frank would pick him up there.
When Boris exited the café, I was to walk a discreet distance behind, keeping a keen eye on him. I was to wear a black wig (which I borrowed from a friend “for a costume party”) and an ankle-length brown coat. I would also carry a large black umbrella, which I would use like a walking stick. If Boris talked to anyone on the street, or made a phone call, I was to open the umbrella to signal Frank. This was a really sappy piece of drama, in my opinion.
Frank was carrying a German passport and wore a fake mustache and thick glasses, as he did every time he met with Boris. When we drove away from our house in the Volkswagen, he said he wasn’t feeling well. I suggested it was just nerves, or perhaps the thick glasses. A few minutes later, Frank shot his head out the window and vomited violently. This was not a good beginning, I thought. Definitely not good.
The café where we were to see Boris was on an intimate little street in a residential area. We parked nearby. Frank got out of the car with me and we sat on a bench so he could catch his breath. He threw up again. “Put your head down!” I ordered heartlessly, as though I were annoyed with him. I also ducked my head, thinking one of us might be recognized. I realized I was looking at the puddle of Frank’s upheaval and his mustache was in it. I quickly picked up the mustache and slapped it on Frank’s ashen upper lip, but it wouldn’t stick. Half of it did, but the other half didn’t. It hung down to his chin.
Boris wasn’t by the café window yet. I could see a farmacia (drug store) sign across the way, so I bolted across the street, my long brown coat billowing behind me. Mission: adhesive tape. I quickly bought the tape and ran back. Folding the tape over, I was able to jam Frank’s mustache back in place. He was so sick by now that he was trembling. He glanced up and raised his eyebrows. There was Boris in the café. Frank stood, staggered over to the Volkswagen, and pulled away.
I waited until Boris left the café, and then followed at a distance. It was a clear evening, filled with stars; the big black umbrella was a ludicrous accessory and would look even crazier if I opened it. Boris lit a cigarette and strolled down the street. He spoke to no one. I was not destined to be Mary Poppins tonight. After he got in the Volkswagen with Frank, I hailed a taxi to go home, removing my wig and coat to avoid suspicion when I arrived. The driver seemed to find this only mildly interesting. (We had donned our gay apparel in the garage before we left.)
Frank’s plan after picking up Boris was to go to a hotel room in a very large and busy hotel. They would have their discussion there, as they had done on previous occasions. Earlier in the day, after booking the room with his German passport, Frank had rigged a reel-to-reel tape recorder behind the bed. (There was nothing simpler at that time.) He later told me that when they got to the hotel room, he was imploding with diarrhea and had to apologize to Boris for his nonstop trips to the bathroom. As he sat on the toilet, he imagined the whir-r-r-r of the tape and the impending doom if it reached an end and began to flap.
There was no way of turning the tape machine off without moving the bed, and he was becoming concerned. There was only one thing to do. He had to tell Boris how ill he was and arrange to meet him another time. Luckily, Boris had a written report to give him and didn’t mind rescheduling their discussion. As soon as the door closed behind him, the tape started to flap.
Frank spent the following week in bed with stomach flu and high fever. Shaken, but not stirred.
Spooks at Work
Occasionally, we would enjoy a visit from a representative of the Washington office who was something like a roving ambassador for all the deep cover people like us who sometimes felt they were flotsam, forgotten, without any contact with the real world from which we were so separated. This man touched a number of bases throughout Europe and North Africa, dispensing goodwill and even praise. He was a wandering morale booster. We loved him. His name was Mark.
Whenever Mark visited us, he’d have dinner with us and spend the evening. We had to be sure that friends didn’t turn up and that the maid was out. Although he could easily have been introduced as our cousin Sam, we had to follow the “rules.”
Mark had just been in Africa. He had never met the CIA deep cover case officer there, so he made meeting arrangements by creating precise steps for him to follow. They would meet casually and privately at the beach in the early evening. The man would be walking his large dog and would stop Mark to ask for a match to light his cigarette. Then they would talk.
Mark drove to the designated place in a rental car and brought sandwiches and drinks so they could safely conduct the meeting there without being seen. However, they had not taken into consideration the tide. When Mark looked toward the beach, he saw a man walking up to his shins in water, carrying an enormous dog over his shoulder. No one else was on the beach. Following instructions, they sloshed toward each other and when they met, the man asked Mark for a light. They then waded back up to the car. Mark had left the car windows open because it was so hot. When they approached, they saw that it was filled with baboons that had not only demolished the food with great glee, but had defecated everywhere to show their appreciation, their compliments to the chef. Baboons, he added when telling us this story, are irritable creatures, not easy to approach. These realities were a long way from the espionage fantasy of doing the tango in white tie and tails.
Boris, the Russian spy, remained with Frank for the remaining years we were in Spain. He was paid in American cash, and I was not aware if he was paid by the piece or by the hour, but I did know that Frank paid him in cash. One evening, Frank was carrying $5,000 in cash, which was folded into the daily Spanish newspaper. He had told Boris to be on a certain corner on a wide boulevard, and to watch for Frank, who would appear at the opposite corner. At a precise time, Frank would cross to the center of the island of the boulevard and place the newspaper in the litter can, with its headline clearly showing. Frank had been having a drink in a bar with his new case officer, Scott, a genial man with whom he got along very well. Frank glanced at his watch and invited Scott to walk around the block with him so he could do his “dead drop.” He saw Boris at the other corner, and at the precise time, walked to the litter can and dropped the newspaper so the title could clearly be seen. Just as Frank was walking away from the can and Boris was walking toward the island, an empty city bus, its sign saying “Off Duty,” suddenly came to a stop, and its driver jumped out and dashed toward the litter can, as he had noticed the late edition of the paper there. He snatched it up and jumped back on the bus. Frank and Scott watched in dumb shock, as did Boris (Russians were not known for their sense of humor).
