Weekends are for leisure reading. As in fiction.
Once upon a time such leisure reading was a staple of American life and culture, best embodied by the Saturday Evening Post, which dates back to 1821 when its earliest editions were printed in Benjamin Franklin’s printshop.
From the 1920s through the 1960s, “America’s Magazine,” as it was known, reached two million homes every weekend. The Post was revered for short stories and literary serials, along with its cover illustrations of classic Americana by Norman Rockwell.
In that spirit, here is my own Saturday evening post: An espionage novel titled Cloak & Corkscrew.
1.
Multiple flashbulbs discharged as Josh Penner stood elbow to elbow with Venezuelan dictator Hugo Chavez.
The two had just dined, one-on-one, in the presidential palace in Caracas, and now they faced a phalanx of reporters and photographers.
Chavez nodded to the handsome Hollywood movie star and Penner stepped forward to pose himself as if he were accepting an Academy Award, as he once had for Best Actor.
“I am delighted to visit your wonderful country,” he said, launching into deep praise for Chavez and the “freedom” he’d brought to Venezuela, “unlike my own,” he added. And then, clapping his hands, he turned to the beaming dictator and congratulated him on his recent reelection, resulting in another photo op as the dictator and the movie star embraced in a bear hug.
Minutes later, the pageant over, Penner ensconced himself in a limousine enroute to the airport for a flight to Los Angeles.
Many hours later, Penner faced a number of aggressive paparazzi as he made his way from international arrivals.
“Hey, traitor!” hollered one. “Over here!”
Penner repulsed an urge to march over and slam the cameraman in the face. That’s exactly what he wants. Last time it had cost Penner 50 grand to settle and avoid criminal prosecution. Instead he raised a middle finger and smiled, stopping only to light a cigarette before climbing into a black SUV awaiting him at the curb.
2.
Jose Hernandez opened the window and closed the door of his small office in the Embassy of Venezuela on Connecticut Avenue in Washington, D.C. He wanted to smoke a cigarette and, as an intelligence officer, did not like standing outside where, he imagined, FBI counterintelligence officers would photograph him (as they probably would).
Halfway into a nicotine fix, his unit’s secretary knocked the door with an urgent summons to a cryptographic telephone from his ultimate boss, the director of Direccion de los Servicios de Inteligencia Prevencion, known with apprehension by most Venezuelans as DISIP, even if Hernandez himself referred to it as dipshit.
Hernandez snuffed his coffin nail and made his way to a sound-proofed room where the STE was kept, removed the crypto key from a safe nearby, inserted it into the large phone and waited for a corresponding key on the other to click it into cryptographic mode.
Then he waited another five minutes for the director to be located, wishing he’d brought the rest of his cigarette with him, to hell with office rules, and wondering what he could possibly have done wrong to warrant a call from the president’s right-hand man.
“Jose?” said a voice with such warmth, it might have been an uncle rather than his much-feared director.
“Yes, sir.”
“I have heard many good things about you,” said the director.
This startled Hernandez. Offhand, he could not think of one.
“I have a very special assignment for you,” continued the director, pausing for effect. “From the president himself.”
Now Hernandez wondered if this was some kind of practical joke, instigated by Ernesto Gonzalez, an office colleague who lived for recognition from higher-ups in Caracas.
“Are you there?” demanded the director.
“Yes, sir. I am listening.”
“Good. The President requests that you contact a certain American and become the intermediary between them.”
Hernandez had a million questions, and they formed a bottleneck in his throat, until he managed just one. “Why me?”
“Your official cover is cultural attache, no?”
“Yes.” That is what Hernandez’s calling card said. Assistant to the Cultural Attache.
“This falls under the category of culture and intelligence. You will receive a cryptographic fax with full instruction. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” And the Director was gone without so much as an adios.
3.
Near the intersection of Beverly and La Cienega Boulevards in West Hollywood, California, Charles Mulberry stared out the window at urban sprawl and wondered how he had ended up in Los Angeles. Hadn’t he joined the Central Intelligence Agency to be sent to exotic locations—or at least somewhere abroad?
Instead, he’d wound up on the left coast, babysitting Hollywood celebrities, some of whom he would have liked, if permitted, to subject to waterboarding.
Such was the duty of CIA’s LA field office, run by the agency’s Foreign Research Division, formerly known as Domestic Contacts.
Generally, this division recruited foreign nationals who arrived in the United States to attend or teach at universities or participate in trade shows.
Its other brief was to cultivate access agents i.e., U.S. citizens who enjoyed unique or privileged access in foreign circles.
It was the latter category that largely preoccupied the LA field office, and Charles Mulberry in particular. In short, it was his job to identify, recruit and run Hollywood movie stars willing to undertake part-time assignments for Uncle Sam.
Mulberry carried a cheap pay-as-you-go cell phone that he used only to make and take phone calls from a single individual, his “prized” asset. He had been anticipating this phone to ring for the last 48 hours, and now he was growing impatient.
Mulberry needed to stretch, release nervous energy, so he ventured out into the fresh air, if such a thing existed in this concrete jungle, past Beverly Center and Mount Sinai Hospital, toward Coffee Bean on the corner of South Robertson. Enroute, he carefully avoided any and all cracks on the sidewalk. From an early age, Obsessive Compulsion Disorder afflicted him and, though he had been through cognitive behavior therapy and still took an SSRI medication, he could not resist obsessing when under stress. No doubt, if something went wrong, headquarters would blame him. Part of Mulberry’s OCD was his irrational belief that he would be fired at any moment. He fantasized that there was always somebody out there laying a trap for him. And right now, if he stepped on a crack, bam, his career as a spook would be as good as over.
Mulberry took his place in line and ordered an Americano, which he topped with half & half and sweetened with brown sugar.
The special phone suddenly jingled, and Mulberry almost spilled half his coffee fumbling in his pocket to catch it in time. “Yes,” he answered desperately, and listened. “Tomorrow? Yes, that’s doable. Location B.”
An onslaught of indignation so fiercely vibrated his eardrum he had to pull the phone away from his ear.
“I’m sorry,” he finally replied. “But that is how we operate. Hello? Hello?”
Mulberry felt better now, if harboring dark thoughts about wishing to waterboard his valuable access agent.
Robert,
There are 7500 Undergrads at this school.
How can there be so many Pro PLO student organizations??
"Authored by the Harvard Undergraduate Palestine Solidarity Committee and originally co-signed by 33 other Harvard student organizations Saturday, the statement came under fire from federal lawmakers, University professors, and other students."
This is all getting blown up....
Maybe if Penn, MIT and Harvard had footbal teams worth a fuck this wouldn't happen. Kids would be distracted a whole lot more.
In any event, I would not be anywhere near Tehran if I lived in Iran right now.
Point is, I was in europe during the 6 (or 7) day war. This is not ending this time and there will be no "ceasefire"
I only have 20 more years left so prolly won't have to deal with it.
Nuff said, I enjoy your posts. I have some of those books actually.