We were doing a job in Berlin that year. It was a big, sprawling, elaborate operation that Phelps told me later was going to be his "masterpiece." Tell you the truth, I'm not even sure I could tell you what it was about at this point. There were a lot of moving parts and I never could keep track of them.
What I do remember is the months I spent learning the sewers and tunnels under the city. All I can compare it to is what happens when you don't coil your garden hose properly: a mixed-up tangle going in every direction. And, to make matters worse, there was every chance that you would stumble upon some unexploded ordinance left over from the war, or planted to "discourage" refugees from the wrong side of the wall.
So honeycombed with digging is Berlin that more than once we fell through as the tunnel we were moving through collapsed into a tunnel not used since the war. And no sooner would we pick ourselves up, get reoriented and back on track then that tunnel would fail and we would find ourselves in a passage that hadn't been used for a century before that.
What a nightmare.
A person of my size is not well-suited to small spaces and that's perhaps why Barney and I made such a good team: he was Mr. Inside and I was Mr. Outside. He could fold himself into a suitcase and I would carry it.
Don't get me wrong, I did okay on jobs like Berlin. We'd done so many of them that I learned how to handle it, they just weren't my favorites.
Paris was a different story.
Phelps sent him to work with us at one point and we had to send him back because he couldn't keep it together. Turns out, the one disguise he couldn't master was a person who wasn't afraid of bugs. Never seen anyone go to pieces over earthworms before.
We were months learning the Berlin job and getting ready to do the deal when the plug got pulled.
Munich changed everything.
Nobody likes getting caught with their cheese in the wind and the Secretary least of all.
What did we know and when did we know it? Most importantly, why didn't we know about something like this before it happened?
Can I just say right here that this was total bullshit. We were a lot of things, but we were not sneakers and peekers. The only time we got near a crystal ball was when we were juicing up a mark.
It was up to the tea leaf readers to pick our targets and, once they did, we went to work on them and figured out how to turn their own behavior against them.
The Cold War was great for our business because we knew what to expect and could plan accordingly. Dealing with dyed in the wool terrorists is like trying to play with a football made of Jell-o: it's a whole different game.
Munich was a grad school course in not having our shit together and we are behind in our payments for the lessons we learned.
They pulled everyone off the board. Everyone. All operations, even ours, were suspended pending review.
I don't think I ever saw Phelps so pissed off.
To his credit, he was able to get a waiver that allowed Barney and me to delay our return until we could cover the team's tracks. I just wish he could have also negotiated us some help.
The deal he did make had one additional and unforeseeable consequence.
I never did find out how, but, as a result of trying to save his "masterpiece" Phelps, or someone, broke the firewall that had protected us from being bothered by the White House.
Years later, over our lunch, Rollin told me that those harpies at Langley had sold us out in order to buy some time out of the spotlight. Certainly seems like something they would do. They were always quick to take credit for the real workers and quicker to lay blame when one of their projects went sideways.
Whatever happened, once it was done there was no way of undoing it.
Nixon's White House had more spooks and ex-spooks in it than Disney's Haunted Mansion and they had just been given a shiny new tool in their efforts to win a second term. To the surprise of no one, they were not going to be shy about using it.
Phelps kept telling us that as soon as this got cleared up we were all going right back to Berlin to finish what we had started. That was easy to say, but it meant that we couldn't do anything else out of not wanting to miss the call.
For most, this was not a problem. We had legends to go back to, but for Paris it was another story.
1972: the cabaret business was dead. Quite literally, nobody was buying his act. He was one of those guys whose whole life was in his work and to play the part he had several different lives in different cities all over the country. As a result, he had lot of different hands in his pocket and no way to keep them full.
It was a real shame: after being so good at playing marks all over the world, Paris had unwittingly made himself into one.
And Liddy knew just how to play him.
Nixon's inner circle was worried about Hunt's loyalty and, through Colson to Liddy, they reached out to Paris. Word is, they told him a tale about Hunt's wife and some missing campaign money. His job, we found out much later, was to get close to Dorothy.
They got real close.
They got so close that they were both on United 553 when it went down that December.
Newspapers said they "found" $10,000 in her luggage. They story quickly developed that they were going to run away together and start a new life.
I don't know who did what. All I know is that we never did get back to Berlin and I spent the rest of my time chasing mobsters and listening to Phelps whine about his masterpiece.
I went to Las Vegas several years ago.... First time in a long time.
I went for a family reunion.
After too many years, my brother had reached out. What was I going to do?
In my line of work, families are a liability, but they are also the trail of breadcrumbs that can lead you back, keep you from getting lost.
I went because I could and because for too long, I could not. I went because my brother and I had been born together and because we had spent too much time since then worlds apart. I went because I had run out of excuses not to. I went too because I was frankly curious to see if there was anyone left who would remember.
We had done one of our domestics in Las Vegas during the dying days of what is now seen as the "Golden Age." Seems hard to believe, but people, not professionals mind you, but Mr. & Mrs. John Q's went to Las Vegas as if it was a big deal. They dressed up to go to the pool for chrissakes.
I used to see them in their tuxedos and minks lining up to see Louis Prima & Keely Smith, or Al Martino: the real entertainers. Never got to see their shows myself 'cause of the job, but I remember it was a big deal for folks to come to town, play the tables and see the shows.
This trip, it was a whole different place.
There's almost nothing left of the town I saw back then. The town has a collective memory like corner-office executives: nothing matters before they came to town and they are going to change the place before they leave.
Some of the names are still around, but that's all: just the names.
Las Vegas used to have a sound that was its own. You could have grabbed me up from anywhere in the world, blindfolded me and dropped me in the Horseshoe, or Binion's or the Frontier and I could have told you I was in Las Vegas. Back then, it sounded like cards and chips and the chink of glassware and laughter. It sounded like fun. You can't hear that now. You can't hear much of anything now. Now, all there is are the bleeps and blurps of the fucking slot machines that have sprung up like weeds that show up in your driveway. It's like the town has been transformed into an arcade vision of what it used to be.
I got in a couple of days early just to make sure that I wasn't going to be a target.
I made a point of showing my face in all the old places, and some of the new ones. If I was in the system, they were going to know I was in town. The last time we worked there, a lot of people got hurt and I didn't want payback on my family.
Used to be family was off-limits. You'd do a job and, if anyone took exception to how it turned out, they dealt with you directly. It was strictly business. Maybe not everyone's type of business, but it was predictable, reliable. You could work with it.
But it's not like that anymore.
As a result of prosecutions, executions and retirements, the old timers are out and the business school types in. Nobody ever went to the mattresses over their accountants and only the short-straw boys would get stuck. You start out in the trenches as a soldier working for the Boss. Nobody's going to risk an extended stay in a six-by-eight for a CEO.
And so, the mad dogs....
With them, it's not about business. Everything is personal. If they decided to come after me, no one who'd ever passed me in traffic would be safe. I had to know if I was still on the list.
It was kind of exciting, at first.
I was back in the game. Counter-surveillance skills I hadn't used in a quarter of a century came back to me like it was yesterday.
I took the Super Shuttle from McCarran up to the Sahara. It was not much to look at--certainly no match for the billion dollar pigeon holes down the Strip, but it was a familiar space. We had worked out of there many times in the old days and I knew where all the exits were.
I ditched my luggage with the porters and then walked across the street to the Stratosphere where I caught a cab downtown.
I had the driver drop me near Fremont St. where I joined the 'Loos and strolled down what was once called "Glitter Gultch."
Fucking place is a mall now. Seriously. Trying to complete with the Strip, they put up this god-awful canopy of lights and speakers that must be a gift to dips and maltoolers. Once every fifteen minutes, they dim the surrounding lights and play a show that's got every head looking up and leaves every wallet and purse up for grabs.
Walking through the Horseshoe, I did a little shopping and picked up a hat, some glasses and a hotel logo shirt. (Damn if they didn't have one in my size.) By the time the doorman at the opposite entrance hailed me a cab, I was a different person.
We doubled back to Sahara Blvd. and found a used car dealer east of the Strip. I had the cabbie drop me at an AM/PM and I walked the mile back to the lot.
These were some shitty cars. I couldn't tell if the sellers were desperate, or the dealer was that stupid. Either way, what he had suited me just fine.
About an hour later I was mobile. Thirty-day tags on a piece-of-shit Buick that was not going to draw too much attention and would not be expected by anyone looking for the new car smell of a rental.
Next stop: North Las Vegas for more shopping. From the old days, I remembered a surplus shop where I could get all that TSA would not allow.
On the way back, I stopped at several thrift shops. I needed to replace what was in my luggage. If I was familiar with the Sahara, I imagined anyone looking for me would be as well.
I went back to the Sahara and parked deep inside their parking garage.
I got a couple of things out of the trunk and headed off into the night.
We lasted longer than anyone expected.
In the history of the IMF, there weren't too many teams that remained operational longer than about three or four years. The work is that hard.
Oh, in the beginning, it's kind of exciting coming up with the con and daring yourself to put it over, but, sooner or later, you can't tell a mark anything without your eyes giving you away.
Doesn't matter what it is.
There are only so many plans and so many combinations and, once you've been through them a few times and you've seen how the marks come out, or don't, on the other end, it's almost impossible to tell them the tale.
We'd play the Prisoner on a mark knowing that before it was over, he'd either be dead, or worse. You'd know that, not because it was covered in a briefing, but because you had seen it, because you had cleaned up after. Tell yourself whatever you want, in the end, we are playing Russian Roulette with someone else's head and you can only do that so long without getting some on you.
Our team stayed together for seven years mostly because we were able to bring in new people and because we got rid of Cinnamon.
In the beginning, during the Briggs years, she came in with Rollin but you could see that she was intent on trading up. She worked her way through men like sharpeners through pencils.
Rollin was a good sport about it, at first. He was really into the work and so was able to put on a brave face--it wasn't his own, mind you, but it was brave. It was when she worked her way around to me that he could no longer hide his feelings.
Those were the worst days.
I was never into her shit, but that didn't stop her from making everyone else think I was.
We'd show to Phelps' apartment for a briefing and a demo of whatever black box Barney had come up with and she would rub all over me like a cat looking for kibble.
Rollin knew what she was before they joined the team. Nobody ever could prove it, but the rumor was that they had been married. Don't think it was for very long, but I am certain that it didn't end well.
I don't think he ever stopped feeling for her. We talked about it that time in Windsor many years later. Part of the reason he was always such a prick to me was because he thought there had been something between me and her.
Most of the time, these affairs wouldn't last very long. It was like some sort of an initiation test that she had for all of the male members of the team. She would take some of the shittiest assignments, but she needed to know that the rest of the team had her...back.
To be fair, she was the honey trap that made most of our jobs work, but being pimped out by your government can take its toll. It was a wonder to me that she was able to walk away from our work and still have a cover legend to go back to.
She and Phelps were together for almost a year and a half. It got so I couldn't stand going to those briefings and watch her throw herself at him. The winking and flirting and touching and laughing were unbearable.
When they were over, it got pretty ugly.
As I pieced it together, they were in a pretty bad place just before we went behind the Curtain on a job.
As ever, Cinnamon was being set up as bait and you could tell that she had had her fill of playing this part for one leacherous bad guy after another. She talked more openly of getting out and Phelps was taking it personally.
After all these years, I don't remember the details as well as you'd think, but she got made. After years of preventing international incidents, we were right in the middle of one.
Cinnamon was late for a rendezvous and Phelps was mad.
To this day, I don't know if he did it on purpose or not, but he said, on an open line, that if she didn't show up soon, he would put her in a closet and throw away the key.
It was just an expression, but, to those who were listening it was enough of a clue that they were able to identify that Cinnamon was claustrophobic and they used that against her to quite devastating effect.
Did she break? Were any assets compromised? Hard to say.
I do know that, after that, we worked less and less overseas. Something about budget cuts. We seemed to spend more of our time gaming the Commission.
It was never the same again.
In the end, she did what she was best at: she survived.
The bitch.
I had to look away.
Not the response you would expect from a seasoned operative, is it? Not what I would have expected from myself, but there are somethings you can't ever un-see.
It was like something out of a bad movie: the stone-faced gunsel herding his fatally surprised victim into a clearing, the shovel thrown to the ground and the dreaded instructions to begin digging.
It's hard for me to understand just what leverage the gunsel has in this situation. As soon as the shovel comes into play then only one of this scene's two actors has anything close to an exit strategy.
What gets me is how many of them reach for the shovel and start digging.
You can't do this kind of work and not at least consider the possibilities. Sooner, or later, your number is going to come up. One day--probably much sooner than you would like--you will lose the ability, the opportunity, to walk away.
Me, I know how lucky I was that the worst thing to happen to me was that goddamned tasteless sheetcake. I got out, which is a much greater prize than the miserable excuse for a pension that was waiting for me. Barney was not so lucky....
He never liked cake, anyway.
For this poor, dumb, sonofabitch, this was supposed to be his last day. He had no way of knowing that we were there to pull him out. As far as he knew, he was going to die. Buried alive by some sociopath in a shiny suit.
Christ, we could see the sweat gushing down his fat, bald head like spring run-off over Niagara.
The shovel was thrown down in front of him like some sort of an insult. As though his soon-to-be-killer had challenged him to a duel.
And the guy just looks at it as though he had never seen one before. Judging from the size of him, he had not. Manual Labor was probably the name of his gardener.
He sounded as though he's already been punched in the stomach as he grunted and wheezed his way to the ground to pick it up.
As I watched, the horrific sight of this man trying to break into the hard-packed clay that was to be his final resting place while a bouillabaisse of sweat, snot and tears poured over his face, I couldn't help thinking that it was his own fault.
How could he not have been prepared for the shovel?
Right here, in front of us, was playing out the very scenario that operators talk about. It's not the kind of thing you will read about in the newspaper, or even in spy novels. You'll never see it, but when we are alone, we talk about how we would handle it when our name gets called, when we are picked out of a crowd, when we get handed the shovel.
For the longest time, I never got the question. So often, I'd have to drive while the others would pass around a flask and get all philosophical about how they would handle it when it was their time.
I remember carrying Phelps into his apartment one time because he was too drunk. A 14-hour flight from the other side of the world and he had spent the whole time collecting little one-shot bottles of bourbon. At different times, each of us had tried to get him to go to sleep, but he would not. He was too busy hitting on the stewardesses and trying to forget the glassy-eyed look of the asset that had died in his arms the day before.
All the way in from the airport, he was telling me the different things that he had planned for his big moment. At one point, he took hold of my hand and forced what I thought was a damp breath mint into it.
It wasn't a breath mint. He'd given me his Pill.
He wasn't going to hide when his time came. He was going to make them look him in the eye. He was going to make sure that he haunted them just like all of people who now haunted him.
Nobody ever asked me and, to be frank, I never really thought about it. Everytime we went out on a job, I was always too busy taking care of Barney to think about getting caught. We did some pretty risky shit, but I was always so far offstage that I never really thought about it like that.
That was until the time they had to send me home on a boat, by myself. There was nothing else to do, but think about the job we had done. And, stuck on a fishing boat with a bunch of drunken Albanians, you get pretty philosophical about all kinds of crazy shit.
The Engineer's Mate--it was always the Engineer's Mate--would spend all of his free time making the worst kind of rotgut bilgewater gin. Every boat I ever was on, the Engineer's Mate was always running a still and they all claimed that theirs was the best in whatever body of water we happened to be bobbing around in. And, without exception, they were horrible. It's because of that stuff that I still have to protect my right side, even today. It's because of too many late nights fueled by that stuff that I can no longer stand up straight.
I know, I know, I did it to myself. The Albanians like to talk and they can really put down their cocktails.
Perhaps it's because of the work they do, or the places they do it, but they love to talk about how they expect to die.
The beginners, the first-timers, the ones who are still working on getting their sea legs under them, are the ones who talk about going out in bed, surrounded by their loved ones like some sort of Hallmark card. The pros talk about getting pulled over the side, or crushed under any one of the thousand moving blocks of death that are the deck of a commercial operation.
To hear the old-timers talk, it's as though they expect to have to answer for the thousands and thousands of lives they have taken with their nets. To them, kharma is a fish and she's out there waiting for them.
I had a training sergeant once who told us that he wanted to be strapped to a bunch of dynamite and thrown out of a helicopter over Chicago. In was in this way, he felt, that he could reach the largest number of people.
He never did explain why it had to be Chicago.
I never had a good story when these conversations came up. It's probably why I drank so much of their shit.
It would have been great to have some sort of a Hemingway-type of exit all planned out, but then who would give a damn one way or the other? It's like the song says, "All My Exes...(Live in Hope for News of My Untimely and Painful Death)."
There was a time when I wanted to be the guy who took one for the team, who threw himself on the grenade, or, against all odds and single-handedly, took out the machine gun nest. There was a time when I wanted to be famous. Could never figure out what for, but I wanted everyone to know my name.
I remember Fairbairn at The Farm whose mantra was that the best operator was invisible and that the only satisfaction to be had in this work was for the opposition not to know that they had ever been operated against.
That idea sustained me for a while, at least until I started working for IMF. Don't know if this was the same in other compartments, maybe it was just Phelps and Briggs, but they took a certain satisfaction in making certain that the other side knew they had been taken. It's like they had to sign their work, or something.
I still don't know.
I think about it everyday. Everytime I recognize that I am half-a-step slower, a little bit deafer, another year older, I compensate by spending more time looking over my shoulder and waiting for my fish to come in.
The dumb fuck with the shovel had to be thinking about all this and more as he continued his pathetic scratching out his crypt. With each shovelful, his effort was less and his panic was more.
His executioner was clearly losing his patience.
At one point, he actually snatched the shovel away from the guy and, at great risk to his suit, finished the hole himself. Even then, with such a gift, the guy just sits there whining. He doesn't see that he has been given a chance to get away, so he just sits there crying about his wife and kids and how the gunman shouldn't kill him.
It's a good thing that I wasn't carrying, or I would have shot the guy myself just for being stupid.
In the end, all I could do was look away.
