Teacher spy assassin, p.17
Teacher, Spy, Assassin, page 17
America was not on a roll when all this broke out. China was calling us a paper tiger. Most of the world saw leaving Viet Nam as a pure US loss.
Tiny Israel had rescued its hostages in Entebbe, Uganda flawlessly a few years before. By contrast, sadly, this US rescue effort looked like the adventures of the Keystone Cops.
Our failure emboldened our enemies. The Ayatollah said that this was proof that Allah was operating in defense of Iran. A second planning effort to launch a mission to free the hostages was begun. It was called operation “Honey Badger.” In its final iteration, it would require a division strength of military personnel and a stupendous amount of equipment, even a bulldozer. But it was never executed. The hostages were dispersed throughout Iran to thwart any possibility of a second rescue attempt.
The helicopters left in the Desert One site were to be destroyed. In the confusion after the failure of the mission they were merely abandoned and were successfully used by the Iranian military for decades.
I called Katherine after the failed rescue attempt. Her despair was palpable. Carter had led through some tough issues. There was the gas crisis and wild inflation. Unemployment soared, in part from the post-war baby boom rushing into the labor market in a horde. The failed mission added to the national woe. The high rate of inflation drove interest rates up and crushed business expansion.
Chapter 29: Rumors of an invasion by the Soviets
I met with the Ambassador and Shultz to debrief from the Hungarian trip. To my astonishment, people were all OK with my actions. I had feared that people would have felt I had put the children in jeopardy by having them block traffic. I guess the lesson was, if you win, you were right. The same would have been true for Carter and the rescue raid, I thought.
And if you lose, as Carter did, regardless of why, you were wrong. The CIA wanted to understand my tactics and to break down the roots of the success of my gambit at the border, presumably for replication.
I had taught a course about using non-violent methods for social change at Syracuse University. It was one of the many ways that I paid for my Doctoral study. So, I was able to wrap my actions in impressive theory, but I simply did what I had to do. It was instinct that caused a break in that impasse. On this point, I got far more credit than I deserved.
The news of Tito’s illness and rapidly approaching demise was everywhere. He was the last living prominent World War II leader. In a country without a free press, unfounded rumors disguise themselves as truth. The current belief in Yugoslavia was that Tito had died weeks ago and had been frozen while people planned for a post-Tito Yugoslavia. I usually paid no attention to this kind of rumor, but this had the ring of truth to it.
No one would have the nerve to make a succession plan while Tito was alive, for fear he would survive and accuse them of treason. Yet, this was a government designed, to fit a war hero. He was a consensus dictator. That is a hard role to fill. How would anyone get to that level of trust and prominence with all of the competing forces for power snarling at his heels? A winning succession plan would take an act of genius. In a totalitarian state, genius was considered dangerous and often snuffed out early. Independent thought is often perceived as rebellion in an autocracy.
There were rumors of Soviet troops at the borders with Romania and Hungary. The rumors suggested that the Soviets would bring Yugoslavia tighter into its orbit as a true satellite. The Non-aligned movement would suffer if that were to happen and be a big win for the Soviets.
During his run for the presidency against Gerald Ford, Carter had been asked if he would go to war if the Soviets invaded Yugoslavia. Carter refused to say what he might do to prevent that. The rumors were that the JNA (Yugoslav National Army) reserves were being called up. Nearly every man in the country was a member of the reserves. The everyday reservist had a rifle waiting for him in the countryside.
Petar, who was in his forties asked for a few day's leave. He would not tell me why he needed it. He returned after a long weekend with a sunburn and a scratch on his forehead. But, the top of his balding head was not burned.
The cause of his absence was clear on his person. The untanned head was the clincher. It revealed the very shape of a Serbian military cap. Rumors were that Belgrade University was nearly absent of young men.
Linda and I were invited to a quiet dinner at Carlos and Vivian De’ Olivera’s house near Koshutniak Park. I had scheduled a meeting with Jim Shultz on Friday. His secretary had told me he was in the field doing his work in the commercial section. The time with Carlos and Vivian was wonderful. We laughed robustly enough to forget the consequences of Tito’s impending demise. The extended dinner went quite late.
On our way home, we had to stop for a train at a rail crossing. The train was loaded with a military tank on each flatbed. The train was already crossing the road when we came to the intersection, but I began counting the tanks from the point when I arrived. Twenty-eight tanks crossed before the last car passed. I took note of the last two tanks. All tanks had a four-digit number on them. I memorized the numbers on the last two tank’s numbers.
When we got home, I checked my calendar before I went to bed. This was a habit of mine. I did it each night so that I was ready for the next day. Linda expected it of me, as she went downstairs to prepare for bed. When she went to bed, I added a contact to my list of contacts. Under “T”. I called the person Tommy Easton I wrote that his address was 28 Exchange Street in Rochester, New York, and his phone numbers were. (716) 385- 4631 and work (716) 385- 2489.
I knew not to write down any of the tank’s four-digit numbers or the number of tanks, But I was a little buzzed and was afraid I would forget the numbers in the morning. I needed a little help. The two tank numbers were the last 4 digits of his home and work numbers and the street address contained the number of tanks I had seen. He was called Tommy Easton because they were moving in an Easterly direction.
After things settled down at work on Friday, I went to see Jim Shultz about that troubled kid of his. When I was brought to the SCIF he was already there. I would have liked to have known where he had been and what he had seen but that kind of information did not flow in my direction.
I told him about Petar’s unexplained, sudden disappearance, and the peculiar sunburn pattern on his head. I shared the rumors about the male students being absent from the university. Then I took out my calendar and shared what I had seen the night before. He listened very closely. He commented that my coding of these numbers in this way had been very clever. He did not write the numbers down. Down, nor which way they were traveling. I admired his confidence in his memory. I asked if he wanted to bring the Military Attaché into the SCIF to share the numbers. He said no. Information was currency and he would reserve that information to spend judiciously, I thought.
Perhaps in the retelling, it would be he who went to a party last night and noticed the funny sunburn on Petar’s head.
“In the event of war with Russia, how would the Americans be evacuated?” I asked.
He said, “There is a detailed plan. The Embassy dependents and nonessential personnel would be evacuated by plane before an invasion got to our door. The school would be closed at the same time, if not earlier. All US citizens, who are not Embassy staff would get themselves to Split where a ship would take them to safety in Italy.”
Those of us who lived and worked here were just not quite as important as the diplomats. I felt a rush of anger but suppressed it. “Can I share this? My teachers are worried.”
“No, but you can tell people the Embassy has assured you that they will be taken care of. What will you do?” he asked.
“I will get Linda and Liam on the boat. Then I might stay to fight with a guerrilla unit.” Where that remark came from, I am not sure.
“If you did, we could activate you with the agency and ensure a continuity of income,” he suggested.
“I don’t think I want a job with the CIA,” I said. “If I stay, it will be purely personal. Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”
“If you see or hear anything else, let me know,” He said as we walked back to his office. We stopped at his secretary’s desks. “Give Suzy that address and phone numbers for Tommy Easton,” he said. And added wistfully, “I haven’t seen Tommy in years.”
“Suzy, would you add that to my Rolodex and put it in my calendar right away, and set up a meeting with the Colonel for after lunch?”
He turned back to me. “I’ll see you at the Harriers run on Sunday?” he asked.
“Sure,” I said marveling at how fluidly he lied.
Back at the school that day, Linda and I joined the teachers in the break room for lunch. I stayed Through the second teacher’s lunch break while Linda went back to work. Everyone wanted to hear about our adventures in Budapest and at the border. The students had already shared their stories, and the teachers had already been given a report of our border exploits, but they needed to hear it again, in person, from me.
I plowed through the mail, and the rest of the paperwork after lunch then went with Braco to inspect the playground. I went home with Liam and Linda.
I took a nap and played with Liam in his “Legoland” and then we went out for pizza. Liam went to bed and Linda and I discussed what we would do when Tito died if the Soviets invaded. I told her there was a detailed evacuation plan and I would get us on a waiting ship. I did not say I would remain to fight the Soviets. After all, the Soviets might not invade. Who needed the battle that I would have with Linda if I shared my plans? This could wait.
Linda’s mind seemed at ease. We took the best advantage of the rest of the night that we shared.
Chapter 30: Payback! The crash in Bucharest
I had arranged for an old friend and mentor of mine, Dr. Chris Kelly to speak at the Bucharest Teachers Conference the following week. Chris had a history as an educational innovator. He had left a distinguished career in public schools to teach at Syracuse University and to consult. He flew to Belgrade on that Saturday. He would first work with our teachers, then I would drive him to the two-day Eastern European conference in Bucharest. My teachers attending the conference would follow on a train on Friday.
I ran that morning. We collected Chris at the airport in the afternoon. We drove him home and I urged him to snooze away a bit of the jet lag. We went to dinner that night at Dva Ribara (the two fishermen) Restaurant. It was another favorite of ours. The conversation was warm. Old friends and colleagues came alive in his vivid anecdotes. He even entertained Liam, who had brought an Asterix comic book to entertain himself, if we proved too boring. We were not. High praise.
We all turned in early that night. We encouraged Chris to sleep as late as possible on Sunday. The best way to beat jet lag was to sleep.
I got up early Sunday and joined the Harriers in the park. Jim told me that what I had told him about the tanks had been very useful. Because of the numbers on the two tanks, the attaché had been able to know which armored column had been sent. The Yugoslavs were indeed massing at the borders, but there seemed to be no Soviet troops waiting on the other side. There might not be an invasion after all. He asked me to keep my eyes peeled when I was in Romania the next weekend. I was still feeling apprehensive about the Soviet’s intentions but was a bit relieved.
Before we left for Bucharest, Chris had daily afternoon in-services for our teachers about recent research, and our teachers could sign up for additional individual in-classroom coaching sessions with Chris, or ask him to model the techniques he had reviewed in their classrooms with their students. Then, on Thursday, Chris and I drove to Bucharest. I had wanted Chris, to see the countryside. We had planned to stop at a hotel overlooking the famed Iron Gates on the Danube before crossing into Romania and driving the rest of the way to Bucharest.
I had not been to Romania. Justin Parker, the school head there, had given us some advice. He said that we needed to take Kent Golden Light cigarettes and boxed bottles of Johnny Walker Red scotch. He said the currency had no real value, but the people traded in just these two items. Other brands of the same products were not respected, or used for currency. I brought a case of each.
We left for our adventure at 9:00 a.m. on Thursday. Chris had a chance to say goodbye to the teachers and, I was able to get the school started.
The drive to the Iron Gates was through some of the poorest parts of Yugoslavia. After I had lived here a while, I had begun to be able to determine the wealth of the peasants through the kinds of vehicles they used.
The further we got from the city the draft animals changed. Oxen were pulling wooden carts with wooden wheels and wooden axles. These were cheap to make but required frequent repairs, always at the worst time and, in the worst place. They moved slowly. The first of these we saw had a metal band on the rim of the wooden wheel, protecting it from cracks and splits.
We knew we had walked back in time and entered inter-generational poverty when the metal band was not on the wheels. When a cart was seen being pulled by a water buffalo, we were in the poorest area of the country. Electrical wires no longer paralleled the road. These people lived in a place that had no power. There were community wells that employed buckets to deliver water.
Having little use for high-speed roads, the quality of roads also deteriorated. The road signage was nearly nonexistent. We got lost. I saw a sign in the square that marked a post office. The people who worked there delivered the mail and would know the way. I pulled the camper toward the post office and left Chris in the van while I asked for directions to the Iron Gates. It took some time because the postal clerk wanted to try out his English, but I learned where to go. As I left the post office, I saw a crowd of boys around the van; one was stroking it with his hand. I wove my way through them as I might through a flock of geese.
They were simply stroking the shiny car. They had seen nothing like it before and were approaching it with open-mouthed curiosity. Chris had locked the doors and was a little flipped out. I shooed them away. We got underway again.
We got to the Iron Gates that evening. I had a reservation at an ultra-modern hotel that looked over the Danube. It was easy to find. We checked in. I made a reservation for 7:00 pm for dinner. The clerk apologized that we would have to dine at the bar on a balcony overlooking the ballroom because a wedding reception was to be held that night. We got to our clean and modern room with two double beds and a modern bath. We put down our bags and took a long nap.
When we awoke all tension from the drive had been erased. At my suggestion, we put on sports coats and went to the bar. I asked for a table overlooking the ballroom. The hotel was nearly empty of guests, but the ballroom below the balcony was swirling with happy diners in colorful costumes. I ordered us a local plum brandy called slivovitz.
Hotels of this size in a communist country were owned by the government. Decisions to build them were determined in the capital, by bureaucrats. Perhaps none had ever been to where the hotel would be. This hotel anticipated a surge of visitors that never emerged in my time in Yugoslavia.
Slivovitz is fire-water. People call other drinks by that name. But this is because they don’t know. Drinks they say that about are not truly deserving of the description. Slivovitz is liquid fire.
This was Chris’ first slivovitz. He took a large swallow and then gasped for air. We laughed and drank another and laughed again. The music of a gypsy band started below. The music consisted of old Serbian folk songs, well known to the wedding crowd. People sang along and danced. The dances were long ropes of people dancing with flying feet with their hands by their sides. They danced between the tables. They laughed and clapped. Soon all were dancing and singing.
We had a great salad and Karadjordjeva schnitzel with potatoes. The meal was unforgettable. The fresh, fruity white wine served with it was memorable. But the people dancing and laughing beneath us, while the moon hung on the horizon, out the enormous windows over the Danube, was truly remarkable.
We awoke with the sun and packed our bags in the van. I put a bottle of Johnny Walker Red and a carton of Kent golden Lights where I could easily reach them as we crossed a bridge and moved to the border.
“Passports. Please?” the border guard managed in English. He dramatically shook his head and began to make tsk, tsk noises. He was about to explain, falsely, that the visas we had were no good. (which was of course not true.) I reached beside me and presented my gifts of whiskey and cigarettes to recognize his service to foreigners.
He smiled, wished us well, stamped our passports, and sent us on our way.
“Welcome to Romania,” I laughed.
“Is it always like that at communist border crossings?” Chris asked.
“No, not always but it is common in really bad Communist countries, and it will cost us twice that to leave,” I replied.
We rode for hours through that grim country. The signs of poverty and neglect made poverty in Yugoslavia seem Eden-like. The carts were like those used in the middle ages. The people were dangerously thin and the clothing was worn beyond conventional usage, and dirty.
We had left before breakfast was served, and were searching for a café to stop for a meal. There were few motorized vehicles on the paved two-lane road to Bucharest. Those that could be found were either primitive Russian-made military vehicles or smelly Russian trucks carting produce or other goods. I began to notice that in the center of many of the tiny roadside villages there was a tall guard tower, such as you might have seen in a concentration camp movie about World War II.
Ceausescu the leader of this country shared with Hoxa, in Albania, the title of the most oppressive communist leader.
The search for a café or restaurant seemed futile. What we saw were places that were empty, dirty, and almost abandoned. I am not a fussy eater, but I would not eat at these places, and I had eaten in many low-brow places in dark corners of the world.
