I Spy

I SPY

On this 2021 Memorial Day weekend, I can finally tell my story. The statute of limitations has run out and I can talk. Remembering my days as a government spy.

You may be able to tell from the photo that this boy was not a strack soldier. A bit of a renegade. Definitely not one to kiss ass to authority. Rocker of the boat. Iconoclast. Just what you want in a James Bond type. 

The thing is that when you are a James Bond type, doing James Bond kind of stuff, you most definitely don't let on that you're a James Bond type, doin' James Bond kind of stuff. I'll leave to you to sort out fact from fiction. Net, net, mums the word. No one the wiser [that last one I got from dear old Mom].

Not to worry, dear reader. Nothing of any national security import or consequence will be revealed herein. The rules of the game require me to keep my lips sealed, to the grave. The details are in the vault.

My career in espionage and counter-espionage was under the aegis of the United States Army. Unlike with the CIA, which by charter only operates overseas, US Army Intelligence can go anywhere. And, I did. 

My original training was in counter-intelligence. A security role, really. Making sure that property, personnel, and information are secure against enemy infiltration, coercion, and discovery. Within the purview of the Army itself, my role was to conduct background investigations on individuals who were being considered for sensitive classified jobs. It wasn't so much about digging into someone's dirty secrets; more to suss out whether their skeletons were such that they could be compromised ... blackmailed. And, of course, also vetting them for any links to subversive organizations and/or ties to enemies both within and without. 

It was mostly background investigation until we were shipped out to a combat zone to evaluate a field headquarters deep in a dense forest the details I can't get into. We wore no rank insignia. That allowed us to interview personnel up and down the chain of command, particularly without intimidation from superior officers. Aerial bombardment went on the whole time. Those goofballs "beautified" the command tent with brightly painted rocks marking the pathways. Like they wanted to let enemy pilots know exactly where they were. Geez! Of course, we scotched that pronto. And, got out in one piece. No casualties in our small contingent. [It was quite the subject of interest among the enlisted men wondering about our rank. "Never mind that, just answer our questions."]

I was also once assigned to a covert operations group, so I did a little actual spy stuff myself. Here are a few examples: Receiving classified documents at a public location that was under heavy surveillance by clandestine enemy operatives. Then, eluding them en route to my drop spot. Then there was that scouting and planning a raid on a known spy gathering spot. Perks of the job, it was a whiskey bar. 

In the public sphere, outside of official Army jurisdiction, I free-lanced to blow the lid off a big-time eavesdropping operation at a major international corporation. Their key management offices were suspected to be bugged according to my reliable confidential informant. I was tasked to give them the bad news and arrange for a meeting where the appropriate law enforcement personnel could gain access to ferret out the bugs and stop the perpetrators. Just a little tidbit: the meet-up was at Schraft's in the Chrysler Building in NYC.

Sometimes in the course of doing my duty, my activities were, as they say, "off the books". Once in the junior years of my career I bungled it; I was caught red-handed and arrested by the military police at Fort Meade Maryland, the headquarters for U.S. Military Intelligence. As they say, I took one for the Gipper. Steep learning curve. I can't get into the details, just to say a McDonald's Hamburger was involved.

During my tenure in covert ops, I rubbed elbows with one Steven Rubell. You know who he is, of Studio 54 infamy. He was known to me as "Fucking Rubell". Something to do with how he wasn't "one of the boys". I can't say I was, nor can I say I wasn't, in on the sting that got him and his partner sent to jail. Just to say his operation was busted big time for tax evasion. In the end, he got fucked. No pun intended. FYI he died of Aids; enough said.

So that's all I want to reveal at this time. Watch for the book. I'll include such juicy items as that late-night repast on that breezy waterfront in Beirut. Prowling the dark, oily back streets of Munich. A deadly middle-of-the-night surprise encounter in London. Dalliances with well-endowed strippers. Anxiously crossing on the Star Ferry from Kowloon, not knowing where to rendevous, and with whom. Living the high life cruising around Manhattan with powerbrokers, movers, and shakers; cocktails and gourmet dinner on a multi-millionaire's yacht in the balmy early summer evenings. Stowing away on a PanAm cross country flight; getting caught, but skating away. Posing as a head waiter catering to New York's rich and famous. Bar manager at the notorious after-hours Club Taboo. Carrying a king's ransom in cold cash on the subway en route to the drop-off. To mention only a few. Like I said, stay tuned.

PS Spy life isn't all that glamorous. Even though it might look that way sometimes. Whatever the moment and circumstances, you are always on guard to not get found out. Nerves of steel have to be part of your going-in DNA; you can't teach that stuff. Not to say you can't have a good time at it; just it's an act, and you have to stay in character. I got out alive. That's success enough in the spy game. Lived to tell about it. If only a little. Gotta be true to the corps, you know.