round? I guessed the people were black-market labour, though how that fitted with the Neosâ supremacy theories I could not see.
One of the skinheads mooned the crowd before we left and announced in English that they were all foreign-wanks. The other skinheads guffawed. Nobody else paid him any attention. It felt like this had happened before. On the drive back I asked who the people in the shed were and was told âShit.â
Hoover
FLORIDA TO FRANKFURT
WHY IS THE PROFESSIONAL smile considered an essential part of a cabin crewâs repertoire? Perhaps it is offered as a positive alternative to the rictus grin, and as a distraction from the crewâs other role as agents of death, ritualised in their bizarre performance called âcabin safety exercisesâ. Now they donât even bother to do it themselves. They show a film.
Â
The last and only time I had been to Frankfurt was in 1945, the day Hitler died. I wondered if Iâd given any thought then to what the future would hold. Probably not. Most of us were trying to remember what peace felt like. Now, nearly everyone I knew then is dead, and those who arenât are sick. Betty Monroe, who had recruited me in 1942, is in a Zurich clinic with Alzheimerâs. I had written to say I was coming to Europe, and got a reply from her daughter. Karl-Heinz had sounded depressed on the phone. He insisted everything was all right, but his speech was still slurred, and he took a while to recognise who I was and a lot longer to remember why he had contacted me. He was under the impression I was still his case officer and was going âto sort things outâ. He would not say what these things were except they referred to his âimmunity dealâ, and he expected me to liaise with Langley. I told him I was ancient history there, my contacts long gone.
âI had to blackmail that cocksucker Dulles for my deal!â he shouted. He didnât care that Allen Dulles had been dead over thirty years. Before he hung up he said, âJoe, itâs good to hear you againâ, sounding halfhearted. It was a sad call: Karl-Heinz in a time warp when once he had been the sharpest. I had protected him for years, no questions asked. It was part of the deal. My silence and deference remained the cornerstones of our relationship.
As for that âcocksuckerâ Allen Dulles, I had spent the war in awe of him. He had been in his forties then, a big shot already, running the U.S. Office of Strategic Services in Switzerland, and a future head of the CIA, from 1953 until the Cuban mess forced his resignation, a couple of years before they shot the president in 1963. Dulles had the sort of self-confidence promoted in Hollywood movies, that uniquely American harmony of individual ruggedness combined with a general willingness to conform while refusing to kow-tow. He came with the inherited fluency and confidence of privilege, not the exhausted mannerisms of European aristocracy but the energetic purpose of the elite of a nation big on achievement and short on memory. After his arrival in Bern in 1942, he did little to disguise his role as spymaster.
The first time we met he still dressed like a lawyer. Later he switched to well-tailored flannels and tweeds, worn with an old raincoat and a fedora, casually tilted back, reporter-style. He looked like a raffish academic, with his spectacles, moustache and pipe, but he was primarily a social creature, comfortable in smart hotels which he regarded as his prerogative. His espionage and social networks often overlapped. I was never his protégé, as such, more an awkward necessity when it came to the trickier stuff no one was supposed to know about (myself included). Hence his request that I drive him to Frankfurt that spring of 1945.
He needed a driver because of his gout and requested me specifically. Earlier in the year he had been responsible for my transfer into uniform. Official title: interpreter, Art
One of the skinheads mooned the crowd before we left and announced in English that they were all foreign-wanks. The other skinheads guffawed. Nobody else paid him any attention. It felt like this had happened before. On the drive back I asked who the people in the shed were and was told âShit.â
Hoover
FLORIDA TO FRANKFURT
WHY IS THE PROFESSIONAL smile considered an essential part of a cabin crewâs repertoire? Perhaps it is offered as a positive alternative to the rictus grin, and as a distraction from the crewâs other role as agents of death, ritualised in their bizarre performance called âcabin safety exercisesâ. Now they donât even bother to do it themselves. They show a film.
Â
The last and only time I had been to Frankfurt was in 1945, the day Hitler died. I wondered if Iâd given any thought then to what the future would hold. Probably not. Most of us were trying to remember what peace felt like. Now, nearly everyone I knew then is dead, and those who arenât are sick. Betty Monroe, who had recruited me in 1942, is in a Zurich clinic with Alzheimerâs. I had written to say I was coming to Europe, and got a reply from her daughter. Karl-Heinz had sounded depressed on the phone. He insisted everything was all right, but his speech was still slurred, and he took a while to recognise who I was and a lot longer to remember why he had contacted me. He was under the impression I was still his case officer and was going âto sort things outâ. He would not say what these things were except they referred to his âimmunity dealâ, and he expected me to liaise with Langley. I told him I was ancient history there, my contacts long gone.
âI had to blackmail that cocksucker Dulles for my deal!â he shouted. He didnât care that Allen Dulles had been dead over thirty years. Before he hung up he said, âJoe, itâs good to hear you againâ, sounding halfhearted. It was a sad call: Karl-Heinz in a time warp when once he had been the sharpest. I had protected him for years, no questions asked. It was part of the deal. My silence and deference remained the cornerstones of our relationship.
As for that âcocksuckerâ Allen Dulles, I had spent the war in awe of him. He had been in his forties then, a big shot already, running the U.S. Office of Strategic Services in Switzerland, and a future head of the CIA, from 1953 until the Cuban mess forced his resignation, a couple of years before they shot the president in 1963. Dulles had the sort of self-confidence promoted in Hollywood movies, that uniquely American harmony of individual ruggedness combined with a general willingness to conform while refusing to kow-tow. He came with the inherited fluency and confidence of privilege, not the exhausted mannerisms of European aristocracy but the energetic purpose of the elite of a nation big on achievement and short on memory. After his arrival in Bern in 1942, he did little to disguise his role as spymaster.
The first time we met he still dressed like a lawyer. Later he switched to well-tailored flannels and tweeds, worn with an old raincoat and a fedora, casually tilted back, reporter-style. He looked like a raffish academic, with his spectacles, moustache and pipe, but he was primarily a social creature, comfortable in smart hotels which he regarded as his prerogative. His espionage and social networks often overlapped. I was never his protégé, as such, more an awkward necessity when it came to the trickier stuff no one was supposed to know about (myself included). Hence his request that I drive him to Frankfurt that spring of 1945.
He needed a driver because of his gout and requested me specifically. Earlier in the year he had been responsible for my transfer into uniform. Official title: interpreter, Art
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