by Neil Maresca
“God dammit, girl,” Strickland roared. “What’s the matter with you today? I asked you a simple question. What can you tell me about Peter Cameron? You sat next to him for several hours every day. You ate with him, drank with him, and slept with him! Now, what can you tell me about Peter Cameron?”
Strickland had gotten nose-to-nose with her and barked into her face like a Marine drill sergeant, leaving Kate quivering and close to tears. He knows! She thought, He knows! Then it occurred to her. Of course he knows. This is the CIA He probably had everybody watching me, just like I was watching everybody else. They probably even bugged everybody’s room, Oh God! What if there were a camera?
“MISS PORTER! Peter Cameron, if you please.”
“Well,” she began, her voice barely a whisper, “he’s the best of the bunch, smart, dedicated…”
“Yes, yes, I know, ‘always on time for class, has good dental hygiene, is well liked.’ I’m sure it’s all in your report. I want to know what’s not in your report.”
“What’s not in my report, sir?” Kate was lost. She had no idea what Strickland wanted from her. Momentarily, the thought entered her mind that he was looking for details of their love-making, but she instantly banished the idea. Nevertheless, it served to further unnerve her. Strickland was imposing. A solid rock of a man, he could make hardened Marine veterans quake by simply glaring at them. Kate, a pixyish college student with no exposure to anything even remotely similar to the force that now loomed over her, stood silently waiting for the next blow to fall.
Strickland stepped back. He examined her from a short distance, studying her as if she were a specimen in a lab or a puzzle to be understood. For some time neither spoke.
“Perhaps you should sit, Miss Porter. You look ill.” The words were spoken softly, even kindly. There was no sarcasm that Kate could detect. She took a few wobbly steps forward and collapsed into the chair in front of Strickland’s desk.
“I think I owe you an explanation,” he said as he took his seat behind the desk. This, Kate realized, was as close to an apology as she was going to get.
“The CIA is a very special organization composed of very special people some of whom perform very dangerous tasks. Some of the men you have been observing may be asked to conduct various field assignments that put their lives in danger. These assignments could, and sometimes do, lead to death or imprisonment—and that often means torture followed by death. I’m not trying to frighten you or give you a ‘chamber of commerce’ pep talk, Miss Porter. I’m trying to help you to understand why it is so important that I know everything there is to know about each of the men you have observed.
“I have to choose which of these men’s lives will be put at risk. If I choose the wrong man, he could die, and that death is on me, Miss Porter. It is not on you, or even on the Commies. It is on me. That’s why I am pressing you so hard. I get reports from the instructors. I can read test scores. I know how each person is doing in each phase of his training. I know that Peter Cameron is, as you say, ‘the best of the bunch,’ although it may surprise you to know that several recruits—including you—surpassed him in academics. He is, however, a natural leader, and scored first in overall achievement.
“But I don’t need you to tell me that. I need you to tell me those things that can’t be verified by tests and simulations—his dedication, resolve, ingenuity, resourcefulness, and most importantly, his trustworthiness. I have to know whether I can trust him, Miss Porter. His life and the lives of others will be in the balance, and when he is placed in the crucible, I must be sure he will have the strength of character to endure.
“In a very short time, we will be leaving for Sector One to lay the groundwork for the arrival of the student ambassadors. You will be my liaison with them when they arrive. You will be there to help them sort out their difficulties, adjust to their new surroundings, and generally mother them through. Your real purpose, however, is to identify their weaknesses. Do they gamble? Are they susceptible to women? Or to men? Do they have some secret fear or weakness that the Soviets can use against them? These are the sorts of things I need to know, Miss Porter, and that is what I expect you to report to me. I want you to think like a Soviet agent. I have no doubt they believe the student ambassador program to be a front for CIA operatives, and in that they will be partially correct. Some of the ambassadors will be agents, and Peter Cameron is one. You met two others in your training class, Frank Doughherty and Charles Yates; all three have been assigned to Sector One. You are to observe these men closely, get to know all of them as well or better than you know Peter, and report all you know about them to me. Is this clear to you, Miss Porter?”
“Yes sir, it is.”
“Now comes the most important question: Is this acceptable to you? If you find it distasteful, or a violation of your principals, say so now, and I will find other tasks for you within the organization; that is, within the USIA, not the CIA. It will not end your internship or affect your status if you refuse, although I will admit it would be a great disappointment to me if you chose to throw in the towel.”
“You’re asking me to spy on those men. They’re my friends.”
“You have filed reports on them already.”
“Yes, but there’s not a bad word about any of them in those reports—even when I could have put something negative in, I left it out.”
“I realize that, and, quite frankly, I expected as much. But that’s exactly why those reports are useless to me. I don’t need or want character references. I must have the truth. By discovering the truth about these men, you are doing a service to the country and to them as well. A weak, vulnerable agent is a ticking time bomb, and when it explodes, it will destroy him and many others. How many others, God only knows. You can help to prevent that, Miss Porter.”
Kate felt like a feather in the wind, being blown this way and that, with no power of her own to set the direction. One moment she was excited about the chance to be a student ambassador, then crushed by the rejection, only to be revived by Strickland’s offer, then surprised and thrilled to be made a part of the CIA, and now faced with this dilemma. Could she spy on Peter and the others? Was it right? It didn’t seem right, but what Strickland said made sense.
“May I have some time to think it over?” She asked, hoping to gain a reprieve.
“Delaying won’t make it any easier, Miss Porter.”
Kate was completely out of her depth. She realized that she had been playing at being a spy—going to classes and writing reports like a school girl. Her instincts told her to run away, accept a good, but unimaginative job buried somewhere in the bureaucracy that was the Department of State, but she also recognized that this was exactly what she had been searching for—the opportunity to do something meaningful with her life, so even though she was uncomfortable with the idea of spying on her fellow agents, she agreed. Besides, accepting the assignment meant she would be close to Peter.
“I’m honored that you asked me, sir,” she replied. “When do we leave?”
Strickland, obviously pleased with her answer, said, “Go home and pack. Miss Hall will send a courier with instructions. You will be working under her direction until I can arrive in a week or so. I have to attend the banquet to honor the student ambassadors who have just completed their briefings. Eisenhower will be there, so I can’t skip out on it, but I’ll be along as soon as I can get things sorted out here.”
“Where am I going, sir?”
“The Hague, Netherlands for starters. Miss Hall has all the information.”
Kate’s feet barely touched the ground as she walked from the USIA offices to her apartment. Not even the prospect of working under the direction of the Dragon Lady Hall could slow the rapid ascent of the rollercoaster that was her emotions.
Chapter 30
January 16, 1957
Office of Professor Johan de Groot
University of Leiden
Leiden, the Netherlands
The name pla
te identified the smiling, grandmotherly woman behind the desk as “Mrs. Van der Berg,” Personal Assistant to Professor Johan de Groot, whose office sat hidden behind a massive oak door.
She rose to greet Peter and Lucas as soon as they presented themselves before her.
“Don’t tell me,” she said in near-perfect English. “Let me guess. You must be Mr. Cameron,” she said, correctly identifying Peter, who smiled in return, “And you must be Mr. Hamilton,” she added, turning to Lucas, who shifted nervously and nodded.
“Let me be the first to welcome you to the University of Leiden. We are so happy to have you here. And also, relieved, I might add. We, that is, Professor De Groot and I have been worried about you. We expected you some time ago.”
Peter began to explain that their plane had been delayed, but Mrs. Van der Berg was already out from behind her desk and ushering them in the general direction of the Professor’s office, keeping up a non-stop chatter as she did so.
“I realize that you must be very tired from your long ordeal,” she continued pleasantly, “and I would normally offer you some tea and cakes, but I’m afraid the tea went cold some time ago, and there is no time now.”
She opened the large oak door and, indicating that the boys should enter, added, “The Professor will explain.”
The office smelled of books and pipe tobacco. Peter smiled, and winked at Lucas the moment they had walked in and observed the professor leaning over a large paper-and book-strewn desk, puffing furiously away on an intricately carved, amber-colored, meerschaum pipe, completely unaware that the two young men had just entered.
They stood patiently and politely waiting to be noticed. Peter, crisp and cleanly shaven, nattily dressed in a pair of dark blue slacks complimented by a grey LeCoste soft collar polo, with his ever-present, pleasant smile stood at ease; while Lucas, in khakis and a wrinkled plaid, long-sleeved shirt, looking, as usual, like a poor relative, stood rigidly by his side. Peter and Lucas had traveled together from the States to Leiden, a ghastly 12-hour trip with connections and delays, and had no sooner arrived, than they were scooped up and driven to the university to meet Professor de Groot and their host families.
Lucas was in awe of Peter, who always appeared perfectly groomed, even after traveling 12 hours in coach. Peter was, in Lucas’ eyes, the perfect diplomat—intelligent, articulate, cultured, and likeable. He moved with an easy grace, was comfortable in any social setting, and was a natural leader. If he had a flaw, it was that he didn’t take anything, even himself, seriously. Lucas, who was serious about everything, never really understood this aspect of Peter’s personality, but then, he reasoned, Peter had not witnessed his father’s murder—Peter, he reminded himself, had grown up in America, not in Hungary, and was quintessentially American—optimistic, self-confident, and happy-go-lucky.
Lucas and Peter were polar opposites: Peter was out-going, Lucas withdrawn; Peter glib, Lucas laconic; Peter sparkled, and was the center of attention wherever he went, Lucas was dark, rarely noticed, and quickly forgotten; but amazingly, they had become good friends.
The unlikely relationship began the day following the Student Ambassador reception at the Willard Hotel in Washington D.C. when all the fledgling ambassadors attended the first day of a one-week training program. Lucas, like most of the others, spent the afternoon following the reception escorting his family around Washington, and splurging on an expensive dinner before heading off to the dormitory room in George Washington University that was to be his home for the next week. The room, part of quad, was painted a dull beige, and furnished with two single beds, two matching desk and chair sets, and nothing else. When he entered, Lucas saw a suitcase sitting on the floor, more or less in the middle of the room, but its owner was nowhere to be found. Apparently, whomever it belonged to had simply dropped it and gone back out again without laying claim to either of the beds, which was his right as the first to arrive. Since the unknown roommate had failed to exercise his right, Lucas appropriated the bed with the desk closest to the room’s only window, unpacked his belongings, and settled down to wait for his mystery roommate to arrive. Lucas propped himself up in the bed and began to read, expecting his ‘roomy’ to arrive shortly. However, after a few hours’ reading, Lucas found himself nodding off, and decided to get some sleep, having concluded that his roommate was not going to show up.
He was sleeping soundly, when the click of a lock and the squeak of an opening door awakened him. He jumped out of bed, and squared himself to meet what he presumed must be an intruder. Lucas’ time playing soccer with the roughnecks on the streets of Budapest had not been wasted. He was quiet and reserved by nature, but he could take care of himself if he had to.
As the intruder stepped into the doorway, Lucas lunged forward, planning to slam the door into him, but was startled in mid-leap when a shaft of light from the hallway revealed that the intruder was Peter Cameron.
“Peter!” Lucas called out in surprise while attempting to redirect his lunge away from its intended target.
“Lucas?” Peter responded in amazement as Lucas brushed by him and slammed into the wall. “Are you all right?” he asked, wincing as he looked at Lucas, who had bounced off the wall and now stood in his rumpled pajamas, rubbing his shoulder.
“I’m fine,” Lucas replied, “but what are you doing here?”
“I’m your roommate. Didn’t they tell you?”
“No—do you know what time it is?”
“You sound like my mother,” Peter answered with his usual good-humor, a smile lighting up his face.
Lucas couldn’t determine if Peter was being friendly, or laughing at his ill-fated attempt at self-defense.
“And you scared me half to death.” Lucas answered with some pique. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“Yes, well, sorry about that,” Peter responded. “But since it is the middle of the night and I’m very tired, do you think I could come in?”
Lucas stepped aside, allowing Peter to enter the room. After a quick assessment, he went directly to the unclaimed bed and lay down without bothering to undress.
“Good-night,” he yawned.
“Good-night?” Lucas echoed, but Peter didn’t respond. He was snoring gently.
The following morning, Lucas rose before the sun was up, and went into the already warm and muggy Washington morning for his usual run. Peter, meanwhile, slept soundly. When Lucas returned, he found Peter still sleeping, still in his clothes from the previous evening. He debated about what to do. They were scheduled to begin training at nine a.m. sharp. All he had to do was shower and dress—but Peter? From the look of him, Lucas thought it would take a week in rehab to get him back into shape. At first, he shrugged his shoulders and told himself it wasn’t his concern, but that was only at first. He cursed himself for caring, went over to the bed, shook Peter awake, and, when he was sure Peter would not fall back asleep, went into the shower.
He came out of the bathroom half expecting to find that Peter had gone back to sleep. Instead, he found a neatly-made bed and no sign of Peter. He had no idea what to make of it, and no time to worry about it. He completed dressing and left for his scheduled training session.
It was his first time traveling around Washington D.C. on his own, and he made a terrible mess of it, taking the wrong Metro line going in the wrong direction, and—after finally taking the correct line—walking the wrong direction when he exited the station, so that, even though he had allowed extra time, he arrived at the training site sweaty, slightly disheveled, and nervous, only to be greeted by a clean, perfectly composed Peter Cameron.
“Thank God, you’re here,” Peter said. “I was getting worried about you.”
“I got lost,” Peter mumbled, embarrassed.
“You should have waited for me,” Peter said. “D.C. can be confusing at first—and dangerous. Look, I’m sorry about last night. Somebody should have told you I was your roommate, and I probably should have left you a note telling you I was going to be l
ate. I’d like to be your friend. What do you say?”
Before Lucas could answer, Strickland appeared. A big, broad-shouldered man, he matched Lucas in height, but passed him in breadth. He came up behind the two young men and placed a hand on each man’s shoulder. “I hope you two are getting along,” he said. “I have great hopes for the both of you.”
Lucas felt the man’s strength as he squeezed his shoulder, and wondered if Peter felt the same thing. He started to say something, but before he could get a word out, Strickland cut him off. “You’ve both been assigned to families in the Netherlands, so you’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“The Netherlands,” Peter said. “I guess that’s Sector 1?”
“It’s part of it,” Strickland replied. “Does that suit you?”
“Just dandy,” Peter answered with his usual smile.
“How about you, Lucas? Does The Netherlands suit you as well?”
Lucas thought it over. He spoke French, German, Hungarian, and Spanish, but not a word of Dutch. He considered saying something about it, perhaps suggesting that his abilities could be put to better use in some other country. And he was feeling a little uncomfortable. He sensed a conspiracy—something in the way Strickland and Peter exchanged glances—but he told himself that this was America, not Hungary, and he was merely being paranoid. So, when he did speak, all he said was “Of course.”
Over the course of the next ten days, as they roomed together, ate together and attended training classes together, Peter and Lucas became friends. Despite the fact that Lucas was from a lower middle income family and Peter was a child of privilege, their personalities meshed. They shared a passionate interest in history and foreign affairs, along with a hatred of totalitarianism of any kind, and a love of freedom. Lucas was surprised to find that Peter shared his interest in Russian authors. Peter was equally surprised to discover that his quiet, serious roommate had a sense of humor.
