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That very day, Thomas was driving west toward Fort Derrick and a high-level colloquy with army types about racially-selective biological mass-killer cultures also known (at the Pentagon) as "ethnic weapons." To the tune of "Here we Go Round the Mulberry Bush," Thomas was singing aloud: "Here I go to talk ethno-cide, talk ethno-cide, talk ethnocide; here I go to talk ethno-cide, this Thursday after-noon," whilst another track of his mind thought of our forty-first President, our CIA President, who, as V.P., broke a tie in the Senate by favoring the resumption of the manufacture of poison gas. Thomas' Asian-American Lincoln flowed along at eighty, a perfect extension of body and nerve, a soaring dream coming true. He began singing "Hot Rod Lincoln," then snapped in the cassette and crooned along, in harmony. For sure! That tape's the real reason I bought this car.
And look! Down there! Frederick:
Up from the meadows rich with corn,
Clear in the cool September morn,
The clustered spires of Frederick stand,
Green-walled by the hills of Maryland.
Round about them orchards sweep,
Apple and peach tree rooted deep,
And standing tall in that sweet bower,
The stately form of Anthrax Tower.
Warm gratitude toward Bruhn coursed through him. Had D.T. not insisted s0 adamantly that the Mosca project be based at Fort Meade, I might be daily driving this road to work. And, once there, sharing the Bruhn-induced fear of anthrax striking me, or worse, as a result of transporting a few spores home, killing Janet and the twins. Why go there now? Why bother? Turn around. Go home. Resign. Run. CIA! CIAIDS! That's the central metaphor. Our mission? Aborted. Our mission? Provide pure and comprehensive information to the President. As a result of covert operations and political objectives, this intel is at best tainted, at worst, falsified. We manipulate truth, and, thus policy. We make policy. Even when not trying, the DCI is logically pressed by CIA's momentum toward becoming a shadow President. CIA---- Langley---- is a shadow White House. It's a tumor growing on the Constitution. CIA holds properties and secret bank accounts all around the world. Profits from brokering arms and selling drugs, profits from phony private businesses, appropriation surpluses and kickbacks, flowing together, invested and reinvested through MHMUTUAL and other institutions generate a regular and substantial income. Financially, CIA is becoming autonomous.
And ready to fulfill Bill Casey's dream of implementing an independent foreign policy.
We have one now. While, overtly, the USA preaches to other countries about the superiority of democracy, covertly it corrupts their officials and subverts their elections.
So, quit, withdraw, run.
No, not yet. Advance from GS-15 to SL-16. Just a few months more. And then retire with a better pension.. If it weren't for Janet and the twins, I could say to hell with it and bolt like Harkinson did when they caught him swindling the taxpayers with his HEPETEX monkey cell biz. But they found him, brought him back. And now, Promis II. Bravest of all in Frederick town; She took up the flag the men hauled down. Superannuated frat boy! Chicken-shit time server! Every word the old man said is true! In her attic window the staff she set, To show one heart beat loyal yet. Was I truly ever an idealistic romantic confronting humorless hypocritical parents? Up the street came the rebel tread, Stonewall Jackson riding ahead. And one Fourth I told them, "The flag should fly in your heart, not on your porch." Under his slouched hat left and right, He glanced: the old flag met his sight. We have one nation, divided and subdivided, with liberty and justice for some. So what has my working life done to change that? Resign! "Halt!"---- the dust-brown ranks stood fast. "Fire!"---- out blazed the rifle blast. It shivered the window, pane and sash; It rent the banner with seam and gash. Don't go overboard. You have responsibilities. And work to do. Barbara Frietchie caught the falling flag and shook it at Stonewall Jackson, "Shoot if you must, this old gray head, But spare your country's flag," she said. High, noble drama. Yes. My only objection is that it never really happened. "Who touches a hair of yon gray head, Dies like a dog! March on!" he said. You never really know where you fit into the picture. Nor do you really know the purpose, or consequences, of your actions. All day long on Frederick Street, sounded the tread of marching feet. The town was settled by Germans and named for Frederick the Great. All day long that free flag tossed, over the heads of the rebel host. In his office Hitler displayed a picture of Friedrich der Gross. Ever its torn folds rose and fell, On the loyal winds it loved to sell. Frederick, the enlightened despot, was the first ruler in all history to make public education mandatory. And through the hill-gaps sunset
light, Shone o'er it with a warm goodnight. In school I learned that poem by heart. Barbara Frietchie's work is o'er, And the Rebel rides on his raids no more. Do I have it right? Can't be loved to sell. Is the poem really that bad!
They don't make school kids memorize verse any more.
No more.
I can remember the lyrics of hundreds of songs, but can I remember one more poem sans music?
He recalled a few verses from A.E. Housman. Malt does more than Milton can, to justify God's ways to man. Ale, man, ale's the stuff to drink, for fellows whom it hurts to think. Oh I look into the pewter pot, and see the world as it is not.
What's the lens of my illusions?
Mix Houseman's Ludlow Fair with Barbara F.
That would be fun.
Too soft.
Get tough.
A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, Over the face of the leader came.
Dulles? Casey? Bush?
The nobler nature within him stirred, To life at that woman's deed and word. That part comes just before sparing the old gray head. How'd I forget it? Stonewall Jackson was a fundamentalist preacher. His war, no doubt, was a Christian act.
And so, doubtless, was slavery.
An equally Christian act had been to spare the twins' heads from being injected for life with such doggerel.
Those synapses are being wired for computers instead.
"Hey, kids, someone asks, 'what kind of word processor you have?' Hold up your pencil."
Thinking is making connections in your head. To give half that job to computers is to extend your wits into the machine, make it part of your mind, render you intellectually passive. If you connect the Aristotle you've heard about in philosophy with the Aristotle you've heard about in science and realize it's the same Aristotle, you've savored the blessings of what teachers call transfer. And TV! Pass-ivi-ty! Suck that tit!
Real men don't drink milk, unless they have ulcers.
George Washington's army was the first to have a milk ration. That's in some history book.
Is that a history virus?
They were seldom paid, and their feet left blood prints in the snow.
George Washington knew pure comprehensive information would give the patriots the best chance to prevail, a most unlikely seeming outcome. He was the first Director of Central Intelligence. After Long Island, when his army was almost smashed (In a Dunkirk-like move, fisherman from Nantucket evacuated it.), the survivors regrouped at the top of Manhattan. What of the British? Arms? Troops? Plans? He called his officers together and asked for a volunteer to go find out. Thrice he asked. Then Nathan Hale agreed to be the spy, posed as a school teacher, spied, was caught and hung, and now stands tied hand and foot in bronze effigy at Langley as the patron Saint of CIA. In revenge, Washington ordered the death of Major André, General Howe's favorite, who'd gone to Garrison in civilian clothes to abet Benedict Arnold's plan to surrender West Point to the Brits.
Washington's best asset, his confidant---- and cook---- a tall, brilliant, and charming German, solicited Washington's permission to join the Hessians, which he did. He told those slave soldiers to desert to the German communities in Maryland and Pennsylvania where they could live in peace and freedom. A thousand did s0. Some, doubtless, founded families in Frederick.
Barbara F's family?
Are there Frietchies in the Frederick phone book?
Should I tell the twins as a sophomore at Yale I tried to kick a soccer ball over Connecticut Hall like Nathan Hale did? Talk about the old college try! Mine hit the second story.
Did he really? Legend? Disinformation? Truth? Another history virus? Is it possible? What kind of ball did he have?
And here come Jackson's regiments again, over the mountains winding down, Horse and foot, into Frederick town.
Hearse and foot.
And now to advise those test-tube killers.
Like the rest of us, they only get one life.
Most of them have children.
Born or reared in the Numb Nineties.
Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent de froidure et de pluie,
Et il s'est vetu en broderie
Claire et riante.
Il n'y a bête ni oiseau
Qui en son jargon ne chant ou crie,
Le temps a laissé son manteau
De vent de froidure et de pluie.
Did I get that right? It did help me learn French. Classes at Yale. Intense course at the Monterey Institute of International Studies. The weather has laid aside its coat of wind of cold and of rain, and it's dressed itself in embroidery, cheerful and clear. There's neither beast nor bird, which in its jargon neither sings nor cries out, the weather has laid aside its coat of wind of cold and of rain. More doggerel French twaddle! First, was study French and the French. Then it was KMBUZZ in Montréal. The immigrant pool has dried up. Hardly anyone in CIA these days knows the language of their country of assignment. Not much better back then.
Today?
On the way home from the meeting I'll swing around to Meade and ask D.T. for an informal fly report.
"Let the good times roll!" Tom yelled out in French as he snapped in a zydeco tape.
He still felt pride at having been selected for the original team of KMBUZZ, even though the fact he'd earned A's in French at college probably explained why they thought his linguistic accomplishment would perfect at MIIS. KMBUZZ has proved successful, too. Its primary mission was to destabilize Canada by detaching Québec. KMBUZZ founded and financed the Reform Party to preempt and shatter Pierre Trudeau's Liberal Party. Conjoined with KMBURR, whose objective is to subvert the east-west railroads and poison the Crow Pass agreement---- which for a century has provided a very low rate for shipping wheat over the Rockies to Vancouver---- KMBUZZ worked to loosen Canada's man-made east-west ties and strengthen its natural north-south ties. This was meant to break up Canada, and add parts of it to the United States, economically, if not politically. Hurtling toward Detrick in his hot-rod Lincoln, his middle-aged memory throbbed sadness at the thought the early eighties had been the best time of his life. The Company had put him in deep cover at Marchandise Québecoise, an Edgar Bronfman enterprise based in Montréal with offices in Québec City, Ottawa, Toronto, Paris, Algiers, and Dakar. As supervisor of sales representatives, he'd traveled in America, Europe, and Africa, smoothing the flow of imports and exports. In Montréal, he'd met and married Janet MacLeod. It had all added up to a magical romantic life, and the slow development of what proved to be a successful business career, CIA career, and marriage. His cover life transcended mendacity and became real. His MQ paycheck grew much bigger than his government check. He came to regret Company policy required him to rebate the MQ money to CIA. Doubtless, they pumped it back into their hidden private funds. He did
both jobs, and did them well, s0 why shouldn't he have the money he earned from both?
And the slow, long operations were working. Part of their missi0n is already accomplished. Québec is sovereign and independent. Canada is now called Ontario. By 2000 the Maritimes had all become states in the American union; the Territories and western Provinces are balancing between joining Ontario or USA. All this fortifies the Bronfman enterprises and other powerful multinationals and their subsidiaries, including those belonging to CIA and the Mafia.
Laissez les bons temps rouler!
Let the good times roll!
In Detroit, all that week, roll they did. By the grace of room service, and TV, and the companionship of Mosca, Dr Donovan Tesla Bruhn, high up in his hotel, hiding out in a suite about which he'd come to feel downright territotrial, enjoyed a time of peaceful contentment comparable only to the long days when high on khat seated in the shade, breathing fragrant air, he'd enjoyed the marvel of watching the birds and animals of Lake Nakuru. So much for morning thoughts. He contemplates the five lofty towers of Renaissance Center. He showers. He stands, naked, before a full-length mirror. He speaks:
"Did you ever study yourself, and imagine having no jock, or no tits? Believe me! Both are absurd and should be struck out of our DNA plan. CIA! Forget it. DNA's my club. I can say this, because, my guard down, my thoughts run free, and I'm learning to speak clear and true. How? By talking to a fly. Don't you feel honored, O! fly? I can see now---- yes, in the inner mirror, I see old age can be a parody of previous self, or, on the contrary, previous self can be a parody of future fulfillment. And right now, now, I know my decision to resign puts me on the right road." He preened, admiring the good condition of his body "You agree, my boy, don't you?"
Mosca buzzed yes.
"'Won't you come into my parlor?' said the spider to the fly."
"You're no spider; I'm no fly."
"True, But the spider, CIA, is my mind father."
"The spider's my mother and my father."
"I'm getting horny. But you don't know what I'm talking about." Mosca told Bruhn about his Pedroesque introduction to lust. "You should have built that into me, because now I miss it."
"I built you a good imagination, and, from the sound of what you're saying, filled it with too much art." Bruhn sensually drew on his boxer shorts. He adjusts himself. Mosca flits about, sucking the scene with all hir eyes. When I begin my killoff, I'll start with this cretin. This Cretin, a.k.a. Don, flashing a contented weasel smile, slipped into a sweatshirt, and said: "I don't get enough sex. I wonder what the bellhop can arrange."
When the Bell Fairy responds to This Cretin's call, T.C.---- uh, Don---- will ask for . . . uh . . . yes! A manchild in the back of a taxi!
Meanwhile, down in the hotel bar, ancient one-armed Blaise, and old Richard, and a new acquaintance, a big, coarse Special Forces sergeant who looked about thirty-five, were examining another item of machismo's agenda, a spectrum extending from infra-rebellion to ultraviolence. Sergeant George Baxter was telling them he'd served in the Roman legions, rising to the rank of Praefectus Castrorum, and had been a professional soldier ever since. "When I fought for the Aztecs, they called me Blood Glutton, and for good fucking reason." He sipped at a water glass brimming red with wine. "Nobody could wield one of them stone-edged swords like I could."
"Why didn't you tell them about bronze or steel?"
"That would have fucked up the whole game."
"Tush. A moot reply."
"What the hell you mean?"
"I mean the fact that you don't know how to make bronze or steel renders your recourse to honor moot."
"What makes it moot, you armless asshole, is it's none of your fucking business."
"Ease off, Sarge, Blaise is just making conversation."
"The problem, Sarge, is you're a tadpole among frogs."
"Yes. Everyone to his own truth."
At that moment, into the bar came Thomas Cortlandt Spofford. Thomas glanced around at the empty tables and the photos of old Detroit basking in weak neon light, and decided to sit at the bar and see what he could learn. Tom had just winged in from Baltimore and taxied to the hotel where he'd reserved a suite by phone. He ordered a bourbon-over, and studied the three drinkers: a loud, crude army sergeant displaying a blaze of ribbons, and two old timers, one, who could be the oldest man in the world, clad in a dry brown leather jacket, an arm empty and pinned back, shirt tail hanging out, the other dressed in a white cotton cap, green shirt, black pants, and a General Grant beard. All big hotels are self-contained, semi-autonomous communities. So sit here a while and eavesdrop and get a sense of the place. Should Bruhn leave his room, the Detroit detective who's watching him will tell me on my pager, and shadow him. When I get the feel of things, I'll go up to his room and solicit a fly report.
The sergeant, sucking wine and chewing something, was listening to the one-armed man. He interrupted. "You gotta have a dirty little string and a T-shirt with a square on it if you want to go into a Zoroaster temple."
He chewed angrily as his companions demurred.
Abruptly, he stepped over to Thomas.
Confronted him.
"What the fuck you staring at?"
"I beg your pardon."
"Ain't you ever seen a guy chew wine before?"
"Often. Sit down. Have a drink."
The sergeant dropped onto a stool.
"I ran out of bubble gum."
He placed an elbow on the bar, rested his chin on his fist, exposing a wrist tattoo of a wild pig surmounting the legend: LEGIO DIX FRETENSIS. "I've had a bad day." While George Baxter gulped wine and babbled on about his bad day, Thomas, feeling a déjà-vu, studied him. Yes! Washington Park, San Francisco! This is the Roman soldier who crossed the grass as I watched that sexy sophisticate and her rustic companion. "Oh, fuck it!" George stood. "Thanks for the drink." He strode out of the lounge.
What did I learn from that?
The two elders were gazing at him, he at them.
He went over to them.
"Let me buy a round s0 we can wash away the taste of that hero."
They raised their glasses, clicked.
"To a mouth full of stars," said Blaise.
"This is Blaise; I'm Richard."
"Tom here."
He got them talking about the hotel, and as they shared their impressions, he began to develop a very firm conviction he'd seen Richard somewhere else.
"Have you ever been to Baltimore, Richard, or Montréal?"
"Yes, but I'm from New York, not the city, but upstate."
"Do you know where Garrison is?"
"Sure do. Right across from West Point."
"I was born and raised in Garrison. Went to grade school in Peekskill "
Richard smiled a crooked smile.
"Were you ever a merchant seaman?" Thomas asked.
"Yes. And a co-instructor of driving."
"Amazing!"
"We always used a maroon 1934 Buick sedan with black fenders." They embraced, in wonder, and stood back and beamed at each other.
"Remember, Tommy, you and me, we just couldn't push that Buick fast enough to start when John popped the clutch."
"I wasn't big enough to be much help." In a rush of happy memories they talked about life in the old ferry house and fishing in the river and hiking back to the colonial iron mines and the Revolutionary camp of the Connecticut Line and going to Danbury Fair and driving to Oregon Corners to the free-beer Firemen's Festival and the summer rodeos and the marvel of the beaver dam and drinking wine with the ancient truant officer while shooting Civil war muskets off the back porch at West Point and Bobby Gibson playing guitar and banjo and singing all night and the three model A's with one set of license plates and watching the ships and barges go by on the river and the Albany boat thieves who used to stay over on their way to sell their merchandise in Brooklyn and meeting Pete Seeger in Cold Spring and climbing Storm King Mountain in quest for the ancient Dutchmen bowling ninepins, and drinking wine in the concrete shell of Dick's Castle, and sneaking onto Bannerman's Island to look at the cannon and explore the castle, and eating free food at Greymoor, and buying catfood in the store for sandwiches, and . . . and . . . and . . . !
While this was going on downstairs, upstairs Dr Donovan Tesla Bruhn admitted a bellboy-powered breakfast cart, and sat down at the table by the window, with USA Today and coffee and real maple syrup and buckwheat cakes and orange juice for a leisurely brunchtime meal and newspaper read and aesthetic survey of the dramatic vista over downtown Detroit and the thick maritime traffic passing on the river and of the waterfront and slopes of Windsor, Ontario, beyond. He spoke to Mosca, who was basking in a sunbeam. "My friend, today we should begin to focus and sharpen your gifts. I think the first aspect to explore is your audio-video electromagnetic ability. Together, we'll break into Promis II and infect it with a cancerous virus. This will be good training for you, and make it absolutely certain they'll never find us."
And maybe I can use it to start World War III.
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