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would rather not. It was a common affliction among CIA people in the field. It was only after a tour at Langley that they learned to talk too much and write unauthorized books. |
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The sound of the rain on the metal roof was loud in the silence. This meeting was ad hoc, but if Vincent Kellner approved it, not casual. |
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"About six weeks ago, a man came to the embassy in Mexico City, Colonel. He was dressed like a campesino, a hungry one. He spoke Spanish almost well enough to be a native, but not quite. I am told he looked as though he had been sick or injured. Bear in mind that I never actually saw him or talked to him. The Marine guard turned him over to our ONI office. I'm sorry to say so, Colonel, but the navy isn't worth a shit at the spook business." |
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"You'll get no argument from me about that, Mr. Jones," Morgan said. |
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"In fairnessthough who gives a fuck about fairness, I'll never knowhe did say that he was a survivor from a Russian submarine named Pravda, scuttled near Cuba. I guess that made him navy property, or so the Marine guard commander figured. The man gave the name Karmann. Asked ONI not to notify the Russian embassy." A shrug. "You have to keep an open mind in the spook business, Colonel. Karmann wanted to speak with the President. Or if not the President, then the National Security Adviser. Yeah, sure. Check with the ONI office poobah. But there was a problem. Naval Intelligence's particular poobah, Commander Willis Carter Hale III, a horse's ass by any reasonable criterion, was off parasailing in Acapulco for three days. So ONI put the man up in a sleaze box hotel and said, come see us next week." Jones shrugged. "He never did. That's when our station was alerted. Though what the fuck for I can't imagine. The guy was long gone.'' |
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"My boss went ballistic when he heard. We checked the Langley database and turned up the Hotel-class Pravda, once |
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