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I WAS HURT. I DID NOT REPLY. AS I FORESAW, THE NEXT COUPLE OF WEEKS went by with a great deal of work at the Embassy, and the only change in my personal life during this period was to transport myself and my two suitcases from the Victoria Plaza Hotel to the Cervantes, a considerably cheaper hostelry, situated next door to a fleabag. In the early hours of the morning, sounds came up from the gutter of bottles breaking.

Then came a second note from Kittredge.

November 13, 1956

Dear Harry—forgive all. Some days I feel like Catherine of Russia. Poor Hugh. Poor Herrick. It’s all the fault of the impatient child I bear. An imperious spirit will dwell among us before long. In the interim, know that on rereading, I thought your dance of the half-pint paint cans was fun. Will you buy me one of those gaily painted autos for Christmas? We miss you terribly, Hugh without knowing it, I more than making up for both of us. A dear spirit is among the missing. Do write me a nice letter full of shtuff. Detail the daily dreary if you will.

Your number one.

Kittredge

P.S. The routing for mail works perfectly at this end. I assume it’s ditto at yours.

November 16, 1956

Dear Catherine of all Russia,

How I prefer the kiss to the knout! Since you ask for my working day, I’ll give it. We’re an unhappy station. That is because we are waiting for E. Howard Hunt to arrive. The present Chief of Station, Minot Mayhew, is an old Foreign Service officer who had loads of seniority and so was able to sign on in 1947 with the Agency at the level of Chief of Station. He has been at that level ever since, doing stints in Bolivia and Paraguay. Now Mayhew is waiting to retire, and does nothing. No social functions. Not much Agency work. He comes in at nine with the rest of us, and by ten is usually over at his stockbroker’s. Everyone agrees, however, that he is nifty at one aspect of his job: He keeps up decent relations with the Ambassador. I’ve heard horror tales, as I’m sure you have, of how strained relations can get at an Embassy when the Ambassador looks upon the Chief of Station with a jaundiced eye. Here, however, due to Mayhew, we’re left at peace in our portion of the second-story wing. The Ambassador, Jefferson Patterson, understands Spanish, but can only speak with a stammer, so Mayhew, whose cover title is First Secretary, fields some of the Ambassador’s work with Uruguayan officials. Mayhew has also been instrumental in bringing over, via diplomatic pouch, soccer equipment for a Catholic team in Montevideo. Other than that, his rating is close to zero. Our real direction comes from the Deputy Chief of Station, an ex–World War II Marine Lieutenant with a bull neck named Augustus “Gus” Sonderstrom. Augustus must have been a very tough guy once, but has now gone, not to seed, but to beer belly. He tends to give his all to golf, and it’s not as silly as it sounds. At the country club, he brings along our Operations Officer or Communications Officer to play in foursomes with various local government and business types. That establishes a climate for favors. The Russians, despite an injection of new KGB types called “joy-boys” (who wear London suits instead of Russian burlap bags), are not yet competitive in golf and tennis. So, Gus Sonderstrom’s social contacts with Uruguayan golfer-officials often lets us hold some good cards. On the other hand, we need all the help we can get. The President of the Uruguayan government, Luis Batlle, represents the Colorado Party, which has won every election here for the last hundred years. Socialist-oriented, the Colorados spend and spend. Uruguay is a true welfare state—which may be why it’s so peaceful and crumbling. This Luis Batlle is anti-American and at the moment is working out cattle and hide deals with the U.S.S.R.

I was thrust into all this on my second day of real work in the Embassy, which, by the way, is a splendid white mansion. Vaguely antebellum, it has a veranda fronted by two-story white wooden columns, and is situated on nothing less than the Avenida Lord Ponsonby, next to a park so beautifully laid-out that it could only have been designed by a Parisian landscape artist, circa 1900. In this part of Montevideo, rest assured, nothing crumbles. Our Embassy is as spotless as Navy whites, and Sonderstrom in our first interview wants to know about my tennis game. Seems we need one more good player for the country club intrigues. Did I bring a racket, Gus wants to know.

Well, so soon as my father heard of my assignment to Uruguay, he sent a stiff warning by way of one of his rare letters to me: I was told to avoid the golf and tennis circuit! The idea, according to Cal, is that younger officers who put in their time in this manner must have control of their technique. If you’re courting a foreign diplomat, let His Specialness take the set, whereas if you’re teamed with your Chief in doubles against a State Department pair, then don’t, for God’s sake, let the Agency down. “You, son,” Cal wrote to me, “haven’t, in my opinion, that kind of concealed mastery. I like your fast serve when it goes in—it’s got heart!—ditto the overhead, but your backhand can’t speak back to any opponent who knows how to insult it. So stay away from tennis—you’ll drop too many points in other places.” Recognizing the wisdom of this, I told Sonderstrom that I didn’t even know how to find the handle on a racket. When he brought up golf, I said, “Sir, the one time I got out on a golf course, I shot a five, first hole.”

“Fantastic,” he said.

“Yessir, and a thirteen and a fifteen on the next two. By then, I had lost all my golf balls.” Actually, I’m better than that, but I wasn’t about to tell him.

“What sports are you good at?” asked Sonderstrom.

I said boxing and rock climbing appealed to me. That took care of it. Gus grunted and said there weren’t too many rocks in Uruguay and any boxing I did had better not be in bars. I could see he was going to squeeze a little more golf and tennis out of the officers available to him at present, and leave me to carry their excess load in desk work. On the other hand, now that I was, in his eyes, a boxer, he wasn’t going to be snide about it. He’s really out of shape.

One result, I expect, of being laggard on golf and tennis is that I’ve caught an all-night chore from one of the Operations Officers. (Yes, he plays tennis!) Maybe it’s just the job they pass on to the newest arrival. The irony is that it’s the task I enjoy the most because it has a whiff, at least, of cloak-and-dagger, although don’t get misled. It’s only for one night a week, and couldn’t be more untypical of how I spend the rest of my working time.

Called AV/ALANCHE, it’s a modest operation involving seven teenagers from a local gang of more or less decent right-wing Catholic youths. They are in the work for the ideological satisfaction and the excitement, and, certainly, the money. We pay each of them the equivalent of ten bucks a night. Their task is to go out under cover of darkness once a week to deface Communist posters, and paint our—that is, their—Catholic party slogans over the Red ones. Sometimes, we put up new posters where our old ones have been defaced by Communist gangs. I confess I like the action, and I like the kids, although I will confess that I have been out there on the street with AV/ALANCHE just once and then only by dint of convincing Sonderstrom that it might be my duty to pick up some feel for the op. Actually, active participation is considered too chancy for the Agency since our seven kids in AV/ ALANCHE run occasionally into a roving bunch from the MRO, who are very tough fellows indeed, ultraleftists who believe in armed insurrection. Not only do street fights break out, but there are arrests. If I were picked up on such an occasion by the police, it could be in the hands of the wrong arm. It seems the flics of Montevideo come in political flavors, left or right. Depends on the precinct. (We’re in South America, after all.) Sonderstrom allowed me to set up my credentials with these kids by going out this once with them, but afterward he forbade it. “I didn’t sleep till you got back,” Gus told me next day. I had returned at 5:00 A.M. and called him at his home, per instructions, leaving him vastly relieved that I had no fracas to report. All the same, the tension is there. Think of it! Scuttling around the streets in an old truck, working by flashlight as occasional stragglers and drunks pass at two in the morning. Are they lookouts for the Reds? We were defacing PCU posters (Partido Comunista de Uruguay), and that meant going on sorties into working-class neighborhoods. At two in the morning, those barrios are as silent as cemeteries. It brings back that time in adolescence when adrenaline throbs in your limbs like your first taste of booze.

Now, however, on an average Tuesday run with my gang, I position myself a half mile away in one of our radio cars, then keep in contact with AV/ALANCHE-1 through his walkie-talkie. He actually prefers this arrangement. A tough, wiry kid with the greatest head of thick powerful black curls, AV/ALANCHE-1 reassures me that they’re better off if I am free on the perimeter to take off and get them bail or hospitalization if things should go wrong.

Sonderstrom, however, tells me to drive by afterward and make certain they did the job. I obey him, but am unhappy about it. These kids are taking risks while I’m secure in my radio car; yet I, in effect, must proceed to distrust them. All the same, Sonderstrom, who usually looks like he’s smelling a bad cheese, is not all wrong. Occasionally they complete no more than half a job before they get nervous and decamp. Then, unhappily, they neglect to tell me. I make note of that, but still pay them. If it gets worse, I’ll confront AV/ALANCHE-1.

For the rest, however, my daily work is not all that enthralling. In the beginning, the Agency must have been afraid there would not be enough tasks to keep us occupied, since our work can often be a bit intangible, and the country seems huge. (All countries, even modest ones like Uruguay, are huge when you are only a handful of people in an office.) So, a method was developed to make certain that there is always a great deal to do.

Sample day:

I come in at nine, have my coffee, and start reading the local papers. Given my Spanish, that could take two hours, but I push it through in thirty minutes. Slowly over the weeks, the nuances of the political situation become clearer to me. Of course, I also discuss the political personalities and local events with my other two Operations Officers, and the Communications Officer, plus our Station Administrative Assistant, who is Mayhew’s secretary. Kittredge, that’s the sum of our people in the Station office! Outside the Embassy, we can also boast of two skilled operators on contract—details to be furnished later.

As my office cohorts go over the daily news together, I pick up what I can from the Senior Operations Officer, Sherman Porringer, who is the most knowledgeable about Uruguayan politics. All that stuff in training that failed to interest me—labor unions, local party maneuvering, etc.—is now the meat of daily discussion.

After local news analysis, we peruse all the overnight cable traffic, our own first, followed by a thorough look at our associates’ intake since we never know when we will have to fill in. If, for example, my fellow Operations Officer, Jay Gatsby (do you believe the name?—he’s one of the most colorless people I’ve ever met!), is out on a golf foursome with Sonderstrom and, lo and behold, Gatsby’s number-one agent, AV/IDITY, calls in, I obviously have to know a bit about Gatsby’s projects.

All right, incoming cables digested, we compose our outgoing messages, which we also circulate round-robin so that all are witting of what is being sent out. Along with phone, and an unexpected turn or two, lunch is on us soon enough. In the afternoon, I put in considerable time studying the travel movements of Uruguayan officials, many of whom are Communist sympathizers who visit Paraguay, Brazil, or Argentina for meetings with party colleagues there. We also find a surprising number of trade missions to the East European countries and the U.S.S.R. Our agent AV/OUCH, in Uruguayan Customs at Carrasco Airport, keeps an eye on such movements. Our files build. But time! It all consumes time. Having dinner one evening with AV/OUCH (who is a seedy little family man pleased to get a fancy meal), I talked him into recruiting an agent I am going to call AV/OUCH-2. It got me thinking of Hugh’s Thursdays. I’m afraid the Station doesn’t have any major agents in serious government work as yet, but it certainly isn’t difficult to pick up the petty ones. It’s just money. AV/OUCH-2 will be eager to exploit his post in Passport Control to take note of those Uruguayans who are returning with visa stamps from target countries.

Of course, after we locate these local Communists, there does remain the question of what to do about it. Mayhew’s lack of initiative hurts. I’d like to try turning a few of these Uruguayan Communists into double agents, but Sonderstrom tells me to wait until E. Howard Hunt arrives.

Let us say it is 3:30 P.M. in our office by now. Be certain, we are now going through the dossiers of the foreigners who will attend our Embassy function tonight. We have to be ready to warn the Ambassador of any dubious Embassy Row guests.

Finally, by way of AV/ERAGE, our Uruguayan journalist (who works the society beat), we keep track of who is being invited to other embassy affairs. It can be worth something to know that a Uruguayan official, secretly a PCU member, is on the guest list at the British Embassy. Is he being wooed by the English, or taking them for a ride? If the latter, do we send warnings?

By sundown, one or two of us may have an agent to meet at a safe house or a café. (I’m not up much on that, yet. Alas!) Then, evening work commences. Since I’m not putting in hours at golf or tennis, and do have a dinner jacket and tails, it’s incumbent on me to be present at American and foreign embassy functions. That’s droll. In Berlin, I never went to one cocktail party. Here, I’m out every night. My tails, incidentally, bring out the sardonic in Sherman Porringer: He declares that I am a State Department man using the Company for cover. One mighty wit is Porringer. Sherman Oatmeal, my private name for this good fellow, is another owl-eyed Ph.D. from Oklahoma, blue-jowled even with two shaves a day, another quintessentially dank example of our heroic Agency propensity for bottomless work. He is also Sonderstrom’s old reliable. Porringer has the largest caseload, the unhappiest wife, the most comprehensive sense of Uruguayan politics, and—I have to admit—is kind of creative compared to the rest of us at initiating new operations. He is, however, desperately jealous of my ability to give a competent performance at parties and dances. Oatsie goes to his number of such affairs, but cuts the wrong kind of figure. Essentially unathletic, he has compensated by serious stints of weight-lifting (keeps his own barbells at home), and, in consequence, is overdeveloped on top, somewhat concrete-posted on bottom. He takes a lady onto the dance floor and steps about in spiritual pain. Being one of these wholly disciplined Ph.D. mentalities who need only to define their will and they will follow it, he is used to telling each limb what to do. Choppy seas for the partner.

Meanwhile, I cavort a little with his wife, Sally. She’s a narrow-minded twit, I fear, hates Uruguay, won’t learn Spanish, inveighs not too attractively on the stupidity of the servants here, but she does know how to dance. We have fun at that. I must say, it’s a pity she isn’t more of a dedicated Agency wife. If she wanted to, she could charm a few foreign diplomats, and that, after all, is what we’re supposed to do. Sonderstrom, who goes dutifully to these functions (even took tango lessons) steered me aside before the first one: “Get your focus, Hubbard. When we and the Russians show up at the same function, all eyes follow what goes on between us,” he adds.

“Should I fraternize, then?”

“With caution.” He went on to lay out the hazards and potentialities: While you are not to cut loose and make friends, feelers can commence. “Just don’t make a date for lunch without prior authorization.”

You can guess how Sally Porringer might fit into this. Indeed, I’ve encouraged her to dance with one or two of these Red devils, but she shook her head. “Sherman said that if he ever saw me flirting with a Communist, he’d put my left tit in a wringer.”

“Well,” I said, “tell him to have a talk with Sonderstrom. There are many roads to Rome.”

“What does that add up to, Buster?” she asked. “I’m a married woman with two children. End of case.” Right after that, for the first time, her belly touched mine in our dance, and just as gently as one hand being laid on another in the dark of a movie theater. Kittredge, do women play with two decks? Why do I know that Sally Porringer is dying to flirt with the Russians? I’ve even got the fellow picked out. There is one recent arrival, their Under Secretary, Boris Masarov, who has a very attractive wife, Zenia—the most beautiful Russian woman I suppose I’ve seen. Very feminine (if a touch plump) with raven hair and the largest black eyes. In turn, Zenia has an undeniable eye for the men. Exchanging glances with her is like missing a step going downstairs. What a jolt! Boris, by the way, seems the most sympatico of the Russian legation, a good-sized bear of a Russian, albeit a touch scholarly in mien, clean-shaven young face with a mane of pepper-and-salt hair and a sad, wise, agreeable expression, as if you could really talk to him. The others, for the most part, are brutes, or London-suited joy-boys.

Do you know, there’s so much to tell and so little time. It’s now 2:00 A.M., I’ll try to pick up this letter tomorrow night. I realize, thinking over what I’ve written, that my life couldn’t be more different than it was in Berlin. There I knew what it was to be prematurely old. Now I feel young, but ready to take charge of a few things. Hugh was right. Here is the place to develop.

I will not mail this letter until I finish it tomorrow night. I can’t get over the shock I’m telling you so many proscribed things. I feel as if I’m shattering sword and vow—some such semi-occult romantic malaise. And all for the higher vow of my lady’s hand. Damn it, Kittredge, are you a Soviet agent to have so entrapped me?

H.

P.S. Actually, I feel no undue anxiety on committing all this to the mails. Your pouch routine impresses me as secure.