3

November 17, 1956
(after midnight)

Dear Kittredge,

Trying to convey the feel of these Uruguayan spy grounds seems equal, at times, to tracing a vine through a thicket. How, for example, can I delineate AV/OIRDUPOIS? He is Gordon “Gordy” Morewood, one of our two contract Operations Officers, an old hand who worked for the British in Hong Kong during the thirties and has since put in contract stints with us in Vienna, Yugoslavia, Singapore, Mexico City, Ghana—God, you’d think the man would be fascinating—always out there by himself, never working inside a Station, just taking on jobs like a private detective and being paid for them. Well, Gordy is a huge disappointment when you meet him. He’s a small, dour Scotchman about sixty with a gimp leg (arthritis, I believe, not gunshot) and a splenetic disposition. A sour bad ad for old spies. All he seems to care about is his per diem which he inflates unconscionably. This man eats well off his expense accounts, and Minot Mayhew refuses to have anything to do with him. That costs us a good deal of telephone time. Gordy is always on the line asking for the Chief of Station, and we have to stall him out and take the abuse. He’s capable of saying (and he has the most nasty thin voice), “Look, dear young novice, you are altogether incapable of hiding the fact that Mayhew is skulking around the Embassy right now and must be reached by me. I cannot speak to you. You are too low on the pole.”

As I write this, he sounds interesting, but he isn’t. The voice comes forth in a distracted whine. He always wants more money, and by pestering us thoroughly, knows he will obtain a decent fraction of the new and extra amount. He is certainly adept at using his cover to jack up his expenses, and fields an honest-to-God import-export business in the center of town. It’s the perfect setup for Morewood, who imports just about enough gourmet items for the Embassy commissary to make any close accounting of his finances impossible. Our Administrative Officer, Nancy Waterston, a sweet, plain, bright, hardworking spinster, absolutely devoted to Minot Mayhew—for no better reason than that he happens to be her boss—is also devoted to Sonderstrom because he runs the Station, and to the rest of us because we’re doing our patriotic job. Needless to say, she loves the Company more than church or kin. You can imagine how neat she is, and how fussy. Gordon Morewood will drive her, we fear, into nervous exhaustion. She pores over his accounts, but he has managed to weave a web that entangles every one of her good accounting principles. I have seen Nancy Waterston close to tears after a session with Gordy on the phone. He is always moving on to new projects, new bills, new receipts, new out-of-pocket expenses. There is no way she can keep up with his divagations from accepted bookkeeping practice. Once, she was desperate enough to importune Mayhew to authorize the dispatch of a top-flight auditor to Montevideo, but May-hew, with all his detestation of Gordy, nonetheless wouldn’t put her request on the wire, which makes me suspect that Gordy is somebody’s darling back in Foggy Bottom. Over separate beers with Sonderstrom, Porringer, Gatsby, and the Commo Officer, Barry Kearns, I’ve heard that Gordy’s position is sacrosanct. We cannot say good-bye to him.

Moreover, we can’t afford to. He’s very good at his job. We would not, for instance, have a mobile surveillance team (AV/EMARIA-1, and 2, 3, 4), consisting of four off-duty taxi drivers, without Gordy. He trained those fellows himself (at a 100-percent override for us, we reckon, on the hours of instruction), but at least we have them in place and they do bring results. Left to ourselves, what with our paperwork and our fifty-fifty Spanish (50 percent of what we say and hear is comprehended), how could there be the time, wherewithal, and savvy to train mobile surveillants? We’d have to bring in a team from Mexico City or D.C., speak of expense.

So, yes, the fact is that we can’t afford to say good-bye to Morewood. He’s the only consummate professional among us, and when a real problem comes up, we have to call on him.

This time it involved an operation that we characterize as cumbersome. We were looking to get a Uruguayan official who has become a Russian agent arrested by the Uruguayan police. Not at all automatic.

But let me take it in order. Over a month ago, just before I arrived, we received an alert from Western Hemisphere Division that gave us reason to be interested in a gentleman named Plutarco Roballo Gómez. A year ago, the FBI reported that Gómez, serving then in New York on the Uruguayan Delegation to the UN, was playing footsie with the Soviets. Now that Gómez is back in Uruguay, and is well placed in his Foreign Ministry job, we decided to call on Gordy to find out a little more about him.

Gordy has learned that Gómez gambles nightly at the casino in Carrasco, and always needs money. On Tuesday nights, however, he does go to visit his mother at her home near Parque José Batlle y Ordóñez, which is the large park adjacent to our Embassy.

We ordered in our mobile surveillance team. AV/EMARIA-1, 2, 3, and 4 took turns trailing Gómez’s car. On the last trip to his mother’s house, Gómez drove into the park, got out of his vehicle, and went for a walk. The paths being sparsely lit, Gordy was able to trail Gómez discreetly on foot, but gave up such pursuit when his target disappeared into a clump of bushes. A few minutes later, Gómez emerged, and crossed to a nearby path where he righted a park bench that had been tipped over, obviously a signal that he had serviced his dead drop. After which, Gómez left the park and drove home. On the following Tuesday, just after dark, we staked out the area around these bushes. Porringer, Sonderstrom, and Morewood had a considerable wait, but at ten in the evening, a man Sonderstrom recognized as an attaché at the Russian Embassy came sauntering along, inserted an envelope into the hollow cleft of a tree, and, strolling by the same park bench, stopped just long enough to knock it over. Gómez appeared in the next quarter of an hour, took the envelope from the dead drop, righted the park bench, and went back to his car.

Much of the following week was spent in discussion of what to do. Cable traffic mounted. There was considerable discussion about whether to keep using Morewood. He had charged us a good deal already on these matters, and besides, Sonderstrom has his pride. So, instead of enjoying a Friday afternoon foursome with the Chief of Police and his assistant, Gus just took them to lunch. Over coffee, Sonderstrom introduced the defalcations of Plutarco Roballo Gómez. The Chief of Police, Capablanca (yes, same name as the old Cuban chess champion), was even angrier than his deputy, Peones, and offered to spit in the milk of Gómez’s mother. Plans were made to catch Gómez in the act, then arrest him. Sonderstrom came back to the Station in an excellent mood. Not Porringer. Before long, he and Sonderstrom were going at it. Their voices carried through a closed door. Soon, the door flew open and Sonderstrom waved in Gatsby and Barry Kearns and myself to monitor the debate. I would guess he wanted reinforcements.

Porringer argued that Gómez was one of President Luis Batlle’s hand-picked protégés, and so the Chief of Police wouldn’t make the arrest.

Sonderstrom agreed this was a bothersome element in the equation. “Still, you learn something about a man while playing golf. Capablanca hates missing a shot he should be able to make. I see our Chief of Police as a professional.”

“My instinct,” replies Porringer, “tells me to go slow.”

“I don’t know that we can,” says Sonderstrom. “Capablanca is laying in the first steps right now. We can’t make him look like a fool to his own people.”

“That’s right,” said Gatsby. “Latins are as high on saving face as Orientals.”

“I agree,” said Kearns.

“In South America,” Porringer said, “the jefe can always change his mind. It just means his money is coming from a new direction.”

“Who,” asked Sonderstrom, “is in favor of going for the arrest?”

Kearns’ hand went up, and Gatsby’s, and Sonderstrom’s, of course. I was ready to follow suit, but some instinct held me back. Kittredge, it was the oddest sentiment. I had the feeling Porringer was right. To my amazement, I voted with him. I am linked with Oatsie.

Well, we had an answer. On the next Tuesday, I couldn’t join my associates on stakeout in the park because that is the night for AV/ ALANCHE, but I certainly heard about it afterward. Sonderstrom, Porringer, Gatsby, and Kearns spent a couple of hours in the appropriate bushes with a squad of Uruguayan police. The Russian attaché came sauntering in about the same time as on the previous occasion, which is poor tradecraft. (The local KGB obviously feel far enough away from Moscow to be pretty casual about security.) In any event, he went immediately to the dead drop, primed it, tipped over the bench, and left. By radio came the word that Gómez had parked his car, was approaching on foot. He was actually within twenty yards of the tree when a police car, top light revolving, sirens screaming at the moon, came tearing down a park road toward the stakeout. Gómez, of course, took off instantly. With a great blast of tire dust and screech, the patrol car stopped right by the tree. Out stepped Capablanca. “Oh,” exclaimed our law and order worthy, striking his forehead with a mighty sledgehammer of a hand, “I cannot accept this. The radio told me that our man was already apprehended.”

In the general confusion, Porringer managed to slip over to the dead drop and withdraw the envelope. Next day, Sonderstrom presented it at the Central Police Station. The note listed each document that Gómez was supposed to photograph in the following week. Sonderstrom stated that this ought to be enough to commence a full-scale investigation.

No, sir, we cannot, Capablanca told him. It is now obvious that some unknown foreign power was indeed spying on the Uruguayan government, but, then, nations always spied on host nations. One needed more than evidence such as this to proceed. Owing to the unfortunate lapse in communications on Tuesday night, for which he, Salvador Capablanca, would take full responsibility, he could see no way to move against Plutarco Roballo Gómez. He would, however, keep an eye on him. I can hear Gordy Morewood cackling away!

It is now 3:30 A.M. and I am tired. I’ll sign off, and wait for your next letter. Do write soon.

Besitos,
Herrick