Read Online Overdrive by William F. Buckley Jr. - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: William F. Buckley Jr.
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the balance is never going to be seen by the American public, because although there was a fuss of sorts after the column was published, and although ABC said they would have another look at it, it hasn't been shown (it was broadcast locally in New York City the following spring). There is a preternatural fear among many Americans that to show what in fact the KGB does—i.e., to depict its workaday techniques of intelligence gathering, dissimulation, and disinformation—is to run the risk of being accused of McCarthyism. As a matter of fact, those Americans are correct. That is exactly the risk they run. . . .
I give the name and address of the Canadian producer to my correspondent.
A note from Howard Hunt. He lodged a libel suit several years ago against The Spotlight , a publication of the Liberty Lobby, of which a principal figure is Willis Carto. The Spotlight's distinctive feature is racial and religious bigotry. Howard writes, "So far Carto has avoided deposition by staying on the West Coast, allegedly; this delays my libel suit's progress." He says he has heard from Carto's lawyer that "Willis Carto ... is by coincidence a target of yours." More exactly, it is the other way around, Carto having attacked me and National Review for years, presumably upon learning that we thought the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion a forgery. We were finally ourselves forced to sue Carto (or, more exactly, counter-sue), and the stuff (depositions, motions) is in the hands of the judge—the slowest judge in history. (A few weeks later, Howard called me in high exultation to say that the jury had awarded him a judgment of six hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The Spotlight had alleged about Hunt, among other jocularities, that he would probably be implicated in the assassination of John Kennedy.)
Howard was my boss during the nine months I spent in Mexico working for the CIA. He was always cheerful, opinionated (our biases were in sync), and bright, and we became good friends. Indeed, when his wife Dorothy, who was killed in the United Airlines accident a few months after Watergate, decided she would revert to Catholicism and bring her two daughters and her son with her, I was asked to become their godfather. We had, in Mexico, many amusing experiences together, but I remember most vividly the extraordinary speed with which Howard Hunt would write his spy thrillers. Every three or four months he would go uninterrupted from desk (at the office) to desk (at home), where he would begin typing. In seven to ten days his book would be finished. By company rules, the books could not be published until after they had been screened for security at CIA Headquarters; but after about Book 25, Howard received a note from the office of Allen Dulles, Director of the CIA, whom he had known from service in Germany, something on the order of: Howard, you write books faster than our staff can review them, so let's put you on your honor. From now on, provided you don't use your real name , we'll let you, until further notice, publish your books unreviewed by us, trusting you not to reveal any information that might hurt the United States.
I was present at the conference at which Howard and Dorothy reflected on noms de plume, where finally it was settled that he would write under the name "Gordon Davis." Four months later, Howard proudly showed me a copy (which had just arrived that morning from New York) of his latest paperback: " Appointment with Death . By Gordon Davis." I congratulated him and leafed through it. When I came to the last page, I read, " You have just finished another exciting spy mystery by Howart Hunt.'''' It was funny. But I groaned for Howard. If only that groan had resonated forward twenty-one years, warning against snafus, to that epochal night in June 1972. Or is that an immoral thought? I don't think so, really. I'd rather the burglary, however reprehensible, had succeeded, than that Watergate and the collapse of a
I give the name and address of the Canadian producer to my correspondent.
A note from Howard Hunt. He lodged a libel suit several years ago against The Spotlight , a publication of the Liberty Lobby, of which a principal figure is Willis Carto. The Spotlight's distinctive feature is racial and religious bigotry. Howard writes, "So far Carto has avoided deposition by staying on the West Coast, allegedly; this delays my libel suit's progress." He says he has heard from Carto's lawyer that "Willis Carto ... is by coincidence a target of yours." More exactly, it is the other way around, Carto having attacked me and National Review for years, presumably upon learning that we thought the Protocols of the Learned Elders of Zion a forgery. We were finally ourselves forced to sue Carto (or, more exactly, counter-sue), and the stuff (depositions, motions) is in the hands of the judge—the slowest judge in history. (A few weeks later, Howard called me in high exultation to say that the jury had awarded him a judgment of six hundred and fifty thousand dollars. The Spotlight had alleged about Hunt, among other jocularities, that he would probably be implicated in the assassination of John Kennedy.)
Howard was my boss during the nine months I spent in Mexico working for the CIA. He was always cheerful, opinionated (our biases were in sync), and bright, and we became good friends. Indeed, when his wife Dorothy, who was killed in the United Airlines accident a few months after Watergate, decided she would revert to Catholicism and bring her two daughters and her son with her, I was asked to become their godfather. We had, in Mexico, many amusing experiences together, but I remember most vividly the extraordinary speed with which Howard Hunt would write his spy thrillers. Every three or four months he would go uninterrupted from desk (at the office) to desk (at home), where he would begin typing. In seven to ten days his book would be finished. By company rules, the books could not be published until after they had been screened for security at CIA Headquarters; but after about Book 25, Howard received a note from the office of Allen Dulles, Director of the CIA, whom he had known from service in Germany, something on the order of: Howard, you write books faster than our staff can review them, so let's put you on your honor. From now on, provided you don't use your real name , we'll let you, until further notice, publish your books unreviewed by us, trusting you not to reveal any information that might hurt the United States.
I was present at the conference at which Howard and Dorothy reflected on noms de plume, where finally it was settled that he would write under the name "Gordon Davis." Four months later, Howard proudly showed me a copy (which had just arrived that morning from New York) of his latest paperback: " Appointment with Death . By Gordon Davis." I congratulated him and leafed through it. When I came to the last page, I read, " You have just finished another exciting spy mystery by Howart Hunt.'''' It was funny. But I groaned for Howard. If only that groan had resonated forward twenty-one years, warning against snafus, to that epochal night in June 1972. Or is that an immoral thought? I don't think so, really. I'd rather the burglary, however reprehensible, had succeeded, than that Watergate and the collapse of a
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