paused.
‘Who was it?’ asked Foster.
Kit searched for words. ‘A mysterious woman, very mysterious.’
The Director sniggered. ‘Did you fall in love?’
‘No, sir.’
The older brother was getting restless. ‘What’s the point of this story?’
‘Don’t rush him, Foster.’
‘She was wearing,’ said Kit, ‘a red dress with a low-cut neck, but her cleavage was hidden by a feather boa. I don’t think she was drunk, but she didn’t seem very steady on her high heels. She was wearing little black lacy gloves and black lacy stockings to match.’
‘Was she beautiful?’
‘No sir, she was not beautiful. But the fact that she was surrounded by such beautiful people made me feel sorry for her. She wasn’t young either – late fifties. Now, my father used to say that a gentleman is someone who makes a fuss of such a woman, makes her feel the centre of attention – the young pretty ones don’t need any help. Ergo, I went over to have a chat.’
‘The model,’ smiled Allen Dulles, ‘of a US Foreign Service Officer.’
‘She smiled when she saw me coming over, nice dimples. I filled her glass with champagne – Rubi for some reason had left me holding a three-quarters full bottle. I began polite small talk. She didn’t say much; she just made little mewing noises. I wondered if she might be Brazilian. She had black eyes and, as far as I could tell, the skin beneath her make-up seemed dark.’
‘An ageing Latina,’ offered Allen, ‘did you consider she might have been a relation of Rubirosa?’
‘No, sir. For when I looked at her face – close up – I realised who she was. In fact, the truth of her identity hit me like a sucker punch in the solar plexus. I was out of breath and got the shakes. The woman could see it too and it made her face turn hard – she knew that I knew.’
Allen Dulles was smiling behind his folded hands, enjoying the story. ‘What did you do, Kit?’
‘I wanted to run – out of the apartment, down twenty floors of service stairs across the Hudson River and all the way to the Canadian border. I knew something that I wasn’t supposed to know. But I couldn’t move. I just stood there holding the ball like a second string quarterback about to be trashed by some brick shit-house of a defensive end. I looked into those black eyes, saw the jowls tighten – and a hint of stubble under the face powder. Sir, I was no longer looking at a woman. I was face to face with J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the FBI.’
‘Did Hoover know who you were?’
‘I think so. He told me to fuck off and that I was playing out of my league. I thought it best to clear off. I said goodbye to my friends and left.’
‘So you don’t know what happened next?’
‘I’ve since heard that the party turned pretty raunchy and that the blond boys gave Hoover a hand job – but I can’t confirm that part.’
John Foster Dulles looked at his watch, told his brother that he’d won the bet and he owed him ten dollars. The meeting was over.
It was almost midnight when Kit left the embassy. He’d stayed until all the FBI personnel had signed out. The officer in charge of embassy night security was a marine captain from a steel town in Pennsylvania. He came from a working-class Polish immigrant family. The captain was sharp and bright – and wanted a career in the intelligence branch. Kit advised the officer to train as a linguist . He liked the young captain and had pulled a few strings to help him get posted to the Defense Department Language School for his next assignment. The captain was planning to study Vietnamese. He’d heard that Southeast Asia was a hot tip for the future: ‘It’s where all the action’s going to be.’ Kit thought he was right.
The captain was grateful to Kit and didn’t hesitate to let him into the cramped basement closet where the FBI kept their tape machines. The marine officer knew that Kit could be more useful to his career than a couple of FBI agents who
‘Who was it?’ asked Foster.
Kit searched for words. ‘A mysterious woman, very mysterious.’
The Director sniggered. ‘Did you fall in love?’
‘No, sir.’
The older brother was getting restless. ‘What’s the point of this story?’
‘Don’t rush him, Foster.’
‘She was wearing,’ said Kit, ‘a red dress with a low-cut neck, but her cleavage was hidden by a feather boa. I don’t think she was drunk, but she didn’t seem very steady on her high heels. She was wearing little black lacy gloves and black lacy stockings to match.’
‘Was she beautiful?’
‘No sir, she was not beautiful. But the fact that she was surrounded by such beautiful people made me feel sorry for her. She wasn’t young either – late fifties. Now, my father used to say that a gentleman is someone who makes a fuss of such a woman, makes her feel the centre of attention – the young pretty ones don’t need any help. Ergo, I went over to have a chat.’
‘The model,’ smiled Allen Dulles, ‘of a US Foreign Service Officer.’
‘She smiled when she saw me coming over, nice dimples. I filled her glass with champagne – Rubi for some reason had left me holding a three-quarters full bottle. I began polite small talk. She didn’t say much; she just made little mewing noises. I wondered if she might be Brazilian. She had black eyes and, as far as I could tell, the skin beneath her make-up seemed dark.’
‘An ageing Latina,’ offered Allen, ‘did you consider she might have been a relation of Rubirosa?’
‘No, sir. For when I looked at her face – close up – I realised who she was. In fact, the truth of her identity hit me like a sucker punch in the solar plexus. I was out of breath and got the shakes. The woman could see it too and it made her face turn hard – she knew that I knew.’
Allen Dulles was smiling behind his folded hands, enjoying the story. ‘What did you do, Kit?’
‘I wanted to run – out of the apartment, down twenty floors of service stairs across the Hudson River and all the way to the Canadian border. I knew something that I wasn’t supposed to know. But I couldn’t move. I just stood there holding the ball like a second string quarterback about to be trashed by some brick shit-house of a defensive end. I looked into those black eyes, saw the jowls tighten – and a hint of stubble under the face powder. Sir, I was no longer looking at a woman. I was face to face with J. Edgar Hoover, Director of the FBI.’
‘Did Hoover know who you were?’
‘I think so. He told me to fuck off and that I was playing out of my league. I thought it best to clear off. I said goodbye to my friends and left.’
‘So you don’t know what happened next?’
‘I’ve since heard that the party turned pretty raunchy and that the blond boys gave Hoover a hand job – but I can’t confirm that part.’
John Foster Dulles looked at his watch, told his brother that he’d won the bet and he owed him ten dollars. The meeting was over.
It was almost midnight when Kit left the embassy. He’d stayed until all the FBI personnel had signed out. The officer in charge of embassy night security was a marine captain from a steel town in Pennsylvania. He came from a working-class Polish immigrant family. The captain was sharp and bright – and wanted a career in the intelligence branch. Kit advised the officer to train as a linguist . He liked the young captain and had pulled a few strings to help him get posted to the Defense Department Language School for his next assignment. The captain was planning to study Vietnamese. He’d heard that Southeast Asia was a hot tip for the future: ‘It’s where all the action’s going to be.’ Kit thought he was right.
The captain was grateful to Kit and didn’t hesitate to let him into the cramped basement closet where the FBI kept their tape machines. The marine officer knew that Kit could be more useful to his career than a couple of FBI agents who
Similar Books
