November 1963, New York, New York

By Chandra Niles Folsom

“It’s for you,” Mom handed the phone receiver to dad and returned to the teakettle she had left whistling on the stovetop.

Dad closed his textbook and reached across the kitchen table toward the solemn black Ma Bell.

“Yes, this is he,” Dad said in a faint foreign accent.

The second story windows of the red brick walkup were shrouded in the season’s first frost when the nation called. Dad’s left eyebrow arched with interest as he listened intently to the man on the other end of the call. He had introduced himself as Deputy Director of the African Aid Institute, but he also had a much more interesting job with Uncle Sam.

Mom and dad had met in Paris while he was a student at diplomatic school and she was an intern at the Paris Review. On a fellowship for his PhD in matters related to French Colonial Africa and International Law, dad was a plumb by CIA standards.

“I’d like to invite you to a cocktail party and introduce you to some members of the board,” the man said casually before changing his tone. “Come alone — don’t bring your wife.”

The autumnal air was dense with fog as dad pushed the doorbell of the brownstone townhouse that evening. He was greeted by a tall, somber fellow and marched across a marble foyer into an elegantly furnished salon, where two men in suits sat alone.

They plied him with scotch, asked a series of odd questions, and sent him home to mom.

“So, might you be interested in working for the U.S. government?” proposed one of the Suits at a Lexington Avenue cafe the following Saturday afternoon.

“Well, I’ve always wanted to work for the State Department,” dad began, stirring his coffee.

“Shhhh!” the Suit abruptly stood and slipped out the door, motioning dad to follow.

He darted down into a subway terminal and followed the tracks until they dead-ended.

“This is the CIA,” the Suit clarified, handing dad a contract and pen from his attaché.

“If you choose to serve, you must sign this — and agree never to talk about it with anyone.”

“Under one condition.” Dad squinted at the papers in the darkness. “Don’t expect me to kill anyone.”

“What makes you think we’d ask you to kill anyone?” he asked.

The next phone call instructed dad to the Biltmore Hotel near Grand Central Station.

“Enter the lobby with the New York Times folded title-up under your right arm. I will address you as Mr. Farber,” the voice said before hanging up.

When he arrived, a man in a black Fedora hustled dad into a cab. They drove cross-town and exited at 7th Avenue.

“Let’s walk,” the Fedora said, heading downtown.

He stopped in front of a nondescript apartment building.

“What do you notice about that window ledge?” The Fedora pointed to an upper floor.

“I see a flowerpot.” Dad answered.

“It’s safe when you see the flowerpot,” he said, leading dad to the entrance.

“Bobby,” the Fedora patted the doorman’s arm. “This is Mr. Farber — an attorney from Chicago. He’ll be coming here three times a week from now on.”

As the elevator doors closed, the Fedora asked dad if there was anything he’d like in exchange for his service.”

“My sister and her family are still in Egypt,” he replied. “I’d like them to come live here.”

“Consider it done,” the Fedora said as the elevator doors opened.

They strolled down the hall and entered an apartment where an older man smoked a cigar.

For the next three months, dad studied manuals, watched documentaries, searched for bugs, and followed the Cigar around the city as he disappeared into taxis, subways, and department stores.

“You can’t go home until you’ve caught me,” the Cigar would tell him.

One night, as dad arrived home at about midnight, mom was waiting up for him.

“OK, so where have you been going all these nights?”

Dad confessed.

“What makes you so sure it’s the CIA?” Mom asked suspiciously after hearing his story.

“Who else could it be?”

“The KGB,” mom offered.

“But the contract I signed had the CIA logo — an eagle.”

“Ha!” mom snorted. “Anyone with a printing press could produce that.”

Early the next morning, dad received a phone call summoning him to the airport where he was to board a flight to Washington, D.C.

“When I get to CIA headquarters, that will prove they are who they say they are,” he told mom before heading out the door.

A black sedan was idling outside the gates when dad landed in D.C. Behind the wheel was one of the brownstone Suits.

“From now on, your name is Mr. Rhinebeck,” the Suit said as they sped off.

But they were not bound for Langley.

The dingy office was located above an abandoned photography store. Inside was a barbershop chair, and a bearded man introduced as a psychologist.

“See you later,” the Suit said and vanished.

A lively session with the lie-detector awaited.

Attached to wires aboard the chair, dad was asked assorted questions of unknown relevance.

“What is your name?” the Beard inquired calmly.

Dad believed he detected a slight Russian accent.

“Uh-um, Mr. Farber — no, I mean, Mr. Rhinebeck!” The gages on the machine went wild.

That evening, the Suit brought dad home for dinner to meet his wife.

“She works for the organization, too,” he said.

At the end of the second day, the Suit gave dad an envelope filled with cash.

“Every time you do something for us we will pay you,” he said.

By the time the airplane touched down at LaGuardia, dad had devised his strategy.

Dropping coins inside the payphone at the airport, he dialed FBI headquarters.

“I will say this only once, so listen carefully, and don’t ask any questions,” dad told the agent. “I want you to call the African division of the CIA and ask them to phone Mr. Rhinebeck at home by noon tomorrow.” He hung up the phone and got out of Dodge.

The next day at high noon, dad received a call from the Deputy Director of the African Aid Institute demanding that he report immediately to the Safe House on 7th Avenue.

The flowerpot was on the window ledge when he appeared.

“Good afternoon Mr. Farber,” Bobby said.

Upstairs, the Cigar flung open the apartment door and dragged dad inside.

“You blew your cover using all the techniques we taught you!” he shouted.

“Does that mean my Fellowship at the Institute is finished?” Dad asked feeling liberated.

“We have nothing to do with your Fellowship,” the Cigar lied. “But we reserve the right to call you in the future.”

The Madagascar GNP for 1964 reported an unusual surge in the sale of flowerpots.

Chandra Niles Folsom is a freelance journalist who writes for newspapers and magazines nationwide. She co-authored Women’s Glasnost with Tatyana Mamonova in 1994 and served as an editor on The Terrorist Conjunction by Dr. Alfred Gerteiny, soon to be published by Praeger Security International.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Friday, February 9th, 2007 | Email This Post

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