True Confessions

Guest Post by Captain_Obviuos

When I was 23, I was sitting in a small cafe in Bratislava, enjoying the fine Spring day. Bratislava is one of the most beautiful Eastern European cities; its cathedrals and castles are truly works of art. It has a rich cultural history of which the Slovakians are rightfully proud. It is like a rare jewel, to be protected and treasured, and a wonder to have survived so long, intact, in such a volatile part of the world.

I got there not long after the Communists were ousted and Chekoslovakia was dissolved, and then split into two separate countries, Chechia and Slovakia. It was a time of great joy for them, to be free of the oppressive so-called Communist regime. There were almost daily street parties, some until late at night. People who did not even know one another would get together, and by the end of their revelries, everyone was like family, like one big, happy family. If such a word is relevant, it was almost miraculous how these strangers, who only months before would have never considered such open displays of brotherhood, were so eager to be with each other. A great time for Slovakia, and a great time to be visiting it.

I was working as an attache at the US Embassy there — officially, anyway, though there is no record of my ever having either been there or in Slovakia, period, which is why this is a tale I can tell.

I have hesitated to both talk about my past or anything I did, because I was of course sworn to secrecy; that is the whole point of giving someone a Top Secret-or-above military clearance (and mine was Eyes Only). There are still things that I will never talk about, and not out of fear for my life, because when it comes down to it, living in fear ain’t worth it. At any time, both now or in the past, I could have been erased, and so lived accordingly. I still have an unconscious tendency to sit with my back to the wall in restaurants, and sometimes people notice (usually those with intel background, of course).

But here I am now, in my 50’s, childless and spouse-less, because I chose a career path in which there were times where I could not contact my family — mother, father or brother — for fear of their safety. I could not bring a wife and kids into that world, notwithstanding the military almost insisted that we stayed single. I guess that means, in a fashion, I married the military, but either way, you get f*cked, I suppose.

Let me say right now I will not divulge exactly what my job was, nor will I say anything which could either incriminate me or place my or anyone’s life in jeopardy. My life is mine to do with as I please, but I have no right over anyone else’s. All the risk is mine, and so are the rewards.

Having stated the parameters of this particular tale, let me get back to Bratislava, Spring of 1993, and what happened there:

I received a call early one morning from the Consulate, stating that some documents of a sensitive nature were there, and only someone with my clearance was allowed to access them. I had been waiting for that call for several days. I went there and presented my credentials, then was escorted into a nicely ornate room, which would have befit a King, to wait for a security escort; one thing they still had not shaken was the Communist tendency to have hierarchies of bureaucrats. Still, these were the same people who built the wonderful medieval structures around me. Sometimes it was hard to believe.

After only a few minutes, a tall fellow with neatly trimmed dark hair and horn-rimmed glasses, dressed in a solid black suit and a red tie, entered the room with a folio under his arm. Without saying a word to me, he handed the folio to me, smiled, nodded, and left, just that quickly.

On the outside of the folio, in neat hand print, was a Post-It Note (or its equivalent) that had a U.S. phone number on it. This I took and placed in my front shirt pocket. As for the folio itself, that went into the pouch of the satchel bag I was wearing, sort of like the one Indiana Jones had. These sorts of bags are very commonly worn in Eastern European countries, and are quite useful. I did not read the file, for as I have previously said, mine was an Eyes Only clearance, and the file was not for my eyes, though I could still handle it otherwise. Compartmentalization is the word.

When I was finished, I walked out of the room and back into the reception area. A guard then led me into the radio room.

The radio room, as it was called, is where all governmental and military communications are handled in an Embassy. At any given time, there can be a dozen people in there, though usually in non-emergencies it is barely half (and most of them are on break). This is where all secure transmissions came and went. It was a cold place, with big hulks of radio equipment and other esoteric machines with knobs and readouts along the walls. Apparently, I was told, the machines in there had to be kept in the cold because they ran all the time, which created a lot of heat, so to offset it blah, blah, blah — yeah, whatever, they kept it cold in there for reasons. I wanted out as soon as possible.

I was directed to a sat-phone, which sat on a console desk inside what looked like a glass-walled cubicle, next to a batch of surveillance monitors. I reached into my shirt pocket and retrieved the number on the note. I picked up the phone and punched in that number; later, I would have to get rid of that note, so I put it back in my pocket.

After two rings, a voice came on: “Fourteen. Namestie fountain. Black and gold hat. No back.” Then the line disconnected.

I put the phone back down, considering what I had just been told: I was to meet someone at the fountain in Hlavne Namestie tomorrow at two PM who was to be wearing a black and gold hat, to whom I was to hand the folio, and receive nothing in return. Someone I had never seen before, and knew nothing about. Great.

It was my first assignment.

After spending a restless night, I woke up early the next morning and tried to get rid of the jitters: this was it, this was what I had been hired to do, this was the most exciting thing I had ever been part of, and just try to not be full of adrenaline in such a situation. I stayed away from coffee. I watched TV until I got tired of it (and be sure, it did not take long; Slovakian TV is like watching private amateur home videos). I cooked a light breakfast that went cold before I touched it. I had to stop looking at the clock. I occupied myself with cleaning the one-bedroom flat in which I was assigned, which was on a par with a Motel 6, but at least it had a kitchenette, and I had my own bathroom, which are considered amenities in Bratislava. Only the best from Uncle Sam!

Sometime around one-thirty I left my flat and made my way towards Hlavne Namestie, one of the star attractions of old Bratislava and always full of tourists; the sort of place where crowds of people sit around the big gurgling fountain there and mill about the various shops which line the courtyard.

The sort of place where people who had secret documents could pass to one another without raising suspicion.

I got to the fountain by a quarter to two, so I walked around and browsed a few shops, though I kept my eyes on the fountain, scanning for a black-and-gold hat. As I was leaving the third shop, I saw a man just entering the square, dressed in khaki shorts and white button-down shirt, with a knapsack and white sneakers — and wearing a black-and-gold baseball cap. He looked just like anybody else there; it was spring, remember, so most everybody was in shorts and sneakers, and the tourists all wore backpacks. I myself was in jeans and a t-shirt, with my satchel over my shoulder, and blended in just fine.

Hmm. I was told a gold-and-black hat, and in intelligence ops, there are no word ambiguities, so I decided to wait and see if anyone else showed in a black-and-gold hat. I went into a cafe and ordered a Coke and sat outside at a table on the covered patio.

Two o’clock came. Nobody in a black-and-gold hat had shown. What to do now?

I glanced over at the fountain; the guy in the black-and-gold cap was sitting there, chatting and smiling with some people. I noticed he kept looking at his phone while he was socializing, not in a way that he was talking to anyone on it, just like one does when he is expecting a text or something.

Was that him? I could not make a mistake; could you imagine what would happen if I handed highly classified documents to just some random dude? Especially on my first assignment?

Well, I decided, another thing they never get wrong are times, either, when it comes to meetings. Lives could be at stake, honestly. And nobody else in this whole plaza is wearing anything black-and-gold on their heads. Subtle, I thought with some irony.

So, with more than a little trepidation I started walking towards the fountain. The guy in the hat was nonchalantly looking around, watching people and their kids running to and fro.

When I got about ten feet away from him he suddenly stood up, looked straight at me, and started walking, not hurriedly, towards me, with his knapsack in his right hand. He came up to me, dropped the knapsack at his side and smiled, reaching out to give me a hug, like old friends meeting.

“Hey, man!” he said, in perfect American English, as he patted my back. “Good to see you!”

I tried to look like I was not nervous, but given the circumstances the best I could do was hug him back and play along.

As he pulled away from me, he said, “Let’s go get a drink,” and we headed back to the cafe. He picked up his knapsack and we started that way. When we got there, he ordered us a couple of beers and we went and sat at one of the tables outside on the patio to drink them.

He took a long pull on his beer. “First drop?” he asked me once he had swallowed.

“Huh?” I intelligently replied.

He took another drink and laughed. We then chatted about the weather, and how much we hated Slovakian TV, for a while, then he just as quickly dropped the small talk. He looked me in the eyes.

“Finish your beer. I’m going to the loo. Leave the file in your seat.” He got up, grabbed his knapsack, and went toward the toilet in the back of the cafe.

I had done an admirable job until then of holding the butterflies back, but once he left they all went straight into my stomach. This was the job, man, just do it and have done with it and then go fall quietly apart once you get home. If it was only that easy.

But I had gone this far; finish it, I thought. I grabbed my beer, chugged it, suppressed a belch, reached into my satchel and then for the file. It was there, cool and sleek to the touch. I pulled it out, stood up, dropped it into my seat, then walked out into the afternoon sun. I never looked back until I made it to the fountain. When I did turn back, I noticed that at the table we had been sitting, the chair I had been sitting in was pulled back from the table, but could not tell if the file was still in it.

I tried not to panic. Should I go back and see, or should I turn around and go on back to the flat? The minute yawned in indecision.

Suddenly, another guy, in shorts and t-shirt, stood up from one of the tables near where ours was in the cafe. I watched as he gathered up his belongings, including a knapsack, and calmly strolled out, in the direction of the street which ran along side the plaza. He turned the corner — and was promptly struck by a passing cyclist, he flying one direction, the cyclist the other, the bike itself skidding along the curb, riderless, for a few yards until it fell over. I sat, awestruck, as the cyclist gingerly picked himself up, grimacing and staggering as he did, but the guy with the knapsack had gone out of my view around the corner of the plaza’s wall. A few concerned citizens were rushing to the scene.

The cyclist limped over to his bike, picked it up and examined it. He set it down and rolled it back and forth a few times. Seemingly satisfied, he then turned to where the knapsack guy was, I supposed, and stepped forward, rolling his bike beside him with one hand. What the hell, I thought, do I check on him, do I leave it alone and go back home, what do I do?

As I started walking to the street, trying not to look as nervous as I felt, about halfway there I see a small group of people talking, then I see the cyclist get on his bike, wave to the group and pedal away.

With a knapsack over his shoulder.

As for the other guy, he was laid flat on the sidewalk as I turned the corner, with one person kneeling beside him and two others on their phones. I could not tell if he was conscious. But the people around him looked very concerned.

I do not remember getting back to my flat. I must have been in shock. I just remember opening my door, walking inside, dropping my satchel, and collapsing into the fetal position on the floor. I stayed there until the wee hours of the morning, rocking back and forth and sometimes crying. This is not what I signed up for! I told myself. I wanted to go home, to be around my family, to let them know I missed them. Oh how I missed them.

Within a week I received new orders and was out of Bratislava, never to again return. I will never know what happened that day, whether the knapsack guy lived or died, or what he was carrying. I just chalked it down to “just part of the game.”

Bratislava — such a city! But just like all cities this gorgeous, its outer beauty hides its inner ugliness. The longer you stay, the uglier it gets, until one day you no longer notice its beauty anymore; just like life itself, it seems.

A few days afterwards, when I got to my next duty station, as I was doing my laundry I noticed something in one of my shirt’s front pockets; reaching in, I pulled out a Post-It Note with a phone number written on it.

I burned it, dropped it and stomped on the ashes. That part of my life was over, thank god!

But there were more parts to come, of course. Some I wish I could burn too.

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