the cipher key to transmissions between the U.S. and Panama, compliments of a Mossad agent named Michael Herrera. Incredibly, Herrera was put in charge of the Panamanian air force by dictator Manuel Noriega. Find a photograph of the former dictator in uniform. Note the inverted paratrooper wings of the Israeli army—an honor bestowed on Noriega by a grateful nation.
All true.
We are old friends, Bernie and I, and the man was eager to help even though he is semiretired and living in Scottsdale. As always, though, he was also eager to talk.
“Another time, Bernie,” I told him. “I’ve got a plane to catch,” then repeated the same question I had posed to Cheng.
“Such a pal, always too busy!” Yeager chided. “So what president’s wife are you sleeping with now? Just name the country, and I’ll put two and two together. Sovereign nations don’t terminate fishmongers without a reason. That is my personal experience.”
“Bernie,” I said patiently, “there’s some other information I could use. Nothing to do with the intelligence community, so it’s a little out of your line. There’s a guy who calls himself Luke Smith, says he’s a filmmaker. If you can find something on him, great.”
“ If I can find it, he says! In my heart, such a stabbing pain I felt just now, you wouldn’t believe.” I heard a sound that might have been Yeager tapping his phone against a desk before he returned, saying, “Hello . . . hello? Operator, I think we have a bad connection. I was talking with a friend who only calls to ask favors, then insults me!”
I laughed, but was also aware that Bernie sounded more frail than the last time we had spoken. The man was right. It had been too long since I had called simply to trade stories and catch up. There are certain people in our lives who are so powerfully linked by events, or chemistry, that we are lulled into believing contact is unimportant. These rare few, it seems, are always there, close at hand, their presence unaffected by distance or the passage of time.
By the age of forty, most of us have learned that this is not true.
So I told Bernie Yeager to block out an hour, if he was willing, and I would call about ten-ish, Arizona time. “I’ve got at least one joke guaranteed you’ve never heard. And a story about an ambassador in a certain South American country you won’t believe, but you’ll love it. Oh, and there’s something else”—I was seated, the retriever beside me—“I’ve got another mystery going. But this one’s fun.”
Bernie was delighted. And also touched, I could tell. But he couldn’t let me off the phone without offering his usual advice. “Move here, get out of that terrible business now! Are you listening to me? Make friends with the cactus and the old women with their shopping carts. Pushy old broads, but at least they’ve stopped getting their periods! And sidewalks so hot, my god, why bother? But Marion, I tell you this—Scottsdale is better than a bullet in the head from some putz in a turban.”
Through the south windows, beyond the mangroves, I could see Tomlinson and his sumo-shaped friend talking with Mack. I had questions for Mack, too, questions about the Stiletto—go-fast boats, they are often called—but they would have to wait.
“I’ll give it some thought and discuss it tonight,” I told Bernie before signing off.
JoAnn had promised to stop, check on the dog’s food and water supply, and give him his pills. Later in the day my fishing guide friend and workout partner, Hannah Smith, would redo the dressings if needed. So I grabbed a bag, closed the gate, pausing only to hold up an emphatic hand.
The dog understood and didn’t much care. He sniffed the new boundary line, yawned, and turned, all muscle and bone beneath an oily coat, moving away at a lazy pace. A strange animal. I had expected a hint, at least, of disappointment or willfulness . . . something. So I waited.
Finally, the retriever stopped
All true.
We are old friends, Bernie and I, and the man was eager to help even though he is semiretired and living in Scottsdale. As always, though, he was also eager to talk.
“Another time, Bernie,” I told him. “I’ve got a plane to catch,” then repeated the same question I had posed to Cheng.
“Such a pal, always too busy!” Yeager chided. “So what president’s wife are you sleeping with now? Just name the country, and I’ll put two and two together. Sovereign nations don’t terminate fishmongers without a reason. That is my personal experience.”
“Bernie,” I said patiently, “there’s some other information I could use. Nothing to do with the intelligence community, so it’s a little out of your line. There’s a guy who calls himself Luke Smith, says he’s a filmmaker. If you can find something on him, great.”
“ If I can find it, he says! In my heart, such a stabbing pain I felt just now, you wouldn’t believe.” I heard a sound that might have been Yeager tapping his phone against a desk before he returned, saying, “Hello . . . hello? Operator, I think we have a bad connection. I was talking with a friend who only calls to ask favors, then insults me!”
I laughed, but was also aware that Bernie sounded more frail than the last time we had spoken. The man was right. It had been too long since I had called simply to trade stories and catch up. There are certain people in our lives who are so powerfully linked by events, or chemistry, that we are lulled into believing contact is unimportant. These rare few, it seems, are always there, close at hand, their presence unaffected by distance or the passage of time.
By the age of forty, most of us have learned that this is not true.
So I told Bernie Yeager to block out an hour, if he was willing, and I would call about ten-ish, Arizona time. “I’ve got at least one joke guaranteed you’ve never heard. And a story about an ambassador in a certain South American country you won’t believe, but you’ll love it. Oh, and there’s something else”—I was seated, the retriever beside me—“I’ve got another mystery going. But this one’s fun.”
Bernie was delighted. And also touched, I could tell. But he couldn’t let me off the phone without offering his usual advice. “Move here, get out of that terrible business now! Are you listening to me? Make friends with the cactus and the old women with their shopping carts. Pushy old broads, but at least they’ve stopped getting their periods! And sidewalks so hot, my god, why bother? But Marion, I tell you this—Scottsdale is better than a bullet in the head from some putz in a turban.”
Through the south windows, beyond the mangroves, I could see Tomlinson and his sumo-shaped friend talking with Mack. I had questions for Mack, too, questions about the Stiletto—go-fast boats, they are often called—but they would have to wait.
“I’ll give it some thought and discuss it tonight,” I told Bernie before signing off.
JoAnn had promised to stop, check on the dog’s food and water supply, and give him his pills. Later in the day my fishing guide friend and workout partner, Hannah Smith, would redo the dressings if needed. So I grabbed a bag, closed the gate, pausing only to hold up an emphatic hand.
The dog understood and didn’t much care. He sniffed the new boundary line, yawned, and turned, all muscle and bone beneath an oily coat, moving away at a lazy pace. A strange animal. I had expected a hint, at least, of disappointment or willfulness . . . something. So I waited.
Finally, the retriever stopped
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