dumb? Could we not see the true situation? The fact was, Reagan and his people were Ceau§escu's real sponsors and protectors.
This made even Jan sit up. Phil looked from one of us to the other, still smiling, still shaking his head, like a teacher
regarding two of his most favoured pupils on one of their less brilliant days. 'Listen,' he said, and when Phil said 'listen'
in that soft, patient tone you knew you were about to get the real stuff, the lowdown, the insider's inside information. 'It's
simple. What is the worst advertisement for MarxistLeninism, atheistic communism and the Soviet so-called Union?' He opened
his hands and showed us two broad, soft, pink palms. 'Romania!' Ceau§escu was a precious asset for Reagan and the CIA. The
Agency, as Phil familiarly, almost fondly, called it, regularly ferried Ceau§escu's top security people to a base in Turkey
for training in state-of-the-art - it was the first time I had heard the phrase - anti-insurrectionist techniques, developed
in the jungles of South America. The Israelis too were involved. 'The Israelis!' Phil cried, with a harsh laugh. 'The frigging
Israelis!' He knew for a fact that Ceau§escu had commissioned an Israeli arms firm to provide him with a fleet of attack helicopters
specifically designed to tackle urban guerrilla warfare. He reached out and traced a triangle in the spilled salt on the table,
cutting through Jan's designs.
'There it is,' he said, 'the axis: Washington, Tel Aviv, Bucharest.' Then he sat back and folded his arms.
Jan, I could see, shared my doubts about all this, frowning into the middle distance and running his fingers through his scant
beard. Neither of us, however, was willing to speak up. It is the nature of secret knowledge such as Phil claimed to possess
that it is unverifiable, and therefore unchallengeable. Why had we heard nothing of Reagan supportingof the CIA training Romanian security police, of Israel supplying weapons to Bucharest? Because it's all a secret, of course,
stupid! And it might all be true, too. The CIA had tried to kill Castro with an exploding cigar. One of Jimmy Carter's people
had gone to Teheran bearing a cake and a copy of the Koran as gifts for the mad mullahs with whom he was to negotiate. Anything
is possible.
The snow outside was turning to sleet, falling slantwise sluggishly in the light of the street lamps and extinguishing itself
in the dark surface of the river. Although night had fallen it was still early, and Phil had the ominous look of a reality
instructor warming to his task. Then Jan asked him if he had spoken tosince his arrival in Prague. He shrugged. Now it was Jan's turn to smile and shake his head. He fished in the pockets of
his jeans and came up with a coin and went to the telephone beside the gasping espresso machine. Who isI asked? Philip shrugged again. 'A girl,' he said. He looked vexed; he had hardly begun to tap into his store of secret knowledge,
the great world's arcana. After a brief and what seemed furtive conversation on the telephone Jan came back to the table.
Katefina was at home, and was having a party, and we were invited. A girl. We paid and left.
Praguers are the most circumspect of city dwellers. Travellers on trams and in the metro carefully remove the dust jackets
of books, no matter how innocuous, that they have brought to read on the journey; some will even make brown-paper covers to
hide the titles of paperbacks. Understandable, of course in a city for so long full of informers, and old habits die hard.
Likewise, our brief journey toapartment had the air of the credits sequence of a 1960s espionage movie. First there was Jan on the telephone in the cafe
cupping his hand over the receiver and raising a protective shoulder to the room as if he thought there might be a lip reader
on the premises, then we were outside, three hunched figures on an empty avenue, walking cliches, shouldering against the
wind and
This made even Jan sit up. Phil looked from one of us to the other, still smiling, still shaking his head, like a teacher
regarding two of his most favoured pupils on one of their less brilliant days. 'Listen,' he said, and when Phil said 'listen'
in that soft, patient tone you knew you were about to get the real stuff, the lowdown, the insider's inside information. 'It's
simple. What is the worst advertisement for MarxistLeninism, atheistic communism and the Soviet so-called Union?' He opened
his hands and showed us two broad, soft, pink palms. 'Romania!' Ceau§escu was a precious asset for Reagan and the CIA. The
Agency, as Phil familiarly, almost fondly, called it, regularly ferried Ceau§escu's top security people to a base in Turkey
for training in state-of-the-art - it was the first time I had heard the phrase - anti-insurrectionist techniques, developed
in the jungles of South America. The Israelis too were involved. 'The Israelis!' Phil cried, with a harsh laugh. 'The frigging
Israelis!' He knew for a fact that Ceau§escu had commissioned an Israeli arms firm to provide him with a fleet of attack helicopters
specifically designed to tackle urban guerrilla warfare. He reached out and traced a triangle in the spilled salt on the table,
cutting through Jan's designs.
'There it is,' he said, 'the axis: Washington, Tel Aviv, Bucharest.' Then he sat back and folded his arms.
Jan, I could see, shared my doubts about all this, frowning into the middle distance and running his fingers through his scant
beard. Neither of us, however, was willing to speak up. It is the nature of secret knowledge such as Phil claimed to possess
that it is unverifiable, and therefore unchallengeable. Why had we heard nothing of Reagan supportingof the CIA training Romanian security police, of Israel supplying weapons to Bucharest? Because it's all a secret, of course,
stupid! And it might all be true, too. The CIA had tried to kill Castro with an exploding cigar. One of Jimmy Carter's people
had gone to Teheran bearing a cake and a copy of the Koran as gifts for the mad mullahs with whom he was to negotiate. Anything
is possible.
The snow outside was turning to sleet, falling slantwise sluggishly in the light of the street lamps and extinguishing itself
in the dark surface of the river. Although night had fallen it was still early, and Phil had the ominous look of a reality
instructor warming to his task. Then Jan asked him if he had spoken tosince his arrival in Prague. He shrugged. Now it was Jan's turn to smile and shake his head. He fished in the pockets of
his jeans and came up with a coin and went to the telephone beside the gasping espresso machine. Who isI asked? Philip shrugged again. 'A girl,' he said. He looked vexed; he had hardly begun to tap into his store of secret knowledge,
the great world's arcana. After a brief and what seemed furtive conversation on the telephone Jan came back to the table.
Katefina was at home, and was having a party, and we were invited. A girl. We paid and left.
Praguers are the most circumspect of city dwellers. Travellers on trams and in the metro carefully remove the dust jackets
of books, no matter how innocuous, that they have brought to read on the journey; some will even make brown-paper covers to
hide the titles of paperbacks. Understandable, of course in a city for so long full of informers, and old habits die hard.
Likewise, our brief journey toapartment had the air of the credits sequence of a 1960s espionage movie. First there was Jan on the telephone in the cafe
cupping his hand over the receiver and raising a protective shoulder to the room as if he thought there might be a lip reader
on the premises, then we were outside, three hunched figures on an empty avenue, walking cliches, shouldering against the
wind and
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