Excerpt of An Ordinary Spy by Joseph Weisberg
(Page 9 of 10)
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Phil drove me to my house in a leafy, almost Mediterranean neighborhood
called Hill. Two guards stood in front of
the gate, rifles slung over their shoulders. They pulled the gate open
and gave a friendly wave as we drove past. Set back behind a few
trees was a two-story white house, with a well- tended flower garden
along one side. My car, a blue Dodge Dart, was sitting in the driveway
on the other side of the house. I’d bought that car because I assumed
it would look bad to have a foreign-made car at the CIA. Then
the first day I’d driven it to Headquarters, I saw that the enormous
Agency parking lot was filled with Hondas and Toyotas. My Dart
looked more at home here in .
6
After showing me around the house, Phil took me to the den at the
back of the first floor and talked about security arrangements.
The den was designated as a safe room. He showed me how to trigger
the mechanism that brought a out of the wall, which
swooped in a and locked on the other end.
"Couldn’t they still shoot you through that?" I asked.
"The is designed to protect you against kidnapping," he said.
"They can’t get to you in there. Food, water the .
You can go three days in here without a problem."
"But what if they want to shoot you?"
"Well, then, I guess you’re gonna get shot."
"Wouldn’t it be a better idea, then, if there were some sort of attack,
or unrest, to just flee? Get out into the yard, go over the back
fence? Just get out?"
"We recommend you use the safe room. This is where we’ll come
looking for you."
7
The next morning, I spent a few hours unpacking, then I did a trial
drive to the embassy to make sure I knew how to get there and
how much time it took. In the afternoon, I went down to the
District. When you see a photograph that’s trying to conjure ,
it’s probably . The crowded, dusty streets, with brightly colored
hanging from windows, are somehow repulsive and appealing
at the same time. Men in sweat-stained shirts, women in
, and the occasional animal stream down the main
thoroughfare in both directions. In American cities, large groups of
people divide naturally into lanes to facilitate getting down a crowded
street. Here, two masses just pushed forward, bumping and weaving
as they went.
I couldn’t help thinking the controlled chaos was the perfect metaphor
for . After all my reading, I knew the broad outlines of the
history and political fissures that had shaped, and also oppressed, the
country. After the
.
Reprinted by permission of Bloomsbury USA.
