Regards From Oscar: Confessions Of A Spy

By GARY ADER

As a boy, Ray Walker is recruited by the Culper Spy Ring, the modern-day iteration of George Washington's personal spy network. Steered through early adulthood, Ray finds himself leading two lives: one as an ordinary businessman, the other as a spy for the Culper Spy Ring. Owning a travel agency provides the ideal cover for his other life as a spy. Ray is no James Bond, but in his own rugged, down-to-Earth Brooklyn way, has a profound love of country, for which he is willing to risk everything. His missions take him to dangerous and exotic locations, where he faces life-threatening situations, and deals with adversaries in ways that will surprise the reader. He encounters beautiful women, enemy agents, and an assortment of characters that affect his missions and his life. Keeping secrets from his wife and friends keeps him constantly on guard, often resulting in situations that test his patience and decision making, with life-altering consequences.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Escarpment Press
• Release date: Apr 24, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201946616

Book preview

REGARDS FROM OSCAR

CONFESSIONS OF A SPY

BY

Gary Ader

Published by Escarpment Press

Regards from Oscar: Confessions of a spy

Copyright © 2022 by Gary Ader

First Edition

All Rights Reserved

Cover illustration Shutterstock ID # 94715374

Copyright © Anton Balazh

This book is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property.

This book may not be reproduced in print, electronically, or in any other format, without the express written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts for publicity purposes.

Other Books by Gary Ader

Two-Lane Blacktop

The War Never Ends

(Tom Hooker co-author)

Regards From Oscar

Confessions Of A Spy

By

Gary Ader

Table of Contents

Dedication

Forward

1—The Ride

2—The Past Meets the Present

3—A Meeting

4—The Talk

5—Star-crossed Lovers

6—Senior Year

7—Graduation Party

8—Changes

9—In the Army

10—A New Beginning

11—A Capitol Idea

12—May Day

13—First Mission

14—The Lesson

15—Vacation

16—Changes in Latitude

17—Ray and Wendy’s Great Adventure

18—Behind the Curtain

19—Holiday with Old Friends

20—Stockholm Syndrome

21—The French Connection

22—Face-off with Oscar

23—Loss of Innocence

24—What Happened to Abby?

25—Always Expect the Unexpected

26—Blindsided

27—A Sack of Bricks

28—Showdown

29—The Reason Why

Epilogue

About the Author

Dedication

With grateful appreciation to my friends and family for their support and encouragement.

Foreword

While Regards from Oscar is purely fictional, the author has visited all of the foreign locations mentioned in the book.  Many of character Ray Walker’s experiences are those of the author (which specific ones will not be revealed), and all historical and geopolitical events referred to herein are factual.  Historical data on the Culper Spy Ring is also accurate.

1 The Ride

Ray was thirteen years old in 1959, on the day he was chosen to become a spy.  The significance of the events of that day would not manifest themselves to him until years later.

Ray’s uncle, Herbert Wolf, was a respected New York attorney. He had a keen mind and an affable manner that made people want to share their confidences with him.  His Ivy League education did little to dampen his New York accent, which he would, under certain circumstances, exaggerate for effect.

He rubbed elbows with the rich and powerful at both ends of the social spectrum.  The funny thing is, if you asked any of the people attached to those elbows what kind of law Herbert Wolf practiced, or if they knew who his clients were, you would be met with a blank stare.  In truth, very few people did know, and those who did, would never tell.

Herb’s closest friend was Charles Hill an international banker.  His stocky build and thinning hair stood in contrast to Herbert’s tall athletic appearance.  Yet, his more conservative demeanor and a distinctive Trans-Atlantic accent, made people feel comfortable trusting him with their money.  At social events, he was Herbert’s de facto Chief of Staff.  Other than close friends, anyone wanting to speak with Herbert knew they would have to speak with Charles first. Yet, even with the strong friendship they shared, neither was privy to the secrets kept by the other.  That said, they were both involved with the same secret government agency that would one day count Ray Walker as one of its members, and they understood the precise meaning of the words need to know.  Such was the nature of their special relationship.

On a sunny Saturday in late spring, one week after Ray’s thirteenth birthday, his Uncle Herb asked him if he wanted to go for a ride Upstate.  To New Yorkers, Upstate was anywhere north of the George Washington Bridge.  In this case, their destination was a place young Ray had not yet heard of: Suffern, New York, which, owing to Herb’s driving style, was, on that day, a two-and-a-half-hour trip from Brooklyn.

To Ray it appeared that speed limits were only a suggestion for Herb, and, to state troopers, Uncle Herb’s Cadillac seemed invisible, a fact Ray would someday learn, was the result of a chromed emblem with the image of an eagle and the words U.S. Official mounted next to the license plate.

Herb turned off the highway at the Suffern exit onto Lafayette Avenue, the main street.  In this picturesque hamlet, away from the frenzied activity of The City, as the residents referred to Manhattan, outsiders could never imagine the secrets hidden in the stately homes set beyond perfectly manicured lawns.

Ray took in everything he saw.  His whole world had been The City and Brooklyn.  This was like nothing he ever imagined, and certainly not like the black and white images of suburbia that played on the TV shows of the day.

They stopped at a red light.

This town used to be called New Antrim, said Herb. It played an important role in the American Revolution because of its position near the Ramapo Pass.   George Washington made camp here because of its strategic location.

Ray looked around, picturing tents, with blue-coated soldiers sitting around campfires cradling mugs of coffee.

In truth, there was little money for uniforms, and most of the soldiers wore their own clothes.

There are a lot of signs on the highway, names of places few people bother to learn about, but most of those places were of vital importance in the history of our fight for independence from England, Herb said.

They told us about these places in school, said Ray.  But seeing them makes it real.  That stuff really happened, and we’re right in the middle of it!

Herb pulled the Caddy up to a curb in front of a diner across from a park.

In the middle of that park is a marker where General Lafayette made camp with his troops.  Herb took a long pause as Ray looked at the park.  Now I need to tell you about where we’re going.

Is it a place where they fought a battle? Ray asked.

Well, actually there were battles fought all around here at various times, but no, this is about the house we are going to.

Ray saw Herb’s expression change. This was serious.

When we go inside, you are not to speak unless you are spoken to, and then, only answer what is asked.  Give no other information.  I will not be introducing you to anyone.  Just go to your right and sit in a chair by the wall.  Got it?

Yeah, sure.  Okay.

Good.  At some point in the meeting, I will ask you to leave.  Just go outside and wait by the car.  Do you understand?

Sure, whatever you say.  Ray didn’t really get it at all. The thing he did get, was that he had better do exactly what he was told.  That much was clear.

Later, we can stop back here for lunch and take a closer look at that marker.

They continued on narrow tree-lined streets with smaller homes.  Herb slowed as they approached a house with a sign.  The number 1776 appeared above the words FREEDOM REALTY on the gatepost. The driveway was long, and wide enough for two cars.  As Herb pulled to a stop, Ray saw another boy about his age waiting next to another Cadillac parked on the other side of the drive.  A stocky man in a dark suit hurried out of the house, glancing back at Herb and Ray, before backing out and driving off.

When they were out of sight, Herb and Ray got out of the car.  Without knocking, Herb opened the door to the house and walked in.  Ray followed, and took a seat on the side of the room, as instructed, and watched the people around a large conference table get up to greet Herb—just like he was some kind of movie star.

Sitting alone on the side of the room, Ray felt invisible.  And that was a good thing.  With nothing expected of him, he was free to look at everything in the room from his seat.  

Half of the well-dressed people sitting around the large table had their backs to Ray, and obscured any clear view of those sitting across from them.  There were twelve in all, including Herb.

The room was large and rectangular, with a high vaulted ceiling, and beams running across it at wall height.  The effect was to make the area acoustically dead.  And even though Ray was only fifteen feet from the seated group, he could not discern a single word of what was being said.  The smells of old wood and the old books on the shelves lining the walls were new to him.

He recognized some of the portraits, including the incomplete portrait of George Washington by Gilbert Stuart.  Ray imagined the great general suddenly rushing out to lead his troops into battle before the artist was finished.  In that era, a reproduction hung in every elementary school classroom. Other portraits of founding fathers Hamilton, Franklyn, Adams, and Jefferson, Ray recognized from his schoolbooks. But there were others he did not yet recognize.  (Years later he would learn their names: Benjamin Tallmadge, Abraham Woodhull, Caleb Brewster, Robert Townsend and Anna Smith Strong.  Were it not for the cunning and courage of the latter group, the Revolutionary War would have been lost.)

Ray turned when a woman at the table called to another room, Olivia Dear, please see if our young guest would care for a drink.

If Ray had not already been instructed to remain silent, he would have found himself speechless when the pretty teenage girl with short brown hair and steel grey eyes approached him.  Would you like a coke with ice?

Yes. Ray croaked.  She was the prettiest girl he had ever seen, and he couldn’t help staring as she walked away. When she returned, Ray noticed the curves of her hips and the fullness of her breasts under her sweater.

Olivia was aware of the effect she had on the young boy.  She thought he was cute, like the boy who had left a few minutes earlier.  At the time, she was nineteen and a college student, and knew exactly what was being discussed at the table.

Ray had only finished half of his drink, when Herb turned around.  Ray, please leave the room.  And Ray did as he was told, awkwardly looking for a place to put his glass, until Olivia reappeared and took it from him.

(Nearly a decade would pass before they would meet again.)

Outside, he waited at the front of the Cadillac, running his hand over the smooth chrome hood ornament, and thinking about Olivia—her face, her curves, and those grey eyes.

Herb came out of the house and walked briskly to the car.  Hungry? he asked as they got in.

Starving.

Good, let’s get lunch.  And, by the way, don’t ever discuss anything you saw today with anyone.  Get it?

Got it.

Back to TOC

2 The Past Meets the Present

Seven years later

Ray was in the fall semester of his junior year in college at a Long Island university, a little older now, and like most students his age, not as wise as he thought he was.  Somewhat better looking than the average guy, with dark eyes, a strong jawline, an athletic build, similar to Herb’s, and a Brooklyn attitude that set him apart from the rich kids raised in the suburbs.  He didn’t have a problem meeting girls.

Ray chose the student union instead of the library for his breaks between classes.  It was a noisy place, with a hundred conversations going on at once: piped in music from a local rock station played through speakers in the ceiling, and the clanging of food trays all produced a lively din.  By design, or tradition, no one knew which, fraternities and sororities had their own tables in the student union; Greek letters on the walls marked their territory.  The other tables were for all of the non-affiliated students, GDIs, short for God Damn Independents, as the Greeks disparagingly referred to them.

Ray had his own way of dealing with things.  At the beginning of the semester, he staked out one of the unassigned tables for himself and his friends.  After a few weeks, this, too, became a tradition.  All of those not friends of Ray, or friends of his friends, got into the habit of finding seats elsewhere.

Hi, said one of the fraternity guys, as he slid into a seat next to Alice, interrupting Ray’s conversation with her.

That was the moment when the routine world of Raymond Walker began to change.

Hey man, what are you doing on this side of the room? Ray said, showing his Brooklyn attitude.

Just saying hello to a friend.  That a problem? Frat boy said.

Could be, Ray said.

With that, Alice got up and pushed her way past both of them.  I’m going to the library.  You two can have your little pissing contest without me.

They both watched her long red ponytail and her hips sway in opposite directions as she made her way to the exit.

Seriously, man, what are you doing over here?  Not enough girls on that side of the room?  Ray nodded in the direction of the table where the frat boy usually sat.

"Well, Alice is in one of my classes, but I came over here to meet you."

Ray winced, and held up his hand, palm out.  Hey man, I don’t bat for the home team.

No schmuck, not like that.  Actually, we have met before, but I don’t expect you would remember. My name is Walter Hill.

Ray Walker.

I know. They shook hands.  "Remember the day you went to Suffern with your uncle Herb?

Ray remembered Herb’s admonition not to discuss that day with anyone, and was silent.

"You do remember, don’t you?" Walt pushed.

Yeah, Ray said, offering no additional information.

Well, remember the kid standing next to the Caddy in the driveway?

There was something familiar about Walt that Ray couldn’t put his finger on, maybe it was the sandy hair.   "That was you?"

Yes.  We have to talk, but it can’t be here.  You’re usually at The Pub on Wednesday afternoons.  Let’s meet there at four thirty.  

What the fuck!   Have you been following me?

Walt smiled.  Just be there at four thirty.  Take a seat in a booth opposite the bar.  Bring a book to read.  I’ll be there a little later.  Not waiting for Ray to reply, he got up and walked away.

It was a little after one o’clock when Ray went to the pay phone to call Herb at his office.  The secretary put him through right away.

Yes. Ray—

I was just in the student union and this guy, Walt, comes up to me and starts asking if I remember Suffern, and you said never to talk about it and—

It’s okay Ray, calm down.  I know all about it.

You what?

It’s okay. You and Walt will have a lot to talk about.  You can trust him.  I assure you that everything will all become clear soon.  Just do what he says, meet him on Wednesday, and on Sunday, come to my house at noon.  Your aunt and the girls will be out, and we can talk then.  Get it?

Ray paused.  Got it?

Good.  Don’t call me about this again.  We’ll talk Sunday.

The line went dead.

Suddenly Ray found himself in the middle of a mystery.  Uncle Herb did reassure him, sort of, and told him it was okay to go along with whatever happened.  He had to admit he was intrigued.

He knew he could trust Herb.  Since before Ray was born, Uncle Herb, attorney at law, had been the rock of Ray’s extended family, guiding them through deaths, divorces, births, and even some brushes with the law.  So, of course he would trust Herb, and do exactly what he was told.

Ray had no idea that his encounter with Walt was the tremor before a seismic event that would change his life.

He tried to reason it out.  First Suffern, now so many years later, meeting the boy he saw waiting in the driveway.  This was no chance encounter.  This was planned.  But by who?  Ray had no answers, and no way of attaching any significance to these events.  But there was more.  Herb knew what had happened before he called.  Walt wouldn’t have had time to make the call, so who did?

The dark-haired girl at the next table, sat directly behind Ray, facing away, out of his line of sight.  It wasn’t the first time she had chosen that seat, probably the only vantage point from which Ray would never notice her. She had been listening in on his conversations for weeks, waiting for the one that would send her to the nearest pay phone to call Herbert Wolf.  Once Alice left the table, and Walt had introduced himself, and a mystery, into Ray’s life, Abby Silver knew it was time to make the call, and slipped away from the table completely unnoticed by Ray or Walt.  

At 4:30 on Wednesday, Ray entered The Pub, and took off his wet raincoat.  It wasn’t as busy as usual.  He thought the rain kept some of the regulars away; certainly he wouldn’t be here if he wasn’t meeting Walt.   He sat at a table in the back, across from the bar.  A worn copy of Atlas Shrugged rested on the table next to his glass of beer.

At 4:40, Walt walked in, gestured for the bartender to bring him a beer, and slid into the booth opposite Ray.

Okay, you want to tell me what the fuck is going on? Ray asked.

"Calm down.  That day in Suffern is a link between us that hasn’t been important until now.  You were there with your Uncle Herb, and I was there with Charles, my dad, and, yes, I do call him by his first name."

I phoned Herb after we spoke and he knew all about our meeting.  He said I should trust you.

Really?  I didn’t call Herb.

I know.  You wouldn’t have had time, and near as I can figure, Alice wouldn’t have had the time either, and she wouldn’t even know Herb existed.

That’s strange. Was anybody else at the table paying attention to what we were saying?

I don’t think so, Ray said, thinking only of the people in his line of sight.   So now what?

I have a message for you.

A message?  From who? Ray said gesturing at the air above him.

I can’t tell you that, but you must do exactly what I am telling you if you want this adventure to continue.  Get it?

Got it, Ray said reflexively, Herb’s words echoing in his mind.

Good.  Go to the library on Friday at three.  Sit at the large table on the second floor near the history section. You will be approached by a girl in a red sweater.  Her hair and skirt will be black.  She doesn’t like beer, only red Italian wine, Walt said, as if he were repeating memorized lines.

Then what?

"I don’t know.  You decide."

Thanks a lot, said Ray.  Look is this is some kind of joke?  If it is, I’ve got better things to do with my time, like catching up with Alice, thank you.

Look, don’t be an asshole, Walt admonished him.  Just get with the program.  Okay?

What fuckin’ program are you talking about?

Herb told you he would explain on Sunday.  It’s called ‘the talk.’  Just be in the library on Friday and meet the girl.  Do whatever you want: ask her out, offer to buy her a glass of red Italian wine.  I don’t care.  Just don’t screw this up.  You won’t get a second chance.  By the way, stop saying fuck so much.  You’re not in Brooklyn anymore.

What the fuck is with this frat guy?

Walt gestured for the bartender to bring two more beers.  Ray tried to press Walt for more information, but he had none to give.

They talked about the things most college men would talk about: classes, girls, cars, and the best college hangouts on the island.  When they got a little more comfortable with each other, they shared the details of their recollections of that day in Suffern.

By 7:30, they had begun to form a friendship that would last a lifetime.

On Sunday both men would find out exactly what that link was, Ray at Herb’s house, and Walt at home in Charles’s library.

Back to TOC

3 A Meeting

On Friday, Ray went to the second floor of the library; sunlight streamed through the wall of glass.  He sat at the large table near the history section.  A man on a mission.  He noticed most of the other tables were occupied, and wondered why this one wasn’t.

At 3:14, a girl with long black hair, a black skirt, and a red sweater, walked over, and put her stack of books on the table next to his.  She sat in the chair next to Ray, crossed her legs, and demurely smoothed the skirt that didn’t even come close to her knees.

Hi.  Okay if I sit here?

Sure.

Ray was surprised he hadn’t noticed her before.  Considering his reputation on campus, so was she.

That looks like it’s for Professor Conroy’s class, she said, pointing to one of the texts on the table.  I’m in his first hour.  His lectures are so intense, I have trouble getting good notes.  Oh, I’m Abby.

Ray—

Before he could figure out what to say next, Abby gathered her books and stood up.

You know, I didn’t realize how late it is.  I really have to go now.  Maybe we can get together sometime and work on the term project together.

Sure, we can meet at the Pub and have a beer?

I don’t drink beer.

You probably like red wine.

Yes, but only if it’s from Italy.

I’m sure they have that at the Pub.

Yes, we’ll have to talk.  But look, I have to go now, nice meeting you.

He watched her hurry off toward the exit.  When he looked back at the table, he saw a folded piece of paper where her books had been.  He looked up, but she was gone. Only the smell of her perfume remained. He picked up the piece of paper and read it.

SNACK BAR MONDAY AT 11

Ray sat back and tried to figure out what had happened. The girl, Abby, appeared exactly as Walt said.  Her black hair matched her short black skirt, and she wore a red sweater.  Their conversation, brief as it was, seemed scripted, and to his surprise, he knew his lines, even though he had never been handed a script.  But actually, he had been.  Walt told him the girl didn’t like beer, only red Italian wine.  It all seemed so natural.  He