The Cloak and Dagger Cook: A CIA Memoir

By Kay Shaw Nelson

“Delightful . . . Kay Nelson’s memoir teaches us that food is a key to unlocking and understanding cultures other than our own.” —Charles Pinck, president, Office of Strategic Services Society
 
Upon graduating from college in 1948, Kay Shaw Nelson, a bright young woman with a yen for international travel, joined the newly founded Central Intelligence Agency. Within months, she received her security clearance, learned the difficulties associated with the life of a spy, fell in love, and set about traveling the world on assignment with her husband. At times under the cover of a cookbook writer, Nelson sailed from one exotic locale to another, each more incredible than the last. From Washington to Turkey and Cyprus, to Syria, Libya, France, Greece, and the Netherlands, among many other ports, the Nelsons traversed the globe as Kay discovered her passion for food, developed her journalistic abilities, and honed her exceptional palate.
 
With humor and panache, Nelson tells of her exploits gleaning intelligence while gathering recipes and sampling the local cuisine. Kebabs in Turkey, kimchi in Korea, spargel in Germany, eels in Spain, and Rumbledethumps in Scotland were among the delightful gastronomic surprises she encountered. Dozens of unusual recipes with memorable histories pepper this irresistible memoir of fascinating events, extraordinary corners of the globe, and clandestine culinary pursuits.
 
“This delightful gastro-biographic guidebook starts off by sending abroad a wide-eyed CIA novice who returns an epicurean globe-trotting and seasoned intelligence officer, author, and down-to-earth sophisticate. Like a complex, silky-smooth digestif, it finishes so quickly with such a pleasant buzz, you’ll want to signal the waiter for a second round.” —Elizabeth Bancroft, executive director, Association of Former Intelligence Officers

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Sep 29, 2009
• ISBN: 9781455615698

Book preview

Chapter 1

Welcome to Washington

It was a hopeful, sunny morning in late May 1948. The nation’s capital was more exhilarating than I, a youthful first-time visitor from New Hampshire, had imagined and entranced me almost at once. For a Syracuse University senior exploring possibilities for a government job, it was the symbol of everything I could envision: promise, able and powerful people, and energetic talk about our country’s future.

Give ’em Hell Harry Truman was in the White House serving out the remainder of the late Franklin Roosevelt’s term and would soon be his party’s nominee for president. Confrontations between him and the Republican-dominated Congress involved issues of tax reform and inflation. Americans were doing their best to ignore the bleak international situation known as the Cold War. A national debate over the influence of Reds and foreign spies in Washington had created such hysteria that an executive order directed a comprehensive investigation of all federal employees by the FBI.

As I strolled along Washington’s beautiful, broad, tree-lined avenues, staring at spacious government buildings and historic landmarks, my spirits were high. Afflicted with Potomac fever, my desire to stay in this stimulating city and become involved with great events and statesmen was overwhelming. This would be my opportunity to accomplish something unusual and avoid returning to a small town as a newspaper reporter. I had ambitions of finding a position in the government that would lead to an overseas assignment.

My expectations, however, were influenced by an earlier decision to study Russian language, literature, economics, history, geography, and politics, along with journalism, at Syracuse’s Maxwell School of Citizenship and Public Affairs. The courses began in the fall of 1946, shortly after the end of World War II, when tales of global conflicts and faraway places supplanted campus high jinks and dormitory chitchat.

Headlines about the Red Queen Spy, Elizabeth Bentley, a Connecticut-born graduate of Vassar College who, while studying at Columbia University in 1935, embraced communism and fell in love with an undercover KGB agent who initiated her into the world of espionage, astonished our small group of students studying Russian. Why had she betrayed her country? How could a communist network penetrate so deeply into our government? With the Soviet takeover of Czechoslovakia and growing fears of Stalin’s aggression, we read more about agonizing foreign occurrences and worried about our future careers.

Talk about Soviet spies, undercover agents, and espionage activities were not yet commonplace but were attracting more attention in our daily press. For most of us the world of spying was like Hollywood, not quite real, a mystery.

In Washington I didn’t spend a minute thinking about Reds or spies, captivated as I was by the breathtaking vistas and historic setting. In a taxi I rode along Pennsylvania Avenue, past the White House and Treasury Building, glimpsing the towering obelisk of the Washington Monument, and as my eye followed the white marble shaft up to the azure sky, I was proud to be an American. Even now, years later and less impressionable, my reactions are the same.

Slowly I approached the most symbolic and historic building of our government, the Capitol. Nowhere is the grandeur of Washington more evident than in this striking edifice. To observe Congress in action I accepted the invitation of Congressman Norris Cotton from my hometown, Lebanon, New Hampshire, and attended while in session the House of Representatives and the Senate, passing in the corridors to glance at the politicians, reporters, and tourists. Later, he invited me to luncheon with a couple of other congressmen in the Senate’s restaurant, a handsome room dominated by a stained-glass portrait of George Washington. Seated around us were legislators, members of their staffs, and constituents. Although my focus was not at first on the food, my host insisted right off that I hear about the history of Senate Bean Soup. For, he assured me, Whatever uncertainties may exist in the Senate of the United States, one thing is sure: bean soup is on the menu of the Senate restaurant everyday.

I also listened to the oft-repeated legends about a culinary decree. One tale has it that Sen. Fred Thomas Dubois of Idaho, who served in the Senate from 1901 to 1907, when chairman of the committee supervising the Senate restaurant, gaveled through a resolution requiring that bean soup be on the menu everyday. Another account attributes the soup mandate to Sen. Knute Nelson of Minnesota, who expressed his fondness for it in 1903.

Years later, Senate Republican leader Robert Dole had another version: On one hot August day in 1904, House Speaker Joe Cannon, finding no bean soup on the menu, growled, ‘Thunderation. I had my mouth set for bean soup. From now on, hot or cold, rain, snow or shine, I want it on the menu everyday.’ And that’s the way history is made on Capitol Hill . . .

According to the recipe, the hearty soup is made simply, with small Michigan navy beans, smoked ham hocks, a chopped onion sautéed in butter, and seasonings of salt and pepper that are cooked slowly in a covered pot of water. But, Do not add salt until ready to serve, the cook is instructed.

Here I was, a university student dining in an exclusive setting with three politicians, discussing bean soup. I was anxious to talk about something else but my congressman continued with the subject of food, adding, This inside knowledge about a Capitol Hill tradition won’t help you get a job, but maybe you’ll put it in a cookbook sometime. Then I remembered that as a newspaper reporter covering a story about New Hampshire’s maple syrup, I had told him I wanted to publish a collection of recipes in a cookbook for a charitable cause. But it was only an idea. I really didn’t know much about writing recipes and nothing about compiling a cookbook.

Let’s talk about something else, I suggested. How am I, with a degree in Russian studies, going to find some work in Washington? There was a sudden silence. No one had a suggestion. Just keep looking, one man advised. It had been a pleasant luncheon but not helpful for job leads.

That evening I dined with Dick, a New Hampshire acquaintance whom I knew when I worked as a reporter for the Manchester Union Leader. As a lobbyist he was happy to entertain with his generous expense account. We met at the Carlton, once dubbed Washington’s flossiest hotel because its design was reminiscent of an Italian Renaissance palazzo, or palace. A popular meeting place for capital insiders, it is located only a few blocks from Lafayette Square and the White House.

Before I had a chance to glance at the lengthy French-inspired menu, my host directed my attention to the nearby table. We couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of the loud-voiced men arguing about the ABCs of influencing politicians. Listen, Dick prompted. It’s typical Washington talk. They’re newcomers trying to act like ‘Power People.’ Otherwise they’d be more discreet. This is a crazy small-big town. We all get to know each other and everybody else’s business almost as soon as we arrive. Look over there. They’re some newspaper reporters batting the breeze. Next to them are some West Wing staffers. All of us think we’re important. You’ll find it interesting around here. Not as exciting as New York but we have plenty of action, he added.

He, however, didn’t have any job suggestions. I had already turned down an offer as a proofreader with Time magazine and as a researcher for a Russian-language publication, both in New York City, so now I would have to find better opportunities in Washington. I’ll start with my government contacts and make some calls tomorrow, I promised as we said good-night.

The next day I was successful. After a brief interview at the USIS (United States Information Service), a branch of the State Department engaged in public diplomacy, a personnel officer offered me a position as a writer. I was elated. It was exactly the job that I wanted and included the possibility of a future overseas assignment. Yet I had a premonition that I shouldn’t say yes immediately. I had one more lead to pursue, something that had to be done right away. So I was given a day to think about my decision.

The taxi driver didn’t say a word after I gave him the address, 2430 E Street NW, but he certainly looked me over with a discerning eye. Then he asked, Do you know what goes on at that place? It’s the only government building that doesn’t have a sign with a name in front of it. Look at all the others. He pointed them out as we drove by stately edifices marked clearly as the U.S. Department of Labor and the U.S. Department of State.

I was still thinking about my curious conversation with Dr. Warren B. Walsh, my Russian history professor, who, before my departure for Washington, had called me into his office. Handing me a slip of paper, he had said quietly, When you’re in Washington, go to see this man. Here’s his name and address. But don’t tell anyone that you’re going there. What’s it about? I asked. You’ll find out when you see him, he replied. Why hadn’t Dr. Walsh told me who the person was and where I was going? Why was he so secretive? It was indeed puzzling. My imagination was running wild.

That’s it, the cab driver announced as he braked to a stop in front of a long flight of steps leading to an imposing sandstone building with Corinthian columns. There was no sign outside and I had not a clue about what went on behind the heavy door opened by a guard in policeman’s blue. Inside, a young receptionist seated at a hall desk greeted me politely and inquired why I was there. I asked to see the man whose name was on the piece of paper given to me by Dr. Walsh.

She led me to a nearby small room where I realized that I was in surroundings unlike any that I had known before. The chair was uncomfortable and the stark gray walls were bare. An oppressive silence hung over the place. It was as though I had emerged in a different world. I had never felt so alone and yearned for a companion, someone to share my bewilderment and to talk with. I clasped my hands, stared at the ceiling, and waited to see what was going to happen.

The receptionist reappeared, asking me to come to her desk and sign in. I filled out a visitor’s form, giving my name, address, and purpose of visit. I noted that she added the exact time, to the second, as she handed me a plastic pass stamped, MUST BE ACCOMPANIED. Then, with an escort, I walked down a winding corridor lined with closed doors, marked only with numbers, to a small office in a prefabricated building. My escort departed discreetly and I sat on a chair, looking out the sole window at the morning sunshine.

Almost immediately a tall, bespectacled man puffing on a cigarette appeared and greeted me in Russian, Good morning. How are you? Thus began our curious conversation in English. Sitting down in front of a bare desk, arms thrust over it, he began talking rapidly in a loud voice. His rambling remarks were hard to follow. It seemed to me as though he thought I should know more than I did about why I had been sent to see him. There was an implication of spying, mentioning the collection of intelligence work that was started by the Office of Strategic Services during the war and that now was concentrating on the Soviets instead of the Germans and Japanese.

Appraising me with an experienced eye and seeming to have considerable knowledge about my background, the man identified himself as an officer with the Russian division of the CIA. This was the very first time that I had met anyone with the Agency and knew very little about it, but I didn’t bat an eye as he talked about covert research, interesting assignments, and possible overseas posts. Primarily he was trying to find out why I wished to have a job with the CIA and work in intelligence. In all innocence I had to reply that there was no reason. It was simply because my professor had sent me to see him and that I wanted to work in Washington and hopefully go abroad some time in the future.

I had the impression that the name my interviewer used was not his real one. After several minutes he came to the point: the Agency was looking for enthusiastic young people who were willing to work hard and could keep secrets. He mentioned that I had a good background, journalism and Russian, and for me not to worry. You won’t be a back alley operative, nothing dangerous, he assured me.

At some point the curious stranger asked if I had any immediate marriage plans. The answer was no. But to this day I don’t think it was an appropriate question.

I was still not sure about the type of work he was discussing when my interviewer said he would like to hire me as a researcher-writer. I told him that one of my goals in life was to travel and, more than that, to write about foreign countries and cultures. He nodded and smiled. Despite my uncertainty, there was something about the way he spoke and his enthusiasm that was contagious. He also mentioned patriotism, an adventurous life, and service to our country.

Before I realized it, my mind was made up. I wanted to join the CIA and get involved in this exciting, mysterious, secret work. He said he couldn’t tell me anything more about the Agency at the time. As we shook hands, I indicated that I was interested and would let him know my final decision the next day.

My escort reappeared and took me back to the reception desk where I turned in my temporary pass. The receptionist noted the exact time of my departure. I left exhilarated and bewildered, knowing absolutely nothing about the world of the CIA or intelligence and what a career with them would entail.

Afterwards, bracing myself to face squarely my dilemma and realizing that some advice might be needed, I decided to telephone a Washington Post editor. His name had been given to me by a journalism professor who suggested that I call his former student if I needed any guidance while job hunting. Much to my surprise he agreed to see me at once, suggesting that we meet in about an hour in the Peacock Alley of the Willard Hotel. He gave me directions and I described my appearance.

Feeling self-confident and in a good mood, I arrived at the northwest corner of Pennsylvania Avenue and Fourteenth Street, a short walk from the Treasury Building and the White House, to enter the Willard, a historic landmark that I would have a little time to explore. The site on which the hotel stands has served as a favorite hostelry and drinking and dining place for politicians, reporters, and influence seekers since 1816.

After Henry Willard, a young man from Vermont, bought the property in 1830 and Millard Fillmore moved into the neighboring White House, Willard’s City Hotel became the capital’s grandest gathering place for presidents, diplomats, and celebrities. In 1850 statesman Henry Clay introduced the mint julep in the Round Robin Bar, still a popular rendezvous, and Julia Ward Howe wrote The Battle Hymn of the Republic at a desk in her room following her return from witnessing a review of Union troops near the Capitol in 1861.

By the late 1800s to Meet at the Willard was a fashionable custom. Ulysses S. Grant used to escape the presidency with a glass of brandy and a cigar in the Willard lobby and often met with agents of private interests and office seekers who became known as lobbyists. The Willard lobby is dazzling with Beaux Arts splendor, soaring scagliola columns, hand-set mosaic tile floors, and coffered ceiling with state seals and giant globe chandeliers. Thinking about all the famous people who had visited the hotel, I strolled along the attractive palm-lined Peacock Alley, running the length of the building from Pennsylvania Avenue to F Street, one of America’s great promenades. Once the Washington locale to see and be seen, in 1948 it was still a popular meeting place and I enjoyed the parade of passersby, smartly attired ladies, and handsome young people, wondering where they came from and what they did. (After being meticulously restored, the hotel was reopened in 1986 as the Willard InterContinental.)

After the Washington Post editor arrived and we introduced ourselves, he asked, So how can I help you? Briefly I told him about my two job offers, explaining that I knew nothing about the CIA and wondered what he thought about it. The editor’s counsel was immediate and decisive. Go with the CIA. They are a topnotch outfit with a great future, bright people, and lots of money. You’re fortunate that they want to hire you. Then he wished me good luck.

The following morning I returned to CIA headquarters and informed my interviewer that I would accept his offer of a position as an intelligence officer. Great, he responded. But don’t tell anyone that you are being considered for employment with the CIA. Say you hope to have a job with a government agency. There will be a security check that shouldn’t take long. You’ve lived in only two places: one in New Hampshire and the other at the university. I trust you didn’t get involved with any political activists while you were there. Somebody will be in touch with you. Do not contact us. Afterward, a young woman handed me some forms to fill out with basic biographical data and I was told that my rating would be a P-1. That was it, nothing else.

The following day I returned to Syracuse University and in June was duly awarded my B.A. degree in the College of Liberal Arts. It was an honor to be one of the first seven students in the United States to receive a degree in Russian studies. Meanwhile, I told only Dr. Walsh about my CIA experience. He didn’t appear surprised and I thought seemed pleased about my decision to join the agency. To anyone else I merely said that I had a job in Washington with the government and I’d fill in the details later. Celebrating our jubilant graduation ceremony was more important to all of us then.

Back home in Lebanon, New Hampshire, I anticipated a short stay to relax and contemplate my future while awaiting news from the CIA. Instead, it proved to be an apprehensive period as well as a nostalgic interlude and time for reflection. Previously I had worked during my summer vacations, remembering particularly the jubilant celebration on August 15, 1945, when World War II ended while I was a reporter with the Manchester Union Leader. Thereafter, university life changed considerably as hundreds of veterans arrived to become students, adding excitement to our campus routine and dominating the journalism programs, diminishing, I thought, my hopes for future newspaper employment as a reporter. Thus I switched career roles, deciding to take an innovative two-year program in Russian studies that began in September 1946.

When I had originally told my family and friends in Lebanon about this decision, they were perplexed and, in my mother’s case, almost ashamed. It was beyond the comprehension of these dear and kind people to understand why I would want to become involved with Russians, who in their minds were communists, our enemies, and also atheists. In those days, girls of my generation who wanted to pursue a career traditionally became teachers, secretaries, or perhaps nurses.

I had already raised some eyebrows as well as respect by becoming a newspaper reporter and mentioning that I would like to be a foreign correspondent like Dorothy Thompson. She, a notable columnist and political commentator who had graduated from Syracuse University in 1914, and her novelist husband, Sinclair Lewis, had purchased a three-hundred-acre farm in South Pomfret, Vermont, not far from Lebanon, and I read with interest about all her cosmopolitan activities.

Now, I told myself, it was indeed fortunate that I could not mention my possible employment with the CIA, a surefire bombshell in my town. At this time it was one of the least known of the government agencies and most of the people I knew would not have even heard of it or understood the nature of intelligence work. So-called nice girls did not get entangled with the weird world of espionage.

The summer weeks passed slowly. My parents were happy to have me home and a few of my high school friends dropped by from time to time, even if we had grown apart in many ways. Fortunately, I could swim at nearby Lake Mascoma and play tennis with some friends. Once or twice I checked in at the local library to see if I could find discretely anything about the CIA. I didn’t want to ask the librarian for help with that subject and was not able to find much in the files by myself.

I anxiously awaited some word from the CIA. By late August, nothing had happened and I was really concerned, lamenting to myself that I was not very bright, relying on one man’s statement about wanting to hire me with nothing to prove it. You don’t even know the real name of the person who interviewed you, I told myself.

What to do? In desperation I went to see an assistant of my U.S. senator, Styles Bridges, chairman of the powerful Senate Appropriations Committee, in hopes of solving my problem. This young man knew that I had covered political events while working as a reporter for the Claremont Daily Eagle and had been a delegate to a state Republican Party convention in Concord, the state capital. After explaining my dilemma I asked him to try to find out if I actually had a job in Washington, adding that this be kept confidential. He seemed pleased that I had asked for his help, saying, Don’t worry. I’ll contact the senator’s office in Concord. They’ll find out. He has a direct line to Washington. You’ll be hearing soon. Sit tight.

And indeed I did hear something soon. Within hours, telegrams and letters emblazoned with CENTRAL INTELLIGENCE AGENCY began arriving at my home. Even the postman looked amused and puzzled as he handed me one of the communications. I knew exactly what he was thinking: What in the world does she have to do with this place? So much for secrecy, I said to myself.

One of the telegrams instructed that I report to CIA headquarters, Washington, for temporary duty as soon as possible. Trying to give some kind of logical explanation about a routine job as a writer with a classified government agency to my parents, I prepared to depart. My family was mystified but reconciled. Before saying goodbye, I blurted, Please don’t mention those initials ‘CIA’. Obviously by then the entire neighborhood knew where I was going to work in Washington. News travels fast in a small town, particularly when it’s been printed on envelopes delivered by the postman.

Leaving them to wonder, and hopefully not to worry, I boarded a train in White River Junction, Vermont, for the nation’s capital.

Oaten Potato Cakes

When I was growing up in Lebanon, New Hampshire, many of our nourishing family dishes were made with oats, the most nutritious of grains and an excellent energy source. They have a sweet, nutty flavor and crunchy texture. This combination of potatoes and oats makes a good dish for an everyday meal.

2 cups warm stiff mashed potatoes

1 cup old-fashioned rolled oats

Salt and freshly ground black pepper to taste

¹⁄3 cup unsalted butter, melted

In a medium bowl combine the potatoes with 1/2 cup rolled oats. Season with salt and pepper. Add 1-2 tbsp. melted butter, adding more oats if needed, to make a firm but soft dough. Sprinkle a clean surface with oats. Turn out potato mixture onto the oats. Roll out to a 1/2-inch thickness. With a floured 21/2-inch cutter, cut into 12 rounds. Sprinkle tops with rolled oats. Cook on both sides on a buttered hot griddle or in a skillet until golden brown. Serve hot with butter. Makes 12 cakes.

Chapter 2

The CIA Pool

In early September 1948, more than three months since my initial interview with the CIA, I returned to Washington still puzzled about why I had not heard from the Agency until after my conversation with Senator Bridges’ assistant. The messages clearly marked with CENTRAL INTELIGENCE AGENCY had added to my bewilderment. I had taken my instructions not to say anything about my possible employment with the CIA very seriously.

Upon my return, I was able to find temporary lodging with a former university classmate who was employed in public relations at a Washington department store. I told her that I was going to work as a writer for a government agency. She, like others in my dormitory at Syracuse, had wondered about my decision to pursue Russian studies and probably was skeptical about the possibilities of my becoming a diplomat or foreign correspondent, pretty ambitious goals for a young woman at that time. But we never really discussed the matter and went about our individual pursuits and pastimes.

In Washington, I once again climbed the steps to North Building at 2430 E Street NW. Inside, once I was past the guard and finished with the procedure of checking in, my reception was considerably different from that of my previous visit. This time I was accorded something akin to a red-carpet welcome by three high-ranking bureaucrats who seemed unduly interested in my arrival. They were there to say hello, a young lady explained. Trying to be friendly, each one greeted me cordially. Welcome to Washington. So sorry that we weren’t in touch with you beforehand. One of them, who proved to be the chief of personnel, stated emphatically that he, too, was from the marvelous state of New Hampshire.

I was surprised and puzzled but went along agreeably with the cordial welcome. Later, I would understand. The mere mention of the name Sen. Styles Bridges was enough to spark considerable attention in any government agency, including the CIA. Because of his assistant’s query about my employment status, my file was stamped Legislative Interest, and it was assumed that I had political connections. Thus my arrival at the Agency was not that of the usual CIA recruit.

After the welcoming ceremony I was escorted by a young lady down the front steps and around the corner to a drab, single-story prefabricated building called a tempo. One of several tempos formerly used by the OSS during World War II, it was across the street from the State Department and near the former National Institute of Health as well as CIA headquarters. Here, on a sultry September afternoon, I was initiated into the secret world of the CIA. Thereafter, I would spend three bewildering months in a personnel pool, a holding area for prospective employees who had not yet received their final security clearances. This procedure, we were told, might take longer than I and the others were led to believe. Although paid a regular P-1 salary, I was not permitted to work in an official CIA building or have access to any classified material, my instructors informed me.

Amusingly, our tempo was in a section of northwest Washington that was and is called Foggy Bottom. Much of the land once was malarial river marsh that became an industrial area with a gas works and the odoriferous Heurich Brewery. The brewery was at the end of Rock Creek Drive along the Potomac River. Back then the spy complex, covering a thirteen-acre area, was the principal industry. Later, after the gas works and brewery were razed, the nearby site was used for the construction of the expansive Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. Farther along the riverbank, across from the Watergate Apartments, was the notorious Watergate Hotel, heralded in headlines during the Richard Nixon administration scandal.

Our CIA pool would prove to be as amusing as it was clandestine. To begin with, our serious instructors, Evelyn and a man we called Mac, informed us that security regulations were the number one priority. To begin the training for espionage or clandestine work, we were not to reveal our names, addresses, hometowns, colleges, or any details about ourselves to anyone else in the pool. Also, there was to be no socializing among us. We were to inform any friends on the outside, a phrase that seemed strange at first but meant not in the CIA, that we had a temporary work assignment with the government.

Our pool comprised an enthusiastic group of men and a few women putting in time doing makeshift work while waiting for serious or permanent assignments. A few, like myself, were just out of college, but most of them were older with previous work experience or military service. Anxious to get on with their careers, they did not enjoy playing pool games, as the directives were dubbed. Nevertheless, nobody complained openly at first.

I was given a plastic identification badge that had to be shown at check-in time, 8:30 each morning, Monday through Friday, and carried at all times. We also were instructed to be present for any meetings at the tempo as they were announced. These, I soon learned, took the form of mini-lectures ranging from background data about intelligence to reprimands for missteps such as conversing with each other. Needless to say, the harsh security regulations were not strictly followed for very long.

Each person was given a different task thought up by some CIA official to keep all of us busy while enduring the wait in the pool. Norm, a mild-mannered intelligence officer in the Russian division who had a blond crew cut and spoke with a New England accent, explained my assignment. I, he told me during our first meeting, was to go to the Library of Congress and research the Caucasus region of the USSR. What kind of research? I asked. Oh, just look up and write down anything you can find about the region. That was it—anything! And then he added, I’ll meet you here once a week to look at your notes. You probably won’t be doing this very long. Another mystery, I thought to myself. One could ask questions but not get any logical answers.

Nevertheless, I set out on my first CIA assignment with considerable enthusiasm, congratulating myself that at last I had some kind of a job and would be receiving a biweekly paycheck. Most importantly, I was in Washington. So, with unmarked U.S. government notepaper and pens, I found my way by bus to the nation’s library on Capitol Hill, now a complex of three enormous buildings: the Thomas Jefferson Building, the John Adams Building, and the James Madison Building, looming over Independence Avenue.

After its founding in 1800, the library was housed in a boardinghouse and later in the Capitol. When completed in 1897, its first permanent site, the Thomas Jefferson Building, executed in Italian Renaissance style, was heralded as the largest, costliest, and most beautiful in the world. More than fifty artists toiled for eight years to decorate elaborately the library with splendid sculpture, murals, and mosaics portraying themes relating to learning, knowledge, and the many pursuits of civilization. At that time it housed some twenty million books, including President Jefferson’s personal collection of six thousand volumes.

For me any library is a magical place, filled with exciting books revealing unknown places and a promise of adventures and surprises. Certainly the Jefferson’s elegant, expansive Main Reading Room, with its magnificent 160-foot-high dome, oak reading tables, and thousands of reference books, was an attractive and inspiring setting for doing research. I momentarily wondered where my fellow spy recruits had been dispatched but didn’t spot any of them in the library.

A reference assistant explained in detail the mechanics of doing research in the vast complex. Thinking that I should give the woman some explanation as to what I was doing there, the logical tale, or cover story, seemed to be that my research was for a graduate study about the Caucasus. Thus I would be spending quite a lot of time in the library. This was the first of the many white lies that I would tell while with the CIA.

So, I mused, how would my research begin? What was I going to take notes about? Looking up Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in the index, I found a card that stated, See Russia. Under this heading were cards filling ninety-five drawers, each with several hundred cards. Under the categories Caucasus and Transcaucasia, I found hundreds of specific references to every conceivable subject, from ballads and songs to language and transportation. What on earth would the CIA want to know? I asked myself. For no specific reason I chose people.

The Caucasus, I knew from my Russian studies, was a varied and colorful region of towering mountains and winding valleys between the Black and Caspian Seas in southwestern Russia. A world in itself, remote and intriguing, here human history was old. Serving both as a bridge and barrier to migration, the region has known constant invasions, leaving the area a museum of ethnic, linguistic, and religious diversity. Under the Soviets, the Caucasus had three republics: Armenia, Azerbaijan, and Georgia, noted for its proud people and beautiful women as well as being the birthplace of Iosif Visarionovich Jugashvili, better known as Stalin.

In this ancient region were some thirty nationalities with individual traditions, languages, and folkways. Distinguished by their valor and love of freedom, the people were also known for their feudal and patriarchal customs that were resistant to change. Bitter animosities had existed for centuries. Ah! Here was possible dissension! I was beginning to imagine intrigue.

My notebooks were filling with all sorts of miscellaneous data. I read and wrote on and on. Finally, at one meeting with Norm, I spoke out, saying, I’m confused. What do you really want me to focus on? I’m used to having a purpose for my research. After thinking a minute or two, he hinted that perhaps information about cities could be useful. Describe the buildings, locate the industries and airports, write down the names of streets, he advised.

Thus I started accumulating basic data for what would become city plans and be used as briefing material for cross border agents dispatched by the CIA into the Caucasus region. By then my knowledge of the area had become quite extensive. I had so immersed myself in the work that I felt I was living in Yerevan, the Armenian capital; Baku, an oil city built on a hillside around a horseshoe-shaped bay on the Caspian Sea; or Tbilisi (also called Tiflis), Georgia’s capital, once a famous trade city of glory and dimension.

Unwittingly, during my research I developed a desire to learn more about the exotic, spicy Georgian cuisine, noted for its use of walnuts, garlic, red beans, fresh herbs, yogurt, whole grains, and fruits. Georgia claims to have the largest concentration of centenarians in the world. In Abkhazia, a remote, mountainous enclave on the Black Sea coast where people are said to live to 120 years old, sometimes 130, they attribute their longevity and good health to hard work, clean fresh air, a wholesome diet, and lots of the local wine.

Eventually, my enthusiasm for taking notes began to wane and I sometimes left the library early to explore the surrounding sights of Capitol Hill, strolling to the Capitol, the Supreme Court, and the Congressional office buildings.

The Cold War was intensifying with dramatic headlines in the papers everyday. Particularly noteworthy was the House Committee on Un-American Activities (HUAC) spy hearings, performed with a blaze of publicity and a series of spectacular and dramatic hearings involving Alger Hiss, Whittaker Chambers, and the pumpkin papers, the name journalists created for microfilm hidden in a hollowed-out pumpkin on Hiss’s Maryland farm. Occasionally