Jack Kurtz, Intelligence Agent #2003, was one of the few men who was able to bring down "Spiro." His field work and dedication were never recorded in the popular press. His story celebrated in limited documents. There are those who choose to know.
Intelligence Agents throughout time have been a faceless breed. Some say they drive Ramblers and eat at fast food restaurants, others have sighted them in cornfields crouched in little masses. Few have known their hobbies. Once, it was rumored that Kurtz spent his evenings creating elaborate latch hook rugs of national monuments. There is a very funny story of one he was doing of the Washington Monument. Somehow, Hoover found it in his office and was very upset. He had never seen one so perfectly erect. After hours of explanation, and eventually a quick field trip to the monument, Hoover let him go. There are times when the energy is overwhelming
It is an unclarified existence: town-to-town, never settling down. The dry cleaning bills. For Kurtz, the day began when the maid woke him from his dreams. The vacuum is always louder at 10 a.m. He would gather up the night's unused change and head for the Hot Shoppe for a cup of tea, milk - no sugar. If there was time he would do the crossword.
In Arizona somewhere - the story goes, Spiro was across the street arranging a covert operation to undermine the U.S. presence in Morocco. Kurtz was totally unaware. At some point they both ended up a newspaper stand for a copy of a popular "men's" magazine. Although, the field notes are somewhat different. By any account, Spiro, with the magazine still in hand, ran out the side door to avoid detection.
At that moment, a plain clothes policeman was exiting the Sears next-door. He spotted the man on foot, and pursued him. Spiro was arrested and booked on shoplifting using an alias. John Middleton was very surprised when he was served his summons later that week. His wife was stunned and later left him. The toll these men have on our society is silent. Everyday another life is torn apart to keep their identity unknown. All of our personal freedom is risked when the national interest is evoked.
Kurtz flushed out many false leads in his quest. The nights outside those dorm room windows found cigarettes a scarce commodity as the evening wore on. Years of understanding and observation are collected in the psyche of their collective steno pools. Fetishes, neoricies, and amoral hand gestures are all preserved in detailed field notes for domestic guardianship of the deviant class. With the ability to peek and poke, all was near at hand.
It is with an uncertain guile that these names are spoken throughout coffee houses and car dealerships - many car dealerships are fronts for legitimate government operations. There was once a coin-op laundry that was really a branch of the U.S. Department of Education. Which was recently purchased by the Church of Scientology. At the time it was also being used as a front for drugs.
The money would come in large laundry baskets carried by a large Latino woman. Once the money was in the building, she would set it down in the corner. As she sat down to read a chewed up copy of Redbook, a man would ask her to mail a letter for her. The envelope contained hundred dollar bills.
As undocumented as all of this may appear to the timid minds afraid of thought, it is self-evident. Each time you see those slick polyester brown sport coats of local sheriffs, think. There is a story at your fingertips. It is a story that you cannot know from outside of Jack's world.
As one weighs the facts, as one should in their daily existence, they often find that the coincidences are far too numerous to be dismissed. The science of numerology has taught us that. When you see the 7 in the road sign, on your odometer and on the billboard as you drive through the summer heat wishing the AC was fixed, know that someone made it so.
Whenever we walk silently past the white van in the driveway of our neighbor's house who has recently lost his job and is living with the blinds pulled down, we salute the limicolous legions of "Intelligence" agents wherever they may lay their hats.
For Jack Kurtz it was all about the chase. It was about tasting the cigarette as it was crushed out in the street. How many times did he miss by seconds. All the while Peggy, his secretary, was back in D.C. fielding calls, making excuses and posting letters on his behalf. All at once it had become too much for her. She began to drink as the silent nights away from "him" took their toll. Whatever was in his eyes, no one ever saw.
It wasn't too much longer before the years on the road caught up with Jack. He had brought down Spiro all too soon. The trail was over cold and the bitter regrets of leaving so much behind left a foul taste in his mouth. Things were never the same without "her." Jack Kurtz died in a barko-lounger still holding a lit Chesterfield somewhere in Delaware.
##30##
« back