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| 1 |
ID:
105703
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| 2 |
ID:
140999
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| Summary/Abstract |
I spit-shined my shoes, put on a white shirt, dark suit, and tie; I was going to a funeral. My old friend and fellow spook, Alphonse Sorrells, had died. He was still young and had retired only a year or so ago. I figured the life of a spook had done him in. Too many cigarettes, too much cheap booze from the commissary, and too many late or sleepless nights with the girls eventually got him. Many guys, seeing themselves as Hollywood spies, lived and acted that way. Certainly, Al did.
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| 3 |
ID:
119434
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| Publication |
2013.
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| Summary/Abstract |
At ten o'clock one night in early June 1963 my telephone rang. Calling was the camp commander of the Cuban Admissions Center (CAC) in Opa-Locka, Florida, where every Cuban male arriving in the United States was required to go for debriefing.
The commander asked me to come in early the next morning. He explained that two Cuban students had arrived in Florida by small boat. They said they had very important information to report, and he asked me to debrief them. He thought I was the best one to do so as I was the only one in the camp who had lived in Cuba and could best verify or debunk their story.
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| 4 |
ID:
146177
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| Summary/Abstract |
June 1961. Bill and I had separate rooms at the Embajador Hotel. On the eighth floor, each had a balcony overlooking the city. After our second day in the Dominican Republic—after Eve clued us in to the assassination—Bill and I generally went to the balcony of my room to watch the city to see any sign of Johnny Abbes and his Servicio Intelligencia Militar (SIM) hunting for Rafael Trujillo's assassins, who had killed the president on 30 May.
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| 5 |
ID:
139515
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| Summary/Abstract |
A frigid Antarctic wind battered Rio Hondo throughout the night and into the next day. I awoke in the morning and could hear the windows being rattled by its gusts. Today was going to be a cold one. Thank heaven, the motel was warm.
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| 6 |
ID:
145316
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| Summary/Abstract |
Moans swept through the dungeon floor. Between the sobs were sounds of a riotous dance. Do I hear two, not one, sound? Two such muffled sounds? One of pain, the other of dance? Am losing my mind? Listen. It is the meringue.
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| 7 |
ID:
146425
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| Summary/Abstract |
Early on the morning of 3 January 1958 I received a high priority message from Headquarters. I read that the Soviet satellite, Sputnik 2, was failing and would make its last global orbit that night. In doing so it would pass over Santiago de Cuba, and I was instructed to observe its functioning and to forward a compass azimuth of its final direction. It was common knowledge the Soviets were a step or two ahead of the United States in the development of satellites and, undoubtedly, Headquarters planned to follow the azimuth I struck, recover Sputnik 2, and study its scientific technology.
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