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Washington Heights
December 6, 1983
“If you don’t mind, I would like to discuss a business arrangement of mutual benefit with you, Mr. Tettouomo.”
This... Guy... Does... Not... Sound... Russian.
The whole thing was just too damn weird. How could I not be intrigued?
An ice storm had whacked our four-man roofing crew pretty hard this morning. A thin layer of crystals coated my black knitted cap and outer layer of clothing. Driving headwinds pelted my face. Despite some numbness in my cheeks and forehead, I still felt the sting of thousands of tiny needles. Beads of ice clung to my mustache and beard. The glove I wore on my left hand was cutoff at the tips to better grip nails. I felt like a combination Frosty the Snowman and Michael Jackson. I had to flex and roll my fingers to keep them from going numb. As for being two-stories up on a glacier without grappling hooks — who needed that shit?
Around noontime I told Dom: “I’m outta here.”
When I got back to my apartment, I threw my cap on the floor, tore off my jacket and layers of sweatshirts, and walked out of my pants and long johns. I headed for the bathroom to fill the tub. I dared not turn around because of the parade that might be coming up behind me: goose-stepping pants and long johns, crawling jacket and sweatshirts, and a black cap that bounced after the rest of us like a ball. Me and the march of the zombie rags, we all needed a hot soak.
After a long bath, I laid me down to rest; i.e. a nap on the sofa with Bennett and Sinatra crooning softly on the radio. Ballads from the 40s and 50s always soothed me. Then at exactly 3:57 p.m., the phone rang. It was Mitzi, the girl from the answering service who handled my calls. She said she had a guy named Michael Khalatsyn on hold. After shaking some awake into my head, I asked her to patch him through.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Khalatsyn. This is John Tettouomo of Computerized Information Retrieval. How may I help you?”
Mr. Khalatsyn used a lot of words to say a lot of nothing. After pitching our mutual benefit, he added that he worked for the Soviet delegation at the United Nations. “I’m a technical expert.” Sounding a bit full of himself, he added, “I have negotiated many contracts. Can we meet for lunch on Friday?”
I told him I had a full-time job in addition to my business. It would be difficult for me to take off on such short notice. I said Monday, December 12th, worked best for me. He chose the time, 1 p.m., and the place, a Chinese restaurant on E. 35th and Madison Avenue. I asked for a number where he could be reached in case I had to cancel.
“Not to worry. If you are not there, I am sure it will be for a good reason.”
Not there? If he got stood up, no big deal? Was this how he negotiated? And what kind of contracts was he talking about? Had they been parleyed in good faith out in the open where the sun shined? Or had they been nefarious dealings finagled under a shade tree somewhere, and then squirreled away beneath a rock? Nothing about Mr. Khalatsyn or his proposition sounded right to me. Rather than do the easy thing, hang up on him, I asked, “Mr. Khalatsyn, can you please tell me more about yourself?” I wanted to know more about his job at the U.N.
“Of course, how can we meet if I don’t describe myself?” He gave me his height in meters which meant nothing to me because I didn’t think in metrics. Then he added that he was thirty-five years-old and had dark hair. Not much help there either.
“That’s not what I meant, Mr. Khalatsyn. Can you please tell me something about your job at the U.N.?”
“We will have plenty of time to discuss this at lunch. And how will I know you, Mr. Tettouomo?”
I described myself to him and added that I’d be wearing a gray suit.
“One more thing, Mr. Khalatsyn. You said you work for the Soviet delegation to the U.N. Are you Russian?”
“Yes. I am quite Russian,” he said, chuckling.
From that primitive part of my mind, wherein the sum of all fears lay, a voice cautioned: A U.N. big shot wants to take you to lunch? Says he’s Russian. Doesn’t sound Russian. What if he’s a whacko?
Admittedly, Fears had a point. But his was not the only voice I listened to. That bolder part of me kicked the door down and burst into my head. He wore a T-shirt marked, “Your life is so fucking boring, whadda ya got to lose, asshole!”
“OK, Mr. Khalatsyn,” I said. Then I gave him one of my two home phone numbers. I had one for business and one for pleasure. Khalatsyn got the business number. I asked him to call me again on Friday, December 9th, after five to confirm.
***
EVERY TIME I OPENED up to Tuesday’s Computer Services Guide in the New York Times and saw the ad below, I thought: Yep! That’s my baby.
It read as follows: “CIR *telephone #* Data Base Searching w/abstracts. Document Delivery. All fields researched. Business, Medicine, Patents, Sci-Tech.”
Not only was I the first information broker to advertise in this section, but the header, “ACCESSED ELECTRONIC LIBRARY,” was my creation. I chose Electronic Library because it best described the services I offered. I tacked Accessed in front so the ad would be ideally located in the uppermost left-hand corner of a very large half-page full of rows and columns. Like any proud parent, I had great expectations for that ad. It made me proud — too bad, though, because it wasn’t making me any money. Despite a good response none of the callers understood what I did. I had to draw the following analogy for them:
“Think of me as a freelance librarian. You go to the library and ask a librarian to help you find a document. You come to me for the same thing. With the aid of my computer, I can offer you quick access to, not thousands, but millions of books, journals and technical reports from all over the world.”
“Oh,” was the usual response, “thought you were into computers.” Then came a polite thank you followed by a dial tone.
Pride was a good thing but it was inedible and it wouldn’t pay the rent.
Although the general public knew nothing about information brokering in the Pre-http//www-Age, Mr. Khalatsyn sure did. And his proposition, “a business arrangement of mutual benefit”, struck me right in that part of my brain where recent memories were stored: an unknown person or persons had placed an ad in an issue of the Bulletin of the Special Libraries Association. The ad called for information brokers interested in “contacts... for mutual benefit” to get in touch with an unnamed university library through SLA’s P.O. Box.
Adah Ameen had specifically warned me not to answer the ad; so of course, I did. That ad, Khalatsyn, and Adah, were they all connected?
I studied engineering and computer science for three of my seven years as an undergrad which meant I took a lot of higher mathematics. I had no difficulty coming up with a simple equation: Soviet + U.N. = KGB.
I knew exactly the right thing to do: I dialed 553-2700, the FBI’s general number in New York City. The Night Desk gave me the name of an agent, John Botz, who was “concerned with matters in this area.” They told me to call back tomorrow. Before hanging up, I reminded the Night Desk that I would be meeting Khalatsyn for lunch on Monday.
The next morning, before running out the door for work, I called the FBI. Guess I got the Day Desk this time. I had to explain the whole thing all over again. The Day Desk told me Botz was unavailable. On the job, I drove to a pay phone at lunchtime to call the FBI. Again the Day Desk said that Botz was unavailable. When I got home from work, I called my service. No messages from the Bureau, so I called them. Botz was still unavailable.
Maybe I had the whole thing figured wrong. Maybe Soviet + U.N. = NBD (No Big Deal).
I had no access to classified information, so why would the KGB be interested in a guy like me, an overeducated hammerhead with a tiny side-business who banged nails for a living?
In the Reagan Era, those who sat with their fat asses on top of the pile thought some people were poor because they were too damn lazy to be rich — true in my case. The trickle-downers told everyone back then that they should stand by patiently and wait for a rising tide to lift their boats, too. And it looked like mainstream America had bought it. Not me. My boat was still stuck in the sand, and I wouldn’t be floating anywhere until I opened the damn floodgates myself. That had been my motivation in the spring of 1983 to set up Computerized Information Retrieval (CIR for short). I performed database searches and document delivery for high tech clients — too bad I didn’t have any. That made CIR more a hobby than a help.
***
ON FRIDAY, DECEMBER 9th, at exactly 5 p.m., the business phone in the front room rang. Khalatsyn and the digital clock on my VCR were in synchronicity. He apologized that he would be unable to keep our appointment on Monday. Then he asked if I could clarify a few things: “First, I believe you said that you have an office in your flat?”
“That’s right, Mr. Khalatsyn, in my apartment.”
Then he asked if I was incorporated and did I have any partners.
I answered no and no, adding, “I run a small operation, but you won’t find my services small, Mr. Khalatsyn. You can call me anytime, day or night, weekend or holiday. CIR is not nine to five.”
“That’s true. Big companies are often impersonal. Now, if you would be so kind, please tell me, do you subscribe to DIALOG?”
At the time, DIALOG was the world’s largest database vendor, but despite its size, the general public knew nothing about it. This Russian’s knowledge of DIALOG in particular, and information resources in general, further fed a theory that began to develop in my mind — one I was anxious to share with the FBI should the dumb fucks ever get back to me.
Khalatsyn asked how much I charged.
I said $35/hr with one-hour minimum charge. “A real bargain considering—”
He was not considering. He cut me off with: “If I order documents through you, will you mail them to me or is it possible for me to pick them up?”
“Whatever is convenient for you, Mr. Khalatsyn.”
“Good.. Mr. Tettouomo, is it possible for me to stop by your flat sometime for maybe ten minutes so we can chat? Where do you live?”
Again that part of me where all my fears hung out warned, He outflanked you, asshole. Giving your address to a Russian who might be KGB — that’s way outside of your comfort zone. Better just tell him, “Thanks but no thanks” and hang up.
Then Bold struck back: For big payoffs, sometimes you gotta take big risks, John.
I balanced my battling halves with: “I live in Manhattan, Mr. Khalatsyn. You can come over anytime you want, just give me a call, and I’ll give you my address.”
He wished me a happy holiday and promised me, “A fine lunch very soon.”
***
THEY SAY PRIDE IS ONE of the Seven Deadly Sins — like, fuck that shit.
A stormy, stormy Monday morning on December 12th, and I got off the A Train at Chambers Street. Despite the bad elements my spirits soared high above the black clouds that dumped their resentment on me, my umbrella, and my motivation. Agent Dan Church, from the Day Desk or Night Desk or whatever damn desk, had called this morning to invite me down to 26 Federal Plaza.
I’d shaved the grizzly areas on my face between beard and mustache. With no intention of getting my only (100% wool) suit wet, I threw on a pair of blue jeans and a red sweatshirt. An old green parka, which looked like shit but was warm and waterproof, completed the ensemble. The subtext of the above fashion statement: I’m here on business that’s so damn important that I don’t give a rat’s ass what I look like or what you think of me. It’s the message not the messenger.
Me, Ego, and yet another special member of my Hello-Sybil personae, Pride, we all stood outside the huge glass office building and looked up. Mr. Pride reminded me, You’re here on urgent business, John. You’re here to save the Free World from the spread of Godless communism.
“Yeah!” I said loudly, drawing looks from passers-by huddled against the wet chill. Since this was the pre-Blue Tooth era, they probably figured me for just another New York nut job on a phone call with himself.
Inside the building, scruffy me and a crowd of clean-cut young men and women all in business attire got on the elevator in the lobby. When the doors opened at the 26th floor, a large sign announced, “Intelligence Division.” I was the only one who got off. The others I left behind to rest in peace in their Wonder Bread world.
In the reception area I presented myself to the girl behind a counter shielded by bulletproof glass: “My name is John Tettouomo. I have an appointment with Agent Dan Church.”
“Have a seat, Mr. Tettouomo,” she replied in a New York accent that outweighed mine by a couple of hundred pounds. Her attitude could charitably be described as bureaucratic indifference — not that my mood was particularly charitable today. I was not expecting Agent Church to keep me waiting for more than a New York minute.
I took a seat. Sitting across from me was a guy with big, black 70s hair, a bushy mustache, and bushy eyebrows. His ensemble — burgundy sports jacket and plaid, bell-bottomed slacks — looked like they’d been cut from a sofa even uglier than the one in my apartment. And for whatever reason, the needle on his stressed-out scale lay well inside the red zone.
Soon I spotted a FBI agent coming down a corridor headed our way. I figured he came for me, so I stood, ready to greet Agent Church. Wrong! He went straight to Retro Guy. As they walked back up the corridor, the FBI agent put his arm on Retro’s shoulder to calm him. Given that this was the 80s, and given the way Retro Guy had dressed himself, I figured him for Eastern European — just some wild and crazy guy in deep shit with the Bureau.
Feelings of superiority that Ego had been feeding me all morning were like scaffolds on a steep-pitched roof. But Ego hadn’t sunk his nails into beams, so the brackets that held the entire weight of my psyche began to loosen. If they ever tore off altogether, then like Humpty Dumpty I’d come tumbling down.
And then I saw another agent coming my way. I said to myself: This guy’s name had better be Dan Church.
***
A BIG WHITE SIGN WITH big red letters hung on the wall. It read, “All matters discussed in this room are classified SECRET.”
I remember looking at that sign and thinking: Yeah, right. All matters discussed in this room will be in my memoir.
In the reception area, Church had clipped a plastic badge, light green with black lettering, to my parka with a safety pin. The badge meant that I was an invited guest of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Made for a nice souvenir; not at all concerned with how many hundreds of dollars the federal government paid for it, I decided to accidentally-on-purpose forget to give it back when I left.
Special Agent Dan Church — early 30s, tall, slim, neatly trimmed dark hair, wispy mustache, and a boyish face — sat at the head of the table. Across from me was Agent David Dooley: reddish hair, freckles, he looked even younger than Church. His grim stare scrutinized me like I was a turd someone had deposited on one of the Bureau’s seat-cushions. He reminded me of an intense Howdy Dooley.
I began to read from notes that described my phone conversations with Khalatsyn. Every so often I’d look up and glimpse two unimpressed faces. Perhaps a shirt and tie would’ve added more credibility to my substance. Anyway, since Khalatsyn had specifically asked about DIALOG, I’d brought along one of their catalogs. It described their services and listed all the databases they offered.
“I think it’s significant that Khalatsyn had mentioned DIALOG, full-text, sources, etc.” I slid the catalog across the table to Church. “It indicates that he’s quite knowledgeable in the field of information science.”
Note pads and pens lay on the table, but neither Church nor Dooley made a grab for them. Looked like the only way I’d get a reaction from these guys was to pass gas.
When I finished reading aloud, Church finally showed mild interest in the DIALOG book. He flipped through the pages before sliding it over to Dooley — who showed no interest at all. They were noncommittal when I asked if I should meet Khalatsyn in my apartment.
“What if this guy’s not a spy but some kind of a — ah, you know — nut job?”
“What makes you think he’s a spy?” Dooley said. He shot Church a This Guy’s a Piece ‘a Work, Isn’t He? grin.
“Ah?... I dunno. Thought the U.N. was full ‘a spies. What if he’s some kind of nut?”
Church shrugged. “That’s a possibility.”
Not what I needed to know.
Dooley leaned forward. “It’s also possible that his interests are legitimate.”
“Whadda ya... Ahem!...” — a pause to clear a dry throat and get my diction back in good order — “What does he want from me? I don’t have access to classified information.”
“That’s hard to say,” Church replied.
These guys were the real pieces of work, monuments to suffering public servants who had to suffer the rest of us. Well this particular Joe Q. had come down here in the rain with Pride singing the Star Spangled Banner in his heart. I’d been ready, willing, and able to stand against a rising Red tide. But they made me feel like one of those assholes who come to them claiming visitations by little green men. (If this had been the 90s instead of the 80s, a certain TV show would’ve popped into my head.)
“There’s something that isn’t quite clear to me,” Church began. “A man calls you with a business proposal. He wants to take you to lunch. Nothing wrong with that, right?”
I folded my arms across my chest — Harrumph! — and nodded.
“He says he’s Russian, works at the U.N. You call us. Why?”
A deep breath before letting loose my theory: “For many reasons, beginning with computer networks. It’s true that all the information I have access to is unclassified and publicly available, but—”
“You mean there’s nothing to stop him from sitting down at his own terminal and doing it himself?” Dooley interrupted.
“I’m not sure. Some databases may not be open to Soviets.” I pointed at the catalog still sitting unmolested under his Pokka dot nose. “Maybe the answer to your question is in there. Have a look.” Turning to Church, “Regardless, unclassified technical information can still be of interest to the Soviets. My services as an information specialist can save them a great deal of time and effort tracking down certain documents. And even if Khalatsyn’s not a spy, the information he requests is obviously on behalf of his government. Knowing what he is requesting gives us clues to the Soviet State of the Art, so in a sense, we’ll be spying on them.” I paused to let that filter through the shit-for-brains that floated around in their hard as porcelain skulls. “Finally, I suspect that this may be part of a much larger effort: to use Americans like me to infiltrate our nation’s computer networks. You guys probably know better than me” — a bit of diplomacy on my part because I didn’t think these guys knew shit — “that there are plenty of classified databases out there. Wouldn’t the Russians just love to have someone who could plug into them?”
In my mind, these were the only plausible explanations for Khalatsyn’s interest in a guy like me.
After a brief silence, Church said, “While we’re not about to tell you what to do, John, the Bureau would be grateful if you went ahead and met with Khalatsyn.”
The first signs of intelligent life from whatever planet these twin mooks orbited?
He continued, “We’d like to get his picture. If you’re uncomfortable about meeting him in your apartment, why not suggest an outside location? Like a restaurant. After all, he suggested it in the first place.”
“Should you decide to go ahead and meet him,” Dooley added, “try and get as much details about his personal life as you can without being too obvious.”
Finally Church picked up a pen. He asked for the spelling of my name, date and place of birth, address, telephone number, and, “Do you own a car, John?”
I grinned. “Yeah I own a car. You guys gonna check me out or what?”
“Just routine,” Church assured me.
After leading me back down to the reception area, Church thanked me for coming down on such a lousy day. We shook hands at the elevator; then he removed the badge from my parka.
Shit!
Outside a gust of wind caught my umbrella and collapsed it. That meant a long walk back to the subway station without head cover. As for Ego and Pride, let them find their own way home!