More Americans were killed in a single day at Antietam, than at any other place in U.S. history. That’s why the Antietam battlefield has such special poignancy at sunset on, July 4th. The U.S. Marine Band, the President’s Own, finished their Independence Day concert, by playing a rousing rendition of the Service Medley, which is a combination of the theme songs of all five service branches. The tradition is that you stand when your song is played. So, my son stood as the orchestra launched into “The Army Goes Rolling Along” and my daughter-in-law stood for “Semper Paratus.”

On the way to the hotel my sixteen-year-old grandson asked me why I’d sat through the whole thing. His implication was, “What are you – some kind of draft dodger?” Scott was getting to the age where he was starting to question his little kid assumptions. So, I decided that it was time to fill him in about the world I knew ... a place that was never black, nor was it ever white. I said, “My people don’t have a song. In fact, they don’t even want you to know they exist.” Scott looked unconvinced so I said, “Let me tell you a story my dear boy.”

Dieter Schmidt was a douchebag. He knew it. Everybody else knew it. Still, Dieter’s good looks and bad boy attitude lured women to him like moths to a bug zapper. Nonetheless it was his money that sealed the deal. But the source of those funds was a mystery since Schmidt was a minor functionary in the newly re-constituted Bundesnachrichtendienst.

The BND was the West German Federal Intelligence Service, founded from the ashes of the Third Reich - just like every other major branch of the West German government. Dieter was an intelligence analyst. So, he saw things, and THAT was the real source of his income. Because Dieter had a side job with the East German Staatssicherheitsdeinst.

The Stasi paid a bounty for western agents and Dieter had made a haul when he burned the last one. Dieter’s victim was a highly placed academic on several East German technical committees. Regrettably, the man’s name was also on a list that had come across Schmidt’s desk. It showed that the Prof was a bad little apparatchik, indeed. Since, he was also an asset of the American CIA.

It was a simple cash transaction. The attitudes of the German intelligence services hadn’t progressed much past the halcyon days of Himmler and the Sicherheitsdienst. And both the East German Stasi and the West German BND were staffed by Gehlen holdovers. Hence, the fact that the man was also a Jew got Schmidt top dollar.

Every Friday, Dieter would take the S-Bahn from his office in Pullach to his apartment in Munich - and a magical transformation would take place. The wool suit and vest would give way to formfitting polyester shirts and skintight pants. The gold watch and chain would be replaced by a Rolex along with a vast array of necklaces. This incarnation of Dieter Schmidt would spend his evenings at Munich’s Blow-Up Club and his nights in his legendary four-poster bed - the one with the fabled red satin sheets.

Like every other petty dictator ... Dieter had the usual collection of hangers-on and toadies. They fawned over him and in return, he allowed them his left-overs. That night, Dieter was sprawled in a booth near the edge of the dance floor surveying the scene with Hans and Paul. All three looked like the arrogant swine that they were. That’s when the woman walked in.

There are a rare set of elite females who expand sexual attractiveness into a new realm. She was one of those. She simply drew your eyes to her. She was gorgeous, she knew it, and she didn’t give a shit what anybody thought. She was perhaps five-six with the face of a goddess. That face alone would be enough to catapult her into the realm of extraordinary. But her body, in a micro-mini skirt and halter top was equally special.

Dieter was trying to decide whether her big perfectly proportioned tits were her best asset. Or was it the amazing pair of slim muscular legs, sticking out of the bottom of her micro-mini? Maybe it was her bubble butt?

Still, her most amazing quality was her extraordinary blond hair. It started from a widows peak on her high, intelligent forehead and hung down to the middle of her back in a wheaten sheaf, so thick and shiny that it swayed as she glided along on her five-inch stilettos.

She was wearing a skin tight elastic mini-skirt in some kind of shimmery black material. It contrasted perfectly with the tan of her golden skin. Paul said eagerly, “That’s the one. Everybody’s been talking about her. She’s supposed to be the wildest fuck in the entire City.”

Dieter said, “Who’s fucked her?”

Hans said, “Well, Josef is the one who told me about her. But I know he didn’t, that’s for sure. She’s way out of his league.” He added weakly, “I guess it’s more of a rumor than a fact, maybe just wishful thinking.” Dieter looked at the woman, such a rare prize and with a reputation to boot. She was Dieter’s Everest. He had to conquer her.

The woman was perched on a stool at the bar drinking what appeared to be scotch from a double old-fashioned glass. Dieter came up from behind and leaned casually on the bar next to her. She turned her head inquiringly and looked at him. Her gaze made Dieter flinch. Her eyes were bright blue with piercing intelligence and serene confidence. Then she smiled at him, and two adorable dimples appeared next to her mouth. She said in a husky contralto voice, “And who might YOU be?”

Dieter was canny enough to realize that his usual line of bullshit wouldn’t work. This woman already knew that she was beautiful and hot. She was also rumored to have a connoisseur’s appreciation of the male organ. So, he tried the straightforward approach.

He gave her “THE LOOK.” Dieter was a very hot stack of man meat and THE LOOK never failed. He said, “Why don’t we go back to my place, and I’ll give you a weekend of sex that you’ll never forget?” She seemed amused - not tempted, nor frightened. She said, “We’ll see.”

Then she appeared to make up her mind. She hopped off the stool, gestured toward the exit and said, “Lead the way.” They wound their way through the gyrating bodies on the dance floor. Dieter stopped to give his friends a thumbs-up ... envy was written on their faces.

As soon as they got outside the club, the woman threw her arms around his neck and dragged his head down for a scorching open-mouthed kiss. They swapped tongues for a few seconds, plastered against each other. She moaned and said avidly, “Hurry, I can’t wait.” This hook-up had been too easy, which should have been a red flag for Dieter.

A mere five minutes later they were standing in Dieter’s apartment. Her perfume drove him nuts as her body heated up. She kissed him with the same insane urgency and walked him back toward the bed. When they got there, she eagerly undid his pants and worked them down his legs to expose his huge rock-hard cock. Dieter always went commando on club weekends. She looked hungrily at that awesome tool as she said, “I hope you don’t mind a little kink.”

That got Dieter’s undivided attention. He was a very kinky guy. He said hungrily, “What do you have in mind?” She said coyly, “I like a little light bondage. “ Dieter responded eagerly, “The handcuffs are in the nightstand. I’ll put them on you.” She purred seductively, “No, I want to put them on YOU. I have the biggest orgasms riding a man who’s been restrained.”

Dieter wasn’t sure he liked that idea. But the woman had already dropped her skirt and taken off her little halter top. Her body was to die for. She was so full, and yet perfectly slim. Her tits were well-nigh pneumatic and much more bountiful than he’d imagined, with little pink aureoles and bright red nipples. Her waist was ridiculously tiny, and her hard flanks and long legs were sculptural masterpieces. Dieter felt like he was going to burst.

Dieter thought to himself, “Why not? We have all weekend. So, I’ll give her, her kink.” He added with mentally slavering jaws, “Then she’ll give me mine.” He lay back on the bed, cock sticking straight up in the air like the Berlin TV Tower. One ripe breast dangled in his face as she fastened his arms to the headboard. He gazed at her supple heart shaped ass as she bent to restrain his feet using a couple of his silk club ties.

Then she swung one of her long shining legs over him and sat on his stomach. That was odd. Dieter hunched himself upward trying to get her to move back on his cock. But when he looked into her face, he saw that the woman’s demeanor had changed. She was an apex predator and he was the hapless prey.

She patted him on the cheek as he began to struggle and said huskily, “This is for Professor Anhalter.” Then she reached behind her head and pulled a little ampule out of her thick mane of blond hair. Schmidt felt a pin prick and there was nothingness.

The rendition squad was waiting in the plaza across Nordendstrassa. Eight silent men standing in the shadow of the thick grove of trees. The woman had put her slut outfit back on as she strode boldly up to the largest man in the group. He was massive – like a silverback gorilla.

She said, “I left it unlocked for you, Uncle King. But the next time you set up a mark, put out the word that I’ve taken holy orders, or that I’m a lesbian. I need a bath!”

King laughed affectionately and said, “You’ve always been our bravest and best, Josette.” Then he nodded to the group and all but one of them headed toward Schmidt’s apartment.

Josette took the arm of the remaining man, and they walked toward a silver Mercedes 280SE parked at the curb next to the plaza. She laid her head on his shoulder and said with love in her voice, “Did I do all right Papa?” The man hugged her with profound affection and said, “You always do all right my darling girl.”

The Eagle Pub was allegedly Cromwell’s headquarters in Cambridge during the English Civil War. Peter Ashworth was sitting in its cobblestoned yard on a fine English May evening. He was nursing a pint and waiting to meet with another of the “Apostles.”

The Cambridge Apostles were a society of high-powered intellectuals. They had been around since the 1820s and they included everybody from Bertrand Russell to John Maynard Keynes. So of course, it was a huge honor to be asked to join.

Peter had been one of that elite group since his second year at Kings, he was only sixteen at the time. And he had been an Apostle right up to the time of his graduation. It was all silly undergraduate stuff. But it gave him the special prestige and contacts that let him advance in the British Civil Service.

Peter’s stepfather, Ace, was a famous battlefield correspondent and a man who Peter idolized. That, combined with Peter’s little boy fascination with chivalry had motivated him to join the shadowy forces at Vauxhall Cross ... where he began a career as a covert agent.

Peter had been a highly effective MI-6 operative for the past eighteen years. His legendary bravery and his quick wit made him particularly effective in the back alleys of Vienna, where he ran all sorts of Cold War exploits into Communist Yugoslavia, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and Poland.

His exceptional strength and cat-quick reflexes made him a very dangerous man indeed - as many Soviet counter-intelligence agents discovered to their fatal regret. But it was Peter’s unearthly manly beauty that had earned him his nickname, “The Archangel.”

The Archangel never killed just for the sake of killing. Typically, it was because it was either him, or the other fellow. But the body count of shootings, stabbings and occasional broken necks was impressive. That was the reason why the shadowy figure who sat down opposite Peter did so with a certain amount of wariness.

Robert Goldman was a cutout between even more obscure actors and MI-6. The man was a Don of Gonville and Caius and a well-known player for British business interests in the Middle East. There were no pleasantries exchanged. This was serious business and Goldman got right to the point.

He said, “My clients are growing increasingly concerned that there is going to be a war in Israel. The United Arab Republic is planning to close the Straits of Tiran and if they do, then the Israelis have no choice.

Peter looked cooley at Goldman - to a point where his gaze made Goldman nervous. Finally, Peter said, “And somebody in the Foreign Office wants us to put our thumb on the scale - right? ... influence the game, so to speak? It wouldn’t be because Nasser nationalized our asset down there ... would it?”

Egypt’s President, Gamel Abdel Nasser, had seized the Suez Canal from its mainly British and French investors eleven years earlier, nearly touching off World War Three. The U.S. got the British to back off by threatening to sell off all of its Pounds Sterling bonds. The humiliation of pulling out of Suez more or less marked the end of Britain as a world power and the British never forgot that – or forgave it.

Goldman smiled grimly as he said, “Well, Nasser’s back at it again and we need you in Jerusalem ... immediately.”

Hypothetically ... you can apply for a job with the Clandestine Service. But it will be a while before your phone rings. That’s because the Agency identifies its own talent - and it has its ways. My family had lived around Williamsburg, since the 1700s and their history of military service dated to the 1st Virginia Regiment of the Continental Line. Hence, many of the males in my family had worn the uniform - except for me. That was because I had already been recruited.

My senior year, I was a long-stick and captain of the lacrosse team at Hopkins. Defenders don’t get hurt, they give hurt, and I was a master of the butt-end to the kidneys and cross check to the chops. But every lacrosse player has to run and the coach was making a point about conditioning on that hot and humid day.

Afterwards, I was walking along Bowman Drive, bathed in sweat, with my stick on my shoulder - helmet dangling from the end. That was when a black Chevy Bel Air idled up next to me. Inside, were two guys in slick shark skin suits. The guy on the passenger’s side cranked his window down and said, “Can we talk for a second, Erik?” Seriously??? I thought that only happened in the movies.

I wasn’t afraid of being kidnapped, or anything dire like that. I was six-two and carrying a 70-inch piece of hickory that I used to disembowel unwary middies. So, I gestured toward Decker Quad and said, “How about over there?”

They parked and walked to the forecourt where I was waiting for them. Both were medium height and wearing dark glasses. I actually thought to myself, “Government agents!” I mean ... what else could they be? They looked like they were sent over from central casting.

The guy who was clearly the boss stood in front of me and looked me up and down like he was buying a prize stallion. I was commencing to get irritated. So, I said, “What the fuck do you two knuckleheads want?”

Well ... It turned out they wanted me. I’d been nominated by one of their assets. Yes – the professoriate at certain universities is full of CIA assets – especially the ones located close to the Beltway. I fit a number of the Company’s criteria for language and travel. Somebody had noticed and passed along that information.

It was an era when James Bond was at his height of fame and like any other twenty-year old guy I fell for the macho. So, I didn’t ask the usual questions, like salary and benefits. I just told the Men in Sharkskin, “Where do I sign?”

Hey – I know it was impulsive, but I was sorta stupid back then. I mean, seriously ... a twenty-year-old kid who plays lacrosse isn’t a deep thinker. You get hit in the head a lot. Plus, it beat being drafted, which was another popular career option during that era.

After I graduated from Hopkins, I did the basic course at Chantilly and then the advanced course in Bethesda. It isn’t easy to anticipate the intentions and capabilities of foreign actors and nation-state adversaries, especially when the other side wants to keep it a secret. So, that was where they taught me the basic principles of tradecraft – adaptability, discretion, and opsec.

After I’d finished the academic portion, they shipped me to Camp Peary, in North Carolina. That was a different experience, entirely. The Farm is where the black-ops people hone the finer points of covert operations ... stealth, deception, and coercion – all the dirty tricks that the Company isn’t allowed to talk about. I might also add that it was painful – especially the mock torture sessions ... the ones involving a firehose.

I lacked the necessary maturity and geo-political perspective when I came off the Farm. So, the Company stuck me in a cubicle in the Directorate of Analysis, at Langley - compiling and assessing economic data. I spent a year and a half as a basement monkey, before I mustered the courage to demand a transfer to Operations.

My first meeting was with the Assistant to the Deputy Director of the National Clandestine Service, which was actually very lucky. Crowley might have been in his early sixties but he was a legend among the spooks.

Crowley got his start back in the Allen Dulles days when intelligence gathering was more of a seat-of-the-pants operation. Thus, he was a lot more accepting of a six-two, two-hundred and ten pound loose cannon – at least, more tolerant than anybody else in the building. Apparently, I had gotten a reputation for being a malcontent. Perhaps it was all the bitching emanating from inside my cubicle. At any rate, Crowley got down to the nitty-gritty the moment I walked into the conference room. He said, challengingly, “So you think you’re good enough to be a field agent, Sonny?”

There was a huge pile of printouts waiting for me back in my cubicle if I didn’t get the posting. So, I said more confidently than I felt, “The best way to find out is to make me put-up-or-shut-up. Give me your toughest assignment. If I fail, then my resignation will be on your desk, ASAP.”

Crowley laughed out loud at my rash challenge. Then he got a diabolical glint in his eye as he said, “How would you like to spend some time in Jerusalem?

In the Spring of 1967 ... Jerusalem was probably the most fucked up place on the planet. That’s because a whole lot of people who really hated each other were compacted into far too little real estate. The chief bone of contention was East Jerusalem, which was where some of the world’s holiest sites were located.

Places like the Temple Mount and the Wailing Wall were sacred to the Jews. The same was true with the Church of the Holy Sepulcher for the Christians and the Dome of the Rock and al-Aqsa Mosque for Islam. Needless to say, ownership of those places fired-up the adherents of all three religions. And even worse, each one of those sites lay within a one-third square mile space, in the Eastern part of Jerusalem.

The problem began when the relatively small Jewish population of Palestine underwent a dramatic increase after the Holocaust. The influx of new Jewish arrivals set off the Palestinians, who were the current proprietors of the land - and there were armed confrontations over property rights.

Britain, which had the mandate for Palestine, couldn’t handle the chaos, especially after the Hagenah blew up the King David Hotel, which was chock full of Brits. So, they shuffled the problem off to the United Nations.

The UN had just come into existence and the liberal ideals that it was founded on didn’t take ethnic hatred seriously enough. So, in typical Western colonial fashion - meaning the UN didn’t bother to ask the actual residents – it decided to partition Palestine into two States. One would be Jewish, and one would be Arab, with Jerusalem as an international city ... that neither the Jews nor the Arabs controlled.

This was fine in concept. But the problem was that the occupants of that place REALLY hated each other and by the time the Brits scampered home neither the Jews, nor the Palestinians had actually formally agreed to the deal. Both parties thought the “two state solution” screwed them over land rights. Which, of course, left a concrete solution dangling in thin air.

Hence, when the Jewish leadership declared the new State of Israel in May of ‘48 - based on the putative UN boundaries - it was immediately invaded by five Arab armies. That invasion marked the beginning of Israel’s War of Independence - one at which the Jews proved to be remarkably proficient. I suppose nothing inspires a people more than having the next holocaust waiting for them in the wings. The Jews had already had experience with one final solution. They weren’t going to allow another.

Fighting ended in 1949, with a cease fire. The armistice created Jerusalem as a special legal entity, to be overseen by the United Nations ... which solved absolutely nothing. All it did was establish an untenable situation ... which was about to blow sky high.

That was the circumstance when I landed at Lod Airport outside of Tel-Aviv – they call it Ben Gurion now. The day was hot and sunny, which is pretty much the way it always is in April. Father Cunningham was waiting for me in the Arrivals Hall. He was sent down from Jerusalem by the Archbishop, who is more appropriately called the Latin Patriarch ... that’s courtesy of the last time the Christians owned the place - 800 years ago. Jerusalem has a four thousand year history.

You might be wondering why a priest was fetching me to my new assignment. Well ... the spy game works on legends. Meaning you are never who you appear to be and you have all of the documentation to prove it. Back then, I was just starting out in the business and that was my very first legend. I’ve had so many since then that I sometimes forget who I actually am.

According to good tradecraft, your legend has to be extensive and credible. So, the Company carefully and meticulously builds a bogus background that ensures that you fit seamlessly into the role you’re playing. The legend is supported by false credentials and seemingly believable personal details that you memorize like your life depends on it ... and it most certainly does.

Operators are typically attached to a diplomatic mission. That’s the reason why you have all of those “economic advisors” staffing local embassies. But the U.S. Consulate General to Palestine was located in East Jerusalem. So, it was under Jordanian control. Meaning I was on the wrong side of a physical boundary line. Hence, the Company cooked up a different reason for me to be there.

The reality was that I was working in a microscopic piece of real estate where two of the world’s great religions were at knife point. So, the Company wanted to emphasize my neutrality – meaning, Christian. Plus, given its historical associations, Jerusalem might have as many priests per square foot as there are in the Vatican. So, I would blend into the terrain and nobody ever thinks the guy in the cassock is a spy. Still ... they didn’t need to make me a Jesuit!! That was just plain mean!!

The Jesuits are the “shock troops of the Reformation” for a very good reason. They’re a military order, pledged to “go anywhere and live in extreme conditions to defend and propagate the faith.” In effect, I’d vowed to, “encourage and enjoy hardship for the sake of my soul” - which was a tough ask, given that hair shirts aren’t my preferred style.

To make matters worse - the Company drilled the Jesuit perspective into me through four weeks of “Spiritual Exercises.” My “Spiritual Director” during that period was a real Jesuit, and he was serious about the indoctrination. I mean ... the Jesuits were the main players in the Inquisition - and now I know why ... it was fucking excruciating.

In fact, it was hard to tell which was worse ... four weeks of “Spiritual Exercises,” or the sleep deprivation and mock waterboarding that they put me through on the Farm. Nonetheless the all black Jesuit cassock was perfect cover for a CIA Birdwatcher. Plus, it gave me special status among the canonical priests.

Good tradecraft dictates that you build your network one relationship at a time. As a, “Propagator of the Faith,” it was expected that I would talk to all potential converts, and likely backsliders. So, any people watching me would think that my approach to a potential asset was just me doing my job.

The thirty miles on dusty roads up to the Pontifical Biblical Institute – read, Jesuit headquarters in Jerusalem - was in the Diocese’s Citroen 2CV. If you don’t know what that car looks like ... it’s an iconic vehicle that resembles a snail ... no snotty allusions to French stereotypes intended.

Jerusalem was not what I had expected. But of course, my impressions were from movies like Ben Hur – meaning the City of two-thousand years ago. Jerusalem sprawls out over miles of hilly, sunbaked, semi-arid terrain. The walled part – the one that you envision from Roman, or crusader times - amounts to less than a square mile of the actual City.

Those walls are still there, built by Suleiman in 1535, not Herod. The Romans tore down the original walls back in the First Century. The existing walls mark the historical boundaries of the old city of Jerusalem. And in the modern era they are surrounded by commercial buildings, mixed with more traditional Middle Eastern architecture.

Nonetheless - the difference between Jerusalem and most other big cities was the palpable hostility. It was everywhere. The whole place was littered with barbed wire, lookout posts, gun emplacements, and hastily thrown together walls.

There was also total ethnic segregation. After the 1949 Armistice the Arab population had fled from West Jerusalem and the Jews had fled from the Jewish quarter of the Old City. Israel held West Jerusalem, and Jordan controlled East Jerusalem, which included the boundaries of the religious quarter. From time to time, firing broke out across the armistice line, known as the Green line.

The Israelis DID maintain an enclave on Mount Scopus - you know ... the old Mount of Olives from the New Testament. They had managed to hold onto that place during the 1948-49 war. But the Hebrew University and the Hadassah hospital up there were just isolated dots in a sea of hostile faces and the staff were closer to hostages than they were higher education and health care professionals.

The Old City was under control of the Hashemite Kingdom of Jordan and, nearly all of the three religions’ most sacred holy places were located there. So, there was constant ethnic tension over those sites – at least for non-Muslims ... meaning Christians and Jews.

Jews were forbidden access. Christians were permitted to visit their holy places on religious festival days. And the only entrance to the Old City was through a single check point, known as the Mandelbaum Gate.

I was there to watch the Israeli Knesset. The Knesset is their unicameral legislature. It’s sort of like the U.S. House and Senate rolled into a single ball of backstabbing and intrigue. The Knesset compound is on a hill in West Jerusalem, a short drive from the Pontifical Institute, where I was bunked. Nobody at the Institute knew what I was doing there. But mystery is something that the Church accepts as a cost of doing business.

The part of the Knesset I was targeting was the Foreign Affairs and Defense Committee since it oversaw both Israeli intelligence as well as the IDF. The Company knew that that Committee would be the one to kick off the ball if the Jews decided to make the first move. And I was there to find out what that group was thinking. So of course, THAT required access to the people doing the planning.

My aim was to dig up intel about Israeli intentions vis-à-vis the current circumstances. Hence, my first task was to get to know the bureaucrats who worked for the Defense Committee of the Knesset. It was clear that war was in the offing, But when and where, was anybody’s guess.

Notwithstanding America’s traditional sponsorship of Israel, there are a lot of our interests that don’t involve the Israelis, in that neck of the woods ... like access to cheap oil. All of that had broad political implications back home. Hence, the current occupants of elected office in the United States. wanted to make the right call, that is ... if the balloon went up. Information to let them do that was what I was after.

Going into a zero knowledge situation, as I was, requires extensive “spotting” - we call it bird watching. Bird watching is target identification. That is ... you identify and categorize the people who fit into your HUMINT collection profile. It’s the only way to develop access agents.

Access agents build the operative’s copperplate network. They can be as simple as a barber, or a bartender – or at the other end of the spectrum ... an administrator, or an academic, or member of the military. You manipulate or coopt the target into either introducing you to the people you need to talk to - or better yet into actually providing the information.

If you are going into the situation cold, as I was, the best bird watching is done at local watering holes. That’s where potential targets gather in groups. Okay – I get it ... You’re a little confused. I was trolling for agents-in-place by hanging out in a bar - well duh!! Yes!!! The people who staff the committees in any agency of any government need to blow off steam and what better place to do that than a lavish hotel bar.