Dinner with Dmitry Morozov

There are few secret agents who can compare to Dmitry Morozov, but he had called me to meet him at the Central Park Voorburg in the Hague, Holland. I wasn’t sure what he wanted to talk about, but since I was at a conference on International Law, I told him I would meet him as requested. I had known him when I was an CIA agent during President Kennedy’s failed attempt to assassinate Fidel Castro in Cuba. We met in Havana in September 1963, weeks before Kennedy’s own assassination.

“What a knucklehead he and McCone were trying to invade Cuba.” He laughed and winked at me. It was considered his trademark response to failed American coup attempts. 

On November 2, 1963, South Vietnamese President Ngo Dinh Diem was arrested and assassinated by the CIA sealing our commitment to the Vietnam War. I met with Dmitry in Berlin later the following week where he commented, “You got the man. Good work.” He winked which was a gesture he commonly used to show his admiration and approval, “Now I fear the dark clouds are gathering over your young president.”

Three weeks later as President Kennedy rode in a convertible through Dealey Plaza in Dallas, the top of his head was blown off by a concealed assassin. Arresting the suspected gunman in a movie theater, Lee Harvey Oswald would not live to stand trial for the crime.

Dmitry came to Washington D.C. for a catered luncheon as President Lyndon B. Johnson was just getting used to the desk chair in the Oval Office two weeks later and he shook his head, “I knew that young man was in trouble. You can only call for so much murder and mayhem before your own number is called.” 

Dmitry Monozov had his finger squarely on the pulse of global events. He once told me, “Everybody wants to rule the world. Everybody has wanted to be in complete control since the beginning of time. But few people are ever aware of the consequences that accompany such power. We will never learn, comrade. We will never learn.” 

It was 1980 as the Cold War seemed to be headed toward a nuclear conclusion after the revolution in Iran. It was no secret that the Soviets wished to have a toe-hold in the Middle East. They had sent troops to Kabul, Afghanistan, but met resistance with the Mujahideen. Now that the Shah of Iran had been forced from power by Ayatollah Kholiemi turning the country into a Muslum political state opposed to western intervention.  

Worse than the political setback of the Carter Administration was the fact they held fifty two American hostages which outraged public opinion. Many expressed an all-out invasion of Tehran to rescue the hostages. A futile attempt was made, but it cost us more lives.  

“Doobrye Ootra.” He stood up when he saw me enter the hotel restaurant. He was dressed in a tailored three-piece suit and tie with a white carnation pinned to his lapel. His greeting was formal and translated to “Good morning.” 

He spoke Russian to remind me that he had and would always have the upper hand. He was a bear of a man. Hand completely engulfed mine in a handshake, but then he pulled me in and gave me a hug that put a vice like pressure on my ribs. 

“They tell me this is one of the finest restaurants in da Hague.” He held out his hand as a gesture to sit in the empty chair next to him. “If we talk about current events between our countries, we must break bread.” 

“Good idea.” I sat in the empty chair as he signaled the waitstaff.

“So, what brings you to Holland Comrade Obszynski?” He sat saying my Russian name perfectly and gave me one of his perplexed expressions, going so far as to put his hand under his gigantic, bearded head. Ebony black hair exploded from his head and chin, but I could see that some of the natural wildness of his features had been tamed under a hairdresser’s hand. I on the other hand had come from a long drawn-out meeting with some of the NATO’s top brass.

“It has been a long week already and it’s not even Thursday.” I sighed, I sat the waiter hovering over my shoulder, “Water for now, please.” 

He nodded.

“Nyet, this man needs good vodka.” He shook his head.

“No, I do not want-”

“Vodka.” He shrugged and I saw right away there was no arguing with him.

“Vodka.” I nodded to the waiter. 

“Brengt u the fles maar..” Dmitry demanded in Dutch which translated means “Bring bottle, please.” 

“The waitstaff does speak English.” I whispered to Dmitry.

“It makes good impression when you speak the language.” He grunted.

“So, what says Moscow? Are they willing to help us get those people out of Tehran?” I asked.

He threw his head back and let out a deep laugh, “Ah, you always know how to make me laugh.” 

“Dmitry, this is serious.” I jabbed my finger into the table.

“Osch, I know, I know, but right now is not a good time to make any sudden moves with the Ayatollah Kholiemi. He is not stable man. He would execute all fifty two if anyone were to enter the country.”

“What should we do?” I asked as the waiter brought a bottle of vodka and two fine crystal tumblers.

“Bedankt.” He nodded. The waiter smiled as nearly everyone fell victim to Dmitry’s charm. After the waiter was safely out of earshot, Dmitry jabbed the table with one of his thick fingers, “We will not solve this problem over dinner.”

“I was just hoping to gain some insight.” I dropped my head.

“You want insight, Comrade?” His expression became more hostile, “Don’t meddle in the affairs of other countries you know nothing about. For years your country backed the Shah even though he was a brutal dictator. Now you wonder what the hell happened? They hate Americans, because of this. You did not learn anything from Vietnam? Ho Chi Ming hated the French and then the Americans who took the place of the cruel colonizers.”

“What about the Warsaw Pact? Do these people welcome Russian tanks down their main streets?” I looked him in the eye as I spoke. I could tell my words had rattled him.

“Comrade Obszynski.” He slammed his fist on the table.

“What, Comrade Morozov?” I tilted my head.

“I am hungry, let’s eat. We argue later.” He picked up a menu. “Ah, sea bass. Haven’t had that in a very long time.” 

“I am not particular to sea bass.” I shook my head, “But the black angus entrecote is tempting.” 

“I would ask about it.” He smiled and winked at me.

“Perhaps I shall.” I did feel a bit agitated for skipping lunch and only having a small pastry for breakfast with my coffee. 

“Settled.” He nodded with a single jerk of his head. He put up his hand, signaling the waiter who was talking to the bartender in private conversation. Immediately he walked over to our table. It was still early for dinner and we were the only customers in the dining room.

“What can I get you for dinner?” He asked in perfect English. I glanced over at Dmitry who was trying to hide a smile.

“Sea bass for me, my good man.” Dmitry nodded as the waiter wrote it on his pad.

“Black angus for me.” I said as I glanced at Dmitry who pretended I was not looking at him.  

“Anything else?” He asked.

“Zeeland mussels.” Dmitry spoke up.

“That’s a lot.” I whispered.

“I am a growing boy, no?” He used his smile to melt the icy atmosphere we had built between us. The waiter brought us a basket of warm Sourdough bread. Dmitry helped himself by ripping a piece from the loaf and slathering butter on the piece. “Ah, this is a treat for us. It is a luxury. Prime Minister Nikolay Tikhonov has told us that if we engage in Afghanistan, bread will become a luxury. Sometimes, I feel as though I do not belong in this world.”

“I always thought you got the best of everything you wanted.” I took the bread and broke off a much smaller piece. “Now you tell me you do not belong.” 

“See, you do not know what happens in this world, comrade.” His eyes were sad as he spoke, “We do not air our dirty laundry in public. It is a trick you should learn. You televised the war on television should everyone see the awful things that were going on in that country. And now in Tehran?” 

“We just don’t see eye to eye on these matters.” I coughed into my napkin.

The waiter was quick with our dinner. He set the plates in front of us.  

“Bon appetit.” He nodded, “Will there be anything else?” 

“Do you have steak sauce?” I asked as Dmitry sent me a scathing glance.

“But of course.” He nodded, “I’ll be right back.” 

“You Americans drown everything in sauces that do not need to be applied.” He shook his head in disgust. 

“Do not judge me for my taste.” I shook my head.

“Comrade, it is what we do. Everything comes under our scrutiny.” He chuckled as I cut off a piece of the steak. The waiter returns to the table with steak sauce. “Thank you.” 

“This is excellent bass.” Dmitry commented as he took the first taste of his entree. “We could solve a lot of the problems of both our countries if we just all sat down to a good dinner, like this one.” 

I nodded.

“I invited you to dinner to warn you.” He said as he looked directly into my eyes.

“Warning? About what?” I asked, cutting another piece of my steak.

“We have arms dealers who are working with Ayatollah Kholiemi” He glanced around the empty restaurant.

“I thought we were going to discuss this after dinner.” I wiped my mouth with the linen napkin in my lap. 

“I feel this matter is too important for dessert.” He rolled his coal black eyes.

“We will regard your concerns in the General Assembly.” I shook my head.

“Do not regard this matter as a trifle.” He put his fork down next to his plate.

“Losing fifty three citizens to terrorists is not something our diplomats take lightly.” I assured him. 

“These are not terrorists.” He coughed.

“Says you, but if just one of them comes to harm, we will take action.” 

“And if you do, you will face Russian weaponry.” His glare was enough to melt steel, but I refused to let him bully me. “Ayatollah Kholiemi has vowed death to the infidel. He sees this as a jihad. Anyone crossing over into Iran will become a victim to this Jihad. Your director, William Casey must know that. ”

“I believe he does.” I assured him.

“No, you do not understand. Like your misguided politics in Southeast Asia, this will become a diplomatic disaster that will lead to other catastrophic events.” He looked away, “I tell you this not as a Soviet threat, but as a warning.”

“We will have to choose to disagree.” I cut another piece of my steak.

“He has allies. There is a lot of resentment of British and American attitudes.” Dmitry rests his large head on his knuckles, “These people are poor and tired of seeing American and British tourists walk around like they own the world. As I’ve told you before, if you wish to own the world, you must accept the consequences that come with it. Between you and me, the countries under the Warsaw Pact are grumbling about their Russian rulers. I fear that in our lifetime, we will watch the Soviet Union dissolve.”

I sat there for a minute letting his words sink in. I had never heard about the discontent of the satellite nations under the Warsaw Pact. He continued to eat his dinner as I contemplated his words.

“You had no idea, did you?” He smiled. “Poland, Georgia, Ukraine, East Germany and Yugoslavia have all filed for independence, but of course they will not obtain it without facing an armed conflict. Comrade Obszynski, I tell you these things because I know they are coming. The minute our troops enter Afghanistan, we will see the descent and while we are occupied elsewhere, the Soviet Union will cease to exist, mark my words.”

I sat there numb knowing that William Casey was working with the Joint Chiefs of Staff to develop an invasion plan to rescue the hostages. President Carter was being advised that there might be no other way to get the hostages back alive. Dmitry Morocov had opened my eyes to the ramifications of what might be if we did take action.  

“You’d better tell them, Comrade Obszynski.” He put his fork on his plate. Other patrons began filing into the Central Park Voorburg, all of them dressed in their best finery. I wonder if they knew of what lay in the balance as I did.  

“Dinner was grand.” Dmitry declared loudly as he leaned back in his chair.

“It was very good.” I nodded.

“Ack, better than very good.” He laughed and his laughter filled the room that was gradually filling up. “I love coming to the Hague. The food. The accommodations. The beautiful scenery. Back in my home in Leningrad there is still much monuments to all those who lost their lives during the German invasion of World War Two. One million Russian lost their lives in that two year-long and four month battle. People starved to death. My mother continually told me of all the sufferings of our people.”    

“Dessert?” 

“But of course.” Dmitry bowed his head in agreement. “Peach Melba looks good.” 

“Yes, but I’m partial to Vanilla souffle.” I folded the desert menu.

“Wise choice.” He clasped his hands together.

“Are we ready for dessert?” The waiter appeared as if by magic. 

“You are reading our minds.” Dmitry laughed, “This could be a dangerous thing. I will have the peach melba and he wishes to have the vanilla souffle.” 

“Very good.” The waiter nodded, “I’ll have it for you right away.” 

“I like this waiter.” Dmitry took a sip of the vodka. 

“Yes, I agree.” I sat back in my chair. “We have resolved nothing as usual.”

“But we have avoided a war, no?” Dmitry inhaled deeply.

“I will drink to that.” I raised my glass and clinked it with his.  

We ate our dessert in silence. When he finished the melba, he glanced at his watch. “Oh dear, I must be going. I have a meeting with some of my men.”

“A nest of spies?” I chuckled.

“Shhh. You must not say these things out loud.” He smiled and put the money on the table, “My treat.” 

“Thank you.” I put the last spoonful in my mouth as I watched him get into an awaiting cab. Just as I turned away there was a blast which shattered the window I was standing by. Glass completely covered me as I watched in horror as the cab Dmitry had entered reduced to flames. I ran out of the restaurant, but there was nothing to salvage. Both Dmitry and the cab driver had been killed in the blast. Sirens sounded through the narrow streets, but the firecrews were too late to save anything from the wreck.

As I walked along the river at sunset, I tried to clear my head of all that was going on around me like a swirling whirlpool. I would call headquarters when I got back to my hotel room and tell them what took place, but for now I just wanted to spend some time admiring this beautiful city. An old man was sitting on a bench near the riverside, feeding the pigeons. When I passed by him, I heard him chuckle as the birds scrambled for the stale bread crumbs he was tossing. He glanced up at me and for a second I thought I was looking into the eyes of my comrade Dmetry Morozov. The old man nodded and then continued to toss the crumbs.