Lying down

Why I’d be a terrible spy

By Kris Frieswick

When I was about 15, my dad gave me the best piece of advice that he’s ever given me. “Kristine,” he said. “You shouldn’t lie.” I hadn’t lied — not that I remembered, anyway. A tad defensively, I asked, “Dad, what are you talking about?” He paused contemplatively. It suddenly occurred to me that I was in for something momentous. A pronouncement. An eternal truth. I was expecting a discourse on the evils of deception, an analysis of how dishonesty slowly but inevitably chips away at the very fabric of our society — at the very least, a rant about how he’d be very disappointed with me if I ever, ever lied. We were about to have a big dad-daughter moment.

“You shouldn’t lie,” he said, “’cause you’ll forget what you told someone, and get caught.”

Our big moment turned out to be more like the transfer of operating instructions than the passing of philosophical knowledge from one generation to the next, but hey, you take your dad-daughter moments as you find them. Through the rosy haze of time, however, this moment reminds me that our parents know us better than we know ourselves. I think lying is wrong, but that’s not the reason I avoid it. I avoid it for the very reason that my father mentioned: I have a terrible memory. This makes lying particularly hazardous for me. My father’s comment wasn’t offered to enrich me morally; he was just trying to keep me from making an idiot of myself. It was like when my mom gently mentioned that perhaps chartreuse wasn’t such a good color choice with my skin tone, or that I might be too big for a career as a ballerina.

This conversation came to mind after the recent revelation that, for the past 15 years, Bob Hanssen had been operating as one of the most highly placed (we hope) spies ever to be identified within the US government. I abhor what this man has done, and believe that he should pay for his crimes against our country and the lives he cost. I also must admit that I am secretly in awe of him.

For a decade and a half, this guy lied about everything to everyone he knows — his best friends, his neighbors, his priest, his wife, his kids, his boss, his parents — and on top of that, he was lying to the very people who paid him to lie in the first place. Plus he was also lying to the Russians who paid him to lie to the people who paid him to lie. That’s three layers of completely separate and different lies. My brain hurts just thinking about all the lies this guy had to keep straight. I should mention that my brain also hurts when I try to memorize a grocery list longer than “eggs, milk, bread.”

Can you imagine what a day at his FBI office must have been like for Bob? I’ll bet he was a very slow, methodical worker. I’ll venture that he was routinely praised for his conscientious attitude and attention to detail. It wasn’t that he had a great work ethic; he was just in the 24/7 business of covering every inch of his ass, which was hung so far out over the edge it was getting frostbite.

What mental gymnastics did Bob have to perform to maintain the illusion of normalcy back on the home front? According to news reports, his wife knew absolutely nothing about what was going on. So we also know that either a) Bob should be up for an Academy Award, or b) his wife was so stupid that he could have brought Vladimir Putin home for beers and a steak, and just introduced him as “a guy from the Eastern European office.”

Did Bob’s world become a constant fight to keep things straight? “Bob, did you remember to take out the trash?” his wife might ask one evening. Unlike me, I’m sure that Bob had a highly evolved mental filing system in which he kept track of the various versions of his life. He would need to consult that filing system constantly, even after a question about the garbage, so that he could check and crosscheck his response, make sure it jibed with the other stories he had told his wife about the garbage and his previous involvement or non-involvement. I’ll bet that filing cabinet also held a list of excuses and plausibly deniable explanations that he could whip out immediately if he slipped up. Finally, Bob would answer his wife. “Uh, yes, honey, I did,” responding just a half a beat too slowly. Maybe after 15 years of it, she’s gotten used to him answering every question just a half a beat too slowly.

Can you imagine how excruciating pillow talk must have been for this guy? These are the moments when you are at your most relaxed and want to open your heart to the person who shares your bed. This is reportedly when Mata Hari did her best intelligence-gathering work, because her subjects were so unguarded. (She was eventually executed as a spy, so maybe she wasn’t that good at it.) But what about when you’re the one trying to keep it all in? What the hell can you talk about? I’m guessing he asked a lot of questions. You can’t go wrong with a question when you don’t want to show your hand. “So, dear, did you have a nice day today? What’s going on with the dog? Do you know where I put those top-secret files I stole from the . . . ”

See? This is why I’d make a crappy spy. Bad memory. Maybe it’s not so much poor memory as laziness: remembering all the details seems like an inordinate amount of work. Whatever the reason, I am not now, nor do I ever intend to become, a spy. My truth handicap also excludes me from many other professions: politics, sales, law, public relations. All in all, I guess I should thank Dad for calling my attention to this disability. At best, he saved me from federal-prison time. Although, despite his best efforts, I can’t say he prevented me from making an idiot of myself. I don’t need to lie to do that.

Kris Frieswick can be reached at krisf1@gte.net.