There were other speakers. Several writers, including an ex-CIA station chief, talked about their works of spy fiction. A former Lebanese intelligence officer tried to stir up a greater U.S. interest in tackling Hezbollah. We were shown many maps purporting to show the global spread of militant Islam. And several participants expressed hopes that the U.S. intelligence community may yet find those missing weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. (Their continuing absence still gives Bush a “sickening feeling,” according to his new memoir.)
Organizer Bechtel's presentations on the continuing threat of terrorism were replete with pictures of the World Trade Center Towers burning and bald eagles whose bodies consisted of stars and stripes. The message: “Dear Terrorists: Sleep with One Eye Open – We're Coming.”
With so much talk of terrorism, some audience members gravitated to black humour. Some Spy Cruise jokes got real hackneyed real fast.
Representative question: “Where's the conference room?” Representative deadpan response: “I could tell you, but I'd have to kill you.”
There were more inspired quips by audience members, including one zinger along the lines of “Forget shuffleboard, we're going to learn how to shoot stingers off the back of the boat!”
“Stingers,” surface-to-air missiles, were covertly supplied by the CIA to the Afghan mujahedeen in the 1980s Cold War.
We were never actually given any weaponry during Spy Cruise.
Still, we had fun.
But I felt for the Eurodam's staff after learning they numbered about 800 seafaring souls who typically spend 10 months a year working. Beyond obsequious, the Indonesian cabin stewards and Filipino food servers act as if they exist to carry your bag, take your food order, fetch a bottle of wine. I was assigned an Indonesian steward, Ridho, who was a pro: I couldn't leave my cabin for an hour without him covertly entering to give it an expert cleaning.
His special skill: origami. Every day, he wrestled new bath towels into animal shapes – leaving behind a squid, a scorpion, a monkey hanging from a clothes hanger. (Oddly, the monkey seemed disturbingly reminiscent of a captured enemy combatant placed in a “stress position.”)
Near the end, Ridho asked me the question that had apparently been bothering him for days. “Mr. Freeze,” he asked, “are you a spy?”
How had I blown my cover? I had never even mentioned Spy Cruise to him.
Then Ridho pointed out that I had six books about the CIA on my nightstand. (I admit I was having too much fun to even crack the spines.)
I let him in on a little secret.
“I'm not a spy,” I replied. “But there are many aboard this boat…”
