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Consular Section, Armerican Embassy, Vienna,
Austria, April 1963
He sat glaring at me. I knew that look from somewhere. He drew on his cigarette while I searched my memory, mentally air-brushing out the flag behind his desk and the State Department—issue mug shot of J. F. Kennedy, and everything else in the room, leaving only the grim, death’s head and those eyes, boring through my outer layers, searching for my wormlike soul.
No luck. Something familiar, but not quite the same. I set to work. Mentally, I revolved his head ninety degrees. A trick I had,