178 AMERICAN SPY“What’s your name?” I asked in English.
“Yuri Jerkov.”
“And you’re an asshole. Now tell me your name.”
It turned out his name actually was Yuri Jerkov.
It also turned out that the bilingual Mr. Jerkov was a disturbed indi-
vidual who was clearly not entitled to a tourist visa. He wrote honestly but
foolishly on his application that he planned to live and work in the United
States “until I dead.” Mr. Jerkov did not react kindly to my obligatory rejec-
tion of his tourist visa request.
“I demand to speak to ambassador!” he barked, now in Serbian. He
appeared agitated.
“I am ambassador!” I barked right back.
He pled his case again, this time to the “ambassador,” who, after due
consideration, also rejected his request.
“I demand to speak to Comrade President Clinton!” he yelled, eyes
widening, his facial muscles beginning to twitch. The bulletproof glass pre-
vented several tiny droplets of the angry man’s spittle from making direct
contact with my eyeballs.
At this point, it was clear Mr. Jerkov was the type who would not leave
the visa section of his own volition. Joe had overheard our conversation
and suggested I let Post One deal with the man so that I could move on to
the next applicant, but I did not yet feel the need to call in close combat
support in the form of willing, able, and bored young marines. I directed
Mr. Jerkov to walk back around through the crowded waiting room to the
receptionist area, where he had initially submitted his application. I told
him he could go to the head of the line and I would meet him there.
Mr. Jerkov pushed his way to the front of the throng of applicants and
arrived at the receptionist’s bulletproof window at the same time I did. He
was now standing opposite me and Vesna.
In a loud voice in Serbian, I asked Vesna, who brooked no crap from
anyone (including me), to immediately patch me through to President
Clinton at the White House. It was around 5:00 a.m. in Washington, DC.
She looked at me as if I were nuttier than a shithouse rat. I discreetly indi-
cated that she should just play along. She rolled her eyes, mumbled some-
thing vile in Serbian under her breath, punched a few numbers into the
phone, and handed it to me.