326 DATE WITH THE GODS
As I crossed the street I saw a red car approaching,
fast. It was aiming right at me. I tried to run, but didn't
make it to the other side of the street. The car hit me,
throwing me some distance, then sped away into the
night.
I was in Saint Giacommo Hospital in Rome for about
two months. As far as I was concerned, that was the end
of my short career as an international spy. I was pretty
sure I was supposed to have been killed that night the car
very purposefully struck me. Although I eventually
recovered from my injuries, I had no desire to ever be
seen in public with those people again. It wasn't worth it.
I got out of it fast.
At least I thought I did.
In August, 1970, I was picked up at a movie screening
in Lima, Peru, by Harold Barton himself.
He was mysterious and cautious. I was in no mood to
listen to another spy story; I didn't even give the man a
chance to explain the reason for his visit once he told me
his name. I told him to take a flying leap as I was still
feeling aches and pains in many bones of my body as a
result of my Roman odyssey two years earlier.
He asked me to listen to him for just five minutes, and
to try to be reasonable. I listened, but only to be polite. I
was determined not to be any part of his operation. I
wasn't eager to get killed.
I was very impressed by this dignified man. And when
the head man of a top secret organization comes to you
personally and tells you that as a duty to your country,
the least you could do is listen, you listen.
This is what I remember of the conversation:
" ... Charles, I understand exactly how you feel, but
this happens to be one of those special cases. It's true
that I have the CIA, FBI, NATO and many other secret
services working with us, agencies and agents that
would make James Bond look elementary."