|A northwesterly view from my DC home away from home|
I've been staying at this cosy inn smack in the heart of Geogetown for going on forty years.
I first learned of its existence while a student at American University in 1975 when a prominent photographer for Playboy (Sam Wu, I think) was reported to be luring coeds to his Georgetown Inn suite and photographing them for the magazine's Campus issue.
It wasn't until four years later I had enough bread to stay there myself. And I've been returning ever since.
During the late 1990s, in The Daily Grill downstairs, I entertained Cuban Intelligence officers as a ruse for FBI Counterintelligence. And, on another occasion, disrupted a Russian SVR agent from recruiting a British intelligence officer.
Later, in the mid-2000s, this inn became the de facto Washington station of the Monaco Intelligence Service, which I created for Prince Albert II of Monaco.
The Georgetown Inn is also where I first met legendary CIA spymaster Clair George, and got initiated by him into the proverbial wilderness of smoke and mirrors (or, as MacGaffin calls it, "smoke and urinals").
(Rest in Peace: Jack Platt, Tyler Drumheller, and Clair.)
By the way: Speaking of spy stories, we welcome our many new readers in Dubai, which, along with France, is our strongest demographic as we accrue almost 10,000 visits daily.
This trip is dedicated to you!
And this, from Surreal Bounce (Earthshine Editions, 2009):
Sucked or suckered back into the intrigue biz, I'm back in DC, at the Georgetown Inn, where the artist Van Stein has claimed the sofa-bed in my suite.
I immerse myself in deep consultations-of-the-veiled-kind while Van Stein hauls out to St. Elizabeth's in the worst part of the city to paint that mental hospital best known for hosting John Hinckley.
Floater washes in from Chicago and Van Stein waxes poetic about his St. Elizabeth experience over martinis in The Daily Grill. "The cabbie said, you want to go where? He thought I was nuts. It was real strange. Nobody was around. Only owls and rattlesnakes."
Next morning we tour the Spy Museum and, in the surveillance exhibition rooms, dry-clean an assortment of spooks on our trail.
Says Van Stein, "I thought you were paranoid, now I know somebody's watching."
My cell phone whistles as we exit the museum.
"Who's that?" cracks Van Stein. "The FBI?"
I plant my thumb over the speak-hole. "It actually is. Shhh!"