Word: thompson
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Dates: during 1960-1969
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...neighbors around Bay Shore, L.I., Robert Glenn Thompson, 30, seemed average enough-an overweight (6 ft. 2 in., 250 Ibs.) and overworked Air Force veteran who scratched out a living for his German-born wife and three kids by running a home fuel-oil delivery service. Last January, when Thompson was arrested by the FBI and charged with committing "13 overt acts of espionage" for the Russians between 1957 and 1963, the folks in Bay Shore were predictably surprised. Just as predictably, Thompson denied all. But last week he changed his mind, pleaded guilty in U.S. District Court in Brooklyn...
...Hell with It." It began in West Berlin in July 1957, after Airman Second Class Thompson, then 22, had been chewed out by his commanding officer because he needed a shave. That night Thompson drowned his resentment in cognac, brooded about his job as a clerk in the Office of Special Investigation at Berlin's Tempelhof Air Base. "You lived in a state of terror," he recalled. "Everyone in our office was watching someone. We all watched each other...
After 20 shots of cognac, Thompson "decided to hell with it." He walked into East Berlin wearing civilian clothes; no one checked his pass. He contacted Communist intelligence officers, said he wanted to defect. Three men questioned him for six hours in the sun porch of a private house overlooking a lake. Thompson was pretty drunk; the Soviets told him they didn't think he would be a good spy and sent him back...
...Thompson concurred. Said he: "Senator Kennedy's statement on this matter is basically correct...
...first anguished twinge comes one evening when he invites Connor to the top-drawer Shore Club for the perverse I purpose of seeing him bankrupted at backgammon. Instead, Connor winds up $4,000 ahead, the well-born clubmen welsh on their losses, and Thompson begins to question himself. The answers he tries out are, successively, drinking, urinating on the Shore Club walls, and letting himself be cuckolded by, of all people, Connor. The disintegration of Lock Thompson evokes less pity or terror than tedium. Though Author Wetmore has a palate for sour-mash dialogue, he puts into a quart bottle...