September 1, 2017--Sonic Attack: An Audiological Tale (Final Part)

"'Mr. Anderson' made a special appointment to see me. He pretended he needed an urgent hearing aid adjustment. But in fact he wanted to talk about Cuba."

"About the sonic attack in Cuba?" Again Gary nodded. "I'm lost," I confessed, "And to think this also involves me is almost too much for me to assimilate. I mean, I . . ."

"Be patient and you'll see the connection. But first I need to tell you more about me and why my patient, 'Mr. Anderson' sought me out."

I resisted saying I'm all ears.

"When I was in my PhD program in audiology one of my interests was the interrogation of captives. Particularly suspected terrorists. Not that I thought I would ever be involved with that, but it was something that fascinated me. How to use sound as part of the interrogation process. Not as torture, of course. But to break down their resistance. Overwhelming them with sound which is the opposite of helping people hear better."

Warming to the subject, he continued, "All the doctoral students were encouraged to develop interests that were not strictly speaking about the techniques we would need in our practices. They felt this would expand us intellectually and, who knows, down the line maybe these interests might lead to new possibilities for us--like, for example, how the psychological dimension of hearing loss affects working with patients or, another example, from a cultural anthropological perspective how people from diverse backgrounds respond differently to hearing loss and its treatment. Including some deaf people who resist digital hearing devices altogether because they see spoken speech as inferior to the richness and, some would say, the linguistic superiority of sign language."

"Very interesting," I said, "I can see how these kinds of studies would appeal to you. You have such wide-ranging interests. But, again, Cuba? Sonic attacks? The CIA?"

"So, my 'Mr. Anderson' came to see me earlier this week. Monday afternoon. I knew something unusual was afoot since before sitting down he closed the door to the treatment room. Something he had not done previously. Before I could ask what was happening with his hearing aids he told me that nothing was wrong with them. As you can imagine I was puzzled, not to mention a little annoyed with him since I needed to juggle my appointment schedule to see him on an urgent basis. I don't need to tell you how complicated that was. It's the busiest time of the year."

Gary continued, "Anyway, he got right to the real purpose of his visit. He mentioned the sonic attack on our embassy, asking if I had been following it. I told him I had been, but not that closely. I was aware of the situation, though I had no idea why the Cubans would be involved in such a thing. My sense is that the leaders there are happy with the restored relationship. That it's in Cuba's interest. I mean in the Cuban leaders' interest. So why, I wondered, would they want to do something so aggressive, so seemingly crazy to jeopardize it? Especially with a new president--Trump--who has hinted he might withdraw from the agreement that Obama struck since Trump appears to be trying to undo all of Obama's initiatives.

"By then, Gary told me, he was becoming annoyed that 'Anderson,' or whoever he was, was taking up his time with this when he had a waiting room full of patients. Was it so urgent to be talking about Cuba?"

I didn't know what to say.

"When I mentioned Obama he said that he'd prefer not to talk about  him as he and I might have different opinions; and, for that matter, he didn't want to talk about Trump either. He said, 'He's not my favorite president.' So at least we avoided all political talk."

"Why then," I asked, "was he interested in talking about the Cuban's attack on our diplomats?"

Very little of this was making sense to me. And any involvement on my part was seeming even more improbable.

As if reading my mind, Dr. Schwartzberg, in an even lower voice, after a quick glance at the sleeping customer who was by then snoring audibly, Gary said, "I can't tell you everything he said since I suspect much of it is classified, but he did say that I, and one of my patients," he peered at me,"were potentially implicated."

"Implicated? This is getting crazier by the minute."

"Be patient," he said. I signaled that I would be. "He knew about my interest in prisoner interrogation, including the fact that after earning my PhD, while getting my practice started, I had done some contract work with one or two American national security operatives."

"You did? That's incredible, "You seem so . . . I don't know how to describe it."

"Boring? Conventional? A bleeding heart?"

"I wouldn't put it quite this way. But I . . ."

"It's OK. I'm happy to be thought of that way. It has at times, including this one, come in handy. But there's this other side of me. I'm not just an audiologist living in a small coastal town in Maine outside the Washington-New York axis. Remember what we said earlier about who's retired in this part of the world? It's not only a nice life style but has other advantages. If you know what I mean."

I shrugged, overwhelmed and exhausted by what he was sharing, not really knowing what he meant.

"Back in the 1990s there was a general increase in terrorist activity, which included the first time the World Trade Center was attacked by al Qaeda operatives. Terrorists who were funded by and led by Kahled Sheikh Mohammad. 

"I remember that. I was by chance downtown that day close to the towers and saw the smoke pouring out of the underground parking garage. It was sickening. Those bastards."

"Well, on a contract with one of our security agencies, I participated in the interrogation of a couple of the perpetrators."

"Really? This feels like an hallucination."

He ignored this and said, "Enough about that. There's no connection between that and Cuba. But it helps you see why 'Anderson' came to see me. I had been a player. Though not since 1995 or so. I guess you could say I'm a smalltime part of that retired community of agents of various kinds."

For the first time that day he smiled. It clearly felt good to him to be able to unburden himself.

"Then, if I may, what about Cuba? And, closer to home for me, my somehow being a part of this? I don't know how to put it, but this sounds ridiculous. I mean, minimally, my alleged involvement."

"I assume you still have that loaner hearing aid I gave you? From my patient, Mrs. Caldwell, who died?"

"Yes, you said I could use it until mine is repaired. Remember, I told you that it's the one that seems to have a mind of it own?" He nodded, "I was hearing what seemed like conversations through it. I thought I was losing my mind."

"You weren't. It's my fault that I gave you that one. The reason I'm so upset is that I feel terrible that I inadvertently dragged you into this mess. I was careless. Being so busy with patients is no excuse. I screwed up and hope you'll forgive me. The device wasn't meant to be used by a civilian."

"A civilian?"

"You know, someone not working for the Company. I was so busy I mixed up which ones were for clients and which for people who required extra-special devices."

"By special devices you mean like the stuff they prepare for James Bond in the movies?"

Smiling again, he said, "One could think of it that way."

"So how does this connect to what went on in Cuba?"

"We may have restored diplomatic relations but as with all countries a lot of surveillance goes on, in all directions, even with allies. Including, I suspect, to test surveillance devices and techniques for cyber- and sonic-warfare. That's probably what the Cuban secret service was up to with the attack. They had a new toy that the Russians probably gave them and were trying it out."

"How does my loaner hearing aid fit into that picture?"

"It was probably tricked out to transmit electronic signals over a considerable distance to interfere with potential sonic attacks on U.S. facilities. So someone wearing one like your loaner could hang out on the street by the embassy in Havana and zap people who might be trying to mount such an assault. Knowing my youthful history of black bag operations, they probably targeted me as someone they could use to provide cover for this cat and mouse business. They could use me as a conduit to those people on the ground who were in the thick of things."

"This is mind boggling," I said in a cold sweat, "I have questions about a couple of more things--about your 'Mr. Anderson' and of course how I fit in."

"I am supposing that even though he's officially retired 'Anderson' is still active and when his handlers figured out what was going on at the embassy in Cuba they took stock of devices like your loaner and discovered that one was with me. That it was turned in to me after Mrs. Caldwell died--it was probably her husband's who I suspect--well, you know--and that I then innocently passed it along to you. 

"They needed to know if somehow I was compromised, had gone rogue, and of course, since through electronic tracking they probably discovered that because of my error one of these special devices was with you, they needed to check you out. To see if I recruited you . . ."

"So therefore you . . . ?"

"Yes, since I'm feeling so guilty about dragging you into this, I took the chance to tell you most of the story since I suspect they'll be calling on you soon to check you out."

"That will be much more than a robocall," I said, trying to make a small joke to calm myself.

We both took deep breaths and for the first time that day, though when together we did it often, we laughed. 

This seemed to rouse the old man at the other table who had been in a deep sleep. He yawned and stretched and then reached down, groping for the tattered shopping bag that was resting on the floor next to his chair. He folded the newspaper and with difficulty managed to stuff it in the bag. From it, he extracted a phone and swiped the screen, which instantly became illuminated. He lifted it and held it a few inches from his face as if, without his eyeglasses, he couldn't see the time or if he had missed any calls. Satisfied, he returned it to the bag, struggled to get up, and shuffled toward the door.

When he was gone I asked Dr. Schwartzberg if he had taken a couple of pictures of us. 

Laughing loudly, he said, "I wouldn't be surprised."

US Embassy In Havana

August 31, 2017--Sonic Attack: An Audiological Tale (Part 1 of 2)

"Can you talk?"

It was my audiologist, Dr. Gary Schwartzberg, barely audible on the phone. He had never called and in my usual anxious state I was surprised and worried.

"Is everything all right?"

"I'm not sure." It sounded as if he was calling from a telephone booth.

"What's going on?"

"Nothing like this has ever happened before." I waited for him to say more. I could hear the sound of the wind ripping. "Have you gotten any strange telephone calls?"

"Just occasional robos."

"This would be anything but a robocall. It has nothing whatsoever to do with that." It felt as if he was lecturing me, which was not at all his style.

I said, "I'm concerned about what's going on with you. You always seem so secure and unflappable. But now . . ." 

He snorted. "If only that were true. But, look, I have to call you back. I'm out on the street and can barely hear you. There's another phone booth not far from here. I'll call again in a few minutes."

He did after five minutes which felt like an eternity. He really had me perturbed. I said, "I have an appointment to see you later this afternoon for an adjustment. But I can drive over right now if . . ."

"If it isn't too much of an inconvenience that would be great. I need to talk. Really."

"Not a problem. I'll be there in less than half an hour."

When I arrived he was waiting in the parking lot behind his office, pacing back and forth, gesturing and seemingly talking to himself.

He rushed up to me as I was parking. "I really appreciate this. I mean, you're going to think this is all so foolish. That I'm overreacting. I cancelled my next two appointments so we have time to talk. Let's get some coffee. There's a Dunkin Donut just up the road. Walking distance. It'll be quiet there now so we'll be able to talk privately with no one eavesdropping. You've got to promise you won't talk to anyone about this." He waited for me to nod, indicating I would keep this between us.

When we were seated in a corner booth he looked around to see who else was there--just a very old man squinting at the local newspaper. Elbows on the table, Dr. Schwartzberg leaned closer to me. 

"We know each other for less than a year," he said, "But I feel close to you and . . ."

"I feel the same way," I said, interrupting him.

"And to tell you the truth almost everyone I know would think I'm crazy."

I said, "You can be a little eccentric, that's for sure, but that's part of your charm. You're not even close to being crazy." I smiled, trying to calm him.

"Let me begin at the beginning," I noticed he was trembling, "You know I have a very diverse clientele. Mostly older people, of course, that's in the nature of the audiology business. Almost all of them totally compos mentis. Wonderful people. I'm so blessed to be working with them. And of course you." 

I sensed he might be tearing up, so I lowered my eyes.

"I'm telling you this so you'll understand why this is so strange."

"What's the 'this'?"

"I'm getting to that. Are you sure you have the time for this? It's OK to say no but . . ."

"I'm here for you," I said, "I won't interrupt you again. So, please, tell me the whole story any way you want to." I leaned back in the chair to signal I was not I any hurry and sipped my decaf.

He took a deep breath. "There is this Mr. Anderson. James Anderson.  A client. He's about your age. In his seventies. Early retired for more than a decade. Used to work for the government. High level. Very senior." He paused and looked directly at me.

"And . . . ?"

"You've spent enough time in the area to have heard that there are a lot of retired federal employees living in the Midcoast."

"I heard something about that," I said, "We've even run into a few of them in Pemaquid. Retired . . . ," I paused, trying to figure out where he was leading me.

"Finish your thought," he said.

"Mainly military folks and federal government types. I have in fact gotten to be acquainted with a few. One was a military attache to the White House during the Eisenhower administration. He was an expert on nuclear weapons. A really interesting person. Right out of the history books.

"Anyone else?"

"Well, there's someone who was chief of station in various countries in Eastern Europe. You know what that means? Chief of station?"

"A spy. Intelligence. Espionage. Anything else? I mean about some of your neighbors?"

"Well, among other things, people say there are actually quiet a few ex-CIA types nearby. That they feel comfortable being close to each other. As former colleagues I assume that means they can talk openly with each other."

"Bingo!" Gary said, loud enough for the girls at the counter to look over toward us. The other customer didn't lift his head from the paper. I thought he might be napping or hard of hearing.

"This is about the CIA?" I couldn't believe that it might be but . . .

Gary leaned even closer and I moved toward him so I could hear his whispering, "It looks that way." 

He continued to stare at me as if checking me out. Not saying anything. I managed not to respond, wanting him to share only what he was comfortable with. I took another slow sip of coffee.

"Did you hear about what's going on in Cuba?"

"Cuba? This has something to do with Cuba?" I tried to hide my astonishment but considering what he was saying, this was impossible.

The so-called 'sonic attack'?"

"The what?"

"Sonic attack. It's been in the news and a few days ago there was a piece about it in the Times."

"This somehow involves your patient, James . . .?"

"Anderson, James Anderson. I should confess that's not his real name. It's unethical to talk about patients by name. Are you OK with my need to protect his identity?"

"Sure. Whatever you need to do or say. I'm here for you."

"It does involve him."

"And somehow you?"

"Before I get to that, since it doesn't seem as if you know the specifics of what's been happening in Cuba, let me fill you in."

"I'm all ears."

"I love all your audiological idioms and puns."

"I'm just trying to deintensify this."

As he proceeded to fill in the details I realized I did remember something about this. It had all seemed very weird.

"You know of course that we have an embassy in Cuba, in Havana. Toward the end of his term Obama reestablished diplomatic relations with them. And it seems that despite what Trump said during the campaign he is not breaking off relations with them or going back to the past." I nodded. "But it seems that for at least six months the Cubans for some unknown reason have been using a sonic wave device to disturb, and it seems, physically harm American diplomats. At least 16 of them.

"Our diplomats began to complain about symptoms, including nausea, headaches, balance disorders, and even hearing loss. They were brought back to America and checked out. It was discovered that most had experienced mild traumatic brain injuries and damage to their central nervous systems."


He paused and again twisted in his chair to make sure we were still not being overheard. I thought I heard soft snoring from the man with the newspaper. He was tipped back in his chair and with his mouth open was drooling on the sports section.

"That's it?" I said.

"That's just the background. The context for what happened next. The part that involves me."

"Involves you?"

"Let me bring this even closer to home. So close that you'll see it even concerns you." He shrugged, "That's why it was urgent for us to talk as soon as possible. I didn't want to leave you in the dark." He pointed at me to underscore that I was somehow implicated and then again lowered his eyes.

I couldn't believe this. "Me? With this crazy Cuba business?" He nodded and I detected the hint of an embarrassed smile.

End of Part 1 To be concluded tomorrow--