SolarGeneral Proudly Presents...
...by James Mason
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Only one thing did come out of those speaking appearances, which numbered about fourteen spread over the last seven years. Approximately three and a half years ago, at the conclusion of a typical address and as part of the usual group of those who'd come to discuss some topic one-on-one with me at the podium, an individual introduced himself and began with statements of praise for what I had to say, expressions of fear that it might be true and the amazement that I was willing and able to stand there and successfully exchange barbs with the few hecklers who made themselves known from time to time. Slight of stature, racially good, well-spoken and presenting a professional social image, he insisted on giving me his name and address in hopes of getting together at a later time in order to discuss matters at greater length and detail. Not just one or two things, but everything about this guy told me he wasn't for real. He had "agent" written across his forehead. I readily agreed to meet.
True to his word, the contacts were made and a long series of meetings began which didn't change in their essence for the next two years. He had it all well covered: he had been in the audience that day as, through a daughter who attended that school, he heard I was going to appear. He was a ready-made "sympathizer" and had all the right come-ons and come-backs. He was a few years younger than myself and, from experience several years before in the same county of Ohio , I guess they knew they could never get me to fall for a racial lowlife. Trouble was that, immediately after I cut off dealings with and practices of the "normal" Right Wing, I commented to one associate that, henceforth, for the authorities to send in one of their clowns, they'd be compelled to do so accompanied by a full brass band. For there could no longer be any hope of sneaking someone in.
This was a circumstance handled in a manner that is not advisable for most to try. Though only one person was laboring under any illusions– HIM, thinking that he was taking me in– he was DAMNED GOOD at what he thought he was doing and no doubt could have made terrific mileage had he hit a regular group of the Movement. He was the dream of the "mass strategy" set. And he was the kind of which Commander Rockwell spoke when he would taunt the Washington, D.C. office of the FBI to please send him more of. The free dinners, free gifts, cash contributions and subscriptions, etc., that I received over the three year period, when added up, would have to be formidable. It's only worth mentioning in passing now because they weren't able to hang me on anything. Otherwise, I assure you, none of it is worth it. Very basically, I wanted to find out what they wanted to know. Plus the material support didn't hurt. It was sort of a tightrope walk.
Since you just don't get genuine support like this, the question becomes: what makes a good agent? He looks and acts good. He talks a good line. He's ready with the cash. He's ready with the goods and services. He wants to help, to be involved. I guess at this point we part company with the credibility-building phase and get down to the infiltration proper. He pretended to know a little but he wanted to know a lot. He really wanted to know about the Manson connection. After a few months and at one meeting at a restaurant where I had a friend with me, he inquired of my friend, after I had excused myself from the table, what types of weapons did I have. And one other unique thing: as part of both building credibility and prying their way in, good agents will go to work on their intended victim's vanity and ego. I feel very honored because this guy was a licensed pilot and took me on many a pleasing junket into the wild blue. All this just to impress little, old me.
Maybe he or his superiors began to get the feeling I was a dead end as I was using up somebody's money and time and supplying only what could be gleaned from reading Movement publications. At any rate, he disappeared for a period of months. I never attempted contacting him just as I had never bothered to check into him or any of his covers. Why bother? I was sure in my own mind he was bogus and hostile and played things accordingly at all times. I could effectively do no more at that stage. Details were details and my resources at uncovering such things were not even at par with their ability to conceal them.
Then of course came the beginning of 1985 and the explosion onto the national scene of The Order. This transformed more than one thing in the affairs of the Movement. Suddenly, he was back on the telephone wanting to get together again. He had been away in Florida, he said. This time he wanted to get to know the different groups, and, through me and the use of airplanes, travel and meet the various leaders. At the same time he began propositioning me with money-making schemes– involving the planes– that centered around hopping state lines for the purposes of evading taxes. Finally, in an effort to get something all set up, he arranged a meeting between me and the man he was supposedly going to fly these runs for. Basically, I was greeted by an older, sharper version of himself at the runway, piloting a plane twice the size of anything he had ever brought himself before.
The two of them flew me several hundred miles away for a quick lunch. At the lunch they kept talking taxes and ways to get out of them. (They had already obviously despaired of ever suckering me on illegal weapons or acts of violence.) As a prelude to this however, their scenario was to include my helping the first agent in his bid to win points and secure this lucrative flying job with his prospective boss, agent two. He told me to give him a "big build-up" to this new guy when he was away from us at one point. Like clockwork, the first agent excused himself from the table leaving me and the second one alone. And, like clockwork, the second agent pointedly asked me how well I knew agent number one. The truth was that I had known him on and off for three years. One would surely think that one person gets to know– or thinks he gets to know– another person in a period of time like that. My pointed response was, "Not very well at all." After a pleasant and uneventful return flight home, we parted company with smiles, handshakes and waves. I haven't seen or heard from either of them since.
My own opinion? As I said, that final meeting was clearly intended to be either the firm start or the final finish of something. And who was the older man who piloted the twin-engine cabin cruiser in the sky? The direct superior of the younger man, agent number one. He was there to size me up for himself after the former's three year job of groundwork. And my answer to his question was all he needed to hear in order to know what his young friend didn't see.
[Vol. XV, #4 – Apr., 1986]
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