the Nevada border, so clocks go back an
hour: my little speaking tour has reached
the Pacific Time zone.
IN LAS VEGAS AT FIVE PM LOCAL time, after
a six-hour drive, I thought it would take
four. I like this city. Most United States
cities are unintentionally vulgar, this
one's vulgarity is deliberate, and it
Discussions by phone with Don about the
alternate location. I get calls from three
mysterious new "friends," whom I have at
first to suspect of being moles.
They invite me to supper however, and
since they all turn out to be either
steroid-stuffed, or have tattoos and
shaven heads, and one even has Richard
Wagner's Ride of the Valkyries
as a ring tone on his phone, I'm satisfied
on balance that they do not include a
I contact Mat, organizing in Seattle:
"You are leaving it very late to notify me
of the location. I must send out letters
today at the latest, for Canada!"
Don phones, he will now speak with the
new location -- which we have already
announced. At 11:20 am he phones again -
the restaurant is already booked for
tonight. So that's out.
He becomes loquacious, and I have to
curtail him. I report to Benté:
"Looks like we've lost Las Vegas, the
restaurant is having a wedding reception
tonight (know what they are?). No
alternative. Five hundred mile drive for
Don says: "I am waiting for a call back
from Arizona Charlie's." But at 12:31 PM
he says Arizona Charlie's has not got
enough waiters. So I book a meeting room
myself in the restaurant at my own
I go over at four PM to the Hard Rock
for an interview with a journalist, Jeff
German (I had misheard his name as
"Gammon," which upon analysis seemed to
put him in the clear).
Nice enough guy, turns out to be a
reporter for the Las Vegas Sun but
very obsessed with the Holocaust. He
winces when I say I find the subject
boring; I have never written a book or
article on it, I say, and I tend to flip
to a different channel whenever it comes
on the TV -- and I suspect that he along
with 95 percent of the US viewing
population reacts the same way. This is
before I figure out that he is in fact
At five PM Don is in my hotel's
reception area. The front desk has already
received calls protesting about the
evening's meeting and threatening
violence. The clerk seems unworried, and
is telling the callers that the management
has gone home for the day and there is
nobody they can speak to.
A full house of guests arrives. Three
police cars stand at each end of the alley
(we did not invite them). Journalist
Jeff German shows up and takes
Then Brian F comes, ever the
businessman, and to my silent fury, while
I am talking, he props up on a table a
1939 wreath from the German Consul in
Paraguay for the funeral of the Graf
Spee victims, which he wants to sell.
The journalist will inevitably proclaim
that "Nazi flags" bedeck the room I spoke
NEXT MORNING I LOOK into the source of
the leak. After excluding donors to the
fighting-fund and people known to me for
years, three suspects emerge. Let's see
what shakes out of this. I will zap all
three off my list.
During the day one responds and I clear
him. He was the gentleman who arrived
late, he says.
I now mail out invitations to my
Canadian friends in British Columbia
(exactly one hundred letters), and set out
at eleven AM for Los Angeles.
After a meatloaf lunch at "Peggy Sue's
1950s Diner" at Yerba, in the Mojave
desert, I arrive at the appointed
restaurant in Sherman Oaks at four.
The manageress of this smart restaurant
greets me with the words, "Oh no, you
phoned in two days ago to cancel your
function," and she shows me the register.
Our entry is crossed out in red,
I frostily explain that we have not
cancelled it. The traditional enemy has; I
do not advise her of that. The
registration has been made in T's name, so
how they have identified it I don't
One rather odd event is a blank phone
call at around four PM. I phone back, and
a voice identifies the caller as "Tony
Roma's Restaurant in Sacramento."
That is Saturday's scheduled location.
The voice denies having called me, despite
my pointing out I have just pressed the
call-back button. Why would Tony Roma's be
calling? Only one possible
Fortunately the private room here at
Sherman Oaks is still available, and we go
We soon fill the available table space,
and more seats have to be brought in. The
usual problem with the check at the end:
it comes to me to pay, including taxes and
tips, which people always forget. That
leaves me several hundred dollars out of
pocket each time.
THE NEXT THREE DAYS ARE ALL major
California functions: south of Los
Angeles, in San Francisco, and in
Sacramento. With long distances in
between. And I have no help. Then a day's
pause while I just drive north to
So far, the weather has been
Coffee with Harry, who provides a roof
for the night. The Las Vegas Sun
has published a good,
fair story, so my trust in "Gammon" is
vindicated. I reproach Don P however: "You
see the problem caused when 'people'
(i.e., you) phone the previous location to
protest at their cancellation; it goes
down badly, and does no good."
Harry's two Hispanic housemaids assume
that my shoes and blazer, found tossed
aside in the sitting room, are his and
have removed them to his bedroom closet.
It takes some time for us to find
I notice a camera on the coffee table
that is identical to mine, and comment on
it. Harry says it's probably his son's. I
am ten miles down the San Diego Freeway
before I realize that the camera is mine,
removed along with everything else from
the blazer pocket by the maids before they
hung it up.
I arrive at Mimi's
at one PM, and have lunch with Mark W,
looking slightly thinner -- a haircut
enforced by his new lady enhances the
effect -- and we talk for an hour over
When the waitress, a withered old
retainer by whom however Mark seems
disproportionately taken, interrupts to
inquire if everything is alright, I say:
"It was, until you interrupted our
conversation. Please go away. And don't
Mark is shocked. I don't understand
these American customs, even after all
A call from Sacramento confirms that
Tony Roma's has cancelled under pressure.
Their pretext is that the roof has caved
in under storm damage. My friend there
puts in a call under a different name to
ascertain if they have a meeting room
available for "Sunday." Oh yes, they
To the traditional enemy it is a game,
and they do not realize that every time
they attack people's freedom to speak, and
to listen to others speaking, they are
turning more ordinary folks against
After locating this evening's large
function room south of Los Angeles, with
somewhat greater difficulty than the US
Army is having in finding Osama Bin
Laden, Mullah Omar, and Saddam
Hussein, I spend an hour carrying the
half-ton of boxes inside.
It's like Feeding the Five Thousand.
The boxes never seem to empty. The first
people arrive at five PM. Aaargh. I shoo
them away and tell them to come back at
six, official doors-opening time.
Mark speaks for an hour, pre-empting
much of what I am going to say myself;
heigh ho. I then speak for an hour, and
nobody dies. He makes wind-up gestures
towards the end (he later denies he did)
and I do so; so the audience misses out on
the peroration, which was not very good
"What did you think of your talk?" he
asks rather mysteriously. "Was it one of
The audience of rather under one
hundred is pleased anyway, and many bring
in collections of my books to sign, which
is nice -- some going right back to
MARE'S NEST (1964).
Persuading the remaining people with
difficulty not to "assist" I load the
boxes, grab a coffee at a Denny's, and set
out north toward midnight, thereby turning
the second great corner of the tour. After
driving about 150 miles I check into a
lone motel in the desert, about fifty
yards from Interstate 5, south of
Bakersfield, at 2:20 AM. The car's meter
is now reading 7,300 miles since
Another lo-o-oo-ng day.
DECEMBER 11, 2003: THE hotel must have
been quite high up in the mountains, to
judge by the room- and the regular
gasoline-prices, $1.95 a gallon!
An hour dealing with paperwork. A total
of 506 people have now registered on our
website to be informed of my talks; five
hundred points of light, the Internet is a
As I set out at ten AM to continue this
modest odyssey, a blizzard begins, with
ice building up rapidly and reducing
visibility. As the road then drops 3,000
feet into the valley, the air-temperature
rises to about 55š F, and stays there all
day. I click on the cruise control and
hold it at eighty for the entire trip.
The Interstate drives straight as an
arrow for hundreds of miles
north-westwards past endless golden-white
prairies and then through the great citrus
estates -- the baby oranges, mandarins,
and lemons are already burgeoning on
At one point a pungent odour filters
into the car, and we come upon its source,
a vast herd of cattle, at least half a
million of them, shoulder to shoulder on
ordure-blackened, damp fields, standing
morosely around and waiting for something.
The stench is indescribable.
Coming up over the mountains into
Oakland, I see an extraordinary sight: the
naked hilltops are covered with literally
hundreds of giant modernistic windmills;
some are motionless, others winding
majestically in the breeze. I grab
The city of San Francisco is lost in
mists as I come in over the Bay Bridge;
far off to the right, about thirty miles
away, only one pillar of the Golden Gate
bridge is visible.
These highways are all becoming very
familiar to me now, and I must find others
to explore. Around four PM I pull up by
our meeting place in downtown Front
The new manager, a
Polish-Italian-American, is ingratiating.
We can use the big-screen TV in the rear
meeting room; this is a plus, as the video
of Leni Riefenstahl's long-lost 1933
oeuvre Victory of Faith is
certainly enhanced at that scale.
More and more people pack in to hear my
talk after dinner. Again extra tables and
chairs have to be brought in.
The final check is $945, the total
collected from the diners only around
eight hundred. Heigh-ho. I fetch the car
from the parking garage fifty yards away
and become hopelessly lost as I emerge
from a different exit than the one I came
It takes twenty minutes to find the
restaurant again. Locals whom I ask about
Front Street all give me wildly diverging
FINALLY I DRIVE OVER TO Sacramento, and it
is one-thirty AM before I get there. "Very
tired," I write to London. "I am here for
two days, thank Goodness."
The Seattle organizer Mat writes:
Please let your supporters
know that this event is under different
management than the last fiasco. With
our ultra-solid back-up location, this
event is a guaranteed "go."
He has fixed it at the well-known
Pyramid Brewery, with a local museum as
the alternate. He reports: "The museum's
event coordinator was totally dismissive
and unconcerned with my warnings that our
event may draw controversy."
TWO BLANK CALLS COME IN from a Toronto
area code, on the other side of the
continent. And there is one "missed call"
while I am out, from 973 854 6117. A
call-back gets the automatic response,
"You have reached a number that has been
disconnected or is no longer in
It is either the good guys, or the bad
The Idaho newspapers are now making a
fuss about my coming. The usual suspects
are behind it (years from now, perhaps,
they will wail: "Why us?")
After finding a Sacramento post office
to mail out belated invitation letters to
Seattle and Idaho, I drive over to the new
location around four PM.
D is already there, setting up tables
and getting in food. But this library
location is twelve miles away from Tony
Roma's, the original cancelled restaurant,
it is pouring with rain, and I know that
few people will come in the
It is far better to rent a meeting room
downtown, which I'll pay for, than a
remote one like this.
THE EVENING IS AN UNEXPECTED low point,
which becomes even lower as I stop to fill
the car afterwards in readiness for
tomorrow's onward drive to the north. The
car door slams, with the key inside. I
stand for over an hour in freezing rain
until a Hertz tow-truck comes.
Tomorrow and Sunday I drive 863 miles
to Portland, then two hundred more to
Seattle on Monday. This to Benté:
"Today I get to drive through the giant
I arrive at Grant's Pass at five PM,
getting ticketed by a traffic cop north of
Medford for doing eighty-five; I can't
AT ONE-TWENTY PM A MEGAN phones to inquire
about Seattle. I have no "Megans" on my
list; she confesses that she is of the
Pyramid Brewery in Seattle, venue for
Monday's function, and that somebody has
just phoned to inquire if there is a
function there on Monday.
It is obvious that all is not well, and
I phone Mat to say so. It turns out that a
lunatic right-wing Internet forum has
yesterday announced the precise location,
ostensibly to "help" us.
Ten minutes later, Mat phones me back:
the Pyramid has cancelled -- local Jewish
bodies are threatening to boycott them
with all their bar-mitzvahs, weddings, and
Mat is bullish, as the alternative
location will stand firm. Only now do I
learn its name, the Nordic Heritage
Mat insists that it is a venerable
local institution, chronicling the history
of seafarers in the Pacific North-West's
I say that is immaterial -- to the
media it will sound like a place that
David Duke himself has established,
just one step short of an Aryan Heritage
Find a Marriott, I say, I will pay the
charge for a meeting room. Grudgingly he
concedes the point, and phones two hours
later that he has booked one next to the
famous Space Needle. I ask him to lay on
coffee too (I will pay); if people have
driven down from Canada, that is the least
we can do.
I SEND THIS MESSAGE TO THE lady
organising in Portland for tomorrow:
We have lost every primary
location since my Las Vegas function
last week. . . Can you ascertain very
tactfully if everything is still okay
for Sunday (tomorrow) night?
She does not reply. Somebody chides me:
"An airport hotel might have been better
than the city centre. Portland has a
Jewish mayor and The Oregonian, the
major paper, is owned by a Jewish family
in New York City. . . I'm not surprised at
the harassment -- just at the extent of
I set out north from Grant's Pass at
eleven AM, a hard drive in snow and rain.
The Portland hotel is elegant, but again
it is hard to reach. I report to
Benté later: "Drove through
blinding snow and a wet blizzard . . .
small audience, nice luxury hotel. Off up
to Seattle tomorrow, then turn the final
corner back to the east and Chicago."
FROM PORTLAND I SEND THIS message to the
British official Trustee, against whom I
have started court proceedings:
I am currently eight time
zones west of London. I received a few
days ago a copy of the Registrar's
order, and I am surprised and perplexed
that it makes reference to a meeting
between us scheduled for December 16,
when I am in Idaho, as the Registrar
was aware that I return to the UK at
the beginning of February.
I have set out with all proper
particularity the categories of the
possessions whose return I am
demanding, in my Application to the
You have made no attempt to respond
with proposed categories of your
Exceeding the powers vested in you,
you and your agents acted as though the
court had never handed down the ruling
in Haig vs. Aitken.
A phone call comes from the restaurant
in Colorado, to agree Saturday's lunch
menu. A long drive lies ahead before
Mark W. sends me a page from a website
called Stormfront about my little tour.
They intend to post a recording of my LA
talk on the Internet. I am furious:
They have blown locations in
advance [I respond], and
cost me a lot of trouble. I have
nothing in common with these people,
and want out of whatever they are
I ARRIVE AT SEATTLE AT THREE PM. The
function has been booked as the
"North-Western Scandinavian Architecture
Appreciation Society," so there may be no
problem. My room looks out directly onto
the "Space Needle," Seattle's rather
The first friends begin to arrive from
Canada already at four-thirty PM,
including one elderly and incoherent
Canadian-German. Staff at The Pyramid, the
old location, are telling arrivals there
that we have cancelled the
function; not helpful.
Gradually the room here -- prepared
optimistically with forty chairs -- fills
and twice as many chairs have to be
An incorrigible Polish-American asks if
he can take photos; I limit him to three,
as he has a profi camera and I know these
types -- if I don't say No firmly, he will
be stepping all round me on the podium
throughout my talk, flashing and snapping
away and destroying the audience
Alas, he sits in the front row, and
shortly gets up and saunters out; when he
returns I suggest he might like to sit in
one place, preferably at the rear -- which
triggers an extraordinary tirade from him,
he has just gone out to pee, humans have
to pee don't they, you too, Mr Irving,
etc., until the audience howls at him to
sit down. -- The travails of a travelling
UP AT SEVEN. "I'll report later today,"
I write lamely to Bente in London. "Long
day yesterday, and I've a 350 mile drive
through the mountains to the next location
in Idaho. There seem to be just as many
I stop at noon-thirty near some
mountain lake to phone her. Jessica
answers. It was her birthday a few days
ago and I ask her how it feels to be ten.
"What do you mean?" "I mean, for example,
now you can boss nine-year-olds around. .
"Daddy," she exclaims, "I am just about
to watch an important programme. I'll get
I can hear the start-up music for Buffy
in the background.
AFTER DRIVING ALL DAY I arrive at four at
the Mark IV hotel in Moscow, Idaho. The
insolent manager informs me he's cancelled
our booking as "he hasn't enough kitchen
When I ask to speak with his lawyer, he
phones for the police to remove me from
the hotel for "disruptive behaviour."
Two scrawny young females with notepads
are hanging around outside, local
journalists. Will I go ahead
"That's for me to know and you to find
The town lives up to its name. Three of
Moscow's ten police patrol cars pursue me
down Main Street -- at a stately ten miles
per hour -- and serve a Trespass Notice on
me at the hotel's request.
The cops are very friendly, say they
have a duty to uphold law and order if
there is a protest demo against me: "We're
only carrying out our orders, sir."
I say: "Saddam's officers are probably
saying the same thing." "Nice comeback,
that," says one, admiringly.
check in at the University Inn and
download messages. I have sent a picture
of yesterday's blizzard on the Interstate
to London. An unusually solicitous
Benté writes: "Try to drive
carefully! Take care." I reply: "You
suddenly realised I am the breadwinner,
She responds: "You've got it!" -- a
The snow since Portland has made
driving very worrisome.
OUR MOSCOW ORGANISER, Alfred H, has
seamlessly relocated the function to a
local hotel, which I have paid for in
advance some weeks ago as an
I warn him that the traditional enemy
is bent on rioting. But it seems they
cannot locate this new address (nor
however can most of my audience).
Getting tired of all this, I deliver a
sharply abridged version of my talk. The
handful present includes a university
professor (no friend, I am later told), a
local newspaperman whom I have allowed in
despite my aversion to them, and a
plain-clothes police officer with a
radiotelephone. It reminds me of Germany,
where officers also had to watch on my
TODAY I AM JUST DRIVING south through
Idaho. I slip heavily on ice crossing to
the reception desk, thumping my back
badly, and limp all day.
We have obtained the
letter written by hatemonger Jamie
McCarthy to the Pyramid Brewery in
Seattle to get them to cancel our
This pest has lost them a lost of
business while doing us no real harm. I
advise him: "Your letter, because it
induces them to violate a lawful
contractual agreement, commits a tort, an
offence. Get legal advice before you do it
DENVER THERE IS A GANG plotting violence
to disrupt my penultimate engagement
there. Their ringleader [SEE
SPECIAL ITEM] is Sara
Salzman, (right), a local
Holocaust specialist; she has bragged to
the press that she intends to make my
visit to Denver as "nasty" as
Forewarned is forearmed. Thanks to
expert friends -- and to Bill Gates'
shortcomings in providing proper email
security for PC's -- we immediately hack a
handy "keyhole" into the directives Mrs
In future she should go Mac, or pay for
better firewalls. I expect my keyhole to
enable me to identify her moles and lead
her entire greasy gang somewhat astray
when Saturday comes.
"In cases like these," I advise my
Denver organiser, "we find the address of
a local gay bar and pack off the suspected
enemy moles to wait all day there."
As stage one, I post on my website the
report appearing in this morning's
Moscow Daily News. To mislead the
Salzman gang I temporarily add a fake
sentence at the end, reading "Irving
speaks at a hotel near Denver airport on
I also change the identity of my car in
the Daily News item.
AFTER A MORNING OF paperwork I set out
from Idaho, and drive steadily south all
Not much wider than a country lane,
Highway 95 goes initially over high
plateaux and treeless prairies covered
with snow. There is rarely more than one
other car in sight. Before Lewiston, the
road plunges unexpectedly several thousand
feet to cross a river and valley, and
there are spectacular views of the town as
the road swoops down the mountainside in
After two hours I pause at White Bird
for coffee with Alfred H, last night's
Moscow organiser, and his family. We share
a quiet chuckle at the discomfiture
awaiting the traditional enemy in Denver.
Then straight down to Boise, the state
capital, and on to Mountain Home, where I
try two motels.
At the first, a sleepy Asian is manning
the desk. I turn on my heel, explaining
politely, "I no longer stay at Asian-run
hotels in this country."
This is not a racist remark; it is
merely the sad experience of such hotels'
filth and lack of maintenance. In part
thanks to special financing provisions,
the Asians are taking over the motel
industry in the United States; and with
some (few) exceptions, they are destroying
it with speed.
The man runs out after me declaring,
"I'm not an Asian"- but in a strong
It is not for nothing that a new hotel
sign is burgeoning:
AMERICAN OWNED AND
RUN, it says.
At the next motel, it is clearly an
Asian running it, and the reception area
stinks of week-old curry. "Jeez!" I
exclaim, and back out. I check into a
Sleep Inn at the next exit.
AN AWFUL NIGHT. SOMEBODY is playing his
television until three or four AM. Weird
dreams about car auctions. I am feeling
very tired now. Perspiring heavily this
morning, although it is below freezing
I set out for Salt Lake at 8:45 AM. A
beautiful drive across the rest of the
southern Idaho desert. Prairie after
prairie -- I set the cruise control at
eighty for hours at a time, and encounter
virtually no traffic.
Two people phone around 11 AM for
details of this evening's location in Salt
Lake; one, "Dave," meets my criteria, and
I unhesitatingly give him the details.
The other, "Justin", who has an
ignorant-sounding voice, withholds his
surname and says vaguely only that his
interest in "the trial" had drawn his
attention to the function; I tell him to
call me again at five and I will decide
whether to give him the location. I arrive
at Salt Lake unexpectedly early, around
With difficulty I find the restaurant,
Tucci's, an upscale Italian joint, far too
open, in a trendy shopping-mall eight
miles south of Salt Lake City. I know at
once that the evening may run into trouble
with the traditional enemy. A poorly
cooked lunch arrives; it is indigestible,
and I leave most of it.
"Justin" phones again, and I tell him I
have decided not to identify the location.
(He has failed to meet several criteria.)
After he pleads convincingly, I relent and
tell him, in strict confidence, where to
come, adding that I trust him to tell
nobody else -- an error as it turns
A few friends finally navigate their
way to this difficult site. Travis M, the
organizer, admits he has not seen it
before. I point at once to the drawbacks:
poor food, picture windows on three sides
of the "private room," a difficult
Two men outside start handing out an
offensive Nizkor leaflet to incoming
customers. One is no doubt the lying
"Justin". Half an hour after I begin my
talk, the manageress interrupts and says
nobody told her we were going to hand out
I reply that these two louts are
nothing to do with us, and security is
called to remove them.
The enemy doesn't like that at all:
Fifteen minutes later, the manager is
receiving furious phone calls, demanding
that our meeting be halted. Professor
Ernst R., a noted neurologist of the
University of Utah, goes to negotiate, but
it is clear that we are going nowhere
At 11 PM I set out for Denver, five or
six hundred miles to the south-east over
the Rocky Mountains. I have to be there by
around ten AM on Saturday. I drive all
Friday across Wyoming in
telephone-silence, as Sprint phones do not
work anywhere in Wyoming (or in Colorado
either, as it turns out).
The road is almost dead straight for
hundreds of miles -- I twice cross the
Continental Divide at 7,000 feet. I raise
the cruise control setting to eighty-five,
and rarely have to tap the brakes to slow
It is like driving across a totally
unpopulated moonscape. Stunning geological
features abound: table-mountains on every
horizon, with sheer rock faces showing
millions of years of different strata;
giant rock formations thrust up out of
other strata like thumbs through a
pie-crust; there is not a tree in sight,
and only a few shrubs dot the bare
landscape, which is covered by a wispy,
yellowish, grass-like fuzz.
From an isolated highway restaurant in
this desert I call London. Jessica is
sitting in front of her computer as
always. "Slouching," she happily
I arrive in Denver at nine PM, and
blunder around for forty-five minutes
looking for a hotel in Aurora, a suburb of
I at once check the "keyhole."
Sara Salzman has still not located
tomorrow's location -- which is right here
in Aurora. From Salt Lake, she has
received an email confirming that "Justin"
was indeed the enemy's mole there. He
seems to have illegally taped his two
phone conversations with me.
Mrs Salzman and her unsavoury cronies
have fallen for the disinformation I
planted in the Moscow Daily News
She has now advised all her gang
members that I am to speak at a hotel
"near Denver airport" on Saturday, and
they expect to learn the precise location
shortly "from their mole." They will, they
It is not hard to identify him: he is
calling himself "Michael Wilde," and he
alone receives this from me toward
Dear all -
Humble apologies for this late
notification, but I was travelling
through Wyoming from Salt Lake all day
and Sprint never told me when I signed
up with them that they had no coverage
whatsoever in Wyoming. By the time I
reached Colorado this evening it was
too late to call.
So here is tomorrow Saturday's
location by email: please keep it under
your hat. Tell no-one. We have booked a
room at the Denver International
Airport Marriott (the actual address,
if you're coming by taxi, is 16455 East
We have asked the hotel to deny any
function taking place. The booking is
under a less than obvious name, as you
will see when you arrive.
I suggest you come between twelve
and one, when I shall arrive; we'll
have a meal and then I will talk.
Looking forward to seeing y'all
I think that strikes the right note,
while plugging obvious loop-holes in
SATURDAY, DECEMBER 20, 2003: At ten AM
a glimpse through the "keyhole"
reveals Sara Salzman instructing her gang
to head out to the airport Marriott at one
PM. Tee-hee. Our actual location is
miles away in southern Denver, and we're
meeting at mid-day.
While she and her herd of thugs
stampede out to the beautiful new
International Airport and charge
frantically around inside the Marriott, we
have an excellent lunch and a fine
afternoon. Not a sign of the enemy. I
leave around five or six PM for the east,
as it is already dark.
THE TOUR IS NEARLY OVER. I drive for many
hours across the darkened plains and
prairies of this beautiful country. I feel
close to God, and close too to Josephine.
The sky is jet black and moonless, but
dotted with myriads of stars.
At one stage, about a hundred miles
dead ahead to the east, there is a sudden
vertical streak through the sky, falling
as fast as a streak of lightning, ending
with a brilliant, vivid, lime-green
mid-air flash about the diameter of the
Moon: it must have been a meteorite
hitting the atmosphere and burning up.
I check into a Kansas motel and write
this message to Benté:
Very brief report. Denver
meeting went well, finished five PM,
set out at once eastwards, drove four
hundred miles, and I am now somewhere
in the middle of the Kansas prairies,
and about to go to sleep, 1:15 AM local
Tomorrow about eight hundred miles to
drive to Illinois.
The snow and ice are melting. I send
pictures of yesterday's highway to
Benté: "Now you see why I like
driving in this country. This was Wyoming.
Like nowhere else on Earth."
Before leaving, I also report Sara
Salzman's latest effusions to
Benté, with a message headed:
"Who's a clever boy, then!"
Their shouts of "We've got him!," and
"Let's get the British bastard!" must seem
premature to Salzman's gang this
I now also thank the local Denver
organizer and reveal to him my "keyhole"
and the last messages it has disclosed -
"Just to round off our relish," I add,
"Makes me feel a tad guilty (not)."
It is nine PM before I reach Decatur,
My own message box contains a pathetic
last bleat from the Salzman gang's mole
Mr. Irving, why did you lie
You gave an address for the
Denver location of your speech and I
waited there for two hours, and you
never showed up.
Do you think this is funny? Maybe
the Jews are right about you. -
I reply at 10:24 PM : "You believe they
might be wrong?", and go to bed.
dossier on the origins of
Index to this
"Let's get the
British bastard!" " How emails from a
badly leaking laptop scuppered the
violent plans of the traditional
enemies of Free Speech in
from Jamie McCarthy in 1999 and