A Spy's Journey Page 8
But we still had the remaining grenades, ammunition, and explosives to dispose of. We held an informal meeting with a few of our more ingenious people, and one of them offered to assist. He was a member of a local yacht club and suggested that we simply go out yachting a couple of times late in the evening when no one was around and deposit the material in the lake. So we proceeded. However, only a very small yacht was available, and when we loaded all the material into the boat it took on water. So we had to make several trips out, but we did finally complete our objectives per headquarters’ instructions. Since we never heard anyone talk about a geyser erupting on the lake, we assumed that all the explosives sat safely on the bottom of the lake.
Due to our hardship status, we were entitled to receive a monthly pouch of video movies for entertainment. The chief always took the entire shipment home first, and then they would trickle down to the rest of us. But this time the pouch included a video of the first U.S. space shuttle landing in the United States. The chief invited all the chiefs of the local security apparatus to view the landmark film at his house. This was a major event, because the local chiefs were basically forbidden from coming to our homes. But they made an exception for this historic occasion.
We all showed up for the big event at his house, and he offered an eloquent introduction about the U.S. space program, then started the video. Instead of the shuttle gliding across the screen, however, it was Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in Top Hat. Whoever had taken all the videotapes home to set up for our chief had gotten them mixed up. Our guests, apparently unwilling to trade a shuttle landing for tap-dancing, got up and left shortly afterward. Now that was funny!
In another caper, we were only able to laugh about it after we left post. At most hardship posts, theft is a major problem. So most posts hire local nationals to provide some semblance of security for our families and housing areas. But we had a lazy lout who was paid to come into our housing compound after dark and supposedly guard us until daylight. One evening after midnight, I was restless and heard what I thought were a few sounds in the yard. I got up, went downstairs, and turned on the outside light. I immediately saw our Honda station wagon, which we parked right under the carport, and all the rubber and aluminum trim that holds the windows in place was shredded and lying on the ground. All the windows of the car, front and rear, were gone. Thieves had come into the compound and removed them. I immediately ran around to the back where I found our guard sleeping in the dark. I kicked him as hard as I could, and to his everlasting intelligence, he jumped up and ran before I could beat the daylights out of him.
That was bad enough, but I really lost my cool when two days later I received a reprimand from the post administrative officer alleging that I had threatened a local employee. I grabbed the notice, walked into the admin officer’s office, looked him in the eye, tore the reprimand into tiny pieces, and dropped them onto his desk. Further, I informed him that it would be in his and the post’s best interest that I never see or find that guard again. And, on top of everything else, we had lost all our car’s windows just as the monsoons began. The car’s interior was completely mildewed, and we had to rent a car to make it through monsoon season.
In many of our smaller denied-area hardship posts medical emergencies can strike without warning. A communicator with a family history of heart disease was assigned to one hardship post, even though we had inadequate medical care. We had one physician who drank to excess and a medical technician. Beyond that, we were at the mercy of the local medical system that for 25 years prohibited its doctors from training outside the country. They also prohibited the importation of foreign products, including medicines. Our best hope, in the event of a medical emergency, was to evacuate our employee or family member on U.S. government aircraft to a neighboring country for medical treatment.
But in the communicator’s case, proper treatment came too late. One afternoon, the communicator collapsed as he was getting into his car after a game of tennis. An embassy wife, who happened to be a nurse, and I pulled him out of the car and attempted CPR. But it was clear he had died immediately from a massive heart attack. Unfortunately, we had to continue our efforts as someone tried to find a doctor to declare him dead. We struggled over his lifeless body for three hours, alternating CPR, until the doctor arrived, injected adrenaline directly into his heart, and declared him dead. It was my difficult duty to notify the communicator’s wife and family of his death.
And I had my own health troubles. Toward the end of my tour, I contracted a serious case of hepatitis from eating uncooked food at a reception. I felt sick within a few hours, but I never counted on being close to death. My case progressed so badly that a doctor from a neighboring country was called in, and he determined that I was too ill to be evacuated by air. In private, the doctor suggested to me that I put my personal affairs in order. As I started about the business of completing wills and other arrangements, I tried to reconcile myself to the possibility that I would not be leaving the country alive. After two months of difficulty, I began to recover with the help of a case of Coca-Cola and a pound of hard candy a day. The Coke and candy replaced sugars that my liver was failing to produce, and the treatment worked well enough to get me back on my feet and to recovery back in the United States. My son, who was then four years old, had watched me consuming these huge amounts of Coke and candy in bed, and commented to my wife, “Boy, I wouldn’t mind getting hepatitis myself.” We had a good laugh.
When I finally recovered enough to go downstairs for the first time in two months, I went outside and found my son walking around our yard in his bare feet. Since we had a real problem with cobra snakes, we never walked around without shoes on. So in my first venture outside in months, I admonished my son, and as he went inside to put on his shoes he said, “I liked it better when you had hepatitis and left me alone.” Brash, but still funny. I did not fully recover from the disease for two years.
I finally got back on my feet, and the chief came over and pronounced me fit enough to be his tennis partner in the National Open Tennis Tournament. Despite my wife’s pleas, and against my own best judgment, I struggled out of bed and partnered up with my chief for the tournament. He was a good player, and I had won several previous tournaments. But I played terribly this time, and we lost in the first round. The chief was agitated and kept telling me how terribly I had played. “I guess I should have gotten someone else as a partner,” he said, and I didn’t reply. Later, as my tour was about to end, the chief personally rated me and dropped me a full category in every rating area. He offered no explanation but included a comment in his narrative that I can still remember today: “This officer’s performance was hindered by the fact he allowed himself to become sick and unable to do his work.” Although this review was a cause for grievance, I decided to cut bait and get out while I could. Upon my return to headquarters, I learned that I had been promoted.
One of the things I have always loved about the Agency is that your reputation—the so-called hallway files—tells more of the story than official records. And I learned that I had an excellent reputation for being good at espionage and that the promotion panel ignored the last fitness report from my chief as out of character.
Game, set, and match to me.
SEVEN
BACK HOME IN EAST ASIA
1979–1980
After I returned home to an assignment at headquarters for the first time in a decade, I was anxious to work on the Asian target. I was more than pleased when the chief of the East Asia division called me in and told me of an assignment overseeing an operational proposal that would be worldwide in scope, and put me into liaison with the FBI as well. I went back to my newly assigned desk and began to set up shop. I was pleased.
I wasn’t so pleased when two hours later a colleague who had just returned showed up to take his assignment—the same as mine. I told him not to set up yet, and that I would hold up starting my assignment and would be right back. I went back up to the chief’s
office, where he sheepishly asked me what was wrong. I asked him about my colleague, and he admitted that he had offered us both the same job. He then went into a spiel that there was room for both of us to be deputy chiefs. I looked him squarely in the eye and told him not to worry, that I had no intention of sharing the job he had promised me, and that I was going to go find work elsewhere. He sputtered and said, “Give me some time to work something out.” I went down to the cafeteria to get a cup of coffee, and when I returned to clean out my desk, my colleague had moved on to another job. Here I learned that if I just stood up for myself and my beliefs, the Agency would do the right thing in the end—even if it took some serious convincing.
One thing I did enjoy was visiting a number of our locations that were assisting us with our business in China. One such trip took me to London, which is always a great place to visit. While there, I was able to spend a good deal of productive time working with other China specialists. One evening, I was guest of honor at a dinner hosted by our London chief. He was a bright, effective officer who had adopted something of a British persona, which was not unique. The CIA has a large number of Anglophiles who seem to want to pass themselves off as British. Historians will recall that the legendary CIA chief of counterintelligence, James Jesus Angleton, was an Anglophile as well. As we sat at the dinner table, the subject of briefing our respective senior political leaders came up. The senior British representative present noted that it was difficult to get the Queen to understand our business. Our chief took a moment and said, “My dear fellow, if you can’t brief your Queen properly, I would be so very pleased to do so on your behalf.” Wow. That ended the evening, as our guests excused themselves and left in a huff. Then the chief turned to me and said, “I say, do you suppose they didn’t like my suggestion?” I said nothing.
While assigned to headquarters, I witnessed a remarkable incident that came to be known as the great strawberry theft. The DCI at the time was fond of strawberries and kept a bowl of them in a small refrigerator outside his office. One evening he went to get his strawberries, and they weren’t there. He must have been quite upset, because, according to an eyewitness, he exploded and ordered security to investigate the theft of his strawberries. Since this DCI had fired a lot of people who had a lot of friends, the inevitable happened. Instead of just letting it ride, a notice came out of headquarters requesting help in finding the strawberry culprit. The next morning, someone had posted a printed response in every elevator at headquarters claiming responsibility for taking and eating the strawberries. It was signed “The Phantom.” Rumor has it that the DCI went ballistic, but someone must have talked him out of a broader investigation, and the incident died out.
It was also during this headquarters stopover that I learned one of the best-kept secrets in Washington (that is, it was until it was blown in a book about Robert Hanssen)—the favorite hangout for FBI and Washington-based CIA operatives (as well as KGB agents) was a place called The Good Guys.1 The dancing girls couldn’t exactly be called strippers, since they began their routines totally nude, except for a garter belt on one leg where adoring patrons would stuff their money. I noticed (from afar) that patrons typically began by stuffing $1 bills into the dancers’ garter belts. After a few drinks, they upped the ante to $5. I was there a couple of times, each at the insistence of either an FBI or CIA colleague. It was a dimly lit place, and the food was only average. But what ambiance! CIA business was not discussed there as far as I could tell, and that was a good thing.
I spent barely one year in the desk assignment, but it proved vital to renewing contacts and giving me experience in headquarters’ end of espionage. I quickly discovered what most operations people learn—that I much preferred overseas work to headquarters work. I just didn’t like the bureaucracy involved in headquarters assignments. But I do have to say that the Agency is streamlined and efficient in comparison with any other branch of government.
1. Adrian Havill, The Spy Who Stayed Out in the Cold: The Secret Life of FBI Double Agent Robert Hanssen (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2001), pp. 101–102.
EIGHT
A CHANGE OF VENUE
1980–1983
Once word got out that I was available for another field assignment, I didn’t have to wait long for an excellent opportunity. I heard that the Agency was encouraging rotational assignments to areas outside of one’s area of expertise, so I looked for an assignment that would enable me to broaden my experience. When asked if I would like a European assignment, I discussed it with my wife, and we decided that we liked the idea of going to Europe. It would be a change of pace from the Far East—and I thought of sipping wine along the Via Veneto or eating canapés in a Paris bistro.
Yup, a European assignment sounded great.
I wound up in a European assignment all right, in the southern tier where terrorism was a significant threat, and where Americans were regular targets. But it was a chance to get experience outside my area—and the chief there wanted an Asian specialist to work with the country’s growing Asian population. It turned out to be a terrific professional experience in which I earned the first of two rapid promotions.
Little did I know that a few months after I began this assignment I would be spending New Year’s Eve under a table with another man. Here’s how it happened.
I had formed a good relationship with our technical experts—something that all good case officers learn is of tremendous value early in their careers. These are the guys with the toys that give us tremendous capabilities in running our operational intelligence agents. They provide the basics—secret writing, covert communications, microdot photography, locks and picks, listening devices, and more. Without them, we would be hamstrung in collecting our intelligence.
Upon arrival, I learned that they were planning an operation to retrieve a state-of-the-art listening device that had been planted in a dining-room table of a senior officer of a hostile intelligence service. After some relatively good audio production (known as a “take”), the device had gone dead. Our headquarters understandably wanted to retrieve the device to both analyze why it went off the air, and also to prevent the opposition from retrieving it. As planning progressed, the technicians asked if I’d like to go along. Of course, I wanted to go. My mission would be to act as an additional pair of eyes—and it was unwritten policy that in all entry operations a case officer had to go in with the tech. This was to ensure that case officers planned these operations well, since they had to take the same risk as the techs.
As we planned the operation, we included all the normal activities: ascertaining when the target would be gone, putting countersurveillance out on the street to warn us if trouble was coming, getting two-way radios ready, and assembling the tools we would need. As in all well-run, important operations, we decided to rehearse things to avoid preventable problems. Our headquarters approved the plan, with the caveat that, once we got to the target apartment’s door to determine what type of key we needed for an undetected entry, we would return to headquarters to discuss the operation before attempting the actual retrieval.
We decided that the New Year’s holiday would provide an excellent opportunity for our rehearsal. We learned that the target and his wife would be out New Year’s Eve, so that evening we began our first reconnaissance. We waited until dark, and when our countersurveillance determined that the target and his wife had departed, the tech and I, admittedly nervous, made our entry into the target’s apartment house. So far, so good.
We got as far as the door, noted the type of lock, and made a wax impression of the keyhole. Next I saw the tech take a lock pick out of his pocket and open the door. As I protested, he went right into the dark apartment. I couldn’t let him go in alone, so I went in, too. We fumbled around looking for the table where the device had been planted. We could use only a small penlight. It wasn’t long before my radio squawked, scaring the hell out of us, so I reached over and turned it off. We spent the next three hours under each table in the apa
rtment, lying on our backs, tugging, pulling, and examining.
Finally, with both of us soaking wet with sweat from both the exertion and the tension, we determined that the device was nowhere to be found. We made our way back out, and exited without a trace. By this time, the New Year had come and gone. Our surveillants and our boss were beside themselves with worry that something had happened to us. Like good professionals, however, they stayed off the radios and kept in place in case we needed them. When we got outside, I turned the radio back on and made contact, and we all returned to the rendezvous point. After all the tension, the conversation turned to what the two of us were doing on our backs in the dark on New Year’s Eve. I would never live this down.
I also learned from this tech that you have to seize every opportunity, and it makes good sense to go in only once if at all possible. Our headquarters was a little miffed, but I learned that, in operations, the final decision must rest with those taking the risk. As for the listening device, we later found it in a warehouse where the target and his wife had stored the table, which we bought once we had the opportunity.
I also learned from this tour about the value of having good, intelligent children around—and of the necessity to keep them in mind when conducting espionage. Two stories will illustrate this.
Both my daughter and my son knew that I was gone a good bit of the time in the evenings and on weekends, and that I sometimes just plain disappeared for a few days at a time. To date, this had not been a problem. With my five-year-old son, it was simply, “Dad is going to see a man about a horse,” and that stopped all the questions. But I’d have to come up with better cover stories after an acquaintance who didn’t know what I really did for a living dropped by one evening. My son answered the door.