EXFIL
Anthony C. Patton
Double Agent Publishing
Copyright © 2021 Anthony C. Patton
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
This book was prepared by the author in his personal capacity. The views and opinions expressed in this book are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the official policy, opinion, or position of their employer.
ASIN: B093Z3NL7N
Cover design by: Rob Williams
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
About The Author
Books By This Author
PROLOGUE
Human Intelligence—aka HUMINT—is the art and science of manipulating a source to betray his country, and then protecting the resulting flow of secrets from compromise.
Ever since the harlot of Jericho offered safe haven to the Israelites, extending a scarlet cord from her window to survive the wrath of Jehovah, many crucial moments in history have turned on the audacious actions of spies.
I have learned over the years, though, that espionage rarely rises to the heady heights of art.
The more mundane “science of intelligence” usually suffices to motivate a would-be source to cross the line. In fact, the bureaucracy often demands the low-risk and predictable option, if only to suppress the blinding light of creativity.
The science of intelligence breaks would-be sources into categories.
Some love America, or what they believe America represents. Some have lost total faith in their own countries or feel themselves wronged in all-too-painful ways. Some have insatiable egos that shamelessly inhale even the most transparent and disingenuous forms of flattery. And many, but not all, say they do it for the love of money.
All this makes the global target pool wide and deep.
The science of intelligence sometimes calls for tightening the screws on delicate pressure points to motivate a would-be source to cooperate, but only as a last resort, because it violates the jousting code of the craft—gentlemen spies. Besides, only someone immune to coercion, either because he’s a saint or doesn’t care, should attempt to coerce a would-be source. Otherwise, we reap what we sow.
Some intelligence operations do, however, rise to the level of art, the kind a Medici tyrant might fund with sacks of gold just to admire the sheer beauty of it all, especially if the puppet master succeeds in remaining hidden. This is where I entered the stage, or so I hoped.
What I aspired to more than anything else in my career was to see my own craft rise to the level of art, especially during my singular focus on defeating the cyber warfare program of China, the single greatest threat to our national security.
ONE
So there I was, pacing and checking my watch in a swank Bangkok hotel suite, overlooking the Soi Cowboy red-light district, notorious for its debauchery and all-too-lenient age of consent. I was waiting for my partner in crime to arrive and rehearsing my lines while glancing intermittently at a 24-hour cable news channel that wasn’t ashamed of America or afraid to identify our enemies by name.
(NB: Christians and Jews don’t accessorize with suicide vests.)
The uniform of the day for this solemn occasion was a navy-blue blazer with white dress shirt, pressed and starched with silver cufflinks.
On the screen, a talking head in a Hollywood square pontificated about a proposed cybersecurity bill, which everyone in the business knew would have no real impact on national security. It was all lip service—a misguided attempt to “do something.”
I turned off the television and refreshed my tumbler with blended Scotch on the rocks, the golden elixir that Intelligence Officers around the world imbibed to perform their magic and weaken the defenses of would-be sources. As much as our livers might otherwise prefer, intelligence operations were often fueled by type-A personalities who could hold their liquor while rising up the ranks.
You might expect a connoisseur like yours truly to brag about my preference for single-malt, but the truth was that Asians preferred blended, which was why I had bought a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue Label for the occasion. The science of intelligence operations demanded that we transform ourselves to make the would-be source the center of our universe.
The end of my tour as the U.S. Army Attaché at the U.S. Embassy in Thailand was a good time to reflect on the past and to plan a course for my future.
As an Intelligence Officer, my time in Bangkok was successful. I immersed myself in the habits and nuances of the culture, cultivated an undisclosed number of new sources, and wrote scores of authoritative intelligence reports. A singular focus on the pursuit of quality reports usually decreases the quantity of reports, but this wasn’t the case with me.
As a husband and a father, however, my tour had “areas for improvement,” as we say.
I heard the plastic room key card slide into the door, followed by an aggressive twist of the door handle—the signal to don my game face. Muffled voices came next, barely audible. On queue, Captain Tom Howard entered the bedroom and gave me a thumbs-up, grinning as he leaned against the wall with the beaming afterglow of success.
Despite his last name, his Puerto Rican mother’s genes had won the day for this Latino heartthrob. I liked working with him because he was good at his job and represented the Army well. I prided myself on being his mentor.
Tom was clearly having a stellar night, no doubt lubricated with a few drinks in anticipation of the grand finale. Like me, he’d joined the DIA military attaché game early in his career and still displayed youth and inexperience, but I’d taken him under my wing and showed him the ropes. Every move he made was cleared with me in advance, and he was on the right track.
I nodded to show my support, poured two more drinks, and gestured for him to lead the way to the living room to start the fireworks. To my dismay, his excitement faded from his demeanor.
“Ready to pull the trigger?” I asked to get him back on track.
This would be his first recruitment, so he was probably plagued by doubts.
One of the first challenges of espionage was putting your trust in the tools of the trade, which weren’t always intuitive. This case was textbook, though: we had led our victim down the primrose path.
“It’s nothing, Colonel, it’s…”
I squeezed his shoulder. “Let’s close this deal—easy day.”
He sipped his drink, sweat glistening on his forehead.
“About the other night at Club Ecstasy.” He took a deep breath and turned away, unable to look me in the eye. “My wife can never find out,” he said, finally, daring to cast a furtive glance back. “Never.”
Tom had no idea how offended I was by his comment, but I gave him a mulligan and continued as his mentor. “I’ve got your back, brother.”
I twitche
d inwardly with irritation but gave nothing away as I gripped his chin firmly to gain eye contact—always important.
“Never, ever forget that,” I added.
He nodded. “Thank you, sir.” He exhaled and met my gaze, confident yet cautious of my rank. “If I can be honest, sir, I don’t think Captain Chen is going to accept the pitch. Are you sure we have approval from Washington?”
I smiled, slapping him on the shoulder to convey misplaced confidence.
“Of course,” I lied. “Let’s do this.”
I opened the door to see Captain Chen from the People’s Liberation Army sitting on the living room couch watching television—a living, breathing Chicom. He wore black-rimmed designer glasses, a black suit, and a striped dress shirt.
Tom and I walked around opposite sides of the couch and sat to offer him a drink.
“Captain Chen,” Tom said, “this is my colleague I was telling you about, Colonel Lance Reed.”
I shook Chen’s hand—limp fish—forcing a smile as we clinked glasses to toast. “Captain Chen, Captain Howard has told me about all your great work. Such a privilege to meet you.”
Chen nodded cordially.
“Nice to meet you, Colonel Reed. Captain Howard and I have had many informative discussions about how our two countries are providing military training and equipment in Southeast Asia.”
“Truth in advertising,” I said, cutting to the chase with a glance at Tom. “Captain Howard and I work for the Defense Intelligence Agency—DIA.”
Chen set his drink down, not surprised by this sudden turn of events. They never were surprised, no matter how much they might protest. “I understand that your military attaché program is managed by DIA. Why are you telling me this?”
Ah, feigned confusion. Let the science of intelligence begin.
The civilian brass in Washington didn’t appreciate the magnitude of the Chinese cyber threat and lacked the testicular fortitude to counter it, so patriots like yours truly had to force the issue and ask for forgiveness later. So, after a pregnant pause, I reached into the soft-sided leather briefcase pre-staged on my side of the couch, slowly removing a black and white photograph of a Chinese military officer, and setting it on the table. “Do you know this man?”
Chen studied the photograph with his eyes narrowed, shook his head, and instinctively removed a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his blazer pocket.
He flicked his thumb to conjure an orange-blue flame, inhaling deeply.
“Never seen him before,” he said as he exhaled.
“Captain Chen, we both know that’s not true,” I said, tapping the photograph. “We both know he’s your boss in Beijing—Lieutenant Colonel Li, who has a nasty habit of hacking American computers and stealing intellectual property.”
Revealing someone’s secret boss was no reason to get flustered, but it was enough to prime his imagination for what was coming next. After another pause, I drew four more photographs from the briefcase, lining them up to create the illusion of cinematic motion: Captain Chen and a Thai prostitute talking; the two kissing and getting undressed; the two engaging in foreplay on a bed; and Chen thrusting in all his glory. Never forget to have a sense of humor.
“My God, Captain Chen, you must have split her in two!”
Chen crushed his cigarette and stood defiantly. “This is an outrage! I will report this to my embassy immediately.”
I refreshed his drink, gesturing for him to sit. “And tell them what exactly?”
As I’d hoped, Chen sat, sipped his drink, and leaned back, relieved to finally face judgment.
“What do you want?”
“Information about China’s cyber operations would be just swell,” I said and set a pen and notebook down on the table.
He pushed the photographs away. “I told you, I work for…”
“Captain Chen,” I interrupted, shaking my head. “Stop.”
We had to play the game with bold moves if we wanted to protect America from our enemies, foreign and domestic, despite the protests from gutless bureaucrats or so-called progressives in Washington.
Chen leaned back, glaring at me.
In accordance with the science of intelligence and the jousting protocols, he had violated his own moral standards. The only reason we were in a position to exploit his misdeeds was because he had slapped down cash for a prostitute of his own free will.
Everyone in the intelligence business knows the apocryphal story of the Middle Eastern diplomat who, when confronted with photographs of his own sexual misdeeds, cheerfully thanked the foreign Intelligence Officers and offered to buy copies. I assessed that Chen wasn’t in the market for naughty photographs and that his superiors would frown on such behavior.
Also, lest we forget, Chen, Lieutenant Colonel Li, and their ilk had declared war on America and threatened our way of life with a series of devastating cyberattacks.
Chen lit another cigarette and sipped his drink, with sweat glistened on his brow.
At this point, he could face the shame of begging forgiveness from his wife and his superiors, or double down and place his trust in me. If my assessment was correct, due to the superb work of Tom over the past few months, seeking forgiveness wasn’t in the cards.
“I want one million dollars and resettlement for my family,” he said.
Double down it is, thank you very much.
“Done.” I was in no position to offer asylum, but felt confident that Chen’s nod of approval would force DIA’s hand, to prove to the U.S. Intelligence Community that the CIA wasn’t the only game in town. “If you’re ever in trouble or need to get to safety, we have an exfil plan for you.” Not true, and I was in no position to offer this, either.
Exfiltration, aka exfil, would mean sneaking him out of China and resettling him and his family in America or another country. Again, force the hand.
Who, besides compromised politicians, would say no to Chen’s offer to provide secrets?
Nobody liked waterboarding until it produced actionable intelligence.
So, to solidify the deal and build trust, I handed Chen the photographs. In the old days, we would have offered the negatives as well, which meant something. He no doubt understood that we had digital copies (exactly how we’d obtained the photographs is an interesting story for a later time) but his vulnerable emotions and clouded judgment would take solace from this simple gesture.
Tom led Chen to the door, where they shook hands and exchanged hushed words as I finished my drink. According to plan, Chen had transferred the bad cop hate to me and was ready to move forward with good cop Tom, who, like the true professional he was, had built a genuine friendship. This interlude with me wouldn’t dissolve their bond.
Chen turned to me and pointed defiantly. “Lieutenant Colonel Li’s next cyberattack will bring America to its knees,” he said, slamming the door for added effect.
At that moment, I had no idea how much those chilling words would rattle my life. My only thought was of how we had hit a home run and would be lionized the next day in the halls of the Pentagon, or possibly fired.
With Chen gone, I gave Tom a firm embrace with a slap on the back.
This incident no doubt only made him more distressed about his own misdeed with the go-go dancer, but it had to be done. Colonels didn’t get promoted to brigadier general by playing it safe.
I could’ve stayed longer and offered more words of wisdom, but our goodbye had been in the works for weeks and there was no need to drag this out.
“Fantastic job,” I said, shaking his hand. “You’ve got it from here, brother. Look me up the next time you’re in D.C.”
Outside the suite, I lit a celebratory cigar and admired the neon lights and swirl of street noise as I strolled by the go-go bars in Soi Cowboy.
It was no accident that I scheduled the meeting with Chen near one of the red-light districts.
Men who live lives of quiet desperation often fantasize about one-night stands with random women while sitting a
lone in bars during business trips, not looking for it, but not turning a blind eye to fate. In Bangkok, however, the power of choice shifted to the realm of certainty, in the right place and for the right price.
I challenge any man worthy of the title to grip the firm ass of a nubile Thai princess and not indulge until exhaustion, especially knowing that you’ll still love your wife and kids the next day. So, strolling with anticipation by the familiar mauve neon lights of Club Ecstasy, I exhaled a cloud of smoke, locking eyes with Jewel, who was sipping a Cuba Libre through a straw.
Jewel was the prettiest of the bunch, with dazzling large brown eyes and silky black hair. A cartoon transformation of her face would look like an exotic Disney princess. She spoiled me with lavish attention and quickly became my favorite. On this occasion, she wore a blue-green plaid Catholic schoolgirls’ uniform, braided pigtails, black-rimmed glasses, and the most arousing fuck-me eyes the world had ever seen. She smiled, set her drink down, and followed me to a taxi away from the crowded street. There was never a doubt about how I would spend my last night in Bangkok. As much as I loved my wife and kids and prided myself on controlling my emotions, I feared that saying goodbye to Jewel would leave me depressed.
I often told myself that if a foreign intelligence service were to confront me with photographs of my own misdeeds, I, like that apocryphal Middle Eastern diplomat, would thank them and offer to buy copies, but even I didn’t really believe it.
TWO
Three years before that fateful night with Captain Chen, I arrived in Bangkok with my lovely wife Beth and our two teenage sons, Andrew and Troy, to serve as the U.S. Army Attaché in the Defense Attaché Office. Beth had resigned her commission a few years earlier to focus on raising the boys while pursuing her Ph.D. in International Relations, which included writing articles for prominent think tanks and attending conferences.
I love Beth in ways best described in sonnets, but despite having a maid, cook, and gardener while serving overseas, she described her choice to resign from the Army as a sacrifice for the family, wearing it like a badge of honor. I never mentioned that we had lost a paycheck for the college fund or that her life of academia seemed leisurely from where I stood.
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