The biggest surprise was learning that our meeting would be held in the FBI Washington Field Office. The FBI ran Chinese sources inside the United States, not overseas.
I was hoping that Brett would reveal something meaningful or profound during this meeting, from one professional to another. What was their interest in Captain Chen?
After presenting my CAC, I was directed to a conference room on the first floor, where Brett and an FBI special agent were sitting in leather chairs and reading files at an oval table.
Brett met me with a firm embrace, looking professorial in his reading glasses and tweed sport coat. His belly was protruding over his belt, though, and the yellowish tinge of his eyes suggested a steady flow of liquor over the years.
I half expected him to call me a son of a bitch, but he merely poured me a cup of coffee in an FBI mug, gesturing to the clean-shaven, buff special agent in a crisp white dress shirt and tie.
“Colonel Reed,” I said.
“Supervisory Special Agent Adam Nguyen,” he said, with badge, holstered weapon, and handcuffs on bold display; you just never knew when you might need to arrest someone in your own office. “I’m the head of our China CI Squad.”
He looked like someone accustomed to seeing life through the black-and-white lens of federal law enforcement. One might have expected an ethnic Chinese to hold such a position, not someone from Vietnam, but the Chinese were often distrustful of their own.
Even of someone working for the FBI.
“I hear Beth’s doing a bang-up job at West Point,” Brett said. “She sent me an invitation to her book-signing event.”
“Then I’ll see you there,” I said and sat.
“Welcome back from Bangkok,” Nguyen said. “We were intrigued by the Captain Chen case.”
This was an odd way to begin the discussion in light of the hate and resistance we’d faced along the way. Given how detailed I had been in my proposal, I wasn’t sure what they wanted me to say, so I opted for a trusty metaphor.
“The scenario wasn’t ideal, admittedly, but we found a weakness and turned the screws.”
Nguyen nodded slightly and jotted a note as if taking testimony for a deposition.
“In your experience, does ‘turning the screws’ ever work?” He glanced at Brett with a shrug. “I mean, time and again, these coercive pitches backfire. Wouldn’t you agree?”
This was an odd statement coming from the FBI, which had a history of running agent provocateurs. I blithely turned my attention to Brett.
“I saw your response to our proposal,” I opened. “Your concerns about coercion were noted. Look, he’s a family man and we had a video of him with a prostitute. I prefer it when they volunteer to work for us, but the Chinese aren’t exactly lining up to give us secrets. Hey, it worked.”
“By ‘work,’ you mean he said yes?” Nguyen asked.
Brett smiled and sipped his coffee, sensing my pain.
“In which case we should expect some good intelligence after the next meeting.” Brett closed a file and removed his reading glasses. “We see he didn’t provide any intelligence during the recruitment meeting. I’m sure that was an oversight.”
I sipped my coffee and nodded—fair enough, but the good folks in D.C. always found ways to Monday-morning quarterback our work in the field. If they had read our cables they would know that Chen was a rising star with no motivation to provide secrets, willingly.
“Are you sure he didn’t report this up his chain of command?” Nguyen asked. “And are you sure he isn’t a double agent who will now provide us disinformation?”
Within the Intelligence Community, FBI had the lead for counterespionage investigations, but the average special agent didn’t have enough training or experience in traditional HUMINT to speak authoritatively on these cases. Nguyen was asking all the right questions that would be asked of any case, but no one could provide a definitive answer until we had time to assess the quality of the information Chen would provide us over time. “Nothing is one hundred percent in this business, but Captain Howard is good. He’ll produce the intelligence,” I stated.
“And if he doesn’t?” Nguyen asked.
“He will,” I said. “And if this overseas case ever transfers stateside, we’ll be sure to query the FBI for advice—I promise.”
Brett resisted a smile and sipped his coffee.
“Roger that, Colonel. We’ll see how things play out. We normally like to see more skin before we drop trou, but here we are.”
Brett donned his reading glasses, glanced at a photograph, and slid it across the table to me. “You probably heard that our old pal Lieutenant Colonel Li got reassigned to D.C.”
“Captain Chen works for him,” Nguyen said, as if I didn’t know this about my own operation. “He runs China’s most sophisticated cyber operations around the world. Our main concern is that his arrival in D.C. suggests he’s running a high-level penetration of our government or is planning more cyberattacks.”
I slid the photograph back, perplexed as to why Nguyen was intent on educating me on Lieutenant Colonel Li. “We’re claiming primacy on this one. And by ‘we’, I mean yours truly.”
They looked at each other, not convinced.
“Look, he’s a military officer,” I added and focused on Brett, hoping to keep the discussion between HUMINT professionals, but prepared to take it to the next level if necessary. “The most natural approach would come from a fellow military officer.”
Brett smirked and gestured to Nguyen.
“Why are you looking at me? We’re on FBI’s turf. Adam’s running the show.”
The meeting venue now made sense. A Memorandum of Understanding between CIA and FBI delineated their responsibilities while overseas and inside the United States, with nary a mention of their military brethren. Brett had no desire to let Nguyen or FBI run the show, and probably used his charm and skills of manipulation to make FBI believe they were in charge.
“Li will see a civilian coming a mile away,” I said. “Not to mention, he knows me.”
Brett and Nguyen leaned closer to confer.
Brett’s body language suggested he agreed with me, but Nguyen seemed more skeptical. The way the discussion was playing out, I was beginning to think that FBI, not CIA, had opposed my coercive pitch of Chen, for reasons that were not yet clear. Finally, Nguyen turned to me.
“We identified someone to make the approach,” he said, “someone with extensive cybersecurity experience and,” he paused with a cautious glance to Brett, “someone who is certified in clandestine operations—a case officer. No disrespect, Colonel Reed, but we don’t believe a military attaché is the best option for this operation.”
And there you have it—the reason they didn’t support the coercive pitch.
I’d worked overseas for ten years cultivating sources and writing intelligence reports, just like every other Intelligence Officer, but I didn’t have the CIA stamp of approval from “The Farm,” so I wasn’t a member of the club. I had talked shop with Brett and other CIA officers over the years and was confident that I could employ the tools of the trade.
Brett slid an invitation with a Chinese flag across the table, all but asking me to take the lead.
“Look,” I said to Nguyen, testing the waters, “no disrespect, right back at you, but if you’re still upset about the operation in Bangkok…”
“We’re not upset. U.S. intelligence hasn’t had contact with Lieutenant Colonel Li since you and Brett met him ten years ago, in Islamabad. We have no doubt that you could make contact and get things moving in the right direction, but we need a seasoned officer with clandestine operations experience to do this right.”
As far as I was concerned, Brett’s silence was license for me to ignore Nguyen.
I folded the invitation, slid it into my inside coat pocket, and walked to the door. “I’ll tell you what, Supervisory Special Agent Nguyen, your officer and I will both make contact with Lieutenant Colonel Li tonight at the event. W
hoever gets a second meeting will take the lead.”
I closed the door and looked back through the glass to see Brett lean back in his seat and give me a cheerful wink.
SIX
National day diplomatic receptions were ideal venues for ambitious Intelligence Officers seeking new business. The salons were filled with potential sources, liquored up and eager to talk.
Many Intelligence Officers wasted many a night trolling these events in search of the next great source, but the case studies of successes meant they shouldn’t be missed, using them at a minimum to hone our skills and expand our network.
Although it might set off alarm bells for me to call someone from a hostile embassy to request a meeting, a chance encounter during one of these soirees would increase the odds of arranging a second meeting to cultivate the relationship.
It was a common mistake to engage too many potential sources or agree to meet too many after the event, which ate up your most precious resource: time.
Another mistake was being on display, a veritable social butterfly, which many would-be sources found off-putting.
The professional Intelligence Officer took the necessary time to survey the scene, sift through the noise, activate his honed sense of intuition to identify the real players, and discreetly do the diplomatic waltz until the right contact was made. The would-be source would often know what was happening and would appreciate the discretion, even if he had no intention of spying. If you hear the Jaws shark attack music in the back of your mind during your approach, you’re doing it all wrong.
A professional Intelligence Officer took his craft to the next level by researching who would attend an event and who had the right access to merit his attention. He even found clever ways to ensure that all the right people would get invited. Indeed, many would-be sources never even realized they were entering spider webs specially designed for them.
The amateur Intelligence Officer, by contrast, flailed in the wind and hoped for the best.
As I approached the reception room, I vowed to ignore everyone who might distract me from Lieutenant Colonel Li. When the history books were written, he would be my work of art.
Diplomatic receptions often reflected the host country’s spirit and heritage—the size of the event, the quality of the food and entertainment, and the ambience.
Countries like Mexico and Brazil weren’t G7 material but they threw great parties. Never underestimate the power of mariachi bands and margaritas, or samba dancers and caipirinhas.
For this event, China was pulling out all the stops: a swank salon with red and gold décor and Chinese artwork; waiters with white gloves bearing trays with wine, Scotch, beer, and water; and traditional dancers on stage, with live music. China’s day as a global power had arrived.
Two fit security guards with black ties and maroon blazers accepted invitations from the line of guests and steered them to the welcome line, which included the Chinese ambassador and senior diplomats who shook hands and greeted the guests. I had nothing to gain by enduring such formalities—never lose focus—so I entered the salon, accepted a Scotch on the rocks from a passing waiter, and sauntered to the periphery to blend in and scan the guests. The room was filled with would-be sources, but there was only one with the potential to threaten U.S. national security with devastating cyberattacks. Besides, the room was also filled with other Intelligence Officers from the alphabet soup of U.S. agencies, all hunting their own sources. The only one who concerned me was the mystery man with the CIA stamp of approval—my competition.
Li, as it turned out, was easy to find. He was mingling with a group of military attachés near the food line. “Excuse me,” I said as I passed by and paused with a double take.
“Colonel Reed?” he said and excused himself from the group.
He looked fit in his dark green uniform, taller than the average comrade. His round glasses suggested cyber geek but his chiseled features suggested poet-warrior.
“Lieutenant Colonel Li,” I said and offered a firm handshake as I glanced at his rank insignia, feigning surprise and jogging my memory, “Islamabad, right?”
He had the hands of a concert pianist, with manicured nails.
He seemed surprised and pleased to see me.
“About ten years ago,” he said. “How is Mr. Phelps?”
“Still causing trouble,” I said, getting a more than polite laugh in return. “I returned from our embassy in Bangkok a few days ago.” If Chen had reported his contact with Tom or me, Li would certainly know. If he didn’t, it was a sign that Chen had the potential to be a good long-term source.
He glanced around the room, not revealing any knowledge of my assignment to Bangkok, picking up as though ten years ago was yesterday.
“I hope you enjoyed the many natural beauties of Thailand. Where are you working now?”
“Cyber Command,” I said. “I’m not sure whether you follow this issue closely, but many are calling cyber warfare the wave of the future.” One of the tricks of elicitation was incorrectly raising issues you knew were of interest to a would-be source, in a way he viewed as natural and spontaneous. In this case, he knew I knew about his cyber activities.
“Cyber warfare is the wave of today, Colonel Reed,” he said like a disappointed teacher. “All future empires will rise or fall on cyber power. Is America prepared?”
“Hell if I know,” I said jokingly and gestured to the other side of the room as if someone was waving to me. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
“Of course,” he said with a respectful bow.
To most outside observers, this exchange wouldn’t raise any eyebrows, which was the point. Li knew his arrival would attract attention. I still couldn’t believe the Chinese government had assigned him to D.C., and our brief encounter wasn’t an accident. Nonetheless, the chat was brief and to the point, to minimize the chances of being observed by other Chinese diplomats and to pique his interest in speaking again before the end of the event.
He knew my goal in meeting him would be to get information about his cyberattacks, so if he were to be agreeable, the dance would begin.
I strode to the open bar near a gaggle of U.S. Army uniforms.
I passed several foreign military officers along the way but resisted a temptation to shake hands or exchange business cards, to maintain focus and avoid drawing too much attention to myself. I had paid my dues over the years, cultivating many good sources, so I had no interest in grabbing random business cards to write satisfactory intelligence reports that would never be read.
I recognized a few of the Army officers and caught up on palace intrigue while keeping an eye on Li. He managed to never look my way when I was looking, and I managed to never look his way when he was looking, but I imagined that he was doing the same thing, to include rehearsing what he would say during our next encounter.
I also knew that my mystery competition was in the room somewhere, but he still hadn’t made his move, at least not as far as I could tell.
“Colonel Reed.”
I turned to see an old friend from the Army War College who was now serving in the Pentagon, Colonel O’Connor, a J6 communications and computer expert who had worked his way up the ranks in a career that allowed the Army to execute its mission on and off the battlefield, without all the fanfare or glory. He was tall for an Irishman, with thinning hair and wire-rimmed glasses. We shook hands and leaned in for a mutual back slap.
“How was Bangkok?”
“Fantastic,” I said, unable to take my eyes off the lovely woman standing beside him. “I don’t believe we’ve met. Colonel Lance Reed.”
“Anna Stuart,” she said and offered her hand.
I turned her hand palm down with a restrained bow. Growing up, I would have completed the bow and kissed her hand. She wore a white designer dress with red heels, a matching red clutch, and red lipstick. Add a wide-brimmed hat and a mint julep and she would have blended in nicely at the Kentucky Derby. Her silky chestnut hair cascaded ove
r her shoulders, and her spectacular breasts and hourglass figure suggested good genes.
I couldn’t imagine her walking the halls of the Pentagon or hanging out with J6 computer technicians. Colonel O’Connor continued talking as I admired her. Of course, in the face of this woman’s beauty, I had no recollection of what he said.
I finished my Scotch and signaled a passing waiter.
“I heard the computer systems in the Pentagon have been under attack,” I said, mindful that O’Connor had no idea that enemy number one was in the room. I observed Li finishing a discussion with an American wearing a suit—my mystery competitor?
It was probably wishful thinking, but the look on Li’s face suggested he wasn’t interested.
O’Connor groaned. “The Chinese are kicking our ass, but we’re getting a lot of help from your office and are developing a new system to replace it. You should visit our operation.”
He gestured. “Anna here is a real lifesaver.”
“That’s fascinating,” I said and turned to her. “I’m working at Cyber Command.”
My staring must have been obvious because O’Connor cleared his throat.
“I hear Beth is in town for a book-signing event,” he said with a quizzical look. “Will you be joining her at West Point soon?”
“That’s the plan,” I said and noticed Li stepping out of the salon. “If you’ll excuse me, I saw an old friend.” We shook hands and I turned to Anna. “He’s a sucker for donuts.”
She restrained a smile as I waved and excused myself to find Li talking on his phone outside the salon near the hotel lobby. I checked my phone behind a pillar to shield me as I waited for his call to end, at which time I strode toward the lobby as if making an exit.
I pointed and smiled, happy to see him again, and approached with a firm handshake—not another Chinese diplomat in sight.
“Lieutenant Colonel Li,” I said. “Again, welcome to D.C. I have to run, but if you’re free Saturday, we can tour the war memorials at the Mall and have lunch. How about the World War II memorial at noon?”
EXFIL Page 5