EXFIL

by Anthony C. Patton

  “I doubt it,” I said instinctively, defensively, with limited confidence. I struggled to come up with more, but nothing came to mind.

  That they knew about Tom’s death shouldn’t have been a surprise.

  Up until that point, I had dismissed their suggestion that Tom might have been working for the Chinese. Sure, it would explain things, but it didn’t make it any more likely. Occam’s razor often didn’t apply in the wilderness of mirrors of espionage.

  On the contrary, avoiding the trap of a quick solution was one of the biggest challenges.

  “But you can’t rule it out?” Brett asked.

  I looked up, tapping my pen. “Of course not, but what possible motivation would he have to work for the Chinese?” I gestured to the surveillance file. “Look, I’m supposed to meet Lieutenant Colonel Li today, so I need to get through these reports, if you don’t mind.”

  While working overseas, we rarely had the benefit of a surveillance team to monitor individuals of interest. This meant we had to rely on our own resources to collect the information, such as where to randomly bump a person, or details about their personal lives that we could use to our advantage—what we call operational intelligence.

  In America, however, for targets like Li, we could bring the full force of the FBI to conduct surveillance around the clock. The biggest challenge with surveillance was that 99% of the time was spent twiddling your thumbs, waiting for something out of the ordinary to happen, which made it difficult to assess the value of continued efforts. No one wanted to stop the surveillance and miss something important, but no one liked approving the overtime hours, either.

  The surveillance teams had found nothing unusual during the previous week. Every morning, Li would kiss his wife at his D.C. townhome and drive his maroon Lexus RX 350 SUV to the Chinese Embassy off Connecticut Avenue. For lunch, he would join other Chinese diplomats, always at a Chinese restaurant. At the end of the day, he would return home for a quiet evening, except for the two times he attended diplomatic functions.

  Never once did the surveillance team observe anything unusual—no chalk marks, no brief encounters with strangers, no women, no gambling, and no attempts to lose surveillance.

  As an Intelligence Officer, he was trained to detect surveillance teams and just continued his normal life without missing a single beat.

  Running a successful meeting with a would-be source was an art and a science.

  You had to consider things like the venue, the ability of others to see you and hear your conversation, security cameras, the day of the week, time of day, proximity to crime, and so on. The goal was to select an appropriately discreet venue where two people could talk, which could be interpreted in different ways in different environments. For art, you had to consider the would-be source and where you hoped to steer the relationship, such as giving the right exposure to hopes, dreams, and desires, to gain insights into what made that person tick.

  The professional Intelligence Officer placed symbols before a would-be source to discern the complex machinery operating below the surface.

  Lieutenant Colonel Li was a trained professional, not susceptible to the usual techniques, so I selected venues where I knew I could raise topics of mutual interest to culminate with a finale that played to his national pride, which I rehearsed multiple times before the meeting.

  We arrived at the World War II memorial near the Washington Monument and met with a firm handshake. I had toured the memorials on the Mall with foreign visitors several times during my career, but knowing that others were doing it for the first time was always a source of pride. On each occasion, I tried to see the monuments through the eyes of the visitors. Foreigners couldn’t help but secretly admire what we had accomplished and our role in the march of history.

  As we strolled to the Pacific arc of the monument, Li stopped to take a photo with his phone.

  I had left mine in the hotel to avoid connecting us in the corporate databases. Given his training, I assessed that he was taking photos to build a cover story for his colleagues at the Chinese embassy, who might be suspicious of a missed call or curious about what he was doing alone on a Saturday. Of course, he never proposed that we pose together for a selfie.

  While many tourists were in cargo shorts, baseball caps, and flip-flops, he wore polished black dress shoes, pressed gray dress slacks, and a striped dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up just below the elbow. We were hiding in plain sight. With so many people around, we were blending in. No one would notice us.

  “Are you familiar with the American Volunteer Group, the Flying Tigers?”

  He turned and lowered his phone. “The First American Volunteer Group arrived in Burma in November 1941 with P-40Bs, commanded by Claire Lee Chennault.”

  “I see you’re a historian. If my memory serves me correctly,” I said, feigning recollection, “the Second American Volunteer Group was formed in the fall of 1941 with A-28 and A-20 bombers.”

  Li nodded with a smile.

  “You are correct,” he said. “It is amazing the things you can learn on Wikipedia.”

  “It sure is,” I said with a smile, knowing that he was telling me he couldn’t be fooled by such tactics, and had probably done the same thing.

  “Of course,” he continued with a tilt of the head, “the American Volunteer Group supported the Nationalist government, the Kuomintang, which broke away from China to create Taiwan. They now buy American military weapons and technology that violates the spirit of your One China policy.”

  “There’s that,” I said and led the way toward the Lincoln Memorial. During World War II, we had a common enemy—Japan—so this first stop was designed to put him at ease and to not see us as enemies, with the understanding that he was aware of this and would have the tools of the trade to resist it or even try to use them against me.

  One of the biggest challenges of intelligence operations was suspending moral outrage to build relationships with people we would like to see in prison, even dead. Li had been responsible for several destructive cyberattacks against our great republic, and yet here we were strolling in the park like best friends. This ability to suppress emotions for the greater good was the same skill that allowed us to run terrorists in Iraq and Afghanistan who had once been dedicated to killing us.

  Intelligence Officers were warned to not “fall in love” with their sources, but laymen didn’t understand that this emotional bond was a critical key to success.

  When we arrived at the Korean War Memorial, I waited patiently as Li took photos and read the plaques. “You probably didn’t have to read Wikipedia to learn about the Korean War?”

  He looked at me and shook his head. “North Korea helped Communist China defeat the nationalists in 1949. We, in turn, helped them during the Korean War.”

  “In October of 1950,” I said, continuing with the history lesson, “Chinese soldiers crossed into North Korea and scored a victory at the Battle of Unsan.”

  He snapped another photo and lowered his phone with an arched eyebrow. “We even surprised the great General MacArthur.”

  The Korean War was long ago and both sides had scored victories, so there was no need for this moment to create any tension. In fact, the U.S. and China had a vested interest in working together to manage the rogue nation.

  For the final stop, we walked the solemn path of the Vietnam War Memorial. When we arrived at the midway point at the bottom, he paused to read the names, gently touching the wall in silence and looking at his reflection in the marble wall. He nodded solemnly and turned to me.

  “It is most honorable that your soldiers are listed by name, officers and enlisted together. Their families must be proud of their sacrifice,” he quietly stated.

  “You don’t have anything like this in China,” I asked, preparing for the finale.

  “Not enough space,” he said with a wry smile.

  I put my hand on his shoulder and led the way. “They should write the names on the Great Wall.” Wait for
it. “Your heroes deserve that honor.”

  He bowed. We were no longer enemies from opposite sides of the world fighting cyber battles. We were two warriors, two brothers in arms from an elite warrior caste who lived by a code of honor that few could appreciate or live by. No matter how transparent my tactics were to a professional like Li, the histrionics probably struck a bass chord, however briefly, which was the best I could do.

  China would never honor its soldiers this way, and he knew we wanted his secrets.

  The next step of the dance would be up to him.

  To wind things down, we stopped at the American History Museum gift shop and browsed the trinkets, which included a display of ex-president bobbleheads. He grabbed Ronald Reagan and looked at me. I pushed the head down and unleashed a flurry of bobbling.

  “This is funny?”

  “I guess,” I said, unsure what might be the correct answer.

  To my surprise, he took the Reagan bobblehead and a picture book about D.C. and waited in line for the cashier, who was frustratingly slow.

  He turned with a shrug to indicate it wasn’t his fault. I gestured—don’t worry about it.

  When it was finally his turn, the cashier slid his credit card, but it didn’t work. He tried another card, but it didn’t work, either. I strode over, set some cash on the counter, and told Li not to worry about it, as if talking to a close buddy. He seemed surprised and ashamed that his credit cards didn’t work, but didn’t want to make a scene. I felt sure there was a reasonable explanation, but my mind raced with excitement—did he have financial problems? I hustled to keep up with him as we exited the museum.

  “I don’t know what happened,” he said and paused to hold the door for me with a nervous bow. “The card was working fine before.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said for to assure him. “It happens all the time. I’m sure your bank will resolve the problem.” I gestured down the steps with a deep breath to calm my excitement. “You want a hot dog?”

  He nodded, and I led the way, cash in hand.

  TWELVE

  As Intelligence Officers are wont to do after a major breakthrough, I gave Brett and Nguyen a heads-up. They agreed that the credit card episode was potentially important and began investigating Li’s finances. We were honest enough to recognize that there probably was a good explanation for the credit cards being declined, but many intelligence successes resulted from catching a break, like a detective finding a fingerprint where no one thought to look.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about it as I prepared for Beth’s book-signing event, until Anna called to ask what I was doing. Had I been a reasonable man who could think straight, I would have said I was busy, mindful that Beth and the boys were planning to spend the night in my hotel room after flying down from West Point. But Anna was hungry and wanted to see me.

  I couldn’t resist her and rationalized my decision.

  I called in some favors to get an update for her security clearance and agreed to an early dinner. I picked her up and ensured the location function on my phone was off.

  I could have waited for her on street level, but accepted her offer to come up, which was the gentlemanly thing to do, after all. This is how a man’s mind works.

  With all these bizarre rationalizations, I was only modestly surprised to see her wearing a bathrobe when she opened the door. Her hair and makeup were ready for a night on the town, but she opened her robe to reveal her delectable body. She led me to the bedroom, allowing the robe to fall to the floor, and wrapping her arms around me with a mischievous smile.

  The sex was amazing. I knew I would be unable to resist her future calls, but the whole thing smelled like marriage: the plants and decorations, the throw pillows on the bed, and an ottoman bench on which to lay my folded clothes. No wrinkled dress under the bed here.

  She was wet before her robe hit the floor and reached orgasm from the missionary position in a matter of minutes, which was my cue to finish with a restrained groan and a brief cuddle before hopping in the shower. Any single man would jump on this deal pronto—a parallel life with her flooded my imagination—but this was wrong, a clear threat to my marriage.

  With Jewel, I could get my nasty desires out of my system, but it always led me back to Beth.

  The secret to keeping the flame alive in a marriage was a concerted effort to do so, week after week, not an unshakable faith in the idea of soul mates. The longer Beth and I were apart, the longer I was with Anna, the greater the threat. The good news was I didn’t see any telltale signs with Anna, such as a dreamy sparkle in her eyes or little hints about a future together.

  She seemed to be a woman with a mission.

  For all I knew, she was worried that I would fall for her and make a scene.

  I chose a seafood restaurant in Washington Harbor near Georgetown, with a view of the Potomac River. If I saw someone I knew, I could say I was having dinner with a potential employee before going to Beth’s book-signing event.

  To the dismay of wives, espionage provided the perfect cover for affairs.

  The scenery was spectacular, the red-orange sky with the sun setting on the horizon and a crew team rowing with rhythmic strokes, the creak of the strained oars followed by gentle splashes of water. We were finishing our dinner of sea bass and sauvignon blanc, making small talk about work opportunities and my experiences overseas. “Oh,” I said, “I almost forgot. I have news about your security clearance.”

  She raised an inquisitive eyebrow. “Oh, do tell.”

  “My colleague said your paperwork has an administrative hold.” I watched her eyes—no reaction—and prepared for the most interesting detail. “Did you study in China?”

  She calmly set her fork down and nodded.

  “For one semester during my junior year. I reported all the details.”

  I nodded back and struggled to avoid the cognitive bias of allowing one data point against her to militate against the thousands of data points in her favor. The knee-jerk reaction of security officers was to assume the worst and delay the process, but the truth was the right people for this work were naturally curious and did things like study in China. I would have to be paranoid to connect her time in China with the fact that I was pursuing Lieutenant Colonel Li.

  “Anyway,” I continued, confident that the security officers would run the issue to ground in due time, “I asked him to look into it as a personal favor.”

  “Thanks,” she said and paused to admire the river. “Will you miss working overseas after you get promoted to brigadier general?”

  “At this point, I think ‘if’ is a better word.”

  She tilted her head.

  “I would think that a West Point graduate with attaché experience would be a sure thing.”

  I nodded. “Beth and I managed two careers for a few years, including an assignment or two off the beaten path that delayed my promotions. I don’t regret my choices.”

  She sipped her wine. “Good for you. Too many men put their careers first. Besides, getting promoted would take you away from the fun work, right?”

  “Funny you say that,” I said. “I know a promotion will take me away from the fun work but, how do I say this…” I paused, careful about lowering my defenses.

  “I’ve been struggling with reaching the end of my career. I cannot not imagine myself as a brigadier general if that makes sense.”

  “Then you have to do everything you can to get promoted. It might suck to play politics, but if you don’t, someone else will, and that person won’t have a record like yours.”

  I didn’t resent Beth for wanting to pursue her career, but she never offered me this kind of support. This was dangerous territory: I could get used to this.

  As I admired Anna, I resisted an urge to hold her hand.

  “Can I ask you something?” she asked, and I nodded. “When we were having sex, is that how you…like it?”

  I must have blushed because she covered her mouth to hide her laughter.


  “I thought it was fantastic,” I said, hesitant. I felt like a prude, nervous about discussing sex in public. “I hope you have been…satisfied?”

  She smiled. “Trust me, I’m satisfied, but I know some people are less open to certain…things.”

  “What kind of…things?” I asked, my heart pounding.

  “Well, I have a…friend,” she said.

  “Does your friend have a…name?”

  “Judy,” she said. “Would you like to meet her?”

  “Sure,” I said, relieved and aroused as we paused to sip our wine.

  Son of a bitch. I never saw that coming, which I attributed to my own generational blindness. Just as I was thinking of ways to end it with Anna, to save my marriage with Beth, it turned out that staying with Anna could be a way to shave off the rough edges.

  Based on this offer, it was safe to assume that she had no interest in marriage.

  I checked my watch—just in time for Beth’s book-signing event. Anna and I strolled up the hill to the shops, bars, and restaurants on M Street in the heart of Georgetown. She understood that this was the end of the date, with no public displays of affection as we approached the bookstore and hailed a cab. I gave her a twenty-dollar bill and reminded her to avoid a digital footprint with Uber. Good tradecraft was priceless, especially when the consequences mattered. She appreciated the lesson, including my tip of turning off her phone location function whenever we were together.

  ◆◆◆

  I couldn’t have been prouder of Beth, given all her hard work in researching the rise of ISIS, but I’d learned over the years that being a “published author” was a social construct, a ritual to grant status and recognition. Celebrities hired ghostwriters for their autobiographies and promoted their books on talk shows, whereas some of the smartest people in the government wrote classified papers that never saw the light of day or showed up on their CVs.