They weren’t “published authors,” but they were in a different category in terms of talent.
In Beth’s case, she found the right connections to transform her brilliant dissertation into a commercial success. Academic books often originated as doctoral dissertations after being read by a few dozen professors or think tanks. These authors prided themselves on their books being peer-reviewed, but the peers were just as human as the rest of us and couldn’t help but praise their friends and criticize their enemies, all in the attempt to build their own brand.
Beth had the benefit of a top-down marketing plan, which included public events, television appearances, and radio interviews, all in coordination with distribution channels to ensure the supply of books flowed to fill a demand that had been primed.
Books about terrorism were a dime a dozen, but she had used her talent, grit, and connections to make sure she was a voice to be heard for many years to come.
I entered the bookstore, proudly bought a copy of Beth’s book to symbolize her success, and joined her and the boys, who each greeted me with hugs. “Dad!” The boys looked like fine young gentlemen in their white dress shirts and striped ties. I wanted everyone to see that our family was fine—no trouble in paradise—and that we would be together soon. Beth gave me a hug, kissed me on the lips, and introduced me to the players behind the scenes who had made the event possible. West Point and the Army were proud to have one of their own in the spotlight.
I could tell by the turnout that some high rollers were showing their support, including Lieutenant General Lewis.
I showed her the book. “I’m so proud of you, honey,” I said and touched my heart.
“I’m pretty sure I could get you a free copy,” she said as Brett arrived. “Honey, look who made it.”
“Brett and I are working together again,” I said as we shook hands.
Beth touched her chin. “Interesting.”
“We’re chasing an old friend,” Brett said with a suggestive arch of the eyebrows. “It appears that our work together in Pakistan never reached a proper resolution.”
She turned to me with a smile, happy to see me back in my element. I felt an urge to tell her about Tom, but we were interrupted by applause as a man at the podium introduced Beth.
She adjusted the microphone under the spotlight, waving to her admirers with a smile. I breathed a sigh of relief as I watched her handle the crowd like a champion.
As we drove to the hotel, everything felt comfortably normal, or at least moving in that direction. We were a happy family again, with Jewel and Anna distant memories, I was sure of it. What did I do to deserve her? Based on what Beth said about life at West Point, it sounded as though teaching would be a fun way to be together and groom the next generation of Army officers, but I knew I couldn’t rest until I did everything in my power to get the brigadier general promotion and stop Li. Beth was on track for a tenured teaching position and no longer had to worry about promotions, so my hope was that I could continue to indulge her patience.
Like in the good old days, the four of us piled onto the bed to huddle together and watch a movie, eating microwave popcorn. We caught the end of Rocky IV, which the boys always enjoyed. The world needed more anti-communist narratives.
We hardly noticed that Beth was drifting off to sleep, waking every few minutes to rub her eyes and snuggle closer to me as I wrapped my arms around her.
As the credits rolled, we opened the foldout bed on the living room sofa.
“Dad,” Andrew asked, “how long will you be here?”
I tossed two pillows onto the bed and unfolded a blanket. “Could be a few months, depending on how things play out.”
Troy laid his clothes on the chair and plopped onto the bed. “Mom’s told people you’ll be teaching next semester.”
I nodded as I locked the door and turned off the lights, leaving the blue glow of the digital clock on the microwave oven the only illumination in the room. “The most important thing is we’ll be together soon.” I hugged them and kissed them on the forehead. “Love you guys so much.”
“Love you, Dad,” they said in unison.
I closed the bedroom door and gently pressed the lock. Leave it to me to think sex might be on the cards, with Beth crashed out and the boys on the other side of the door. I turned off the lights, slid under the sheets, and kissed her on the neck.
“I love you,” I whispered and admired her in silence as I drifted off to sleep.
THIRTEEN
Our hotel breakfast family time, amid a buzz of G-men in business suits maneuvering the food and beverage lines, was interrupted by a call from Brett. I walked to a corner and covered my ear.
“Hey,” Brett said, “any chance you could swing by the FBI this morning?”
An outsider monitoring the call, even someone attuned to verbal subtlety, would conclude that Brett had nothing special to discuss, but I knew him well enough to know that he had important news. Perhaps I was getting the call—an update on the Chen case in the aftermath of Tom’s suicide? As the boys returned with paper plates piled high with waffles, yogurt, plastic-wrapped pastries, and sausage patties, I sat and turned to Beth.
“That was Brett,” I said. “As he said last night, we’re running a cool operation.”
She sipped her coffee. “The Pentagon attacks?”
As the boys devoured their food in silence, I nodded and leaned closer to whisper. “The boys seem to think that I’ll be teaching at West Point next semester.”
“I’m sorry,” she said, touching my hand. “People are asking questions. I had to say something.”
I knew she wasn’t trying to force my hand or sabotage my plans for promotion, but I also wanted her to know that she’d put me in a difficult position. “Look, teaching with you at West Point would be fantastic, but you know I have to take my last shot at brigadier general.”
“Honey,” she said and smiled at the boys with a firm squeeze of my hand, “we’ve been living apart one year for you to pursue this. We can wait a few more months.” She finished her coffee—discussion over. “Will this operation with Brett delay things if you get promoted?”
I took a deep breath and nodded to acknowledge that I was acting like an ass. Beth was always the reasonable one in the relationship, doing everything in her power to accommodate both of our careers. Meanwhile, I was busy dwelling on my own insecurities.
“I would guess at least a couple months.”
She nodded, checked her watch, and gestured to the boys. “We should catch our flight.”
The drive to Reagan International Airport was pleasant, with high-fives, hugs, and kisses at the drop off; and just like that, the pleasant spell was broken.
◆◆◆
The next meeting was weighing on my mind during the drive. I considered various scenarios but decided that the best option was to enter the room calm and cool, as if I had other things on my mind.
My plan imploded, however, when I entered the conference room at the FBI Washington Field Office to see Donna Howard sitting with Brett and Nguyen.
They looked up in silence, not a smile in the room.
“Good morning,” I said and turned to pour coffee in an FBI mug. “Sorry I’m late.” To gather my thoughts, I stirred two packets of artificial sweetener and powdered non-dairy creamer with two flimsy red straws. Brett touched Donna’s arm as I sat.
“We’re discussing the unfortunate death of Captain Howard.”
I nodded. “I was advised that his death was an Army issue.”
Nguyen cleared his throat. “This is now a possible espionage case involving an American citizen. FBI is investigating as well.”
“Is something wrong?” Donna asked me.
I shook my head and gestured for them to continue, dreading the thought of an espionage angle to the case, exactly what Brett and Nguyen had suspected from the beginning.
Donna dried a tear and unfolded a piece of paper.
“Captain Howard sent Donn
a a letter before his death,” Nguyen explained.
Donna cleared her throat and began reading.
My Dearest Love,
If you’re reading this letter, it’s because I’m no longer with you. I couldn’t face the shame of seeing you after the truth was revealed. For this reason, I wanted you to be with the kids at home.
I wrote this letter to prevent anyone from altering it or destroying it in the motel room. Needless to say, my chain of command wouldn’t want the truth of my activities to be revealed.
In short, my love, I haven’t been the faithful husband you deserved.
I got caught up in something treacherous and there was no escape. I take full responsibility for my actions and know I have no one to blame but myself.
While meeting with a Chinese official, I was presented with evidence of my own misdeeds and agreed to work for them. I guess I thought it was the best way to protect everyone. They allowed me to report to my chain of command that everything was on track and provided me bits of intelligence to keep everyone satisfied. So, I gave them a mixture of true and false information, but they saw through my plan and demanded that I submit to a polygraph. Faced with revealing secrets to the Chinese or being shamed for my sins, I decided there was only one way out.
Please know I love you and the kids from the bottom of my heart. I hope one day you can find it in your heart to forgive me.
Love,
Tom
Donna wiped her tears, folded the letter, and turned to me with anger in her eyes.
The look in her gaze demanded an explanation.
“Could we make a copy of the letter?” Nguyen asked, lowering his head with empathy as she slid it to him.
“What the hell?” she said to me. “Am I supposed to believe that Tom was cheating on me and spying for China?”
I decided against feigning ignorance. Everyone in the room already knew I was involved with Chen, and my visits with Tom to Club Ecstasy weren’t a secret either. “I’m as shocked as you are, Donna. Tom and I were meeting a Chinese official, and he continued to meet him after I left Bangkok. But he never said anything to me about being unfaithful or spying.”
That was a lie, of course, but no one knew about Tom’s confession to me about his infidelity. Besides, not to quibble, I never actually saw Tom have sex with the go-go dancer. If confronted, I could say I thought he got a lap dance in the VIP room—not ideal, but innocent enough.
I certainly wasn’t about to lay my cards on the table before the flop.
Nguyen’s eyes narrowed, but he was professional and circumspect enough to know he couldn’t discuss the issue in front of Donna. He touched her hand.
“We’re very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Howard. Thank you for coming in today.”
He walked her to the door. “We’ll be in touch soon,” he added as she departed.
Donna glared at me and shook her head as she exited.
I’m not sure what I was thinking right then, but I stood and offered an awkward wave. Brett gestured for me to sit and waited for Nguyen to return to his chair.
I leaned back with a groaning exhale. “I have to admit, gentlemen, I’ve never been so wrong about anything in my life. I knew Tom for two years and could never imagine any scenario in which he would betray his country.”
“What about the infidelity?” Nguyen asked. “If he was prone to this type of behavior, it would be important for our investigation. How did the Chinese find out?”
I took a deep breath to ponder the lie options. “I know things aren’t the same with civilians, but given our difference in rank, we wouldn’t discuss any personal issues that violate the UCMJ. If I had known about it, I would have counseled him and responded appropriately.”
Nguyen nodded.
“Thanks for clarifying. Once the formal investigation begins, it will be out of our hands.”
Brett and Nguyen looked at each other before Brett turned to me. “In light of this, we will assume that Captain Chen was under Chinese control, and that the operation is now over.”
“Of course,” I said with a racing heart, still processing the fact that I had just lied to an FBI special agent who was investigating an espionage case.
“We were intrigued to hear about the Chinese using the polygraph to protect their cyber program,” Nguyen said. “This will make it more difficult to penetrate their organization, which is why we were so pleased to catch a break.”
I endured a painful silence, not sure whether I should reveal any optimism.
Finally, to my relief, Brett smirked and gestured for us to follow.
He opened the door as Nguyen led the way into the elevator. Every instinct pleaded with me to ask about the break, but I opted to play along and allow the suspense to build.
The bowels of the FBI Washington Field Office had a polished concrete floor and banks of buzzing florescent lights. We passed a break room where the cleaning staff was joking and laughing during a coffee break, showing a respectful pause as our wooden heels announced the arrival of the suits. Wage-grade employees were unloading boxes at a loading dock. Finally, we entered a vast room where teams of FBI employees were sifting through mounds of garbage.
“Don’t worry,” Nguyen said, “you’ll get used to the smell.”
Brett smirked and led us into an interview room with a box on the table.
“We took advantage of the information you provided about Li’s credit card incident to dedicate more surveillance resources,” he said, opening the lid and gesturing for us to sit.
“As you know,” Nguyen said, “our surveillance of Li has revealed no suspicious activity. In fact, you’re the only person he’s met outside of the Chinese Embassy, so we focused our resources on his wife.”
Brett now took up the story.
“The surveillance team observed Mrs. Li check the mail one morning after Mr. Li drove to work,” Brett said. “After reading the mail, she sneaked out the back door and was seen throwing some papers into the neighbor’s trash.” He reached into the box and set a batch of credit card statements on the table. “As it turns out,” he continued, “she’s been running up credit card bills for clothes, jewelry, and spas since they arrived.”
Now things were all making sense. “Hence, the credit card problems at the gift shop. It’s odd that she thought she could hide these charges by throwing away the statements.”
Brett shrugged. “Who knows? Our surveillance team followed Li to a pawnshop in Chinatown during his lunch. He sold or pawned a few valuables and spoke with a loan shark from Chinese organized crime, so he seems desperate.”
“Corruption is rampant in the Chinese Communist Party,” Nguyen explained. “He would be recalled and his career would end on a bad note if it were discovered that he was taking a loan from organized crime.”
“How much is the bill?” I asked.
“All told, about $120,000,” Brett said, with a mock-sorrowful shake of his head.
“He’s likely getting desperate to pay it off,” Nguyen said.
This was all music to my ears. They looked at me, waiting for me to say something. I leaned forward, hoping I wasn’t misreading them.
“I thought you guys didn’t like coercion? Are you suggesting we blackmail him?” I inquired, barely able to believe what I was hearing.
Nguyen shook his head.
“We didn’t lure him into this, and we won’t threaten to expose him.”
I shrugged and raised my hands in a show of disbelief. Hello—the exact same logic that had motivated me to coerce Captain Chen! “Sure, but the threat is implicit.”
Brett offered a stoic smirk, slowly nodding.
“He might see it that way. We like the risk-gain analysis in this particular case,” he replied.
The “risk-gain analysis” comment implied a coolly rational thought process, but it really meant intuition motivated by hope. “Count me in,” I said, still stunned.
Nguyen handed me the credit card statements.
“You can o
ffer him 120K to pay off the credit card debts and one million if he agrees to work for us, but only if he gives us specific details about his next planned cyberattack.”
FOURTEEN
HUMINT should be a long game, but the bureaucracy often demands digestible pie charts on PowerPoint slides—e.g., how many reports were written last week—rather than asking how many seeds were planted to bear fruit in the future. Intelligence Officers were measured against weekly numbers only when leadership didn’t understand the business.
Many political failures could be traced back to our two-year election cycles, with no incentives to imagine the next generation. Likewise, many intelligence failures could be traced back to our propensity to trade the long game for instant gratification, sacrificing the most important for the urgent.
Intelligence Officers cultivate new sources and write intelligence reports to get promoted, the government version of “publish or perish,” so there was a suboptimal tendency toward harvesting low quality sources—low-hanging fruit—and dishing up low-quality reports.
Faced with the challenge of pursuing someone like Lieutenant Colonel Li or bagging a corrupt official in a Third World country, the latter often got the nod, with a promotion duly being doled out to conjure the illusion of success—wash, rinse, repeat.
Brett and I had taken our shot with Li ten years ago in Islamabad, but that was a classic case of running out of time. I had cultivated other sources along the way to keep my career on track, but needless to say, I’d always regretted not making more progress with Li.
One of the most rewarding experiences of being an Intelligence Officer was watching the world grow small. The average American couldn’t list half the countries on a globe, let alone estimate their populations or discuss their political economy. People who have lived in foreign countries, on the other hand, begin to see patterns and acquire a more granular understanding of the world.
The same goes for Intelligence Officers. Early in our careers, the world is a chaotic mess of targets from different countries. We greedily gobble up business cards and run database checks to find the next great source—quantity over quality. Over time, however, we learn that very few interesting targets out there really merit our attention.
EXFIL Page 10