EXFIL

by Anthony C. Patton

  The significance of his information couldn’t be overstated.

  He had just provided what we in the business called incompatible information—information that the Chinese government would want to protect at all costs. If we could use this information to prevent or disrupt a cyberattack, it would be an intelligence coup and make me a hero in the halls of three letter agencies around the Washington beltway.

  Outside, Li and I shook hands without words. As he walked away, he began to transform into my first work of art. It’s really happening. Across the street, two clean-shaven men in an unmarked sedan looked my way once, twice, followed by confusion. I reached inside my breast pocket, removed a cigar, lit it, and blew a celebratory cloud of smoke. The passenger gave me a thumbs-up and spoke into a radio as the driver hit the gas—let the fireworks begin.

  SIXTEEN

  A few years would pass after the events in this story before I would learn what transpired in Bangkok after my departure. Special Agent Johnson tracked me down through a social media friend request and wove an interesting yarn over beers. To the best of my recollection, it went something as follows, in two parts.

  ◆◆◆

  Leaving a foreign post was always hectic because it required us to complete a burdensome checklist filled with administrative minutiae and prepare the way for our replacement to assume our duties. There’d be a series of farewell events, but you knew full well that you’d most likely see many of these friends and colleagues again in future assignments.

  The process was often bittersweet, a mixture of anxiety and relief, but the most difficult part was knowing that you had to take all your accumulated knowledge with you and that your replacement would arrive with a virtual blank slate. You did your best to share what you knew, but it required at least six months for your replacement to operate effectively.

  During my departure from Bangkok, I learned that my replacement had been delayed, so I never got a chance to share my knowledge. Part of me believed that the Defense Attaché Office would grind to a halt, but this obviously wasn’t the case. The local security guards at the main gate and the Marines at Post One might have missed me for a few days, and the other military attachés no doubt continued their dinner parties and events, but the show had to go on.

  The U.S. Embassy in Bangkok was one of the largest in Southeast Asia, with scores of visitors coming and going, but one in particular made ripples with his investigation of Captain Howard: Special Agent Johnson of the Army Criminal Investigation Command.

  Johnson entered the DAO conference room, sat down, and opened a folder, impressed by the solid wood décor and the four walls lined with plaques and memorabilia.

  He checked his watch, drummed his fingers on the table, then flipped a notebook open to the first blank page, clicked his pen, and jotted down a reminder to call the airline.

  The DAO had all the military services represented, but the Army was keeping this investigation under wraps. Sergeant First Class Sullivan, a southern boy who always had my six, entered the conference room with a mug of hot coffee and a plastic water bottle into which to spit his tobacco. He wore the short-sleeve green uniform shirt covering rock solid abs, odd for someone who drank so much beer. Twice divorced, he had no shame about indulging in everything Bangkok had to offer.

  Johnson offered a nod as Sullivan opened a newspaper and flipped the pages. Brigadier General Williams, the defense attaché and my former boss, entered wearing a Class A uniform and sat at the head of the table, still not focused on the matter at hand.

  Williams had made all the right choices to advance his career, as evidenced by his recent promotion to brigadier general and my non-selection, but his grasp of the art and science of HUMINT was limited. He came across as bureaucratic and uninspiring, which was why Beth and I consistently received more invitations to diplomatic events than he did.

  “Good morning, General,” Johnson said and clicked his pen. “Sorry for all the secrecy, but we’re investigating Captain Howard.”

  Williams checked his appointment calendar and nodded, finally on the right page. “He was called back in a hurry and we haven’t heard from him since. Is everything fine?”

  Sullivan leaned forward, folded his newspaper, and grabbed the water bottle to spit. “He and his wife haven’t responded to our calls.”

  Johnson nodded. “We’ll provide more details as appropriate, but we would ask for now that you maintain strict secrecy in this matter. If it’s OK with you, General, I’d like to begin with his office—personal items, computer, and so forth.”

  Williams leaned back. “I’d like to keep this investigation, or whatever this is, as low profile as possible. Could you investigate these items back in the States?”

  “General, our investigation is partially focused on his activities here in Thailand.”

  Williams turned to Sullivan, who shrugged.

  “General,” Johnson continued, “one aspect of the investigation is Captain Howard’s alleged intimate relationship with a local nightclub dancer.”

  “Captain Howard with a dancer?” Williams asked.

  He looked with misplaced shock at Sullivan, who offered another shrug.

  Captain Howard would hardly have been the first military officer to dabble in the local talent.

  Johnson flipped a few pages on a report and scanned the page. “We believe he was going to…Club Ecstasy.”

  Williams’s face froze as he closed his eyes—not again. He glanced at the ceiling in modified prayer before turning to Johnson. “Could you give us a minute?”

  Johnson nodded, gathered his materials, and closed the door on his way out.

  “Club Ecstasy,” Williams said with a groan. “Does this have anything to do with Colonel Reed?”

  “I don’t know, General,” Sullivan said. “I think Colonel Reed was showing Captain Howard the ropes.”

  Williams groaned. “Showing him the ropes? You know I don’t approve of this behavior, but please help Special Agent Johnson run this to ground—on the down low.”

  ◆◆◆

  Johnson and Sullivan, now in casual attire, exited a taxi to the sultry heat and chaos of the Soi Cowboy red-light district. The mauve neon lights of Club Ecstasy glowed in the shadows. They hustled to avoid a passing moped and the splash of a puddle, then entered the lobby of a seedy two-star hotel where middle-aged men with young Thai women occupied a few tables. The lobby had walnut-stained tables on white ceramic tiles.

  Ceiling fans wafted the thick air. Sullivan gestured for Johnson to sit at an open table and walked to the bar, where he met the owner with a fist bump and a hug.

  “Hey, Dale, was that your dick I saw on the street?” Sullivan asked.

  Dale reached inside his Hawaiian shirt to scratch his beer belly with one hand and stroked his gray ponytail with the other. “I don’t know, was it twelve inches long?”

  Sullivan leaned closer.

  “Nice. We need the dates of Captain Howard’s fun across the street, with Colonel Reed.”

  “Easy day,” commented Dale.

  “We’d also like to chat with Jewel.”

  “Like I said, easy day,” Dale repeated and turned to a Thai cougar behind the bar. “Two cold beers for my friends.”

  “You’re the man,” Sullivan said and strolled to the table.

  “What’s up?” Johnson asked, observing the den of sin.

  “Dale’s a legend,” Sullivan said. “He’s a retired Army sergeant and has gotten more tail than most men alive, multiple women on many days.”

  “What does this have to do with the investigation?”

  A few tables away, a pear-shaped man with a straw hat, teal T-shirt, shorts, and sandals led a Thai doll with a white miniskirt to the bar. He plopped some cash down, crudely pinched her ass with a grin, then accepted a room key and walked to the elevator.

  Johnson watched, disturbed but intrigued.

  “Dale helps us out,” Sullivan said. “One of his security cameras points across the street, s
o we can see who enters Club Ecstasy.” He sipped his beer, leaning closer. “He also has video cameras in some of his rooms, which led to a successful operation for Captain Howard and Colonel Reed.”

  The cougar arrived with two cold beers on a tray and set them on coasters. Johnson checked his watch—it was noon—considered Sullivan’s thumbs-up, and opted for “when in Rome.” They raised their bottles for a toast.

  Sullivan watched as Jewel crossed the street and he waved as she entered. He hugged her and gestured to an open chair. She wore a white blouse with the sleeves rolled up, a blue-green plaid skirt, lace-trimmed ankle socks and black patent leather shoes—the Catholic schoolgirl fantasy.

  “What can you tell us about Captain Howard?” Johnson asked.

  Sullivan raised a cautious hand as Jewel watched him in silence. “Jewel here is going to help us with some information about Club Ecstasy.” He touched her hand. “How you doing, doll? Can we get you something to drink?”

  “No, thanks,” she said and removed her Fendi sunglasses to inspect Johnson. “I have to work soon. Who is this guy?”

  “I’m investigating Captain Howard,” Johnson said.

  “What did he do now?” she asked.

  “Do you know him?”

  Jewel looked at Sullivan’s icy stare. “We met.”

  “With Colonel Reed?” Johnson asked.

  Dale arrived with a piece of paper during the uncomfortable silence. “Looks like your friend was there three times.”

  Jewel led the way to Club Ecstasy.

  Sullivan gestured for Johnson to pocket his CID badge as the buff Polynesian bouncer opened the velvet rope to a stairway leading up to the offices. Jewel reached the top of the first flight and spun 180 degrees to start up the second flight, revealing a glimpse of her pink cotton panties. Johnson gawked as he walked, nudged back to reality by Sullivan.

  Jewel knocked on the security office door and gestured for the other two to sit on a couch. The door jerked open. A middle-aged Thai man smoking a cigarette poked his head out to reveal a rack of CCTV monitors. Jewel handed him the piece of paper, gestured to Sullivan and Johnson as she whispered, and kissed him on the cheek.

  Jewel sat next to Sullivan and touched his hand with an inviting smile. “How long will you be here?” She checked her cell phone and set it in her purse.

  “What did you ask him?” Johnson asked.

  “I asked him for copies of the security tapes for those three days,” she said and turned to Sullivan.

  Johnson clicked his pen and jotted a note. “What was your relationship with Colonel Reed and Captain Howard?”

  Jewel rolled her eyes at Sullivan and turned to Johnson with an innocent smile. “I met Captain Howard once, but Colonel Reed was a regular at the club.”

  “Was Captain Howard sleeping with any of the girls?” Johnson asked.

  “I would have slept with him,” she said. “He’s cute, like you.” She touched his nose with a wink. “But he seemed shy around the girls, so I don’t think so.”

  The door opened and the security man poked his head out. Jewel asked him a question in Thai, with increasing levels of intensity going back and forth. Finally, the man threw up his arms in frustration and slammed the door.

  “What did he say?” Johnson asked.

  “They don’t have the security tapes,” she said.

  “They don’t have any security tapes?” Johnson asked.

  “Not for the three days we requested,” she said.

  “Let me get this straight,” Johnson said. “They have security tapes for every day, except for the three days that we requested?”

  “That’s what he said.”

  Johnson turned to Sullivan. “Can we talk to a judge? We can compel them to give us the security tapes, right?”

  “We’re not raising this with a judge,” Sullivan said. “We’re not going to reveal this investigation to the Thai government.”

  Sullivan led the way downstairs, where he excused himself to enter the men’s room after hugging one of the dancers.

  “Would it be possible to, ah, maybe ask you a few more questions later, after work?” Johnson asked Jewel.

  She caught him staring at her cleavage, touched his chin, and handed him a business card. “I have to start my shift, but you can stop by my apartment later.” She squeezed his hand with a perky smile and a wave.

  Johnson looked around to ensure there were no witnesses, stuffed the card in his pocket, and stood at attention to hide his grin when Sullivan exited the bathroom.

  SEVENTEEN

  The more sensational an intelligence report was, the more likely it was to be doubted by so-called experts. Analysts generally liked information that conformed to their conceptual models or the political agendas of the senior policymakers they briefed, so they often resisted or dismissed reports that forced them to reconsider.

  This was why credible reporting about the absence of weapons of mass destruction in Iraq was ignored. When a heavy suggested something existed, the Intelligence Community was unleashed to confirm the claim, not deny. Negative reports meant you weren’t yet looking in the right places. The worst analysts used media reporting as a baseline to assess the value or credibility of intelligence reports, or even worse, cited media reports in finished intelligence, knowing full well that journalists writ large were biased or funded to shape the narrative.

  Analysts filtered information through their own lenses, often unwilling or unable to see events through the eyes of their enemies, rational or not; this resulted in carefully caveated conclusions that ensured they would never be fired for cause. A “high degree of confidence” still allowed the polar opposite to happen in a disastrous way, however slim the odds might be. It would be chalked up to the unpredictability of world events, not to flaws in the analytical methodology.

  Given the nature of this game, Intelligence Officers were careful about reporting anything as definitive. If the gist of a report was that a foreign government official planned to do something and that something didn’t happen, the follow-up report would explain why the foreign government official changed his mind. The analysts would forgive the initial report and move on, but if that something did happen, the report would receive rave reviews.

  When a source, a new source no less, provided specific information about a cyberattack against a specific IP address in the Pentagon, on a specific day and with a specific cyber tool, the thrill was offset by the horrifying possibility that the attack wouldn’t occur, which would cast a shadow of doubt over the credibility of the source for the indefinite future.

  The Chinese government wouldn’t want us to know in advance about its plans to launch a cyberattack, so if the attack were to occur and we were to stop it, it would go a long way toward confirming that Lieutenant Colonel Li was the real deal.

  My return to Cyber Command was met with celebration and fanfare from those who were briefed on the operation, which included a private ceremony with kind words from Lewis. He offered special thanks to Brett, the CIA, Nguyen, and the FBI for working together on this successful joint operation, but he didn’t mince words when he highlighted that a uniformed military Intelligence Officer had pulled the trigger and that the DIA was paying the bills.

  I wrote a cable filled with the usual jargon, gratuitous modesty, and cautious optimism about the future of the case to document the success. I also submitted the financial paperwork to start the cash flow for Li, who would now be known as Jade Envy to protect his identity.

  The most difficult part of the day was the silence from the Pentagon. I shared the information immediately after the meeting, but we were still awaiting confirmation of it.

  My heart pounded each time the phone rang or someone entered the office. Jade Envy didn’t provide a specific time for the attack, which meant an uncomfortable haze hung over what should have been a day of celebration. We planned to meet again soon for a detailed debriefing, during which I could get updates on the cyberattack if it didn’t happen a
s planned. To my dismay, I found I was already preparing for the worst.

  Lewis understood the importance of highlighting intelligence successes with the right players to justify funding for Cyber Command, and therefore scheduled a tour of the Pentagon defensive cybersecurity unit to let them know that intelligence was on the front line of national defense.

  Many offices were flooded with intelligence reports, including many technicians who thought these reports fell onto their laps like manna from heaven, so it paid dividends to put a face to a name. The visit was also a good opportunity to ensure that my report arrived at the working level for execution. If the cyber warriors with fingers on keyboards had no idea what we were talking about and the Chinese were to launch a successful attack, Lewis would go through the roof.

  As we walked down an aisle during the tour, we discussed my report about the plans by China to use a specific tool against a specific IP address.

  “That was awesome,” one of the enlisted cyber warriors said and turned. “Just like you reported. We shut it down!”

  Lewis and I double-timed it to the soldier, followed by the confused tour guide.

  The jubilant sergeant handed us a printout of a cyber incident report, noting the specific tool that attempted to penetrate a specific IP address, stapled to a copy of my intelligence report with yellow highlighted text.

  It was right there for all to see, rubber meets the road, concrete, and beyond the reach of any analysts or so-called experts who would instinctively cast doubts on the report!

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I felt Lewis’s hand on my shoulder, the closest thing to a bear hug between a colonel and a lieutenant general. Despite my best attempts at not losing perspective, I could see my name on the promotion list and a prestigious position at West Point, living happily ever after with my family. Holy shit—Jade Envy was the real deal!