A Spy's Journey

by Floyd Paseman

  However, just as in our other training, the impulse to have fun was simply too much to avoid. I recall vividly one of my two classmates coming into Beginning Chinese class carrying a whoopee cushion and placing it on the chair of our best—and most gorgeous—female Chinese instructor. The inevitable happened. She came in for class, greeted us, wrote a few Chinese characters on the board, and then sat down and “Pffffffffft!” She turned 30 shades of red, and ran from the room. We did not see her for a week and got a lecture about Chinese customs from Weird Beard.

  Following one year of this intensive training, we were dispatched overseas to Taiwan. There, at a facility utilized by all elements of the U.S. government, we finished our training with a second year of advanced study living in a Chinese-speaking community. It’s also noteworthy that in this early period my wife presented me with our first child—a beautiful baby girl. She was to spend nine of the next ten years of her life living overseas with us.

  The school was superb training at the highest level, yet it also had its moments of fun. The superintendent of the school was a pseudo-intellectual who had adopted the title “Dr.,” although he had not gotten his doctorate degree. It was the subject of repeated struggles—he would insist we call him Doctor, and we would call him by his first name. He almost came to tears over it on a number of occasions. It was further complicated by the fact that he was a practicing missionary, and illegally used the U.S. Government mail system to acquire things for his local church. He had been warned numerous times that this was illegal but continued to use it throughout his stay there. In short, he was considered fair game for a bunch as cruel as any classroom of practical jokers.

  I recall three of the most devilish events that took place during the Doctor’s reign. In the first instance, we learned that the good Doctor was using the school facilities (illegally) to bring his flock in to hear his lectures on his missionary work. It was not long until we also found a slide carousel that he used as a visual aid. Needless to say, some enterprising lad (OK, it was me) suggested that it would be interesting if we removed one slide in the middle and replace it with a copy of the most recent bare-ass-naked Playmate centerfold. Having been trained as clandestine photographers, this was a cinch. In any event, the good Doctor had one of his monthly sessions with his flock, put the carousel into motion, and halfway through his session came to the pièce de résistance. It emptied the room, and the Doctor subjected us to yet another crying session the next morning.

  He did recover in time for the great gin-and-tonic caper. We were going through a hell of a summer, with temperatures in the hundreds and no fans or air conditioning. Despite repeated pleas to cancel classes under these unbearable circumstances, the Doctor refused, so what follows was inevitable. One of the greatest practical jokers I have known—a non-CIA officer—got together with several colleagues and decided to make life more bearable by filling our classroom water cooler with gin and tonic. By the end of the day, all the students were well aware of the ruse and class decorum degenerated accordingly. Additionally, several of the instructors made one trip too many to the cooler, and by the end of the day the good Doctor was again moved to tears. It was clear that his days as director of the school were numbered. After the Doctor departed, we were blessed with the arrival of a new director who had both a great sense of humor and had mastered the Chinese language. I have never found another linguist his equal in writing Chinese characters. It earned him the immediate respect of both students and instructors.

  We did, however, play a great practical joke on him during a trip to climb the highest peak in Taiwan, Yu Shan (Mount Yu). Nearly 13,000 feet at its summit, it was a difficult climb. Our group totaled 12 people, and we made the journey from a scenic resort area at Sun Moon Lake by old steam locomotive—a trip of over four hours to the base camp. It was a beautiful trip, with all of us riding on flatcars, that took us through the highest reaches of the beautiful island. From the base camp, we went by foot—a hike that took more than two 12-hour days. We camped that night at a youth hostel. It was there that the idea struck me to suggest that a few of the large rocks outside would fit nicely into the director’s bag. We loaded his bag with about 25 pounds of rocks and covered it with his material. The next day, he huffed and puffed for hours, noting that he felt like he was carrying a ton of rocks. Finally a few giggles turned him on to the joke, and he emptied his bag—at us. He took it well, and we all enjoyed the climb.

  I was present during one of the great scandals at the language school. One of the elderly instructors, a large, portly man with a limp (nicknamed “Limpy Lo”) frequently gave lectures on esoteric subjects such as, where the best clay for making pots for brewing tea comes from. These were also known as “Lo’s Lectures.” We all attended, and we did indeed learn a lot about Chinese culture from this elderly gentleman. However, late one afternoon I stumbled on a group of female instructors tittering away in hushed tones about what to do, what to do. I fetched the director, and without too much prodding we learned that Limpy Lo had expired in distinguished fashion that afternoon—at a local “no-hands bar.” Turns out someone had to go retrieve the unclad body, make arrangements, and, of course, avoid sullying the reputation of the teaching staff in the process. The director handled it admirably, but of course by this time the entire student body and faculty knew the truth—Limpy Lo had died with his boots—and everything else—off. Some felt he grew in esteem.

  Toward the end of the time at language school, I also had the occasion to take my family on an orientation trip to several Asian nations, including Hong Kong. While there, I acquired a number of Chinese language materials—including some newspapers that had major articles about the People’s Republic of China (PRC) with front page photographs of the Chinese Foreign Minister, Zhou Enlai. No problem with that, except that I forgot that communist materials were forbidden in my host country. I had also purchased a tricycle for my then-two-year-old daughter. When I returned from my trip and went through customs and immigration, I had a rude awakening, indeed. The customs official opened my bag, only to come face to face with the PRC’s Zhou Enlai. Senior officials were called; my family and I were taken into a side room for questioning. No matter what I said, the officials maintained that I had committed a serious crime—attempting to bring subversive materials into the country. On top of that, the inspectors completely unpacked and disassembled my daughter’s tricycle, leaving her sobbing at the customs desk. Finally, they let us go, but they handed back the tricycle, missing many bolts and nuts, in pieces.

  I learned my Chinese thoroughly, and it stood up well over my career. I can still speak it reasonably well now 36 years later. The fact that the school was located in a small village really helped me to learn everything about how to get by and live with the language. I still, for example, remember the Chinese words for flush toilet, having had to repair several during my time at the language school. We learned excellent, colloquial Chinese, and learned a great deal about the culture as well. I was ready for assignment.

  *The phonetic spelling for Chinese characters that translate to “Chinese language.”

  FOUR

  AN APPRENTICE SPY

  1971–1974

  “Now it is not good for the Christian’s health

  to hustle the Aryan brown,

  For the Christian riles and the Aryan smiles

  and he weareth the Christian down;

  And the end of the fight is a tombstone

  white with the name of the late deceased,

  And the epitaph drear:

  ‘A fool lies here who tried to hustle the East.’”

  —from “The Naulakha,” Rudyard Kipling

  After graduating from language school, I was assigned my first job, as an undercover translator/protocol officer for a military unit in an East Asian country. As was the case with many of our officers, my cover job was full-time, leaving me to do my espionage work at night, on the weekends, and on holidays. The job did give me two things: good access to target
s (those we could potentially recruit as spies) and a great deal of independence. At the same time, I was going through a period in which I was exerting my own independence from things in general. I was opposed to the Vietnam War, having lost two of my roommates to the conflict. It did not make it any easier that I was one of only two civilian employees in an office of all military personnel. I did have, however, the complete support of the commanding general of the unit—a two-star general whose main interest was in providing me the cover and capability to do my intelligence work. He was also pleased to have someone with my language expertise on board.

  I did continue to demonstrate my independence in a number of ways. Once, I grew a huge Afro. I could not get a hat over it by the time I finished letting it grow. I also worked on a goatee. Complemented by my suits—ultra-modern with wide ties and wide cuffs, I was definitely not to be mistaken for a military person. It drove the executive officer, a lieutenant colonel, absolutely nuts.

  I worked outside the normal facility in my first assignment. I also acquired my first agent to run. He was an agent normally used to train the new case officer—that is, one who has only marginal access to intelligence. So, if he is compromised there is no great loss of intelligence. Secondly, he is an experienced agent who won’t mind the mistakes made by the new case officer and may help the officer plan better surveillance detection routes, emergency signals, and more. Lastly, he has been “turned over” to a number of case officers over the years.

  He was to be a perfect match for me. I was eager and ready to roll. My first comeuppance came during our first meeting. All of it had to be held in Chinese since the agent spoke no English. I met him in a park at night. When we sat down to begin the meeting, I asked him several polite things that a younger person normally asks a Chinese elder.

  “Where is your home province?” I inquired.

  “Funan,” he responded.

  “Funan?” I said. “Where in the world is Funan?”

  “Funan, Funan,” he repeated, and then drew a map.

  He was from Hunan—one of China’s most famous provinces. He had a terrible Hunan accent. I could barely understand a word he said—and after the U.S. government had sent me to Chinese language school for two long years. I was devastated. We managed to communicate by writing, and I ran him for my entire tour with pad and pencil. It turns out I was not the only case officer who could not talk to this man. Working with him did make me appreciate the difficulties involved in running foreign agents in foreign languages.

  He was a good, dedicated agent—motivated in his case by money. But he was diligent beyond belief. Shortly after I began to run him, we experienced our first crisis. The People’s Republic of China was holding military exercises in the Taiwan Straits, and Taiwan went on alert. The agent made an emergency signal—by leaving a chalk mark on a certain telephone pole at a certain time—meaning he needed to meet with me. I reviewed the previous officer’s emergency meeting plan instructions, only to find out that the emergency meeting site and time was in an open park near midnight. To compound a developing problem, a major typhoon had just made its way to the island, and all vehicles and personnel were ordered off the streets. I pondered the situation and decided that I had to live up to my end of the bargain and make the meeting. About 10:00 that night, I donned heavy rainwear, rolled my bicycle out, and to the horror of my spouse, rode off in the dark with 100-mile-per-hour winds scattering debris all over the place and rain coming down in sheets. I rode through back streets because I had seen several police cruisers out stopping those few souls who were out and sending them home. I rode about five miles to the park, chained my bike, and went into the park. It was not hard to recognize the agent; he and I were the only people out for miles. He was standing exactly where the emergency plan called for, covered by a heavy military slicker. We met for about 15 minutes, he passed me some significant information about the crisis, and we departed. At our next regular meeting, we selected an emergency site indoors. However, I learned how dedicated most agents are, and was inwardly pleased that I had made the meeting despite the circumstances.

  I gained a tremendous amount of experience during my first tour. One incident taught me not to depend too heavily on the famous polygraph. Due to my fluency in Chinese, I was called upon to translate often during the polygraphing of Chinese-speaking agents. So, it was not unusual that I was asked to join the polygraph operator, the case officer, and the agent in a designated locale where I would be the translator.

  The technique of the polygraph was already well known—rehearsal, questioning, re-questioning, and determination of whether or not the machine indicated the agent was lying or hiding anything. We were doing the exam at an unoccupied safehouse (a location unknown to the local counterintelligence service to be used in meeting an agent). The case officer went into another room so as not to be involved or responsible for the experience the agent was about to have. The examiner went over the ground rules, did the procedures, and administered a test examination. By the time we finished and proceeded through the real examination, the agent had been hooked up to the machine for around two hours—an uncomfortable experience, as I can testify from personal experience. Then disaster struck. The examiner and I went outside the building, where the case officer was given the good news—the agent was clean. We all congratulated each other, had a smoke, and went to go back into the house. I grasped the door handle, and it came off in my hand. We were locked out with the agent still inside hooked up to the machine. For the next hour, we searched around the house trying to find an open window or one I at least could break. I finally broke a basement window, and went and let the other two officers in. Imagine our surprise when we walked into the room to apologize to the agent—only to find him drenched in sweat. “OK, I confess—I have been lying and passing you false information for years,” he said to me in Chinese. He further noted that he knew we had caught him when we went outside and did not come right back in. He was terminated within the next several meetings.

  Early in my first assignment, I chanced to make the acquaintance of a very interesting Special Forces master sergeant. My wife and I became bridge-playing friends with him and his wife. He of course knew where I worked, and had a great respect for the CIA. I assumed of course that he had some experience or contact with us professionally. Gradually, I found out where and why. He had been seconded to the CIA in 1967 and sent to Bolivia. There, he worked with the Bolivian military on the operation to root out the legendary Ché Guevara. He was an advisor to the unit that actually captured Guevara on October 9, 1967. He had several photos confirming his presence at the capture. He never talked much about the episode, and, being new in the business, I never asked. I regret to this day that I did not ask more questions about the execution of Guevara. I recall still the great fuss about Guevara’s diaries, and recall that this master sergeant, who spoke fluent Spanish, actually read the diaries. Over the next two years, he was of tremendous help to me professionally, introducing me to a host of interesting people in the local military. He was the first of many people I knew who had such fascinating experiences.

  Working outside the office in my first assignment was at times difficult. I had only occasional meetings with an inside officer, so when we did meet a lot of time was needed to train me as an inside officer. I had good contacts, and the office was very concerned about my cover and my security. They gave me good guidance on my cases and on my developmental work. But, for about one-and-a-half years, one of our senior officers kept sending critical notes to me. “Do this, do that.” It really began to eat at me, and I finally asked for a personal meeting to get my concerns off my chest. I made my one and only trip inside the office to do so. As soon as we entered, the senior officer asked to see me. Here we go, I thought. However, he immediately congratulated me on a well-deserved promotion. I was stunned—both at the promotion, but also at how pleased he seemed to be. Later, one of the other officers told me that this senior officer had made a personal appeal to ensure m
y promotion, and that he considered me his finest young officer. I learned an important lesson, and one that I never forgot over my entire career—things are not always as they seem, and in espionage you never know who your friends and enemies really are. This same officer became one of my mentors later in my career. He also distinguished himself in Vietnam and later during the Marcos crisis in the Philippines. I learned a lot from him over the years.

  I was not quite so lucky with one of the chiefs who came in later in my first tour. Bald as a billiard ball, he was one of the old aristocrats, wealthy, and of European background and experience. By this time my rebellious days were in full flow. I had a huge Afro, and my ties were so wide they covered my whole shirt. Flared trousers and boots completed my ensemble. This chief would send me notes, typically with one message: “Get your hair cut!” On top of that, he wrote in green ink, and all other personnel were forbidden to use green ink. Naturally, I wrote single-word notes back to him each time—“No,” also in green ink. He was furious, but my work was first class, I was one of the best linguists around, and my cover boss, an Army general, was very pleased with my work for him and his office, and he praised me to the chief at every opportunity. So I made it through the series of orders to get my hair cut. But, more was to come.

  Things were going very well, indeed. Then, at a large formal reception, one of our senior military officers in country inadvertently disclosed some top-secret sensitive information we had acquired from one of my agents. That information suggested that the host country government had embarked on a serious weapons acquisition program, in secret, despite direct assurances to our government. Our military officer, to his everlasting credit, demonstrated great integrity and turned himself in the following day. The officer said that he realized from the host government officials’ reaction that they were unaware that we had acquired this intelligence.