Laughter in the Shadows (9 page)

Even though “agent of influence” is a misnomer, it is lodged in the espionage lexicon and remains there. Agents of influence are normally “handled” by station chiefs (COSs), although there are exceptions of such agents that were developed by case officers before they reached their positions of influence.

Handling agents of influence is difficult. They balk at signing receipts, won’t write reports, refuse to submit to the polygraph, and accept “guidance” only when it is in their best interest.

One such agent of influence, the prime minister of a Southeast Asian country, had allegedly been recruited by the local station chief. The COS had a porous memory, however, and had to jot intelligence requirements from Headquarters on crib notes. He concealed the notes in his hand, glancing at them to remind him of
questions to ask his “agent.” The prime minister noticed the COS glancing down at something curled in his hand and ordered his aide to grab the COS’s crib notes. A tug of war followed until the aide finally wrested the notes from the COS’s palm and handed them to the amused prime minister, who jokingly answered each of the questions for the embarrassed station chief.

I had been tasked to recruit an agent of influence in the labor field. Since agents of influence are usually the preserve of station chiefs, not of junior case officers, it was almost impossible for a minor functionary such as me to even contact, much less recruit, a senior official in a government ministry. When I mentioned this to my chief, he was unsympathetic, saying he didn’t have a “pool” of gray-haired or senior citizen case officers. I would have to use my ingenuity. “Grow a beard, pencil in wrinkles, walk with a cane, act like Methuselah!”

The Feather Duster

There is a high blowback potential in agent of influence operations, and I had to be careful selecting my target. I settled on a department chief in the Labor Ministry.

Machano was director of that ministry’s liaison section. He had studied briefly at Harvard, and according to the U.S. labor attaché, Machano was a “comer.” I asked the attaché to invite him to the next embassy reception.

I was introduced to Machano as a colleague interested in labor affairs, and I handed him one of the cards I had had printed identifying me as a special assistant for labor affairs. Machano gave me one of his cards, and after covering the rise of the Edo Firebirds and the approaching typhoon season, I asked him about the current labor unrest in Bushido. He seemed surprised both at the directness of my question and that the American embassy was interested in the views of a minor official.

Machano said the subject was too complex for discussion at a cocktail party. However, if I was seriously interested in the labor situation, I should come by his office, where we could discuss it in detail.

Having a secretary implies status in Bushido, so I asked the station chief’s secretary to phone Machano’s office and ask for an appointment. A date and time were settled on, and I arrived at Machano’s office carrying a copy of the Congressional Record, which contained minutes of a recent Senate Labor Relations Committee meeting.

We discussed the labor situation for almost an hour before he had to leave for a meeting. Machano apologized for cutting our meeting short and invited me to lunch the following week so we could continue our discussion. I thanked him, leaving behind the “confidential” copy of the Congressional Record.

At the lunch the next week, I told Machano that “senior officials” in Washington had been impressed by his analysis of the labor situation. He seemed surprised that I had reported his views to Washington but was reassured when I told him his comments would be treated as “highly confidential.”

After lunch, I invited Machano to dinner at my house when he was free. He seemed reluctant, but he finally accepted when I insisted on reciprocating for his hospitality.

My first objective, making contact and establishing rapport, had been achieved. Moving the relationship forward was going to be more difficult. I was running out of questions and in status-conscious Bushido, it was unlikely that a senior official like Machano would continue to spend time meeting with a minor embassy functionary. I had to elevate my status and convince Machano I was both important and influential.

The plan called for two extra case officers, a car with chauffer, a compliant maid, and a well-rehearsed family. Alex Taketa, a case officer of Bushidan descent, and Paul, a classmate from The Farm, volunteered. I requisitioned two cars from the embassy motor pool, rehearsed the maid, and briefed my family.

The scenario began with a clandestine element. I had told Machano that, “for security reasons,” I would pick him up a block away rather than in front of his office. The request puzzled Machano, but he seemed intrigued by my concern for his “security” and agreed to my request.

Alex was standing next to the embassy sedan, flicking his feather duster in good Bushidan style back and forth across the hood. When Machano arrived and got into the car, I pointed to the other sedan pulling out ahead, our security “outrider.” I snapped my fingers and the chauffer turned on the radio, which happened to be tuned to the armed forces radio station. I told Machano I often received coded messages over the radio. I clicked my fingers, and the chauffer turned off the radio. I told Machano we could now talk freely, because the chauffer was a deaf-mute.

The charade was almost exposed when we drove up to the house. My son, Gray, rushed out to greet “Uncle Alex,” who ducked behind his feather duster. I explained to Machano that the chauffer was like an uncle to my children, then quickly escorted him into the house.

At the front door, the maid announced that there was an “important telephone call from Washington” for me in my study. I excused myself, leaving my wife to escort Machano to the living room for cocktails.

The dinner went smoothly except for interruptions from the maid, who kept announcing phone calls from the ambassador. Finally, worried about overkill, I slipped into the kitchen and told the maid there was no need for further announcements.

Machano became more relaxed, tousling the children’s hair and complimenting Joy on the dinner. When the meal was over, I invited Machano into the study for cigars and brandy. After discussing the travails of the UN and insurrections in former European colonies, I touched on the situation in Bushido and the increasing anti-American sentiment there, which was disturbing American government leaders in Washington. Machano said I had to understand the mind-set of the Bushidans, the majority of whom were too busy trying to fill their rice bowls to be anti-American. There was only a small minority that was creating trouble for its own political ends, but this might be difficult for foreigners to understand.

I refilled Machano’s brandy, telling him that he had put his finger on the problem. Our leaders were not that well informed. Bushido was a mystery to many American leaders, and one of my tasks was to try to unravel the mystery. Bushido was a complex country, and I needed someone, a Bushidan like Machano, to help me in keep our decision makers better informed. We could do this working together “unofficially” behind the scenes.

At this point, Machano raised his eyebrows, dipped his cigar in the brandy snifter, and looked up at the ceiling. I decided not to press him further, because the “unofficial” part seemed to bother him. I decided to change the subject, but before I had a chance, he held up his hand and said, “Mr. St. Martin, let me speak frankly. The problem you are discussing is one of your own making. Your style of democracy, which you are encouraging here, guarantees freedom of expression and freedom of assembly, which presumably includes the kind of demonstrations you are referring to. Your president should also understand that we are a sovereign nation, not an American colony, and my first loyalty is to my country.

“As for our relationship, yours and mine, I am willing to help and cooperate on certain issues. In the future I might even ask you to use your influence with Washington to resolve certain problems quietly. Again, I must emphasize, I am speaking about cooperation, not collaboration. I hope you understand the difference.

“I will pass on to my minister the concerns you have expressed,” he said. “I will not report our conversation tonight, which might be misunderstood.”

Machano then toasted to “cooperation and friendship,” thanked me for the dinner, and said goodnight. Alex was waiting with his feather duster and drove Machano home.

When Alex came back, we sat down for an operational postmortem. Had Machano really been impressed by the special effects, the outrider cars, the feather-duster chauffeur, and my alleged “special channel” to the White House? Perhaps. And even if he saw through the trappings of the charade, at least it made him feel important.

The “sting” had a least partially succeeded. Although Machano had not been recruited as an agent of influence, he had agreed to continue our relationship and “cooperate” on matters of mutual interest. And Machano also probably thought he had gained something. A back channel to the White House.

Dirty Tricks

It should be noted that children at play are not playing about; their game should be seen as the most serious minded activity.

—MONTAIGNE

In 1958 Bushido hosted an international trade fair in Edo. Communist China, trying to shed its international pariah image, rented the largest pavilion at the fair. As a promotional gimmick and to attract attention, the Chinese embassy distributed two thousand vouchers offering free tea and fortune cookies at their pavilion on opening day.

When an agent turned over one of the vouchers to his case officer, it was seized on as a target of opportunity. The coupon was altered in another agent’s print shop to read, “GOOD FOR ONE FREE BOTTLE OF TSINGTAO BEER!” Four thousand copies of the phony vouchers were then distributed throughout Chinatown.

On opening day thousands of Bushidans and Chinese waving the “free beer” vouchers descended on the Red China pavilion. The surprised Chinese behind the stand tried vainly to stem the onrush, offering free tea and biscuits. The crowd however, egged on by Station agent-provocateurs, stormed through the Chinese pavilion, leaving it in a shambles, before the police finally arrived to restore order just as another agent arrived to take pictures that appeared in the paper the next day over the caption “Red Chinese come up empty.”

Headquarters suggested getting back to more serious business.

My second tour in Edo was nearing an end. We had been living in a small village on the outskirts of Edo, home to Bushidan film stars, the president of the world’s largest soy sauce company, and a U.S. Air Force general who enjoyed playing “pass-the-orange” with local mama-sans.

My family had grown by two. Gray was born in 1955, Megan in 1958, both in St. Luke’s Hospital in Edo. Laurie attended a Bushidan kindergarten, and Kent played to the hilt his role of “first son” at the Koi No Bori (Boy’s Day) festival.

In late June 1958, my chief handed me a cable from Headquarters requesting a French-speaking case officer for a priority program in Cham. The cable added that St. Martin had been nominated. Following home leave, St. Martin was to report to Headquarters for “reading in” before his onward assignment to Cham.

I told the chief a college minor in French hardly qualified me as a “French speaker.” He told me not to worry. “Down there they just use the infinitive
‘Aller, manger, pisser.’ Bon Chance
, St. Martin!”

CHAPTER 5:
Covert Action

What is this, the sound and rumor? What is this that all men hear, Like the wind in hollow valleys when the storm Is drawing near?

—WILLIAM MORRIS, “The March of the Workers”

P
reliminaries to wars, the diplomatic shadow boxing, demarches, mobilizations, and ultimatums have remained unchanged, although they have been broadened recently to include UN resolutions, embargoes, sanctions, and nuclear blackmail.

The nature of war has, however, changed. Carpet bombing, claymore mines, carrier-launched Poseidons, and nuclear missiles have relegated cavalry charges and trench warfare to the dustbins of history. [Patriotic calls to “rally round the flag” fall on deaf ears or have been drowned out by chants of “hell no, we won’t go!” The quest for combat, however, has not slaked.] Bugles may be muted and cannons mothballed, but the warhorses in Washington, Moscow, and Beijing still neigh and paw the ground, cocking their ears toward the rumbling in the distance, the muffled echoes of covert action.

Covert action is not new. Homer’s wooden horse in
The Iliad
, the bogus “Ems Dispatch” sparking the Franco-Prussian War, the phony plans for the Allied invasion planted on a floating corpse, the abduction of Stalin’s daughter, and the Bay of Pigs are noteworthy precedents.

Covert action provides ideal stomping grounds for restless combatants. Outdoor rings feature brawling dissidents flailing at bobbing and weaving opponents. Inside the tent, plotters hatch cabals and power-hungry colonels ready coups d’etat. Meanwhile, currency manipulators, influence peddlers, arms merchants, and case officers stir the cauldron.

Covert action stage props include clandestine radios, portable printing presses, Kalashnikovs, rocket launchers, and plastic explosives.

Financial backers of covert action prefer to remain anonymous.

Covert action flies various flags of convenience: counterinsurgency, antiterrorism, and nation building. The latter has a particularly good ring to it, offering a cloak of respectability. Agency officers are skilled in covert action, particularly
“nation building,” where such skills as developing rapport, instilling confidence, and injecting enthusiasm stand them in good stead. Having ample supplies, arms, and funds to draw on also helps.