Authors: F. W. Rustmann
He maneuvered his Toyota Land
Cruiser around the bumps, potholes, people and herds of sheep and donkeys. The
animals and people were in no hurry. Nor were they concerned that Mac was impatient.
They all milled around aimlessly, people and animals, as they had for
generations.
The ever-present surveillance
from the Ethiopian Ministry of Public Security had no trouble keeping up with
him. The dirty white rattletrap Volkswagen Beetle with its right front
headlight hanging precariously out of its socket was close behind, as always.
It was dusk. The blue light of
evening bathed the area like stage lights, and the thin air of the Ethiopian
highlands was already turning cool. The dry summer season had arrived, and the
city sky was no longer darkened by the thick soot of thousands of small fires
burning eucalyptus twigs and leaves to keep the tin shacks and round native
“tukel” huts warm.
By the time he had navigated the
half-mile-long winding climb along the narrow drive from Dessie Road to the
Ambassador’s mansion on the crest of the hill, leaving the struggling
Volkswagen panting at the bottom, Mac had decided what he would say to his
friend Huang.
In the spirit of true friendship,
he would deliver the recruitment pitch in such a way as to fulfill
Headquarters’ bureaucratic requirement, while at the same time giving Huang
ample room to back out gracefully. That, at least, he could do for a man he
truly considered a friend.
The affinity that had led to this
friendship reminded Mac of a story by Joseph Conrad, “The Secret Sharer,” he
had read in college. In Conrad’s tale the connection that took place on a ship
between two people who had much in common was overshadowed by circumstances
that imposed a barrier, circumstances which made this sense of connection and
identification impossibly complicated. One of the two men had, in the end, been
forced to “jump ship”—literally.
Mac had studied the remarkably
detailed file that the Agency had compiled on Huang, a personality profile and
operational summary that was far more informative than most of those available
on Chinese intelligence officers. Even before he had met Huang, Mac felt he
really knew a great deal about the real person who had been selected as his
“target.” There was an immediate and troubling sense that he could not simply
regard Huang as a depersonalized enemy “objective.”
This feeling of identification,
even empathy, had been, for Mac, the foundation of something more complex than
just an operational interaction.
MacMurphy wanted to preserve
their personal relationship, not just because of the genuine close friendship
that had developed between them, but because there might come a day when Huang
really would want to jump ship. And MacMurphy wanted him to know where he could
always find a sympathetic, helpful ear. Mac had both Huang’s and the Agency’s
best interests at heart simultaneously, even if, on the surface, the two seemed
mutually exclusive. Mac intuitively knew it was too early in Huang’s career to
make the offer.
Above all, he did not want Huang
to feel obliged to report the recruitment pitch to Beijing. That was the most
important thing. MacMurphy knew from operational intelligence disseminated
exclusively to CIA case officers in the field that it was the policy of China’s
MSS to recall immediately any officer who had been on the receiving end of an
operational approach from a hostile intelligence service.
The MSS’s reasoning was simple:
If the officer did not appear vulnerable to hostile recruitment, he would not
have been pitched in the first place. So Beijing felt it was prudent to get the
officer back behind the safety of the bamboo curtain before things could get
out of hand. Beijing took no chances on someone who might later decide to
defect, or worse, to agree to a lucrative offer to spy against the motherland
as an agent-in-place.
The policy was a closely guarded
secret among a few top MSS counterintelligence officers. They knew that if word
ever got out that an officer would be recalled if he or she reported a
recruitment pitch, pitches would quickly cease to be reported. And since
counterintelligence in Beijing could usually learn about hostile approaches to
its officers only through the officers themselves, they simply lied to the rank
and file and told them that disciplinary action would be taken only against
those officers who did
not
report hostile approaches.
MacMurphy knew all of this, but
he was also quite certain that Huang did not, which complicated things further
for the CIA case officer.
Chapter Sixteen
A
uniformed valet at the top of
the hill directed the line of arriving cars to park at the end of a grass lot
full of diplomatic vehicles. Mac recognized several U.S. Embassy cars by the
“4” prefix on their diplomatic tags and noticed a much larger number of Russian
vehicles with the “10” prefix.
Approaching the entrance,
MacMurphy passed a group of diplomatic drivers gathered in a group in the
parking lot, smoking and gossiping about their bosses. He recognized a
chain-smoking Ethiopian security officer in their midst—which was why CIA case
officers always drove themselves. Actual Foreign Service Officers used
chauffeurs from the embassy motor pool to ferry them about. It was one of the
many small ways hostile intelligence services were able to distinguish the
spies from the real diplomats; there were other, more subtle differences.
Squaring his shoulders and
mentally girding himself, Mac entered the house. The entry foyer was festively
lit and decorated. Flowers abounded, their commingled and sometimes
unpleasantly mixed scents overriding even the heavy perfume of some of the
arriving guests.
MacMurphy entered this olfactory
war zone and joined the guests passing through the reception line. Moments
later, he greeted Ambassador Zeki Gonen, a short, stocky man with an infectious
grin and shiny bald head, tonight even shinier due to a coating of sweat. Mac
wondered if this was an indication that Gonen didn’t enjoy these parties any
more than he did. Mrs. Gonen, at the ambassador’s side, was a robust woman four
inches taller than Zeki, decked out in gold lamé and sequins. The couple
embraced MacMurphy warmly—they were old acquaintances from dozens of like
functions—and Mac continued down the line to Gonen’s deputy, Nail Atalay.
Nail and Mac embraced solidly,
pounding each other’s back with a vigor that testified to their respective
physical strength. They had a lot in common. Both were in their mid-thirties,
friendly but tough competitors on the tennis courts, each in superb physical
shape. Other similarities included the fact that both were attractive bachelors
and rapidly turning prematurely gray. Two “silver foxes” on the diplomatic
circuit.
More than one female head had
turned at Mac’s entrance. Mac was flattered by the attention but took it in
stride. He was too level-headed a fellow to let his head get blown up by the
attentions of the ladies…even when those attentions went beyond merely being
obvious in admiration of his looks and charm.
“Mac, you made it! Thank you for
coming. Are we still on for Saturday?” Nail asked heartily.
“You bet. I’ve reserved an
embassy court for eleven-thirty. You won’t get a game off me this time,” Mac grinned,
warming to the prospect of winning on the courts. Mac liked winning in
all
aspects of his life. That’s why he never gambled – he hated to lose.
“We’ll see about that, my friend.
We’ll see about that... I’ll catch up with you later. Enjoy the food and
drink.”
Nail turned to greet the next
person in the receiving line, and Mac moved into the chattering mob of
elegantly dressed women and pin-striped men. He maneuvered his way past the
loaded buffet table surrounded by ravenous African and Middle Eastern
diplomats.
Mac would eat eventually, but he
had too much respect for his physical condition to over-indulge at these
affairs. That was one of the reasons he remained in such superb shape at an age
when many of his peers were starting to develop paunches and uncooperative
muscles. He did, however, snatch a Campari-soda from a silver tray carried by a
starched Ethiopian waiter.
Mac smiled and nodded at Mpana
Martin, First Secretary of the Embassy of Cameroon, who was busily stuffing
deviled eggs into his mouth while carrying on a rapid-fire conversation with
two other wildly gesticulating West Africans.
Drink in hand, he shouldered his
way through the packed dining room toward the living area of the house, nodding
and waving and occasionally exchanging brief greetings with familiar people. He
moved through the crowd confidently, easily, yet constantly aware of his
surroundings—not so much the furnishings or decorations, nor even the abundance
of food and drink, but the people. He made a mental note of who was there,
memorized any unfamiliar faces…and searched the crowd reluctantly for his
friend Huang.
The living room was less crowded,
and he stopped by the fireplace to exchange pleasantries with Deuk Po Kim and
Hoon Sohn of the South Korean embassy and Jinichi Yuki of the Japanese embassy.
They were discussing the potential contribution of the Olympics to world
harmony, debating the value—if any—that the world games offered to
international relations. Mac got pulled into the conversation, but he couldn’t
devote his full attention to the debate at hand; a part of his mind remained
occupied with last-minute revisions to the script of his forthcoming
conversation with Huang.
Mac enjoyed the people he was
talking with and would have lingered longer were it not for an interruption by
Yuri Leizarenko, counsellor and resident chief intelligence officer of the SVR,
the successor to the KGB, at the Russian embassy.
“How are you, Mr. MacMurphy, my
old comrade?” boomed the sumo-sized Ukranian, pounding Mac on the back with a
large, callused hand as if they were old friends. “Where have you been hiding?
Have not seen you for very long time. Where have you been? In jail or
something?” He laughed heartily at his own joke and didn’t seem to be bothered
that no one else in the group was laughing.
“Something,” replied Mac,
slipping into his blank, uncommunicative, boring stare routine. Mac had no time
to waste on this particular obnoxious Russian. The Ukranian essayed another
equally humorless joke, but Mac met it with the same glazed eyes and lack of
laughter. Twice more the golem tried, and twice more MacMurphy fielded the tasteless
questions with monosyllabic grunts. During the awkward silence that ensued, Mac
drifted away from the group. Behind him, he heard the SVR station chief mutter,
“…
asshole….
”
Chapter Seventeen
M
acMurphy stepped out onto the
balcony, where it was cooler, and briefly watched one of the cooks busily
barbecuing chicken wings and shish kabobs on a large grill. He couldn’t resist
the scent and plucked a shish kabob directly off the grill. It was difficult to
eat the thing gracefully, without dripping grease on his suit, but he was
concentrating on doing his best at it when he noticed the group of Chinese
officials at the far end of the balcony. They were dressed alike in gray Mao
jackets, keeping to themselves. Huang Tsung-yao was among them.
Even though dressed in the drab
outfit favored by the late Chairman Mao, Huang stood out from the three other
men. He was tall by Chinese standards, slightly taller than Mac, and his
aristocratic wiry frame seemed to vibrate with barely suppressed energy. His
dark eyes gleamed with intelligence and he had the bearing and presence of a
natural leader. He was obviously the Alpha-male in the group.
Watching them, Mac knew that
nothing was more boring than a group of Chinese diplomats at a cocktail party.
They tended to huddle together and most of them either had limited social
skills or were apprehensive about being overly chummy with foreigners. In any
event, Mac wanted to get Huang alone, so he made eye contact with Huang and
then drifted off to the other end of the balcony to wait for him.
Mac stood at the balcony railing
and looked up into the clear night. The luminous moon seemed to take up more
than its fair share of the sky, and stars spread out over the rest of the black
velvet firmament like glitter spread by an over-enthusiastic three-year-old.
Only in Africa could the sky be displayed the way it was tonight.
As he considered with trepidation
the night’s recruitment pitch to Huang, he briefly thought about other
recruitment operations he had orchestrated since arriving in the field. None
had been quite like the situation he faced this evening with Huang.
Mac had excelled during his
recruitment training down at The Farm, and he had already racked up three solid
hard-target recruitments during his first tour in Addis. And that was precisely
why he did not want to pitch Huang this evening. You needed to identify
vulnerabilities or susceptibilities in your target before moving into the
recruitment phase.
In Huang’s case there were no
such vulnerabilities or weaknesses to prey upon. He had no children to educate.
He was a rising star in the MSS, seemed actually to enjoy the Spartan life of a
third world diplomat, and was extremely proud of his Chinese heritage. There
was nothing that MacMurphy or anyone else had found that would indicate in the
slightest way that Huang would betray his country for money or anything else.