Read Online See No Evil: The True Story of a Ground Soldier in the CIA's War on Terrorism by Robert Baer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Robert Baer
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in our country,’ he said as he turned and walked away.
As soon as I got back to my room, I looked through the briefing book for the mock country. It stated very clearly that it had no hydrocarbon reserves. The next morning when students assembled in the auditorium, I could tell I wasn’t the only one who had failed to do his homework.
At exactly eight-thirty, a six-foot-three-inch man built like a rock entered the auditorium and walked deliberately to the podium. With his weather-beaten, ruddy face, he looked like he’d spent a lot of time in the desert.
‘My name is Joe Lynch. I’m the course coordinator. Who got a follow-on meeting last night?’
You could have heard a pin drop. No one raised a hand.
Lynch walked up the middle aisle and stopped next to my desk. The blackboards, Formica-top desks, and bare walls made me feel like I was back at Georgetown University, but this man didn’t look or sound like any professor I had ever had.
‘Does anyone have any idea why we are here?’ His voice boomed through the auditorium.
I knew I didn’t. I was relieved when an older woman raised her hand. She looked like she could have been in the CIA for a while and was now being recycled into a case officer.
‘We’re here to learn how to become intelligence collectors,’ she said.
Lynch didn’t even acknowledge her. He looked around the room and then took his place back behind the podium.
‘Apparently, no one got a second meeting. Did one of you at least get a telephone number?’
About half the students raised their hands.
Lynch turned to a student in the front row with his hand up.’ Was it an office number?’
The student nodded.
‘So what are you going to say when his secretary answers the telephone and asks who you are? If you’d read your briefing book, you’d know Wilton is hostile to the United States. Unreported contact between Americans and government officials is forbidden. By calling your friend at his office, you’ve just screwed him.’
Lynch swept the room with his gaze.
‘To go back to my question about what you’re doing here. The US government is spending millions of dollars to turn you into wolves, predators. Last night you were supposed to separate one of the lambs from the flock, the one who knows secrets, and lead him down the path to betrayal - of his country and everything else dear to him - and at the same time not let on what you’re doing.
‘If you joined the CIA as a shortcut to becoming a Foreign Service officer, drinking free booze at cocktail parties, or taking an extended vacation in Europe, I recommend you go back to headquarters and look for a desk job.’
I think it was only at that moment that I finally understood the CIA was deadly serious about sending me out into the world to spy. So much for skiing in Switzerland on the agency’s nickel.
For the next five months the instructors did their best to turn us into predators. Working pretty much day and night, we learned the esoteric skills of spying - spotting, assessing, recruiting, and running agents, all in the framework of the mock country ruled from Wilton. On the surface, it seemed like some weird Kabuki play, but the stakes were high. A thumbs-down at the Farm meant you weren’t certified as a case officer. Uncertified, you couldn’t go overseas. You’d be permanently assigned to headquarters, and back then it was preferable to resign.
Not surprisingly, the hardest part was the actual recruitment, or the ‘pitch,’ as it was called. After you’d determined that your target knew secrets the CIA wanted to know (spotting), you then had to dope out whether he had any weaknesses that made him vulnerable to a recruitment pitch (assessing). The general rule was, you went after the weakest person - someone with money problems, a deep grievance against his country, an alcohol problem - but some of the best agents recruited by the CIA did it simply because they loved America. The point, and it was hammered
As soon as I got back to my room, I looked through the briefing book for the mock country. It stated very clearly that it had no hydrocarbon reserves. The next morning when students assembled in the auditorium, I could tell I wasn’t the only one who had failed to do his homework.
At exactly eight-thirty, a six-foot-three-inch man built like a rock entered the auditorium and walked deliberately to the podium. With his weather-beaten, ruddy face, he looked like he’d spent a lot of time in the desert.
‘My name is Joe Lynch. I’m the course coordinator. Who got a follow-on meeting last night?’
You could have heard a pin drop. No one raised a hand.
Lynch walked up the middle aisle and stopped next to my desk. The blackboards, Formica-top desks, and bare walls made me feel like I was back at Georgetown University, but this man didn’t look or sound like any professor I had ever had.
‘Does anyone have any idea why we are here?’ His voice boomed through the auditorium.
I knew I didn’t. I was relieved when an older woman raised her hand. She looked like she could have been in the CIA for a while and was now being recycled into a case officer.
‘We’re here to learn how to become intelligence collectors,’ she said.
Lynch didn’t even acknowledge her. He looked around the room and then took his place back behind the podium.
‘Apparently, no one got a second meeting. Did one of you at least get a telephone number?’
About half the students raised their hands.
Lynch turned to a student in the front row with his hand up.’ Was it an office number?’
The student nodded.
‘So what are you going to say when his secretary answers the telephone and asks who you are? If you’d read your briefing book, you’d know Wilton is hostile to the United States. Unreported contact between Americans and government officials is forbidden. By calling your friend at his office, you’ve just screwed him.’
Lynch swept the room with his gaze.
‘To go back to my question about what you’re doing here. The US government is spending millions of dollars to turn you into wolves, predators. Last night you were supposed to separate one of the lambs from the flock, the one who knows secrets, and lead him down the path to betrayal - of his country and everything else dear to him - and at the same time not let on what you’re doing.
‘If you joined the CIA as a shortcut to becoming a Foreign Service officer, drinking free booze at cocktail parties, or taking an extended vacation in Europe, I recommend you go back to headquarters and look for a desk job.’
I think it was only at that moment that I finally understood the CIA was deadly serious about sending me out into the world to spy. So much for skiing in Switzerland on the agency’s nickel.
For the next five months the instructors did their best to turn us into predators. Working pretty much day and night, we learned the esoteric skills of spying - spotting, assessing, recruiting, and running agents, all in the framework of the mock country ruled from Wilton. On the surface, it seemed like some weird Kabuki play, but the stakes were high. A thumbs-down at the Farm meant you weren’t certified as a case officer. Uncertified, you couldn’t go overseas. You’d be permanently assigned to headquarters, and back then it was preferable to resign.
Not surprisingly, the hardest part was the actual recruitment, or the ‘pitch,’ as it was called. After you’d determined that your target knew secrets the CIA wanted to know (spotting), you then had to dope out whether he had any weaknesses that made him vulnerable to a recruitment pitch (assessing). The general rule was, you went after the weakest person - someone with money problems, a deep grievance against his country, an alcohol problem - but some of the best agents recruited by the CIA did it simply because they loved America. The point, and it was hammered
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