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connections, he was highly respected by his peers and superi-
ors, none of whom suspected he had also been a well-regarded
CIA agent, providing vital intelligence for years. We considered
him a long-term, high-level, unilateral penetration into the
host government, privy to its most sensitive military and
political secrets. But he had mostly been posted overseas
throughout his clandestine relationship with us.
In many ways, the main problem in HONOR S case was
similar to the difficulties we had overcome with PASSAGE in
Vientiane. While HONOR had served in his country s em-
bassies, his debriefings had taken place in lavish private rooms
of elite clubs and restaurants in London or Paris whenever he
could slip away for a brief holiday. In those encounters, he had
felt secure enough to pass over extremely valuable diplomatic
cables and dispatches, and to discuss in detail the nuances of
the constantly shifting alliances within the Soviet-dominated,
THE MASTER OF DISGUISE / 163
nonaligned group of nations, of which his country was one
of the unofficial military leaders.
In other words, HONOR was not just another fat cat Asian
official, but in fact possessed vital insight into the heart of
political and military relationships that radiated out from South
Asia into China, throughout the Middle East, and on to the
Soviet Union. Because we had paid him well, he had made it
a point to ferret out all the sensitive information that the
Langley analysts presented on their shopping lists. Consistently
that information had been accurate.
Then, much to our dismay, HONOR had been kicked up-
stairs to become a senior national security adviser to the cabin-
et. He could no longer meet with his case officer in a discreet
back room in a St. James club, or a private dining alcove of a
Quai d Orsay restaurant. Now he had to conduct weekly
clandestine rendezvous in this dusty little capital, where local
security was ubiquitous and jealous unofficial spies in his own
ministry dreamed of seeing him hurled from his pedestal.
His feet aren t just cold, Simon noted. They re frozen
solid.
I flipped through Simon s latest debriefing notes in the 201
file. HONOR was terrified about getting caught here in his
own country because he clearly recognized the consequences:
Not only would he be brutally interrogated, then most likely
executed, but his family might face the same fate. Even if they
survived, the considerable unofficial fortune he had accumu-
lated would be confiscated.
Because his intelligence value to the United States had only
increased since his return from overseas, veteran case officers
like Simon were not about to let him slip away without a fight.
HONOR S country was actively negotiating with the Chinese
on a highly sensitive and secret arrangement that would allow
a few Chinese intermediate-range nuclear missiles to be sta-
tioned in the country. This arrangement would
164 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
counterbalance a similar Russian rocket threat, which a
neighboring nation was suspected of developing.
But there was more. HONOR s national air force provided
unofficial mercenaries throughout the Middle East who were
especially active in Egypt. As defense adviser, HONOR had
begun to hear ominous reports that the Soviets had moved
tactical nuclear weapons into Egypt to be used against the Is-
raelis, in the event of yet another Arab-Israeli war.
HONOR s frostbitten feet, however, had not moved him to
the last scheduled clandestine meeting, nor to the alternate
meeting. He was obviously on the brink of heading south,
as Simon put it, just when American intelligence needed him
more than ever. If tensions in the Middle East again reached
crisis level, America was going to need every reliable intelli-
gence source with knowledge of the region it could possibly
find. Simon simply could not afford to lose HONOR now.
I returned the thick case file to Simon s desk. Given the
gravity of the situation, I had to find a way to convince HON-
OR that we could provide a disguise so foolproof that he could
remain an active member of the operation and work virtually
under the nose of the local security service in this claustro-
phobic little city.
Got any good ideas how you re going to bring this guy
along? Simon asked skeptically.
Simon was what we techs called a James Bond case officer;
when he went operational, he favored black turtlenecks, Italian
driving gloves, and expensive Harris tweed. His graying brown
hair was cut in the collar-length British style and, whenever
he took off his sportscoat, I half expected to see a Walther PPK
slung in a shoulder holster. Although his sleek appearance
might attract too much attention on a surveillance detection
route through narrow back streets, he was a highly competent
officer.
THE MASTER OF DISGUISE / 165
I do have a couple of ideas, Simon, I said, suppressing a
smile. First, the best way to convince HONOR to use the new
GAMBIT disguise is to actually deceive him with it, to put him
in the place of his own security service and show him how
well it works.
Let s give it a go, Simon said.
THE CRUCIAL TEST came just after sunset two days later. I
strolled through the cool, deepening twilight under the ja-
caranda trees surrounding walled diplomatic and expatriate
villas. It was certainly not unusual for a Westerner to be savor-
ing the early evening breeze after enduring the arid heat of the
late summer day. As I crunched up the gravel path of the well-
maintained park and entered the murkier shadows beneath
the acacia trees, I knew I had been walking for some time with
no one behind me.
It was ominously black under the branches as I groped my
way to the stucco wall of the villa at the far end of the park.
Reaching out in the darkness, I immediately touched the slim
package that Carol had placed there from her garden on the
other side of the wall. She was a seasoned case officer used to
operating under an innocuous cover in the backwaters of the
world, and she managed to maintain a convincing legend at
this tasteful villa, where she often entertained diplomats and
local officials.
I followed a circuitous route toward the glow of the street-
lamps beyond the trees on the other side of the park. Satisfied
that there was no one nearby, I slipped the GAMBIT from the
black bag and applied the disguise, working easily by touch
alone in the shadows, just as I had done on so many practice
runs in my darkened hotel room. I checked each prominent
part of the disguise and completed the look with a colorful
cravat, tucking it in by running my right finger around the
collar
166 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
of my dark cotton shirt. Satisfied that my transformation was
complete and that looked perfectly natural, I strolled along the
gravel path on the opposite side of the park from which I had
entered.
Now back on the sidewalk, I passed the occasional lone fig-
ure or couple walking in the pleasant evening coolness. People
nodded politely, and one man even offered a cordial greeting
in English: A very good evening to you, sir.
I returned his nod but dared not risk a response, which could
have been distorted by the disguise.
The couple passed, and I breathed easier. Thankfully, the
improvements that Jerome Calloway and the TSD technicians
had made in the GAMBIT disguise, based on suggestions that
I had forwarded through channels, were more effective than
any of us had hoped. As I continued strolling, my encounters
with local people beneath the glaring mercury-vapor lamps
illuminating the street were relaxed and pleasant. In spite of
the exercise, I wasn t even sweating. This is going to be apiece of
cake, I thought after a fifteen-minute trial run through the
neighborhood.
Then, I saw a Westerner in wrinkled tennis whites walking
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