The Human Factor. Ishmael Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ human source of intelligence on enemy nuclear weapons.

      During the winter of 2005, I boarded the No. 1 Metro line at the Louvre and traveled west, getting off at Porte Maillot and walking through underground passages to a scientific conference at the Hotel Concorde Lafayette. I’d seen it advertised on the Internet that morning, and it looked promising. Scientists network with their peers at such conferences, to exchange ideas, learn about the latest developments, and advance their careers.

      In other words, it would be a perfect watering hole for visiting rogue state weapons scientists, who might make for good human intelligence targets.

      Most of the attendees were middle-aged professionals, some dressed in inexpensive suits, others in collared shirts, with a smattering of neckties here and there: Scientists focus on their specialties and ideas, not on dressing up. I paid an entrance fee, pinned on a nametag, and entered the part of the room where people were conversing in scattered small groups.

      I also surveyed the room for anyone who might pose a danger. Any venue that attracts weapons specialists might also attract other intelligence officers. Some might be keeping an eye on their own government’s scientists or looking for intelligence sources, just as I was. If I correctly played my cover, other intelligence services wouldn’t present any threat—at least, not near-term.

      Of even more concern to me were my colleagues from the CIA. We tended to flood events like these with intelligence officers and access agents, i.e., informants. This causes turf friction between different parts of the organization, but I hadn’t had time to tell anyone I’d be there. We wrote up voluminous reports to Headquarters (HQs) back in Langley, Virginia, describing moods, impressions, and observations of events. If I’d crossed one of these guys in the past, or if any of them wasn’t happy with me invading his territory, he might note, “I saw Ishmael there and thought he looked like a spy,” or, “Ishmael was too aggressive and he was attracting attention to himself.” The last thing I wanted was to show up in a colleague’s after-action report.

      A warning signal ran through me like an electrical charge. Across the room and deep in conversation were the Twins—American professors who taught science at an American university and worked for the Agency as access agents. A couple of months before, at a conference in Istanbul, they’d marked my colleague Loman as a spy. “Something didn’t seem right” about Loman, they wrote; his cover “didn’t seem believable in that venue.” The Twins had met Loman before and knew he was an Agency officer. HQs scolded Loman. A month later he was given a one-way ticket home from his assignment in Eastern Europe to a cubicle at Langley. There were other factors involved, but the Twins had undeniably played a major role.

      Keeping out of the Twins’ line of sight as best I could, I methodically covered the room, like a farmer plowing a field, eyeballing each nametag, on the lookout for people who might make good sources. A target from North Korea, Iran, Libya, Russia, or China would be ideal. If I couldn’t see a nametag clearly, I’d get as close as I had to. Finding no one of special interest, I strolled over to the conference’s poster area, where scientists display their latest papers. During evening sessions, the authors stand next to their posters and discuss and defend their ideas.

      I glanced over the papers until I came to one belonging to a nuclear scientist from a rogue state—Dr. B—.

      I returned to the main hall, inspecting the attendees’ nametags closely again for Dr. B—. No Dr. B—anywhere. At the reception table they said he’d been unable to attend. That was perfectly normal. Scientists often had funding or scheduling problems that forced them to cancel their plans. Scientists from rogue states had to obtain government approval for all travel, which made their plans doubly uncertain. By signing up for the conference, though, they could get their papers posted on the board even if they didn’t show up.

      Dr. B—’s telephone number was listed on his paper, so I pulled out my cell phone and gave him a call.

      “Hello, Dr. B—, my name is Ishmael Jones from Acme Software Solutions. I’m calling from the conference in Paris.”

      “Yes, I had hoped to attend, but I had trouble scheduling it at the last minute.”

      “I saw your paper at the poster session. I had been hoping to meet you here. My company has a technical problem with one of our products, and reading your paper, I realized you may be the one to help us with a solution.”

      We exchanged email addresses and, soon thereafter, emails. I invited him to visit me, at my expense, and we set an appointment to meet in Warsaw. Dr. B—could be an excellent source of intelligence—information that might prevent the advancement of his nation’s nuclear weapons programs. If my relationship with Dr. B—went well, the effects might alter the world for the better, perhaps even save lives.

      But first I had to cover my tracks.

      HQs didn’t know I’d be attending the conference. I had, however, been cleared to be in Paris that morning. I’d tell HQs I just happened to walk by the conference because I’d had a cover business meeting nearby. HQs would rather hear that my attendance was serendipitous than that I’d specifically targeted it. There should be no fallout from having dropped by. I’d done a good job of avoiding the Twins and hadn’t recognized any other CIA people, so I didn’t expect my name to come up in anyone’s after-action report.

      I wouldn’t tell HQs how I’d closely eyeballed everyone’s nametag. That broke an unwritten Agency rule from back when many spies were embassy diplomats. Diplomats don’t charge into scientific conferences and scrutinize nametags. They’re expected to sidle up casually to people at cocktail parties, make small talk, and set a date for tennis.

      Few at HQs had ever met a rogue state weapons scientist. HQs didn’t even realize how approachable they were. The scientists’ occupations—creating weapons of mass destruction for use by tyrants—made them intimidating, but I knew they sat next to a phone just like anyone else. They liked to communicate with people, indeed had to, if they wanted to keep informed within the scientific community. Most had relatives in the United States, and all of them wanted to come to the States to study. Nearly all spoke English and enjoyed speaking with Americans.

      As for me, I was merely a businessman. I wasn’t at the conference for fun—I was working, and attendees fully expected strangers to read their nametags. No reason to be shy about it.

      The biggest problem would be explaining to HQs how I’d managed to arrange the meeting in Warsaw. By telephoning Dr. B—as he sat at his desk in his office, I’d broken an ironclad rule. No officer may ever contact anyone in a rogue state without prior approval.

      Approvals from dozens of bureaucratic turfs and layers of Agency managers were needed before I was allowed to make a telephone call to anyone, let alone a rogue state scientist. Protocol required that I first write a memorandum with the proposed content of the telephone conversation, then get the go-ahead from several tiers of managers at my home station, several in Paris, several in Warsaw, several at the European Division at HQs, several at the Eastern European Division at HQs, several representing Dr. B—’s home country, and several others for the HQs division of Dr. B—’s home country. As a weapons scientist, Dr. B—’s activities also came under the rubric of Counterproliferation Division, meaning several layers of management from that division, too, would have to review and approve the request. Within all of these layers were offshoots responsible for counterintelligence and security. There was yet another set of layers just for dealing with my own office. If anyone, anywhere along the way, considered my request a bad idea, the operation wouldn’t go forward.

      I solved this problem by claiming that Dr. B—called me. Dr. B—didn’t need approval from the Agency to call me, of course, since we had no control over him. I СКАЧАТЬ