Six Car Lengths Behind an Elephant, page 2
We, on the outside, were dropped into place with nobody to guide us, unless we were lucky enough to have some time with the man Frank was replacing, if there was anyone in that position. The Old School Tie was little comfort to us when we found ourselves totally alone.
CIA employees like Frank are called case officers. Unlike common parlance, “agents” are actually the people who case officers recruit to do the spying for them. CIA case officers who work with the embassy are referred to as being “on the inside.” In the course of this story, whenever the term “liaison with the embassy” or “representative of the embassy” is used, it is a reference to a member of CIA’s personnel, and not to the embassy in general.
In some cases, the other case officer with whom my husband worked was in charge of all operations. In the countries where there was a very large contingent of the CIA, the case officer reported to a more senior intelligence officer who was “the boss.”
What is Deep Cover?
Deep cover officers are responsible to the cover company to do the actual job and to do it well. It is not a pretending game. When Frank was assigned to a company as vice president of sales, it was his responsibility to train for the job in a very short period of time, and to succeed in that position. Only the president of the company and Frank’s immediate superior were informed of his other, very real job. Of course, this meant that the entire staff in his office should have no doubt about his qualifications.
Most of his clandestine meetings took place in the evenings, usually in hotel rooms, often requiring an overnight stay to avoid suspicion. Men under deep cover had to expect to work twelve hours a day or more, and were expected to travel on company business whenever it seemed feasible. It demanded a lot of time away from the family.
Frank had several passports from various countries, each one used for a particular hotel, thereby appearing to be an authentic businessman and a regular guest. In foreign countries it was necessary to show one’s passport at the hotel registry, so keeping a low profile was of paramount importance.
The double life was a juggling act and I was the juggler. When I got up at 6:30 a.m. to wake the children and make breakfast, I always closed our bedroom door because Daddy was “still sleeping,” when in fact, he had not been home at all. Occasionally, the story was that he was out of town on a buying trip.
Lying to the children was very hard, especially when they were teenagers. The duplicity becomes a part of you and the lying is constant. Lying to your friends, your neighbors, your office staff, and your family becomes so natural that the lie becomes the truth in your mind, a part of who you are. At times the guilt was heavy, but for the most part the deceit was automatic. In hindsight, I am ashamed of how easy it was. It was an enormous betrayal. We confided only in each other, which, oddly enough, resulted in an even stronger bond between us.
Deep cover in the CIA means, literally, that you are so buried in the files of the Agency that your real name never appears anywhere, not even on the payroll. It means that you will have no contact with your embassy in a foreign country unless a message must be conveyed, and this is done in the most clandestine way, usually at their behest, with the understanding that under no circumstance will the embassy acknowledge or help you. Don’t bother to call.
My husband agreed to live this life primarily because of the zeal we felt about President Kennedy. Frank wanted to be a part of his new America. It was also a chance for Frank to play cops and robbers all his life. Run around the corner and don’t get caught. Dress up in odd clothes to walk through an airport, or register at a hotel, presenting your fake passport at the front desk, a passport bearing your picture, which matches your mustache and heavy glasses, and verifies that you are indeed a German businessman.
There is no question in my mind that CIA agents love their job because it is dangerous. Danger is fun. Consider that the first thing an infant will laugh at is peek-a-boo, or just boo! Later, it is hide-and-seek, looking for something hiding behind the curtains, or under the stairs. Graduate to a rollercoaster. The adrenaline pours, the heart pounds. Even a stolen kiss behind a kitchen door is delicious because it carries the possibility of getting caught. Flying a jet fighter in combat . . . the rush . . . the speed . . . the possibility of having to eject, like being shot out of a cannon, tearing through the sky alone. Free falling, parachute jumping . . . All these things are thrilling, because they are scary. Looking into a store window to study your reflection, eyes darting to see if anyone is behind you. Standing at the registration desk of a hotel, hiding in the body of someone who does not exist . . . will anyone recognize you?
The fun never ends. There are no guns. There are no tuxedos. No private plane flown over the mountains. There is no “Bond. James Bond,” because he would never utter his name, far less be famous. And “spy” is a word that is never used, except in jest. Under deep cover there is nobody to turn to for help. If you are arrested, you will go to jail. Your name appears nowhere and you have become nobody.
You are out in the cold.
Always.
The Farm
The place where all CIA intelligence officers were trained was whimsically called “the Farm.” It was reputed to be a military base, staffed with stern young soldiers who were visible at the gate and patrolling the grounds. Only those families who had small children qualified for housing on the base. It was a little like tract housing and had a feeling of neighborhood, albeit a neighborhood comprised mostly of women and children. The men attended classes in a barracks-like compound (where the bachelors lived), taught by instructors who were not much older than they were, but who had experience in the field. We learned that in most cases, they had blown their cover in a foreign country or had been removed from a post because it had grown potentially dangerous for their particular situation. This was a “cooling off” period. They taught the craft of intelligence gathering and explained the web in which it was woven.
There was another aspect of their itinerary, which was more physical and more fun, such as how to make plastic explosives and apply them to the underbellies of cars, then actually blow them up. There, in an open field were several used cars to destroy. Nobody knew where they came from, but they all knew that our own cars didn’t look that good. There was a rush of passionate pleas to blow up our own cars, and let us have one of the cars in the field, but the pleas were ignored. Apparently they were accustomed to the request, but I suppose it was unethical to agree. (Unethical?) There was no explanation as to where the cars came from, but Frank surmised that they were repossessed from delinquent owners. We continued to drive our ancient, rattling Ford. In the course of Frank’s career, there was never an occasion to blow up a car, and, in reminiscing, we wondered if anybody ever did.
Another break from the notebooks was parachute training, initially practiced from what I called a very tall tree house, for lack of a better description. It was a stand built somewhat like a guard’s lookout, and from a stand on the top, they jumped into a very large pile of hay. Of course, there was no way to imitate the real jump. On one clear afternoon, “all systems were go” and they bounded on to the plane. Frank, beaming excitedly, explained where I could stand to see them in the distance, but I declined.
Security at the Farm was tight. The guardhouse at the entrance was the barrier through which any visitors must pass, displaying an ID with a picture, which was issued at the Farm itself. Military guards constantly patrolled our streets twenty-four hours a day. I found this comforting, as the women spent most evenings alone. There were certain areas we could not enter, or even ask about. These areas were indicated by large, threatening signs, and guarded by soldiers with guns. We could hear the sounds of their activities, the shouting of men, the shooting of guns, muffled explosions. Once, when I was driving through the maze of small dirt roads within the camp, I took a wrong turn and got lost. (I was a terrifying driver, too. The neighbors clutched their children when I pulled out of the driveway). My two toddlers were in the back seat. I stopped to get my bearings. The moment I stopped, a very young soldier loomed from behind rocks and shrubs and said, wearily, “Mrs. McCloy, I should have shot you. Go home.” He knew my name, which I thought was very nice. They were serious about their warnings. Later, Frank told me they were training guerrillas to be sent to Vietnam, and the guerrillas were Vietnamese.
If we wanted to leave the base for grocery shopping, we carpooled, stopping at the guardhouse to explain our expedition and present IDs. Even our telephone calls were monitored. If any of us wanted to make a long distance call, it had to go through an operator who would ask who we wanted to call and why, then explain it to an officer and give permission. We assumed the calls were bugged. After having gone through the most intense scrutiny of our lives to be accepted by the CIA, I wondered what diabolical plans they could have expected of us, if we were silly enough to make these plans by telephone and from the base. We had been warned not to tell our families of our location. There was a post office box in the nearby town for us to receive mail, which was picked up by a guard. Did this make any sense? We were in limbo for several months. “Dear Mom: We are in limbo. Don’t ask.”
While at the Farm, there was little done for the wives to prepare for their future. Someone decided that language lessons would be helpful. Even though not everyone would be destined to use the language chosen, Spanish seemed to be the most likely to be used, as Spain, Mexico, and all of South America could become our destiny. A Spanish tutor came to one of our houses, and though I thought it might be a useless endeavor, it was a learning experience. On the morning of our first lesson, I didn’t attend because I had laryngitis. My voice was nothing but a whisper, and extremely husky. I crossed the street to tell my neighbor, because I couldn’t talk loud enough to be heard over the phone. She and I had arranged to go together to the lesson, children in tow. Her two sons and John liked to play together.
A short while after returning home, I wondered where John was. We didn’t worry too much about the children, because our Marines were always patrolling, and would instantly notice a lost child. Had John gone along to the class with my neighbor?
There was an area across from our house that was a tangle of brush and shrubs. We had been warned about a patch of quicksand that lay below that. A dog had at one time wandered into the mire, and had been sucked into the quicksand rapidly, and of course, died. I looked toward that area, and there was John, standing at the very edge of that patch. I opened my mouth and called “JOHN! JOHN!” My voice was a loud bellow. I scrambled down through the brush and nettles, repeating John’s name in my miraculously loud voice, and he turned to look at me. Within seconds, I had him in my arms. I was covered with scratches and cuts. “What’s wrong, Mama?” John asked, frightened. I was about to explain to him once more, a warning he had previously heard, but again I had no voice. Just a whisper.
If I had gone with my neighbor, I would have taken John and Kristin with me, and this frightening episode would not have happened. I took it as an omen that I should study Spanish.
The Wives
The initial briefing of wives consisted of a talk given by “the colonel” at the CIA headquarters in Langley. He informed us that we were privileged to be married to the “cream of the cream of the cream of the crop,” having been selected from thousands of applicants.
We were advised that after our stay at the Farm, we had to discard any friendships we may have cultivated amongst ourselves, and furthermore, we must never acknowledge having met before, if by chance we ever saw each other in the future.
Strong bonds were inevitable. We were a small community of women with no babysitters, no stores, no movies, and no restaurants. We relied on each other for company and conversation and shared childcare. When my mother died, one of my neighbors immediately offered to take care of our children, while I went to the funeral (with permission from the Man). She and I remained close friends for years. I always knew where she was stationed, and she always tried to keep track of me, and occasionally we would be in Washington at the same time. Behind closed doors we drank scotch and told our war stories. It was amazing how comical our lives seemed to us.
None of us had any idea what would be expected of us in our new environment of a foreign country. We were invited to a “seminar” given by a CIA woman, Miss B., who lived at the Farm. She was of a certain age, patrician and unmarried. She had been in the employ of the CIA since World War II, when it was called the OSS (Office of Strategic Services), and during which time she was reported to have parachuted into Belgium in the black of night. We did not know why, but we were a little uncertain about whether that qualified her to dispense advice on how to entertain at home in a foreign country. She advised us not to be anxious about the entertaining we would have to do, and that the best attitude was no attitude; that we “just be ourselves,” without pretension. When one wife named Julie asked about our lack of good china and crystal, Miss B. assured us that cocktails could be served without apology, in whatever glasses we already had, to which Julie retorted: “In Captain Kangaroo cups?!”
Julie knew that in our new covert roles, we would always be, purportedly, families of successful businessmen, whose lifestyle was bordering on the sumptuous in a foreign country, with live-in maids and a social life that flourished. Our real income was low-grade government salary. A long way from a flourish.
There were no manuals or lectures explaining the decorum required when entertaining an army general in Madrid or a minister of education from Egypt or India. Where was the handbook to remind the hostess that certain religious teachings did not allow the consumption of shellfish, or meat, or alcohol? Or that chrysanthemums, while vividly attractive in the living room and dining room, were displayed only at funerals in Spain? Or that a gentleman kisses only the hand of a married woman, and never do his lips touch her skin? (Frank never did learn this, and was in a constant frenzy of hand kissing in all countries. The ladies didn’t complain.) It would have been a decided advantage to have the knowledge imparted from a CIA wife who had Been There, rather than a female paratrooper.
Could anyone guess that a lady attending church in Spain must always have her arms covered? And must be ever alert never to touch the bare feet of her servant in India? On the other hand, an Indian bride must kiss the bare feet of her mother-in-law. Sadly for the bride, particularly if she was not Indian, there was never an overpowering urge to do this. Nor did I fight any urge that I had to touch the bare feet of my servant.
Paramilitary Training
This was an elective adjunct to intelligence training. At 11:00 p.m. we could hear the loud barking of dogs and the bullhorn shouts of the paramilitary instructors. Searchlights were arcing all over the compound. This seemed to be some kind of drill which would have been useful as a preview for guerrilla warfare, so I was perplexed. Why did Frank elect to take this course? He said it was an experience he just couldn’t miss, even though he knew it would not be applicable in his own career. (More testosterone, of course.)
This exercise was not playing cops and robbers, but guerrillas and assassins. Few of the trainees were over thirty, so they had the energy and enthusiasm to enjoy being shot at while jumping over barbed wire fences (or plunging straight into them), trying to outrun the trained dogs that also pursued them. There was an absence of Old School Tie men here. Those men looked forward to being posted in a large city, wearing Brooks Brothers suits, carrying smooth-as-butter briefcases from their quaint European houses to their splendid offices downtown. Although this would be Frank’s future as well, these exercises were too exciting for him to pass up. We never did hear anything about the other men who took the course because they were training for a different type of future, a rougher, wilder career path, useful in jungles that were not asphalt.
Later in the summer, the paramilitary trainees were told they would be taken on a three-week sortie in an unknown place: literally unknown. They were flown in a plane with black windows, fitted with parachutes, knives, and military gear, and dropped into a jungle. They were not allowed to carry any food, not even candy, or even a tea bag.
There were two paramilitary teams dropped in different locales, and they were to reach a destination without any supply of food or water. The other team was experienced. The teams were to destroy or be destroyed, and to eat and drink what they could find. As chance would have it, Frank’s team found a lethargic snake, which was apparently not too well, so they caught and carried it in a large net for the evening meal. Frank was one of the carriers, and he tried to mask his revulsion. When the snake was barbecued for their first meal, Frank said he wasn’t hungry. That evening, they were charged by a large wild boar, causing them to scatter snake kabobs as they fled—except for one lithe hero of American Indian heritage, who faced the boar and stabbed it enthusiastically enough to give everyone a head start.
The suggestion that they should kill the boar and cut it up for food was not viable when a vote was taken. Berries and leaves and ailing snakes would have to do. The heat, the dirt, the insects large and small, the constant fear of snakes, the skin rashes, the intestinal upheavals, all were a constant. One of the men collapsed early in the game, a victim of violent diarrhea as well as severe trauma, which so terrified him that he was returned to the station in a state of near hysteria, an understandable reaction, but of course, a personal disgrace never mentioned again. He nevertheless became a very good intelligence officer and a highly respected man with a gift for language.
When the black-windowed plane returned, wives were informed that they would be allowed to go to the landing point to meet their husbands. That in itself was a momentous occasion, as the landing strip was always off-limits and its cargo and passengers were top secret. This was to be a very busy day for me, as I was the self-appointed hairdresser and wanted to ensure we would all be suitably puffed and sprayed while we awaited the plane. The plane door opened, and one by one emerged emaciated, grey-bearded, and weary travellers. We honestly didn’t recognize them. They were gaunt, but also triumphant. They had defeated the other team, no small feat in light of the fact that the other team was comprised of experienced guerrillas. The instructors were proud.
