The spy who took on the White House

“One, two, three, go!” yelled an instructor in my ear, wind ripping around us, as my legs dangled out the airplane’s open door. I was terrified beyond anything I had felt before, but the instructor had vowed when he checked our parachutes and tightened our webbing that if we went up in the airplane, the only way we would come down was by parachute. There was no backing out now and so I lurched forward — helped by a strong shove from instructor “Red” —and plunged toward the earth at 120 mph. As the instructors had predicted, my mind froze during the first jump, and that’s where the training on the ground is indispensable. All the jumps from shoulder-high platforms and then from the tower, in which you hurtle toward a padded truck at the end of a long cable, forms muscle memory that takes over when the brain fails. As the parachute opened above me and I drifted slowly down, I reached up, grabbed the toggles, and tried to steer away from the electrical lines that were racing toward me at an alarming speed and land in the zone marked with white chalk. The jump instructors had drilled us to land on our feet and immediately absorb the ground’s impact up the side of our body and then roll. At 118 pounds, I was so light that I could have just stayed upright on my feet when I hit the ground, but went through the motions of dropping and rolling so I wouldn’t be chewed out by the instructors. My relief at being on the ground somewhere inside that chalk circle was overpowering and gave way to a huge surge of ego and pride. “I did it!” Only four more jumps and I would have my much-coveted “jump wings.” It was exhilarating and I was sure I was having a better time at work than anyone else I knew.

When the paramilitary course ended, we were given the option of attending jump school —provided we could pass our physical tests and standards. I knew from the moment I heard about this opportunity that it was something I would try for. After nearly ten weeks of physical conditioning * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ****** * * * * * * * we felt we could eat nails for breakfast. Still, not everyone opted to jump and some of those who tried, failed. One woman, Karen, whom I had come to regard warily because of her overly ambitious nature, clearly wanted to jump. She was not a nemesis per se, but her superior airs got my competitive spirit going and I passed the test with flying colors, if only because I didn’t want her to beat me. After a few days of training, we were told that we would make five jumps over a period of three days to earn our wings. I dared not tell my parents about my latest “job opportunity” — my mother would not have slept for the entire week.

The day of the first jump dawned gray and cool with light wind gusts. Our group of six went through the safety procedures and scrambled, two at a time, into the light aircraft with our craggy jump instructor, Red, who never went anywhere without a full cheek of tobacco. I was dismayed that my ultracompetitive classmate, Karen, was in the planeload with me. As I watched her tumble out first, again with a helping hand from Red, I thought, If she can do it, so can I, and a few minutes later, out I went, too.

Once everyone came down —f rom a speck in the sky to a heap of nylon on the ground — we cheered and high-fived one another, feeling cocksure and very cool. Then Red walked out from the airplane hangar with his unmistakable swagger. He had just heard that a storm was coming in for the next few days and he wanted to know if we were willing to complete all five of our jumps that afternoon. We all looked at one another — there was no question. We gathered up our parachutes without a word and hustled over to the hangar to prepare for our next jumps. We weren’t about to leave the Farm without pinning those little silver wings on our fatigues.

I tapped lightly on the door at 7:30 A.M. and pushed it open a little way. I heard “come in” and stepped into the office for a meeting with my operations course adviser. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***** ************************************************* ************************************************* * * * * * * **************************** * * * * * * * * Dick sat behind his desk, smoking a cigarette. The heavy pall of tobacco already filled the small space. His salt-and-pepper buzz cut, short-sleeved plaid shirt, and thick glasses completed the look. Next to the ashtray was his customary can of Coke. Breakfast of Champions. “How’s it going?” he rasped as his hand shook on the way to his mouth to take another drag. Dick was not a bad adviser, but he was not terribly effective. * * * ****** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ********************************* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***************************** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***************************************** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

************************* * * * * * * * * * * * * *. Years of living abroad, dealing with agents, and juggling the demands of a demanding double life inevitably took their toll on officers’ health, marriages, and families. The Agency’s frequent solution was to send its troubled officers to the quiet of the Farm, which perhaps helped restore the officers’ balance, but the result was that many broken-down officers taught the new, idealistic students that a life in the CIA was a tough one. Senior management periodically vowed to put only their brightest stars at the Farm and reward them with a promotion for their stateside tours so the junior officers could be taught by the best. But the reality was that most of the time the best and most effective officers wanted to be in the field recruiting spies.

Still, Dick had significant field experience and I asked him how to pace an upcoming exercise. He exhaled smoke over my shoulder and looked down through his heavy glasses to read my latest report, written late the night before * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ****************** ***************************** ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ******************************** *************** ************************************************* ************************************************* * * * * * * * * * * * * ***** * * Although it was easy to make fun of the make-believe world * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * passing the course was deadly serious if you ever wanted to serve in the field. Through short deadlines, sleep deprivation, constant surprises, and changes in the scenarios, the instructors ratcheted up the pressure on the student cadre. I felt like I was living under a microscope, and all my interactions — even in rare moments of relaxation — were under close scrutiny from the invariable edits on our reports to follow-up debriefing sessions with instructors after operational exercises, to the feeling that we were being watched by instructors even when we shared a beer with them in the evening. We knew we were being evaluated: Did we have “the right stuff”?

The kickoff exercise for the operations course a few weeks earlier had been surprisingly easy. * * * * * * * * * * * * ********** * * ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * . Our job was to find our target person, chat up him or her, and secure another meeting. As I surveyed the crowded room * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * **** * * * * * * * * I saw that I probably had some relevant life experience that I could use in the exercise. As a Pi Beta Phi sorority sister at Penn State, I had lived through the frenzied “rush” weeks, and once I’d been accepted in the sorority, I attended many a crowded party where fitting in and exchanging easy banter with others was key to social success. Now, I smiled to myself, envisioning the room as nothing more than another fraternity/sorority party I dove in, trying to find my target, “Gary.” Introducing myself, talking a bit, eliciting essentials, and moving on proved to be easy for me. I had a revelation as I worked the crowd in the club: the vast majority of people really only want to talk about themselves. Answering a query about yourself, especially if there is not a lot you want to give out, is a matter of providing enough to be polite, then deflecting the question back to the conversation partner. It was a lesson that would serve me well in the years ahead * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and the need to deflect attention from myself to my target became critical.

I took a quick break from my quest to find Gary and made a beeline for the bar, where I gave back my glass of wine and asked for sparkling water with a twist so it would look like a gin and tonic. Another early lesson: don’t drink more than one drink on the job because it impairs your memory. I turned around and saw an instructor with dark hair and gray sideburns standing alone and thought I would try my luck. Bingo! It was Gary. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * “Oh, how interesting,” I replied, as I turned on the charm. In no time we had agreed to meet in the next few days for lunch so that Gary could tell me more * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ******** * * * Mission accomplished, I thought, as I left the party early.

Over the next few weeks, I met regularly with Gary and got to know more than I ever wanted * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * . More important for the point of the exercise, I was learning what made him tick: his motivations, prejudices, and aspirations both personally and professionally. He was quite engaging and had obviously perfected the role of Gary. After much practice, he was great at tossing out details, some meaningful, some useless, to see how much I would pick up. After each meeting, I scrambled back to our “Station offices * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * and wrote reports on the * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ****** ******************************************** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *************************** * * At each meeting, as we got to know each other better, Gary provided me with tantalizing tidbits * * * * * * * * * * * * * **** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * In the early meetings, I usually excused myself to go to the ladies’ room during the meal and furiously scribbled down all the facts and figures and names he had given me on the little pad I kept in my purse. This is crazy, I thought more than once as I sat inside the bathroom stall, fishing around in my bag, but just as in paramilitary training, I was playing on the instructors’ game board and I had no choice but to follow their rules if I ever wanted to become a case officer. Over time, I got better at retaining the flood of information, but it was a relief later when * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I could sit in hotel rooms with a real recruited asset and openly take notes without resorting to the ladies’ room subterfuge.

While this exercise * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * was being played out over a course of weeks, we were simultaneously receiving training in * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * how to write an intelligence report and a slew of operational cables were all topics. Lectures in the auditorium, given by the resident instructor staff, were often supplemented by Agency officers visiting from Headquarters or the field who had relevant experience to impart. The best speakers were invariably surrounded by curious students later that evening * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * where if your schedule allowed and you didn’t have any ops meetings or intel reports to write up, you could drop by for a beer, play Ping-Pong on a battered table, and socialize a bit. Visitors delighted in regaling their adoring audience with real-life war stories * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * We were being inculcated into the Agency culture and through these stories we learned what we might face and what might or might not work once we got into the field.

Although the pressure to perform was intense, and the feeling of being constantly observed and judged could be oppressive, there was no doubt that learning some of these spy skills was fun * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* * * * * * * * * * * * **** * * My friend David and I briefly considered using our new skills to clandestinely photograph two students who everyone knew were carrying on a torrid affair, even though one of them was seriously involved with yet another student in the same class. Max, a mild-mannered but obnoxious type, had apparently no idea that his “friend,” Tim, was making passionate love to his girlfriend. We thought some well-timed photos would help set the record straight but finally decided to let Max find out the truth for himself.

Some lighthearted moments occurred * * * * * * * * * * * ** * * * ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The cameraman laughed so hard the picture went out of focus.

*********************************************** ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * Methodology and theory * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * in the classroom was followed by plenty of on-the-road experience * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************* ************************************************ ************************************************* ************************************************* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * It was exacting, time-consuming work and we all spent hours in our cars with maps, watches, and piles of debris accumulated from our small purchases * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * . I panicked when I realized that my meticulous plan * * * * * * had a fatal flaw; a * * * stop that I had included and was vital * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * was closed. There were no other good choices nearby. The closest open establishment was a seedy topless bar, and being a nice suburban girl, I didn’t know how I would explain a visit there. I had no choice but to follow through, parking in front of the dark storefront and pantomiming shock and dismay at the store’s closure. As I leaned into the windowpane, and cupped my hands around my eyes as if checking to see if there was anyone moving around in the store, I could see * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * I looked like an idiot. My evaluation on that particular exercise was “not satisfactory.”

As the weeks turned into months we all sweated through countless evaluations of our writing, our planning abilities, our * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * skills, and our ability to think on our feet and cope with increasing amounts of stress that was no less real for being artificially generated. Several students dropped out and went back to Headquarters to find another job in the Agency or left altogether. A few other students were asked to leave because of fatal flaws in judgment or attitude, such as making the same mistake twice, not demonstrating appropriate respect for the instructor cadre, cheating in any way, or simply not possessing the intangible “it” quality that makes someone into a case officer. This news naturally spread like wildfire among the students and while I found it terrifying, it only made me try harder because the prospect of working for the Agency, living abroad, and perhaps even having my own war stories to tell one day was simply too enticing. I didn’t want to be asked to leave. One night, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *, I got out of my car and gathered my purse and notes. The June air was so heavily humid that my silk blouse stuck to my skin and my feet ached in my high heels (we had to dress up * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * when appropriate * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *). I had at least three hours of work ahead of me to get all my report writing done; it was due to the instructors by 7 A.M. the next day. I paused to look up at the starry sky. I laughed at the absurdity of my situation, but at that moment, even when exhausted from the work I had done and still had to do, I had no doubts that I would pass the course.

During the final weeks of the * * * * * * * * * * * course, the students were divided into small teams * * * * * * * * ************* * * * * *. Each team member needed to work closely with others to help solve operational problems and make sure that U.S. policymakers received the good intelligence they needed and deserved. Fortunately, my team was a strong one, its members all students I had become friendly with. The only exception was Gerry, a bespeckled, rather goofy-looking guy whom we all saw as the weak link. He never seemed to put two and two together and it was a mystery to us why he hadn’t been booted out. We just rolled our eyes whenever he made another incredibly stupid suggestion and we tried to work around him the best we could. As the operational pace was ratcheted up even further during the weeks of the final exercise, our classroom, the Station, became a hive of activity at all hours. At 2 A.M. you could go to the room and no doubt find someone from the team finishing up a report * * * * * * * *. Vicious summer thunderstorms cut out the power several times and rendered our * * * * * * useless, so on a few nights our classroom looked like a twisted tableau from a medieval monastery — we were bent over yellow legal pads writing out our reports in longhand while candles flickered in the middle of the table. We joked that the adverse conditions were preparing us for future assignments to Africa or parts of Asia.

The climax of the final exercise * * * * * * * * * * * * * ********** *** * * * * * * * * * *********** * * * * *** was to test our skills in an environment where presumably we’d never been. We were supposed to * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ********** * * * * pull together all the loose threads we left dangling * ** * * * * * * * * in order to make the final week a success. Working both as a team and individually, we got to work * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ** * trying to figure out what surprises the instructors had in store for us. However, despite the instructors’ best efforts to keep us under control, the months of pressure had taken their toll and * * * * * * * * * ************************ * * * * we acted like eighth-graders on a class field trip. Coming down to the wire, we were giddy, feeling like we had completed a master’s course in an eighth of the time. Although my team had no major screwups, our heretofore ironclad discipline broke down a little bit and we attended more than a few operational meetings with raging hangovers.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * the instructors met one final time to vote on whether to pass a student, fail him, or assign him probationary status. * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ************************************************* ****************** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * *** ************** As we finished up one of our last fried lunches in the mess hall and waited for the graduation ceremony, we heard that the instructors had voted out two more students and given three probationary status. The pain and humiliation of not graduating after completing the course would have been terrible, and I was glad that everyone on our team, even Gerry, passed.

That evening * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***************** * * * * * * * * * * our class graduated. This time I did not trade in my wineglass for water with a twist. * * * * * * * * * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * ** * * * * * * * , I had gone from an idealistic and intimidated * * * * woman overwhelmed by my new surroundings, to an idealistic * * * * * * * * * * * * woman who had been challenged and had thrived. I had jumped out of airplanes, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * walked miles in pitch-black woods, knew how to write an intelligence report really fast, * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ********************* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ****I was simultaneously exhausted and exhilarated. So far though, all these skills had been used * * * * * * * * * * * *; calling on them in the real world would be the genuine test, but it was one that I welcomed. I was ready * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Excerpted from “Fair Game” by Valerie Wilson. Copyright 2007 Valerie Wilson. Reprinted with permission of Simon and Schuster Books. No portion may be published without written permission from the publisher. All rights reserved.

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