good, spit it out …
Chapter Fourteen
29
October 1994,
Turkish
National Day
Addis
Ababa, Ethiopia
M acMurphy hated diplomatic
cocktail parties, functions given by people who didn’t want to give them for
people who didn’t want to attend. He certainly fit into that latter category.
But as a CIA case officer under official cover, he was forced to attend these
boring parties.
And there was a more compelling
reason that he did not want to attend this particular function. CIA
headquarters, over the strong objections of MacMurphy and the Addis Ababa
station chief, had instructed MacMurphy to corner one of his best friends on
the diplomatic circuit in Addis, a Chinese intelligence officer, and deliver a
recruitment pitch.
Huang Tsung-yao was operating
under the cover of a reporter for the New China News Agency, but he was
actually a very capable intelligence operative from the Ministry of State
Security. Mac had been ordered to go to the party and attempt to recruit him to
work covertly for the CIA.
MacMurphy and his station chief believed
strongly that if these instructions were carried out, they would destroy Huang’s
career. They thought the approach was a dumb idea.
Mac knew his friend Huang would
refuse the pitch. He and Huang Tsung-yao were very close. They had a natural
affinity for one another that went far beyond their mutual interest in tennis.
Although raised in different cultures on different sides of the globe, they
shared athletic good looks, charm, a natural sensitivity and intellectual
curiosity. They were more like brothers than adversaries. Case officers share
many traits.
But he and the station had fought
the battle with CIA headquarters and lost. His orders were now clear, the
arguing was over; he was obligated to follow Headquarters’ orders, sent under
the name of the Director, even if against his better judgment. That’s how
things worked in the Agency. Just like the military. It was time to salute.
Three years earlier, in Somalia,
he had disobeyed a direct order. But this was different. He didn’t like
what he was being told to do now. But, while hating the taste of it, and wanting
to spit it out, he would salute and do it.
Chapter Fifteen
A s he turned east from the former
Revolution Square and took Dessie Road toward the Turkish Ambassador’s
residence, MacMurphy thought about how he would approach Huang.
He maneuvered his Toyota Land
Cruiser around the bumps, potholes, people and herds of sheep and donkeys. The
animals and people were in no hurry. Nor were they concerned that Mac was impatient.
They all milled around aimlessly, people and animals, as they had for
generations.
The ever-present surveillance
from the Ethiopian Ministry of Public Security had no trouble keeping up with
him. The dirty white rattletrap Volkswagen Beetle with its right front
headlight hanging precariously out of its socket was close behind, as always.
It was dusk. The blue light of
evening bathed the area like stage lights, and the thin air of the Ethiopian
highlands was already turning cool. The dry summer season had arrived, and the
city sky was no longer darkened by the thick soot of thousands of small fires
burning eucalyptus twigs and leaves to keep the tin shacks and round native
“tukel” huts warm.
By the time he had navigated the
half-mile-long winding climb along the narrow drive from Dessie Road to the
Ambassador’s mansion on the crest of the hill, leaving the struggling
Volkswagen panting at the bottom, Mac had decided what he would say to his
friend Huang.
In the spirit of true friendship,
he would deliver the recruitment pitch in such a way as to fulfill
Headquarters’ bureaucratic requirement, while at the same time giving Huang
ample room to back out gracefully. That, at least, he could do for a man he
truly considered a friend.
The affinity that had led to this
friendship reminded Mac of a story by Joseph Conrad, “The Secret Sharer,”
Chapter Fourteen
29
October 1994,
Turkish
National Day
Addis
Ababa, Ethiopia
M acMurphy hated diplomatic
cocktail parties, functions given by people who didn’t want to give them for
people who didn’t want to attend. He certainly fit into that latter category.
But as a CIA case officer under official cover, he was forced to attend these
boring parties.
And there was a more compelling
reason that he did not want to attend this particular function. CIA
headquarters, over the strong objections of MacMurphy and the Addis Ababa
station chief, had instructed MacMurphy to corner one of his best friends on
the diplomatic circuit in Addis, a Chinese intelligence officer, and deliver a
recruitment pitch.
Huang Tsung-yao was operating
under the cover of a reporter for the New China News Agency, but he was
actually a very capable intelligence operative from the Ministry of State
Security. Mac had been ordered to go to the party and attempt to recruit him to
work covertly for the CIA.
MacMurphy and his station chief believed
strongly that if these instructions were carried out, they would destroy Huang’s
career. They thought the approach was a dumb idea.
Mac knew his friend Huang would
refuse the pitch. He and Huang Tsung-yao were very close. They had a natural
affinity for one another that went far beyond their mutual interest in tennis.
Although raised in different cultures on different sides of the globe, they
shared athletic good looks, charm, a natural sensitivity and intellectual
curiosity. They were more like brothers than adversaries. Case officers share
many traits.
But he and the station had fought
the battle with CIA headquarters and lost. His orders were now clear, the
arguing was over; he was obligated to follow Headquarters’ orders, sent under
the name of the Director, even if against his better judgment. That’s how
things worked in the Agency. Just like the military. It was time to salute.
Three years earlier, in Somalia,
he had disobeyed a direct order. But this was different. He didn’t like
what he was being told to do now. But, while hating the taste of it, and wanting
to spit it out, he would salute and do it.
Chapter Fifteen
A s he turned east from the former
Revolution Square and took Dessie Road toward the Turkish Ambassador’s
residence, MacMurphy thought about how he would approach Huang.
He maneuvered his Toyota Land
Cruiser around the bumps, potholes, people and herds of sheep and donkeys. The
animals and people were in no hurry. Nor were they concerned that Mac was impatient.
They all milled around aimlessly, people and animals, as they had for
generations.
The ever-present surveillance
from the Ethiopian Ministry of Public Security had no trouble keeping up with
him. The dirty white rattletrap Volkswagen Beetle with its right front
headlight hanging precariously out of its socket was close behind, as always.
It was dusk. The blue light of
evening bathed the area like stage lights, and the thin air of the Ethiopian
highlands was already turning cool. The dry summer season had arrived, and the
city sky was no longer darkened by the thick soot of thousands of small fires
burning eucalyptus twigs and leaves to keep the tin shacks and round native
“tukel” huts warm.
By the time he had navigated the
half-mile-long winding climb along the narrow drive from Dessie Road to the
Ambassador’s mansion on the crest of the hill, leaving the struggling
Volkswagen panting at the bottom, Mac had decided what he would say to his
friend Huang.
In the spirit of true friendship,
he would deliver the recruitment pitch in such a way as to fulfill
Headquarters’ bureaucratic requirement, while at the same time giving Huang
ample room to back out gracefully. That, at least, he could do for a man he
truly considered a friend.
The affinity that had led to this
friendship reminded Mac of a story by Joseph Conrad, “The Secret Sharer,”
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