EXFIL by Anthony Patton (best books to read non fiction TXT) 📗

“Done.” I was in no position to offer asylum, but felt confident that Chen’s nod of approval would force DIA’s hand, to prove to the U.S. Intelligence Community that the CIA wasn’t the only game in town. “If you’re ever in trouble or need to get to safety, we have an exfil plan for you.” Not true, and I was in no position to offer this, either.

Exfiltration, aka exfil, would mean sneaking him out of China and resettling him and his family in America or another country. Again, force the hand.

Who, besides compromised politicians, would say no to Chen’s offer to provide secrets?

Nobody liked waterboarding until it produced actionable intelligence.

So, to solidify the deal and build trust, I handed Chen the photographs. In the old days, we would have offered the negatives as well, which meant something. He no doubt understood that we had digital copies (exactly how we’d obtained the photographs is an interesting story for a later time) but his vulnerable emotions and clouded judgment would take solace from this simple gesture.

Tom led Chen to the door, where they shook hands and exchanged hushed words as I finished my drink. According to plan, Chen had transferred the bad cop hate to me and was ready to move forward with good cop Tom, who, like the true professional he was, had built a genuine friendship. This interlude with me wouldn’t dissolve their bond.

Chen turned to me and pointed defiantly. “Lieutenant Colonel Li’s next cyberattack will bring America to its knees,” he said, slamming the door for added effect.

At that moment, I had no idea how much those chilling words would rattle my life. My only thought was of how we had hit a home run and would be lionized the next day in the halls of the Pentagon, or possibly fired.

With Chen gone, I gave Tom a firm embrace with a slap on the back.

This incident no doubt only made him more distressed about his own misdeed with the go-go dancer, but it had to be done. Colonels didn’t get promoted to brigadier general by playing it safe.

I could’ve stayed longer and offered more words of wisdom, but our goodbye had been in the works for weeks and there was no need to drag this out.

“Fantastic job,” I said, shaking his hand. “You’ve got it from here, brother. Look me up the next time you’re in D.C.”

Outside the suite, I lit a celebratory cigar and admired the neon lights and swirl of street noise as I strolled by the go-go bars in Soi Cowboy.

It was no accident that I scheduled the meeting with Chen near one of the red-light districts.

Men who live lives of quiet desperation often fantasize about one-night stands with random women while sitting alone in bars during business trips, not looking for it, but not turning a blind eye to fate. In Bangkok, however, the power of choice shifted to the realm of certainty, in the right place and for the right price.

I challenge any man worthy of the title to grip the firm ass of a nubile Thai princess and not indulge until exhaustion, especially knowing that you’ll still love your wife and kids the next day. So, strolling with anticipation by the familiar mauve neon lights of Club Ecstasy, I exhaled a cloud of smoke, locking eyes with Jewel, who was sipping a Cuba Libre through a straw.

Jewel was the prettiest of the bunch, with dazzling large brown eyes and silky black hair. A cartoon transformation of her face would look like an exotic Disney princess. She spoiled me with lavish attention and quickly became my favorite. On this occasion, she wore a blue-green plaid Catholic schoolgirls’ uniform, braided pigtails, black-rimmed glasses, and the most arousing fuck-me eyes the world had ever seen. She smiled, set her drink down, and followed me to a taxi away from the crowded street. There was never a doubt about how I would spend my last night in Bangkok. As much as I loved my wife and kids and prided myself on controlling my emotions, I feared that saying goodbye to Jewel would leave me depressed.

I often told myself that if a foreign intelligence service were to confront me with photographs of my own misdeeds, I, like that apocryphal Middle Eastern diplomat, would thank them and offer to buy copies, but even I didn’t really believe it.

TWO

Three years before that fateful night with Captain Chen, I arrived in Bangkok with my lovely wife Beth and our two teenage sons, Andrew and Troy, to serve as the U.S. Army Attaché in the Defense Attaché Office. Beth had resigned her commission a few years earlier to focus on raising the boys while pursuing her Ph.D. in International Relations, which included writing articles for prominent think tanks and attending conferences.

I love Beth in ways best described in sonnets, but despite having a maid, cook, and gardener while serving overseas, she described her choice to resign from the Army as a sacrifice for the family, wearing it like a badge of honor. I never mentioned that we had lost a paycheck for the college fund or that her life of academia seemed leisurely from where I stood.

That said, I derived masculine satisfaction from being married to a stay-at-home mother. Historically, this was the Army way, and the American way.

I was punching above my weight with Beth, but she had a masterful way of praising my manly virtues both in public and in the bedroom. The good news was she had a plan. She was setting the stage for a tenure-track professorship at West Point, which the Army was salivating to offer, with the implicit understanding that I would follow her there for my next assignment.

The assignment in Bangkok was supposed to set the stage for my promotion to brigadier general, but options at West Point would be limited and not without conflict or compromise. Beth was confident we could make it work, but