2
BACK AT THE FARM, THERE HAD BEEN A COURSE CALLED AGENT RECRUITMENT; it gave no clear picture of the reality. Montague moved us quickly from conventional formulations to the marrow. “Espionage,” he told us, “is the selection and development of agents. That can be comprehended by two words: disinterested seduction.”
Taking his pause, he added: “If you see me as an advocate of unbridled carnality, you are in the wrong room. We are speaking of disinterested seduction. That is not, if you reflect on it, physical. It is psychological. Manipulation lies at the heart of such seduction.
“In our Judeo-Christian culture, therefore, difficulties arise. Manipulation is Machiavellian, we say, and are content to let the name judge the matter. Yet if a good man working for his beliefs is not ready to imperil his conscience, then the battlefield will belong to those who manipulate history for base ends. This is not an inquiry into morality, so I pursue the matter no further than to say that a visceral detestation of manipulation is guaranteed to produce an incapacity to find agents and run them. Even for those of us who accept the necessity, it may prove difficult. There are case officers who have spent their working lives in foreign capitals but cannot point to a single on-site agent they managed to recruit. Such failure tends to produce the kind of unhappiness you see on the face of a dedicated hunter who dependably fails to bag his deer. Of course, the odds in certain countries are very much against us.”
I do not think any of us were too bothered by the idea of manipulation at this point. To the contrary—we wondered: Would we be able to do the job? We sat there in a mixture of anticipation and worry.
“At this point,” said Harlot, “you may be thinking: So incredible a purpose, so difficult an achievement! How do I begin? Rest somewhat assured. The Agency knows better than to depend on your first instinctive efforts. Recruitment is usually the product of the time and care that is spent in studying each prospective client or target. If, for example, the condition of steel production in a certain country interests us, then a cleaning woman who has access to the wastebaskets of a high official in machine-tool production can, for the moment, serve us better than a high functionary in Agriculture. There is logic to this work, and to a degree, one can instruct you in it.”
Everyone nodded profoundly, as if we had come to the same conclusion.
“Today, we will place ourselves in a specific milieu,” Harlot said. “Let us suppose we are stationed in Prague, yet can only speak a minimal Czech. How is one to cook the omelette when the pan has no handle? Well, gentlemen, we have a support system. In the labyrinth, we are never alone. It is not expected that you, personally, will try to handle Czech agents who speak nothing but their own tongue. Obviously, there has to be an intermediary whom we can employ, a working native. This fellow is called a principal. The principal agent is the Czech who will solicit his countrymen for you. You will merely guide his work.”
“Sir, are you saying that we don’t really get out in the field?” asked one of the Junior Bold Easterners.
“In the satellite countries, you won’t get out,” answered Harlot.
“Then why are we studying recruitment?” he asked.
“To be able to think like a principal. Today, in fact, working in company, we will try to perceive ourselves as one such principal. All of you will now convert into one imaginary Czechoslovakian, an official in the Prague government who has already been recruited by the Agency. Now he—by which, of course, we now mean I, our surrogate principal—is trying to bring in a few more Czechs from nearby government offices. Manipulation commences. The first clue to effective manipulation happens to be the cardinal law of salesmanship. Would any of you be familiar with that precept?”
Rosen’s hand shot up. “The customer,” he said, “doesn’t buy the product until he accepts the salesman.”
“How do you know that?”
Rosen shrugged. “My father used to own a store.”
“Perfect,” said Harlot. “I, as the principal, am there to inspire the putative agent—my client—with one idea. It is that I am good for his needs. If my client is a lonely person with a pent-up desire to talk, what should be my calculated response, therefore?”
“Be there to listen,” said several of us at once.
“But what if I am dealing with a lonely man who dwells in isolation out of personal choice?”
“Well, just sit beside him,” said one of the Mormons, “enjoy the quiet.”
“Clear enough,” said Harlot. “In doubt, always treat lonely people as if they are rich and old and very much your relative. Look to provide them with the little creature comfort that will fatten your share of the will. On the other hand, should the client prove to be a social climber who gnashes his teeth at the mention of every good party he was not invited to, then sympathy won’t get you much. Action is needed. You have to bring this person to a gala gathering.” Harlot snapped his fingers. “Next problem. The client has just confessed to you a secret or two about his sexual needs. What would you do about that?”
Savage, a former football player from Princeton, said, “Satisfy them.”
“Never! Not in the beginning.”
We were at a loss. Discussion circulated aimlessly until Harlot cut it off. “Confess to similar sexual needs,” he said. “Of course, this assumes our client is not a homosexual.” We laughed uneasily. “All right,” said Harlot, “I will provide an easier example: Suppose the client is ready to be unfaithful to his wife. Not an uncommon possibility in Czechoslovakia. Well, you, good principal, do not try to provide him with a mistress. Do not complicate the relationship by adding so dramatic and unstable an element as a mistress. Instead . . . well, what does one do? Rosen?”
“I’m temporarily at a loss.”
“Savage?”
“Ditto.”
“Hubbard?”
It seemed to me that the answer had already been provided. “Perhaps you should confess to the same longing yourself?”
“Yes. Hubbard listens to what I say. Confess to similar sexual needs.”
“But we still don’t know,” said Rosen, “what to do if the client’s desires are frankly and actively homosexual.”
We went around the room again. It was my day in class. This time I had a small inspiration. “I think you should show sympathy, not identity,” I said.
“Keep on,” said Harlot.
“I suppose you could say that while not a homosexual yourself, you do have a younger brother who is, so you understand the need.”
“Well,” said Harlot, “we now have an approach. Let us apply it to other vices. Suppose the client happens to gamble?”
The most effective response, we agreed, would be to tell him that one’s father also gambled.
We moved on. What if the client wanted to get his oldest son accepted at a prestigious university? The principal might then have to call on influential friends. Some preparations took years.
“One has, however,” said Harlot, “to keep a firm grasp on the intrinsic problem. An exceptional friendship is being forged. One is acting as generously as a guardian angel. That can arouse suspicion in the client. He has to be aware, after all, that his job deals with government secrets. Your official might be as suspicious as a rich girl with a plain face who is being rushed by an enthusiastic suitor. Depend on it. Espionage has its parallels to matchmaking. Ministers sitting on large secrets are the most difficult to woo. One more reason to focus on the easier target—the petty official. Even in such modest purlieus, however, you, as the guardian angel, have to be ready to dissolve the client’s distrust as it forms. It is reasonable to assume that the client, in some part of himself, knows what you are up to, but is amenable to your game. Now is the time to talk him into taking the first step—that same first step which will lead him into becoming an espionage agent. The success of this transition—term it the pass—depends on one procedure so well established that it is a rule of thumb. Do any of you have a contribution?”
We were
silent.
“I guess one has got to move slow,” said a Mormon.
“No,” said another Mormon, who had done missionary work in the Philippines, “fast or slow, make it seem natural.”
“You’re on track,” said Harlot. “The rule is to reduce the drama.”
“Is this always true?” asked Rosen.
“None of what I tell you is true,” replied Harlot. “At this point, you are being provided with scenarios to substitute for your lack of experience. Out in the field, count on it, your agents are going to act in unforeseen patterns.”
“I know that,” said Rosen. “It’s just I have this idea that the pass, as you call it, can make matters more dramatic.”
“Only in counterespionage,” said Harlot. “In time, we will take a look at that arcane subject. For now, however, keep the transition modest, uneventful, dull. Reduce the drama. Request something minor. Your purpose, at this point, is not to net information, but to relax your client’s conscience. A salesman, as Mr. Rosen’s father can no doubt tell us, wants to keep a potential buyer from wondering whether he really needs the product. What procedure is analogous to our circumstances, Hubbard?”
“Do not let the client recognize how much he’s getting into.”
“Good. You, the principal, are there to allay anxiety. Warm the soup slowly. ‘Look, friend,’ you might complain to your budding little agent, ‘when I want to speak to someone in your office, the number is not available. I cannot pick up the phone and call them—I have to send a letter. No wonder our socialist economy creeps along. If you could let me borrow your department’s telephone registry for one night, it would make my work so much easier.’ Well, how can the client refuse after all you’ve done for him? It is, after all, a modest request. The intraoffice phone book is thin. One can slip it into the torn lining of one’s overcoat. So the client brings it out to you, and you get it copied immediately, and return it early the next morning before work. Now what do you do?”
We were silent.
“You let a week go by. If any anxiety was aroused in the client’s tender breast, it should have settled. Now, ask for a bit more. Can your friend let you have a look at X report? You happen to know that this X report is sitting on one of the desks in his bureau. Nothing weighty, just something your boss would be pleased to see. It could advance your boss’s interests to have such information available to him.
“An unhappy sigh from the client,” said Harlot, “but he agrees. The report is carried out in his briefcase that night, and is returned to him in the morning.
“The major shift, however, is yet to come. In order for the client to develop into a reliable agent willing to work in place for years, what now is necessary?”
Rosen had his hand up. So did the Mormons. Soon, everyone around the table but myself had raised his hand. I was the only one not to realize that the next step would lead our new agent into taking money for his services.
“It is easier,” said Harlot, “than you would suppose. Just as many a woman prefers to receive kisses and gifts, rather than kisses solo, so your just-hatched agent won’t mind being paid for his sins. A little corruption warms the chill. Remember, however, that hypocrisy is indispensable here. Keep to the model of the young lady. Offer presents before you get around to money. Avoid any hint of the crass. Pay off, for instance, some old nagging debt of the client. Just one more favor.
“Sooner than you would believe, our novice agent is ready for a more orderly arrangement. If he senses that he is entering into a deeper stage of the illicit, money can relieve some of his anxiety. For criminals, this is always true, and an agent is, at the least, a white-collar criminal. In our case, he has just emerged from an orderly but hitherto unsatisfactory middle-class life. Money becomes awfully attractive when one is perched on the edge. Strike your bargain then. You, as the principal, can bring in an offer from your boss. In return for regular removal of selected official documents, a weekly stipend can be arranged.”
Harlot nodded. “An interesting period commences. Our novice’s secret work now provides him with excitement. If he is middle-aged, you could say he is having a fling. If young, he might actually be stimulated by discovery of this potentiality for deceit in himself.”
Here, Harlot looked around our conference table. Did I have the impression that his eyes rested just a little longer on mine? His gaze moved on. “I cannot repeat often enough,” he said, “the importance of this regular cash stipend. It must, however, not be so large as to show up in a bank account, or a new home. Yet it has to be enough to quiet anxiety. Again, we rely on a rule of thumb. A good measure is to peg the supplements at not less than one-third and not more than one-half of the agent’s weekly salary. Regularity of payment serves the same purpose here as dependable meetings with a lady-love. Hysteria, always ready to flare up, is abated to some degree by predictable performance on your side. Questions?”
One of the Mormons put up his hand. “Can you afford to let the agent become witting of who he is working for?”
“Never. If you are able to manage it, don’t let him know it is the Company. Especially in an Eastern satellite. His anxiety would be excessive. If, for example, he is a Czech Communist, let him acquire the notion that he is working for the Russians. Or if, like a few Slovaks I know, he is an Anglophile, you might slip across the idea that MI6 is funding all this. If he likes to see himself as a spiritual descendant of Frederick the Great, nominate the BND. Question?”
“What if the new agent doesn’t want to take money?” I asked. “What if he hates Communism so much he wants to fight against it? Aren’t we abusing his idealism?”
“In the rare case, yes,” said Harlot. “But an idealistic agent can burn out quickly, and turn on you. So, the financial connection is, if anything, even more desirable with idealists.”
“Isn’t the real purpose of the money,” Rosen now asked, “to keep the agent intimidated? He has to sign a receipt, doesn’t he?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well, then we’ve handcuffed him to the job. There’s evidence against him.”
“The KGB uses such tactics. We prefer not to,” said Harlot. “Of course, there will be times when a signed receipt does underline the situation. I would argue, however, that the true purpose of the stipend is to give a sense of participation, even if the agent does not know exactly who we are. When you are living at the end of a network, nothing is more crucial than to feel you are not wholly alone. I repeat: Money confirms—here is our paradox—money confirms the virtue of the vice.
“Let us count our gains,” Harlot said. “As principal, you have done your favors, avoided traps, made the pass, put the client on regular stipend, and concealed the source. A perfect performance to this point. Only one major step remains. What might that be?”
“Well, you have to train him,” said one of the Junior Bold Easterners, “you know, weapons, illegal entry, one-time pads, all the stuff that’s got to be learned.”
“No,” said Harlot, “training is kept to a minimum. He is not an intelligence officer, but an agent. Use him as you have found him. He will be asked to take out official papers from his office. He will be taught to photograph documents that cannot be removed. He must never be pushed, however, unless we are desperate to obtain relatively inaccessible material. That is dangerous use of an asset. A good agent ends up not unlike a good hardworking animal on a farm. We teach it not to gallop, but to pull its load. We regulate its diet. The end we seek is an industrious performer who will help us to harvest dependable product on a regular basis year after year. That is a valuable commodity never to be risked for too little, and never to be asked for too much. Underline this in your thoughts: The stability of espionage work is the element that generates good results. As far as possible, crises are to be avoided. Therefore, gentlemen, ask yourselves: What is the last step to be taken in the relationship between the principal and the agent?”
I do not know how the next answer came to me. Either I had devel
oped some small ability to read Harlot’s thoughts, or was growing familiar with his intellectual style, but I spoke out quickly, wanting credit for the answer. “Withdrawal,” I said. “The principal withdraws from a close relation with the agent.”
“How,” he asked, “do you know that?”
“I can’t say,” I said. “It just feels right.”
“Hubbard, who would have thought it? You are exhibiting the instincts of an intelligence officer.” The class laughed, and I flushed, but I knew why he had done this. I had been sufficiently indiscreet once to confess to Rosen that Hugh Montague was my godfather; now the class knew it, and Harlot must have picked that up. “Well,” he said, “instincts are indispensable in our occupation, but I will spell it out for those of you who are not as endowed as Hubbard. Some of us have spent a few years here brooding professionally, you might say, on how to keep an agent in quiet working balance. We have come to conclude that sooner or later, the principal must separate himself from his agent. Look upon it as analogous to the shift from early parental warmth to the increasing discipline that a child has to accept as it grows older.”
“Does this have anything to do with the agent’s sense of his new identity?” asked Rosen.
“Excellent. Identity is no more than how we perceive ourselves. To become an agent, therefore, is equal to assuming a new identity. But, note: With each change of identity, we are born again, which is to say that we have to take another voyage through childhood. So now the principal will reward the agent only for disciplined behavior. Of course, the agent, if he has been developed properly, should be in less need of an emotional bond than of good advice. He no longer requires a one-sided friendship nearly so much as he can use someone with the skill and authority to steer him through hazards. Given the danger, he wishes to believe that so long as he does exactly as he is told, his new life is safe and moderately prosperous. Of course, he must learn to take precise instructions. Certain precautions may seem onerous, but spontaneity is forbidden. In effect, the agent has a contract, and the free insurance that goes with it. After all, in the event of serious trouble, the principal is ready to pluck the agent and his family out of the country.