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the sidewalk. The dog was a massive creature, tall and barrel-
chested, with a head like a wolf s. This beast was, without a
doubt, a very effective watchdog. But how the hell would he
react to me? Despite Jacob s constant warnings to think of every
possible contingency, none of us had even considered this
particular development. GAMBIT worked well in both natural
and artificial light, but we never asked ourselves how the dis-
guise might look to a fierce black dog, marching along with
nothing but a choke collar restraining him.
I could bolt across the street, of course. But that was not
normal behavior for a Westerner, especially one whom GAM-
BIT had trans-
THE MASTER OF DISGUISE / 167
formed into an almost stereotypical, pink-faced Brit expat, who
should by definition be a dog lover. So I held my ground on
the sidewalk, trying to remember everything I had been taught
as a kid back in Nevada about animals being able to sense
human fear. As a ten-year-old in Caliente, I d always followed
those lessons whenever I encountered menacing strays on the
street: Look em in the eye, keep your shoulders squared, and
walk right past them.
I swallowed hard and continued strolling casually, trying
not to betray my apprehension. I pictured this unpredictable
monster wheeling suddenly, its jaws snapping to attack, but
a moment later, the dog and its owner passed close by without
incident.
Trying to relax I approached the turn at the front gate of
Carol s house. My next challenge was to walk past her chokadar,
who was squatting in the middle of her open gateway with
three of his friends, enjoying a few crumbs of hashish in a clay
pipe, which they passed among themselves in the crisp night
air. The watchman looked up and nodded with a snaggle-
toothed grin, offering a serene salaam.
As I stepped inside Carol s gate, I made a mental note that
we had just achieved a professional milestone. On two other
operations, we had used these new disguises at night on indi-
viduals riding in vehicles the PASSAGE debriefings in Vien-
tiane, and a series of equally productive agent-case officer
meetings in a neighboring South Asian country. These latter
debriefings were of military officers with detailed knowledge
of newly delivered Soviet weapons, including T-62 tanks, the
latest variant of MiG-21 fighters, and, most important, the new
upgrades to SAM-2 antiaircraft missiles. American pilots in
Indochina and our South Vietnamese allies were confronting
these same weapons on the battlefield, and the knowledge we
gained about their technical properties helped defeat the enemy
during the Communist Easter Offensive of 1972 and
168 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
the bombing of Hanoi in December. All of the agents wearing
the GAMBIT disguises had passed the scrutiny of suspicious
local police and even trained counterintelligence officers as
they rode in our cars disguised as Westerners. However, we
had not considered GAMBIT at that point in its evolution to
be practical for the type of operational environment HONOR
faced.
In other words, if an agent or case officer needed hours of
painstaking preparation at the hands of an expert to pass close
scrutiny in ordinary light, then routine use of disguise was not
practical. And, before our meetings, we would not have the
luxury of sitting down with HONOR for such protracted
periods of time because his new position made him inaccess-
ible. For this reason, the success of tonight s moist run, dead-
drop pickup of the disguise was extremely crucial. Dead drops
were quick, safe, and tested elemental tradecraft; they could
be constantly changed, and, if chosen well, were hard to detect.
Dead drops usually served as clandestine mailboxes for mes-
sages, but working with Calloway and TSD, I hoped to perfect
a GAMBIT disguise that could be folded neatly into a flat black
bag and applied in the dark in a few minutes without adhesive,
mirrors, or expert hands. My evening promenade around the
well-lit streets of this prosperous neighborhood, including the
unexpected encounter with the watchdog, proved that our in-
creasingly paranoid but valuable agent HONOR could be
taught to disguise himself with a GAMBIT he retrieved from
a dead drop.
This strategy was an essential part of making our operation
convincing, secure, and feasible. Obviously, an agent who had
already grown nervous would never even consider hiding
something as incriminating as the GAMBIT disguise at his
home, where its discovery would not only compromise his
own safety but that of his entire family. Nor would we want
to leave such an obvious piece of spy gear in his care.
As I walked up Carol s winding drive between hibiscus
hedges, she
THE MASTER OF DISGUISE / 169
came down the front steps to greet me, smiling as if I were an
old friend. The chokadars squatting over their pipe were not
particularly interested in the distinguished Western gentleman
calling on the memsahib after dinner. She often hosted late
evening bridge games during the warm months, and a new
partner aroused no suspicion. It was an excellent cover because
we were already planning for HONOR to become a true con-
noisseur of the game.
Once we were inside, I faced Carol. What do you think?
I purposely avoided using the words look or disguise,
a habit we all followed out of discipline, assuming as we always
did that any location might be bugged.
Fabulous, she said, shaking her head in wonder. She
peered more closely, her smile widening. I never would have
guessed it. We went into her living room, where Bokhara
carpets were spread tastefully on the muted tan tiled floor.
Have a seat. Carol pointed to a handsome leather chair in
a corner. Simon should be here shortly.
I sat down, crossed my legs comfortably, and inspected the
cigarette case and ashtray on the copper table beside the chair.
When he comes in with his friend, I ll be sitting here smoking
a cigarette and drinking a gin and tonic, just as we discussed,
I murmured to her under my breath.
When she came back from the kitchen with the drink, I
placed it on the table, then reached up to adjust the angle of
the lamp on the other side of the chair. The room was dotted
with pools of light from similar lamps. Carol stood there
watching as I lit my cigarette and sat back in my chair.
Still okay? I asked again.
Smashing, Carol said with a giggle. She disappeared into
her bedroom, where she would remain until our visitors were
gone.
170 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
I had just lit my second Dunhill 100 when Simon and
HONOR arrived. Simon ushered the agent into the living room
and asked him to take a seat diagonally across the room from
me. The dapper, plump gentleman was clearly flustered from
his ride across the city, crouching on the floorboards of Simon s
ops vehicle (his personal, English racing-green sports car). Si-
mon had picked him up in an obscure alley, and HONOR had
succumbed to this nerve-racking indignity in order to avoid
being spotted in the company of the American diplomat
widely rumored to belong to the CIA. I saw immediately that
Simon had been right: Here, indeed, was an agent on the verge
of quitting.
Tonight, Simon was again playing the role of the glamorous
Ian Fleming spymaster. He had, most likely, terrified our
agitated agent, who squatted suffocating in the narrow space
in front of the passenger seat as Simon careened through traffic
with his usual flamboyance.
Turning to leave the room, Simon smiled benevolently at
HONOR. I ll be right back.
But, as planned, Simon did not introduce me or even acknow-
ledge my presence before he left. HONOR, an old-school dip-
lomat who observed a rigid social code, was left stranded, sit-
ting in a room twenty feet away from a complete stranger, who
silently smoked and drank a gin and tonic without even glan-
cing in his direction.
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