Henican Ellis - How to catch a Russian spy: the true story of an American civilian turned self-taught double agent

Praise for

HOW TO CATCH A RUSSIAN SPY

Every now and then, the safety and security of our country depends on an everyday young American doing the right thing. What sets Naveed apart is that he obviously had such a blast doing it. As amusing as it is to read this book and watch an admitted amateur get over on a Russian operative here in the United States to steal secrets, its also sobering to contemplate how many bad actors there are waiting to take advantage of the fact that we live in an open society.

Frances Fragos Townsend, former Homeland Security adviser to President George W. Bush

One early lesson I learned leading SEAL units is that its not enough to begin with a good planan effective operator must adapt to fast-changing conditions and adjust the plan accordingly. Despite his lack of training, Naveed Jamali intuitively grasped that lesson, repeatedly calling on the main weapon in his amateurs arsenalingenuityto deceive his opponent. In a time when our nations enemies vigorously troll for information that will give them an edge, its comforting to know that American resourcefulness can triumph even out of uniform.

Rorke Denver, New York Times bestselling author of Damn Few

So celebrated in American pop culture are the tactics of espionage that even a motivated amateurwith a talent for improvisation and a taste for Hollywood flaircan take on a real-life Russian intelligence operative and best him at his own game. Whats most charming about this page-turning account is Naveeds honesty about his missteps and the joy he takes in designing deceptions that actually work. Readers will smile right along with him.

Lindsay Moran, bestselling author of Blowing My Cover: My Life as a CIA Spy

Certain names and identifying characteristics have been changed.

All statements of fact, opinion, or analysis expressed are those of the author and do not reflect in any way the official positions or views of any U.S. Government agency. Nothing in the contents should be construed as asserting or implying U.S. Government authentication of information or endorsement of the authors views.

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Copyright 2015 by Naveed Jamali

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First Scribner hardcover edition June 2015

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Interior design by Jill Putorti

Jacket design by Jaya Miceli

ISBN 978-1-4767-8882-1

ISBN 978-1-4767-8885-2 (ebook)

For Casey, Toby, and Ava

INTRODUCTION

I gripped the wheel tightly and steered the Jeep toward the warehouse. My heart was thumping so hard I thought Oleg might be able to hear it in the passenger seat.

You okay? he asked in that flat, stiff English of his.

Totally, I lied.

The air was chilly for early April, but the morning was unusually bright. The year was 2008, nearly two decades after the Berlin Wall tumbled and the Cold War was consigned to the history books. The Jeep was a black-on-black SRT8 6.1-liter Hemi V8 with 425 horsepower and all the subtlety of a cinder block through a giant plate of glass.

Id been waiting for this day for almost two years. Ted and Terry, my FBI handlers, had been gaming it out with me for nearly six months. What would I say when Oleg asked how much money I wanted? What would I do if he pulled out a gun? Lately, things between us had grown unusually tense. The agents had done what they could to prepare me. But all along they kept telling me, You have to be ready to think on your feet.

What the hell did that mean? Think about what?

As I eased the Jeep to a stop in front of the old brick building, Oleg was staring straight at me. I knew this was a big day for him as well. The documents Id promised, cockpit manuals for two of the U.S. Navys most important combat aircraft, werent classified TOP SECRET . But you couldnt just buy them on Amazon or eBay. These were the technical operating procedures that American pilots relied on in Iraq and Afghanistan. These two fat, blue three-ring binders told you everything you needed to know in the pilots seat.

A handoff like this one, I knew, would inspire Olegs Russian imagination. But it would do more than that. It would help convince his bureaucratic superiors in Moscow that he had recruited a potentially valuable mole in New York, a well-placed American civilian capable of delivering U.S. military data. I was the kind of American asset the secret-hungry Russians searched for, someone with the motivation and the technical expertise to deliver the goods.

We make an excellent team, you and me, Oleg said.

The binders were inside a large cardboard box in the trunk of my other car, a black Corvette Z06, which was parked inside this huge auto-storage warehouse on a quiet back street in suburban Westchester County, twenty miles north of New York City. The box was too heavy to drag into a restaurant or a coffee shop, which was where Oleg and I usually met. So he and I came up with an alternate plan. He would take the Metro-North train from Grand Central. Id meet him at the station in Hastings-on-Hudson. The warehouse was down by the water, two blocks away.

You could make a lot of money, Oleg said as I keyed my PIN into the security keypad outside the warehouse and the metal slats groaned up.

Whats a lot? I asked him.

That Corvette you are so proud of?

What about it?

You could buy ten.

I did love fast American cars.

As I pulled the Jeep inside, the warehouse was chilly and dark. But once I flipped my headlights on, I could see the rows and rows of parked vehicles. Expensive sports cars covered with monogrammed tarps. A Mustang, a Lotus, a Porsche, various Benzes and BMWsthe weekend cars of affluent city people. There was also a giant dump truck and a couple of vintage fire engines. Even in this light, I could tell the fire engines were gleaming red.

The warehouse was deathly quiet. As far as I could tell, Oleg and I were the only people around.

As I drove deeper inside, Oleg glanced left and right and then behind us. What was he expecting? A dozen FBI agents rushing the Jeep? A spetsnaz special-forces team from the Russian GRU? I understood why he might feel jumpy. I felt jumpy, too. The Corvette is down this row and to the right, I said as calmly as I could. So much was on the line, for Oleg and for me, I couldnt afford to screw anything up.

Just then, a horrible squealing sound went off. I gasped, and Oleg froze. It took a second for me to realize where the alarm was coming from. For some reason, the Jeeps radar detector had gotten tripped.

I scrambled to quiet it, but the off button wasnt where I thought it should be. Damn, that thing was loud! The noise was designed to be heard over a roaring engine on the interstate with the windows open or the air conditioner on and the audio system blasting. In a closed-up Jeep at three miles an hour in a quiet suburban warehouse, that little sucker really screamed. After a couple of frantic seconds that felt like an hour and a half, I found the right button. Its okay, I said to Oleg. Its only my radar detector.