Henderson Bruce - Spy dust: two masters of disguise reveal the tools and operations that helped win the Cold War

The story you are about to read is true. Or at least it is as true as we can write it. When one is trying to commit to paper the secret history of history, things take odd twists and turns. Nonfiction espionage must be written with foremost regard for any continuing intelligence equities that might still be involved. To that end this book has been reviewed by the CIAs Publication Review Board. Years ago, when we began employment with the CIA, we both signed secrecy agreements stipulating that the Agency would be allowed to review any writings we might ever do and remove any information considered harmful to ongoing operations, techniques, or personnel. We still have many friends and colleagues who continue their work with the CIA, and we know that many of the foreign agents and sources with whom we worked are continuing to provide invaluable intelligence to the U.S. government. We would never jeopardize their lives or otherwise threaten their security.

In that spirit our reader will need to know that some details of our story have been blurred. Geographic details have been generalized, so that Subcontinent and South Asian capital are as specific as it can get in several instances. Nearly all names except our own have been changed. Some dates have been slightly shifted, although the time line in the book does represent the broad dates of the operations described. Several characters are composite characters, and this was done in order to obscure their identities. All of the above was done not for stylistic reasons, but to expedite the telling of this story, set during the last five years of the Cold War.

Following the events of September 11, 2001, we hope that the American reader will find some reassurance in this story that U.S. intelligence services are alive and well and have been for many years. The Cold War battleground has segued into the war against terrorism, but shadowy targets and unseen threats are nothing newthe CIA has been engaged in this battle for years.

The code of the spy has always been, Never celebrate your successes or explain your failures. While this always made sense from the point of view of security, it has nevertheless deprived the American people of the information they need to properly evaluate the work that their intelligence agencies are doing. With a few exceptions, it will always be this way. But we hope the story we are about to tell will offer a measure of courage, a sense that the right things are being done for the right reasons, and that honorable men do prevail. George Tenet, Director of Central Intelligence (DCI), said himself that the American public must know about the CIAs history in order to judge for itself the contribution made by the intelligence community to the successful conduct of the Cold War.

Espionage is not a career to be undertaken lightly, and along the way there have been and will be human losses, both American and foreign. For reasons of national security many of those who have been lost cannot be named even in death, neither the Americans nor the foreigners who worked and died so bravely for the cause of freedom. But we can honor each and every one of them for a job well done. We hope that this book will further that process.

ANTONIO AND JONNA MENDEZ

Washington, D.C.
April 16, 1985

The lobby of the Mayflower Hotel in downtown Washington was one cavernous hallway with medallions of oriental carpet at carefully measured intervals. A row of crystal chandeliers was strung down the city-block-long corridor, and their reflections danced in the multitude of gold-framed mirrors lining the walls. The hotel had many entrances, sitting as it did at a strategic intersection of Connecticut Avenue and De Sales Street, four blocks from the White House. A prestigious location for more than half a century, the Mayflower had served as a site for numerous presidential inaugural balls.

On this date, a new footnote was to be added to the hotels colorful history.

In the bar just off the lobby, a man was sitting at a corner table so that he could observe the foot traffic on both Connecticut and De Sales. He had been waiting for more than thirty minutes and, nervous by nature, had already downed a couple of double vodka martinis. This waiting game went against his grain. He got up and walked into the lobby, where he stood looking down the great length of the hotel promenade, which was filling with small groups of people gathering for lunch or drinks, or just chatting.

The person he was expecting was not among the crowd.

He seemed slightly out of place in these plush surroundings. It wasnt just the Montgomery Ward polyester sports coat or the dirty Hush Puppies he wore or even his bad teeth. It was the accumulation of all these details that suggested a man who didnt belong.

He went back to the bar and lit another cigarette; he had been smoking continuously since his arrival. Pulling a letter-sized envelope out of his coat pocket, he placed it on the table, squaring its long side with the tables edge. He tapped his fingers softly on the envelope, hesitated, then picked it up and put it back into his pocket. The bar was beginning to fill up with the lunch crowd.

He checked his watch again and looked around the bar. The rich, English club atmospherethe dark leather and mahoganythat was designed to cosset and relax gave him no feeling of ease or belonging.