See No Evil: The True Story of a Ground Soldier in the CIA's War on Terrorism by Robert Baer Page A
Authors: Robert Baer
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two minutes later I heard a shot. The next thing I saw was Singh throwing a dead peacock over the wall. He was about to follow it when a half-dozen men wearing side arms and carrying automatic weapons came running up from all directions.
I stayed in the car as Singh talked with the men. Every now and again they’d look over at the jeep, and I’d get terrified that they were going to ask for the paperwork. I was starting to suspect the jeep was hot, liberated from the Indian army. If that was the case, both Singh and I would be hauled off to jail. Happily it was too dark for them to see that I wasn’t an Indian or that the jeep had civilian plates on it. Singh was wearing his uniform, and no doubt they thought we were both army.
Singh finally handed the peacock to one of the men and walked back to the jeep, grinning sheepishly.
‘That was Mrs. Gandhi’s estate,’ he said as we pulled away.
Not only had Singh trespassed on Indira Gandhi’s estate, he’d killed an Indian national bird, which was also illegal. Close calls like that weren’t part of the course at the Farm.
The more I saw of Singh, the more it looked like he was ready to be separated from the flock. One weekend I brought Wild Bill on a hunting trip. It never hurt to have a second opinion. Bill and Singh hit it off. Afterward Bill agreed with me that it was time to pop the question. In fact, I invited Bill to be there for the show.
Singh knew something was up as soon as he walked in the room and saw Bill. He kept smiling, though. We were all friends. I brought Singh a beer.
I started about as steadily as when I had pitched Sami, rambling about our long friendship.
‘Major,’ Bill cut me off. ‘Let’s don’t horse around. Bob and I work for the CIA.’
Now that that grenade was thrown, I took back over. I asked Singh if he wanted to work for the CIA as an agent. He went pale. It looked for a moment as if he was going to get up and leave. He thought better of it, though, probably remembering he’d broken the rules by not reporting his contact with me and accepting the shotgun. He’d already compromised himself. When I finished, he hesitated and then said he would think about it.
Major Singh eventually turned down the pitch, but making it did wonders for my confidence. We remained friends for years. Soon recruiting agents became as natural as ordering a pizza over the telephone. It’s all a matter of listening to what people are really saying. Money problems, an awful boss, secret desires or allegiances can all be windows into small compromises that grow into larger and larger ones. It took me a while, but I finally learned how to read the dark forest of other people’s minds and then walk them into espionage small step by small step. Toward the end of my career, I never had a pitch rejected.
For most of my tour in New Delhi, I was extremely lucky to fall under the IB’s radar. It put only sporadic surveillance on me. The lax coverage mattered, too, because in addition to the double I had been handed and my efforts to recruit Singh, I’d picked up five other agents. I was meeting an agent every two or three nights - a lot in a hostile environment like India.
My luck almost changed for the worse one night in August. A week of monsoon had left half of Delhi’s roads flooded and impassable, bad conditions for meeting agents, but since Madras, I had learned to avoid the low areas. Besides, I expected the meeting to be brief. Pass the agent some cash, I figured, and kick him out the door in the first dark alley.
As soon as I turned the corner, I could see he was carrying a bulky duffel bag. He was also breathing heavily, as if he had run to the meeting.
‘T-72 manuals,’ he said, pointing at the bag as he climbed in the car. ‘What?’ I asked, almost certain I’d heard him wrong. Grinning from ear to ear, he repeated himself.
The T-72 tank manuals were the Holy Grail we’d been after for years, the keys to the kingdom of knowledge.
I stayed in the car as Singh talked with the men. Every now and again they’d look over at the jeep, and I’d get terrified that they were going to ask for the paperwork. I was starting to suspect the jeep was hot, liberated from the Indian army. If that was the case, both Singh and I would be hauled off to jail. Happily it was too dark for them to see that I wasn’t an Indian or that the jeep had civilian plates on it. Singh was wearing his uniform, and no doubt they thought we were both army.
Singh finally handed the peacock to one of the men and walked back to the jeep, grinning sheepishly.
‘That was Mrs. Gandhi’s estate,’ he said as we pulled away.
Not only had Singh trespassed on Indira Gandhi’s estate, he’d killed an Indian national bird, which was also illegal. Close calls like that weren’t part of the course at the Farm.
The more I saw of Singh, the more it looked like he was ready to be separated from the flock. One weekend I brought Wild Bill on a hunting trip. It never hurt to have a second opinion. Bill and Singh hit it off. Afterward Bill agreed with me that it was time to pop the question. In fact, I invited Bill to be there for the show.
Singh knew something was up as soon as he walked in the room and saw Bill. He kept smiling, though. We were all friends. I brought Singh a beer.
I started about as steadily as when I had pitched Sami, rambling about our long friendship.
‘Major,’ Bill cut me off. ‘Let’s don’t horse around. Bob and I work for the CIA.’
Now that that grenade was thrown, I took back over. I asked Singh if he wanted to work for the CIA as an agent. He went pale. It looked for a moment as if he was going to get up and leave. He thought better of it, though, probably remembering he’d broken the rules by not reporting his contact with me and accepting the shotgun. He’d already compromised himself. When I finished, he hesitated and then said he would think about it.
Major Singh eventually turned down the pitch, but making it did wonders for my confidence. We remained friends for years. Soon recruiting agents became as natural as ordering a pizza over the telephone. It’s all a matter of listening to what people are really saying. Money problems, an awful boss, secret desires or allegiances can all be windows into small compromises that grow into larger and larger ones. It took me a while, but I finally learned how to read the dark forest of other people’s minds and then walk them into espionage small step by small step. Toward the end of my career, I never had a pitch rejected.
For most of my tour in New Delhi, I was extremely lucky to fall under the IB’s radar. It put only sporadic surveillance on me. The lax coverage mattered, too, because in addition to the double I had been handed and my efforts to recruit Singh, I’d picked up five other agents. I was meeting an agent every two or three nights - a lot in a hostile environment like India.
My luck almost changed for the worse one night in August. A week of monsoon had left half of Delhi’s roads flooded and impassable, bad conditions for meeting agents, but since Madras, I had learned to avoid the low areas. Besides, I expected the meeting to be brief. Pass the agent some cash, I figured, and kick him out the door in the first dark alley.
As soon as I turned the corner, I could see he was carrying a bulky duffel bag. He was also breathing heavily, as if he had run to the meeting.
‘T-72 manuals,’ he said, pointing at the bag as he climbed in the car. ‘What?’ I asked, almost certain I’d heard him wrong. Grinning from ear to ear, he repeated himself.
The T-72 tank manuals were the Holy Grail we’d been after for years, the keys to the kingdom of knowledge.
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