Not long ago, a special agent – working for a secretive agency that’s in the news a lot these days – asked me to take a Chinese man out to dinner, ply him with wine, and help to “flip” him.
Unfortunately, all that I knew – and know – about espionage I learned from James Bond movies.
And that’s exactly what was so concerning about the situation. Let me explain…
While I was wearing unicorn print house pants
A few years ago, the doorbell rang one morning while I was working at home, in a leafy suburb of Washington, D.C.
I answered the door and was surprised to meet a well-dressed man and woman who introduced themselves as agents of a well-known American federal agency that investigates terrorism, counterintelligence, cybercrime, public corruption, civil rights, organised crime, white-collar crime, violent crime and weapons of mass destruction (and which shall remain unnamed here).
The two agents – through what was clearly superior sleuthwork – had discovered that a car registered in my name had recently been parked in the driveway of a house a few minutes away. Did I know why my car was there? they asked.
It was a strange question, as the answer was so obvious – or, at least, it should have been. My wife and I owned the house in question. And since our tenants – more on them in a moment – weren’t taking care of the place, and the property management company wasn’t doing their job, I had driven over to have a chat. (In the American suburbs, people walk – rather than drive – distances over a few hundred metres only if they’re on a treadmills, or if they want to get run over.) And I so I parked my car in the driveway of the house I owned.
Aha, the agents said. Since a two-second web search would reveal that we’d owned the house for more than 12 years, I assumed (hoped) that this wasn’t news to them – their feigned surprise notwithstanding.
They continued: Have you frequently visited your tenants? What is the nature of your relationship with them? They live in my house, and they pay me rent, I said. And I visit them only if I have to.
As I answered their questions, it emerged that our tenant, Mr. Lo from (this is important) China, was a “person of interest” to the agency. This meant that though Mr. Lo hadn’t been charged with doing anything wrong, he was on the radar of the authorities as worthy of attention or concern.
Mr. Lo, the journalist?
Mr. Lo had told me (and his rental application indicated) that he worked for a Chinese science and technology newspaper. He had been introduced to us by the previous tenant of the same house – who was also from China and had worked for the same publication. Mr. Lo’s predecessor was a model tenant, and so (falsely assuming some transferability of that characteristic) we were delighted to have Mr. Lo take over the lease.
After a get-to-meet-you dinner at a local (of course) Chinese restaurant – featuring linguistic awkwardness and mediocre American suburbian faux-Szechuan cuisine – Mr. Lo and his family moved in. For the first few months, all was good. But then our property management company, after a routine check-up visit, gave him poor marks – which had led to my visit, and then to the two very (overly) friendly agents sitting on my sofa.
Everyone wants something…
The agency – my visitors told me – was very eager to learn more about Mr. Lo and his activities. Why’s that? I wondered aloud. They mumbled something more about person of interest, not at liberty to disclose, etc. So I assumed this had something to do with China trying to get its hands on American science and technology – and that Mr. Lo, properly incentivised, would spill secrets about China stealing American intellectual property.
(American concern over Chinese interest in U.S. technology is an increasingly touchy topic.)
To help motivate Mr. Lo to cooperate, the agents had discovered a pressure point: He had a high-school aged daughter, whom he desperately wanted to have the opportunity to attend university in the U.S. (not unlike millions of other Chinese parents). These two agents said they could easily block the approval of the requisite visa and immigration documentation for her to study at a U.S. college – unless Mr. Lo choose to cooperate.
The agents suggested that because of my unique relationship with Mr. Lo – a mutual interest in ensuring that Mr. Lo’s toilet didn’t leak, I suppose? – I was the perfect person to encourage him to talk with my new friends. Heady with the idea of getting a foreign agent to flip – I was ready to put on my tux and order martinis – I said I’d be thrilled to help. The agents left, promising to get back in touch once the groundwork was laid.
A glass of wine, a glass of… espionage
A few weeks later, the agents invited me and my wife (who I’d brought into the scheme) for a cup of coffee. Their plan: We invite Mr. Lo out for a nice dinner (courtesy of the agency) and have a glass or two of wine. We guide the conversation to children and college admissions. And we plant the seed. “Oh, your daughter will be applying soon to university? Hmm, how interesting. If you ever need any help with the whole visa thing, I know just the guy to call!” (Subtle, no?)
And of course the guy to call (I imagine I’d pass his number over on a napkin, or a matchbook cover?) would be our agent friend – who would then (I suppose) present an information-for-visa proposal. Mr. Lo would spill the beans about technology and secrets, and his daughter would go to State U., and America would be safe another day, all thanks to me!
Would you do it?
How many normal people can say that they’ve helped flip a foreign agent? Not many. I wanted to be one of them.
My sensible wife thought otherwise. “What’s the upside?” she asked. At best, Mr. Lo is drawn into the trap. He makes the call, and we don’t know the final chapter. We’d be left with a good cocktail party story. And the prospect of finding a new tenant.
We’d also have a record in the agency files – and, likely, a file with the analogous agency in China – which was the big player in the part of the world that we were months away from moving to. That would be a bad start.
So, against my superspy instincts, I didn’t call the agents back. We never heard from them again.
The final chapter was anticlimactic. Mr. Lo’s house maintenance skills didn’t improve. I had a few bad dreams about the house being impounded by the authorities after an investigation of Mr. Lo turned it into a crime scene, or some such. In any case, that prospect, in addition to the money-pit nature of the middle-aged rental sliding toward old age, prompted us to sell a few months later. So my cocktail party story ends with a whimper.
I learned this
But the episode opened my eyes to a few realities.
- Don’t assume they know what they’re doing. Why would an agency with a US$9 billion budget and more fun spy toys than James Bond’s Q ask me – someone who’s knowledge of spying didn’t extend beyond a few John le Carre novels – to do their work for them? This entire idea of me turning a possible Chinese intelligence agent was silly. But because it was presented as reasonable by an authority figure, it felt feasible. Think of that the next time that someone who you assume knows what he’s doing – say, your banker, your broker, or your financial advisor – suggests something that doesn’t feel right. Because they may be completely clueless.
- Let them assume. For all I know, the agency was interested in Mr. Lo because he was running a baseball card counterfeit ring in the basement. I connected the dots (China, technology, “person of interest”) on my own, and the agents didn’t correct me. Perhaps in fact they were investigating (say) me, and poor Mr. Lo was just a convenient tool. There’s a lot of potential in letting the other guy draw his own conclusions – and not correcting them if they’re wrong. I assumed certain things… to my possible detriment.
- Learn to use the power of silence. During a conversation, many people can’t bear silence, because silence equals awkwardness. In an effort to kill that uncomfortable quiet, they’ll say something – and usually it’s something revealing and interesting, as it’s uttered during a moment of conversational panic. I use this technique when I’m interviewing someone. The agents used it on me – though (I imagine) to little effect.
- Big organisations produce very uneven output. Many people tend to imagine that important organisations – like governments, banks and schools – are full of competent, smart people working together for the sake of their customers. But in reality, they’re microcosms of humanity… bubbling cauldrons of ambition and competition and smart people and less-smart people. And the output – like the scheme advanced to me – can be silly.
- Be very afraid. Big federal organisations – in almost whatever country – aren’t well equipped to protect you. If I was viewed as even a slightly credible line of defense against China stealing IP from the U.S… well, then all is pretty much lost.
