Who would’ve thunk it? The best way to break into the Hungarian consulate is not to break into the Hungarian consulate. You break into a Hungarian bakery instead.
“Are you guys sure this is going to work?” asked Elizabeth.
“Absolutely not,” said Julian.
I wish he’d been kidding. He really wasn’t sure.
We were parked across the street from Eszter’s Pastries on the Upper East Side, “Home of All Things Sweet and Hungarian,” according to the shop’s Facebook page.
As for Julian’s intel, that came from what was commonly referred to in the CIA as the hab file. If you were on the agency’s radar and did anything on a habitual basis, it was noted in the hab file. For instance, the Hungarian consulate in Manhattan ordered a breakfast pastry assortment each morning from Eszter’s.
Of course, that didn’t explain why we were about to break in to the place. The specifics behind it were a bit complicated. Julian took a crack at it for Elizabeth’s sake, but, suffice it to say, he didn’t exactly simplify things.
“You see, the entire Hungarian consulate has an STC rating over 50, while the ambassador’s office meets every ICD 705 requirement, and the main conference room is a permanent skiff, complete with an RF-shielded door,” he’d said. All of it with a straight face, no less.
For anyone not possessing a PhD in advanced intelligence gathering, an RF-shielded door is one that prevents radio frequencies from getting in or out. These doors are commonly used with “skiffs” (colloquial for SCIFs, or Sensitive Compartmented Information Facilities), which are relied on by governments, and anyone else with good reason to be paranoid, to negate listening devices and eavesdropping. There are both permanent and temporary skiffs, the latter usually erected when presidents and other high-ranking officials visit foreign countries and need to be assured of their privacy. Either way, all skiffs must meet certain standards, including those mandated by Intelligence Community Directive (ICD) 705. Requirements include having a sound transmission class (STC) rating above 50, a level of soundproofing sophisticated enough to mute your neighbor’s Mötley Crüe CD at top volume.
In short, the Hungarian consulate was like a big can of Raid. It was really good at repelling bugs. We couldn’t just walk in the front door and hope to plant a listening device somewhere.
But there was another possibility. A back door. Literally.
The consulate had a loading dock that was serviced by a guarded alleyway. While the loading dock itself was rarely used, it had a separate door that was opened frequently by staffers taking cigarette breaks. That’s how the pastries from Eszter’s came in at approximately 8 a.m., Monday through Friday. A delivery van would drop them off at the small gatehouse in front of the alley, and a guard would walk them back. That guard was supposed to use the front entrance of the consulate and have the pastries run through their X-ray machine like every other delivery, but that meant a much longer walk to the kitchen, which was right off the loading dock.
That’s what happens when routines become ingrained. People cut corners. And if those people happen to include a security guard at the Hungarian consulate, the CIA was going to know about it.
Not that the US government is habitually bugging foreign embassies on its soil. That would be crazy, right? Unheard of. Rootin’ tootin’ Vladimir Putin nuts.
But if we had to, it’s good to know we could. Wink-wink.
“Okay. Wait a minute, though,” said Elizabeth, after taking all this in. “You guys left out the most important part.”
She was right. We had.