Moscow—Vienna—Washington D.C.
April 1974
The flight to Vienna following Mako Sloane’s ignominious expulsion from Moscow on charges of hooliganism was uneventful and followed a pattern that was becoming all too familiar to the CIA human resources gurus, who had pegged Sloane as the second coming of Christ. By the time the Austrian Air jet landed in Vienna to strains of the Viennese Waltz broadcast over the airliner’s P.A. system, Mako was plastered and had convinced one of the Austrian Airlines flight attendants to join him for a hurried tryst in the cramped quarters of the first class compartment lavatory as soon as the aircraft had reached cruising altitude and the seat belt sign had been turned off.
Sloane wasn’t trying to dull the embarrassing memories of his wayward behavior at MGU and overnight stay in a Soviet jail, however. No, Mako was just being Mako. His sojourn at MGU was over. His flirtation with literary criticism had ended, and his year-long love affair with Boris Yeltsin’s niece had culminated in Mako’s contribution to the Russian gene pool and his involuntary and hurried departure from Moscow. He was at loose ends and ready for the next adventure life would throw at him.
Mako walked unsteadily out of the terminal and waved down a taxi, which took him to the Ana Grand Hotel on the Kaerntner Ring. He fell asleep during the twenty minute ride into downtown Vienna, and the taxi driver had to nudge him awake when they arrived at the hotel. Mako stuffed a handful of bills in the driver’s hand without looking to see how much he was paying for the ride. The driver looked at the cash and eagerly hopped out of the car to open the door for his generous client. Mako struggled with the awkwardness of the two suitcases, but with the help of a hotel porter, he soon negotiated the revolving entrance door and stood in the lobby looking for his contacts.
He didn’t have to wait long. A middle-aged man in a suit and full-length rain coat grabbed him by the elbow and marched him toward the bank of elevators.
“I told you not to bother me with your adolescent antics,” the man hissed at him through his teeth. Mako recognized the COS from Moscow. Another man similarly dressed walked behind them. They all stepped into a waiting elevator and the COS punched the button for the third floor.
“You reek of alcohol,” the COS said with disgust. They rode the elevator in silence. On the third floor they exited and walked down the luxuriously carpeted corridor to a room that had been rented by the CIA station just for this meeting.
Although Sloane’s employment with the CIA was never in question, Mako received a dressing down to rival even that of Uncle Clay’s following the infamous marijuana bust on the Texas—Mexico border at Del Rio. Sloane’s contrite apology and pledge to change his ways were not entirely as insincere and disingenuous as might have been expected. Mako Sloane was never going to be the consummate Cold Warrior and exemplify all of the red-blooded, all-American character traits which the CIA had deluded itself into thinking he possessed. By now, however, the powers-that-be realized that. On the other hand, Mako himself was pragmatic and could see that unless he met his superiors half-way, his access to the highlife might be severely limited, and Sloane did indeed love living the life of the rich and famous on a government salary.
The next day Mako flew from Vienna to Dulles airport with an economy class ticket the COS had unceremoniously thrust into his hand following the thirty-minute tongue lashing.
“We’ll be watching you from now on,” the COS had warned.
Mako was one of the first to board the aircraft, and he took a window seat in the middle of the economy class cabin. A train-stopping gorgeous, blonde, and deeply tanned Austrian woman in her mid-30s soon made her way down the aisle, struggling with her large shoulder bag. She stopped at Mako’s row and indicated with sign language that her assigned seat was next to his. Mako barely glanced at her.
Anne-Marie was a reformed Austrian stripper, who had been recruited for the sole purpose of testing the strength of Sloane’s ‘ideological conversion.’ Not surprisingly, she required Mako’s assistance in placing her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment. Mako sighed and politely helped her with the heavy bag but then took his seat without saying another word to her. He stared out the window at the light rain that had been falling since early morning.
Anne-Marie’s every movement was followed closely by each heterosexual male on the flight as she purposefully bent over, repeatedly revealing her low décolletage and a creamy tan line disappearing into her cleavage. She knew what men liked in her and was puzzled at Sloane’s nonchalance.
After take-off she placed her hand suggestively on Sloane’s upper leg and engaged him in flirtatious conversation. She was almost offended when Sloane did not even look up from a 19th century Russian novel he was reading and answered her in monosyllables. He removed her hand from his leg with an apologetic smile.
The provocation had been arranged with the connivance of a cooperative ticket agent at Vienna International Airport and the approval of none other than Drake Herrin, Chief of the Soviet, East European Division of the CIA’s Directorate of Operations. Herrin was Sloane’s most influential backer at Langley but had taken Mako’s expulsion from the cushy assignment at Moscow State University as a personal affront. He needed to satisfy himself that Sloane indeed had seen the light.
Drake Herrin was a legend in the Agency and had a reputation almost as controversial as his protégé. Perhaps that’s why Drake felt such a kinship for the younger officer. Drake Herrin stood apart from the strait-laced, churchgoers at Langley and flaunted his playboy bachelor credentials, throwing his unorthodox lifestyle in the face of the priggish intelligence establishment. Herrin had established his reputation as a recruiter par excellence of Soviet and East European intelligence officers, employing the tried and true, albeit unsavory tactic of entrapment, with the help of whores, strippers, or particularly gifted amateur trollops.
A KGB or Stasi officer, when confronted with 8 x 10 color photographs of himself in the intimate company of scantily clad or naked females dispensing the type of sexual favor which was still illegal behind the Iron Curtain, is an unpredictable and dangerous animal. A surprising number of them, however, risked the possibly long-term consequences of espionage to avoid the short-term fury of their scorned wives. An agent recruited in such an insensitive manner was unreliable and often short-lived as a source, but once the recruitment made it to the 201 file of the CIA officer, it became part and parcel of the official record of the Directorate of Operations. Drake Herrin had a number of scalps recruited in this manner, and it had made his career, although the intelligence value of the agents’ production had been doubtful at best.
When the stripper’s report landed on Drake Herrin’s desk, he was elated. For the first time in his CIA career, Sloane was responding to direction. He might yet have a future with the agency.
Upon his arrival in Washington later that day, Sloane checked into a hotel on the Virginia side of the Key Bridge and called Drake Herrin according to the contact instructions the COS had given him in Vienna. They arranged to meet the next morning in Herrin’s office at CIA headquarters.
“I’d offer you a scotch, but it’s too early, and besides, I’m supposed to chew your ass,” Drake began ominously as Mako was ushered into his office. “However....” He paused significantly and stared at Mako. “I understand that was taken care of in Vienna. Personally, I don’t see any reason to rub your face in the Moscow incident.” Drake said on a conciliatory note.
“Thank you, Drake. I was wrong. It won’t happen again,” Mako said sincerely.
“I still believe you can do great things for the Agency, but you’re going to have to prove you can handle the responsibility. Now take a look at this. It’s going to keep you busy for the next year.” Drake handed Mako a glossy notebook with the outline of a training program.
Sloane sipped a cup of coffee and glanced through the syllabus. The program consisted of clandestine training involving agent recruitment, surveillance detection, the use of dead-drops and signals, brush passes, and other tools of the covert trade. After six months of advanced tutorial instruction by experienced field officers in the art of operating behind the Iron Curtain, Sloane would spend another six months in special paramilitary training, acquiring experience with explosives and firearms (both foreign and domestic), hand-to-hand combat, high performance on and off the road driving, escape and evasion tactics, free-fall parachuting, scuba diving, and extreme survival and wilderness training.
After about ten minutes, Drake Herrin asked, “What do you think?”
“I’m in,” said Sloane succinctly. “When do I begin?”
“Not so fast,” laughed Herrin appreciatively. Drake picked up his telephone and spoke to his secretary. “Bring QL in, would you, please?”
The door opened and a tall, muscular, light-skinned African-American walked into the office, dressed in workout clothes and looking like he had just come from the gym. Mako had never seen anyone that looked so fit.
“QL, sorry to take you away from your class. I’ve got someone here I want you to meet. This is Mako Sloane. Mako, this is Quindarius Lee, martial arts instructor for the Agency’s paramilitary course. The two young men were close in age and instinctively appraised each other. They liked what they saw and shook hands warmly.
“You two will be seeing a lot of each other soon. I thought you should meet. Quindarius comes from a line of Olympic athletes. His mother was a U.S. long jumper at the 1956 Melbourne Olympics. I’ve been to her house in Charleston, South Carolina. You’ve never met a more genteel, lovely woman. His father, whom QL never had the pleasure of meeting, medaled in Melbourne as well. He was a heavyweight boxer from Uzbekistan. Probably where QL gets his bellicose tendencies.”
QL turned to Mako and said, “I’ll be outside waiting for you. When Drake is done with you, let’s get a bite to eat.”
“I look forward to it,” replied Mako.
Quindarius Lee turned and left the room.
“I’ve got a good feeling about you two. You’ll be good for each other.”
“Thanks for introducing me,” said Mako.
“Okay, let me tell you what I have planned for you,” Drake began. “I’m creating a new position for you…covert ‘troubleshooter’ for the Directorate of Operations. When operational requirements go beyond what is feasible for the official Embassy-based CIA station to handle, you’ll be sent in to pinch hit. I’d prefer to keep you working strictly on Soviet matters. Unfortunately, your Spanish language abilities and your knowledge of Latino culture make your participation in Latin America covert operations a foregone conclusion. I’m going to have to share you.”
Training began almost immediately, and Sloane excelled at whatever he was asked to do. By the time Mako was 25 years old, he represented a two and a half million dollar investment by the CIA and was one of the most skilled and efficient clandestine tools of American foreign policy the government had. At least, that’s what Drake Herrin told himself. Sloane was ready to be deployed, and if he could keep his dick in his pants and his penchant for scandal under wraps, great things were in store for him.