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But if I telephoned Raymond with the bad news code, an-
nouncing that NESTOR and Jacob had bolted, he and Mac
would leave his home in separate cars to meet the escape
vehicles at predetermined locations, and then try to break the
trail.
Checking to see if any surveillance was trailing me, I made
a pit stop at the terminal lavatory, which now reeked of carbolic
disinfectant that almost masked the stench of the drains. Then
I casually inspected the antiquated, railway-style arrivals board
and saw that TWA 876 was still due to arrive at one A.M.
Having established a plausible reason for being at the airport,
I climbed to the observation deck. The flight s arrival time
came and went. Moths and termites tumbled incessantly in
the spotlights above my head. The smit was rising from the
valleys to join the city smog as other airliners landed and taxied
up to the terminal to occupy all the free parking slots. It was
now almost 1:45, and I could only imagine the scene down in
the terminal.
Later, Jacob would describe in detail the sequence of events.
He and NESTOR arrived at the terminal curbside just before
midnight, and Jacob entered the building first. As instructed,
NESTOR waited five minutes, fussing with the strap of his
suitcase, which contained a collection of European clothes and
personal effects provided by TSD. Then, he also entered the
terminal.
Since we had already verified that there were seats available
on this flight, Jacob was not worried that TWA would bump
them, even though they were not manifested locally, unless
there was undue SB pressure to do so. He confidently em-
ployed his best British regimental style with the manager at
the TWA counter, explaining that he was damned sorry about
the balls-up concerning the reconfirmation muddle. He sug-
154 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
gested that others from his hotel planning to take the same
flight had been equally ignorant and managed to persuade the
TWA manager to modify the manifest so that passengers who
had made reservations from elsewhere in the country could
be included.
Watching for Jacob s discreet signal to proceed, NESTOR
entered the check-in line. He adopted his new persona per-
fectly. One of his brilliant ad-libs had been to request a soft-
sided leather portefeuille to carry his documents and business
papers, which subtly stamped him as a European. He handed
over his passport and tickets nonchalantly as he focused on
cutting the tip of the big Cuban cigar Jacob had provided from
my Hong Kong stash. Three minutes after arriving at the TWA
counter, NESTOR had his boarding pass.
As expected, the first real hurdle came at Customs, where
all departing passengers had to have their baggage inspected
before it could be turned over to the airline. Jacob cleared the
counter ahead of NESTOR. But when the Russian arrived with
his suitcase, the inspector, a muscular man in a burgundy
turban, flourished a copy of the amended manifest.
Please remain here, sir, he ordered NESTOR, then disap-
peared into a back room with the Russian s passport and ticket.
NESTOR stood there for an agonizing ten minutes, staring at
the closed door. A line of other passengers formed behind him,
some grumbling, some sheepishly accepting the quirks of offi-
cialdom.
Then the door opened and the inspector emerged, accompan-
ied by a husky European in a sweat-spotted dark suit. Startled,
NESTOR chomped on his cigar and tried to swallow. The
European was a KGB security officer from the Soviet embassy,
a man with whom NESTOR had rubbed shoulders for more
than two years. He approached the counter and gazed at
NESTOR s face; in response, NESTOR auda-
THE MASTER OF DISGUISE / 155
ciously raised the gnawed cigar and lit it carefully with the
gold Dunhill lighter Jane had lent to the operation. He exhaled
a cloud of fragrant blue smoke in the direction of his former
colleague with debonair calm.
Jacob was anxiously watching this drama from a corner of
the echoing terminal, ready to bail out if the Special Branch
swarmed from the back room of the customs counter.
The KGB man glared at NESTOR, who met his eyes and
drummed his fingers impatiently on the shaft of the cigar. In
his new persona, NESTOR was a dark-haired, dark-eyed
European more than seven centimeters taller than the Soviet
fugitive. The thick-faced man with graying sideburns wore his
expensive clothes comfortably, making a point of frequently
checking the time on his elegant Seiko wristwatch, then turning
to chat with the French couple behind him in the stalled cus-
toms line.
Skeptical, the KGB security man checked NESTOR s passport
once more against the manifest. Hours seemed to pass before
he finally handed the documents back to the inspector, spun
on his heel, and returned to the back room. A moment later,
NESTOR s boarding pass had received the crucial customs
stamp.
IT WAS AFTER two A.M. and the TWA flight from Bangkok still
had not landed. I had nervously watched a Swissair DC-8 arrive
from Riyadh and a Lufthansa 707 from Frankfurt. An Aeroflot
IL-62, belching soot from its engines, landed from Tashkent
and lumbered up to the gate directly below. There would be
even more KGB gumshoes patrolling the terminal, wary of
potential defectors, and it was all I could do to keep myself
from pacing up and down. Finally, landing lights pierced the
brown haze, and the red-and-white TWA Boeing airliner taxied
onto the parking ramp.
156 / ANTONIO J. MENDEZWITH MALCOLM MCCONNELL
After a flurry of baggage handling and refueling, a ground
stewardess in a purple uniform led the passengers out to the
flight. By now the smit was so dense that I could barely distin-
guish Jacob and NESTOR walking with the other tired travel-
ers, maintaining a disciplined distance from each other. The
boarding stairs were withdrawn, the engines started, and
NESTOR s plane took off for Athens.
Groping my way down the murky staircase to the public
phone booth, I felt as if I were carrying a rucksack full of wet
sandbags. In an hour, I d be back at the Southern Paradise,
sleeping with the air conditioner turned up full blast, but I felt
sleep would not come easily because my nerves were so frayed
by the ordeal.
I knew I had to send the vital departure signal, and although
in reality the old Bakelite phone worked perfectly, I would
suffer nightmares for decades about being unable to make the
crucial call. I dropped the fat brown coin into the slot and
dialed the number: a whir, a click. Is Suzy there? I asked.
No! Raymond replied, feigning indignation at being
awakened in the middle of the night.
I knew we shared the same sense of tired relief and satisfac-
tion. We had just pulled off one of the toughest and most im-
portant exfiltration operations in our Agency s history.
DURING THE FIRST seven years I spent in the field, I grew from
being an inexperienced kid with dreams of grandeur to a
seasoned professional with a firm grasp of serious realities.
Those years shaped the rest of my CIA career and, indeed,
my life. I had been an integral player on tough cases in towns
such as Vientiane, Bangkok, and Delhi, and my operational
assignments took me to even more exotic countries such as
Nepal, Pakistan, Burma, Bangladesh, and
THE MASTER OF DISGUISE / 157
Ceylon. Serving with officers at those stations and bases during
that first, long overseas tour was probably the most rewarding
opportunity I could have ever asked for. At the risk of sounding
trite, those men and women were truly a special breed. They
often operated in complete isolation from colleagues, some-
times under extremely difficult physical conditions. They had
to be resourceful, adaptable, and willing to face discomfort
and danger with a sense of humor. They reminded me of those
I had grown up with in Nevada people who could turn the
most miserable or insecure situation into a daring adventure.
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