DON'T GET ME STARTED 63end. I figured I was off the hook and life would be pretty much smooth
sailing from that point forward.
How did this former Catholic altar boy and (nondenominational) Boy
Scout end up not only working for the CIA but also landing in multiple
conflict zones no less? Upon reflection, I realize that much of my childhood
was unknowingly devoted to pursuits that would later serve me well both
during CIA training and in the field. And in some ways, my all-American
upbringing, personal belief system, and curiosity about the world around
me also led me to this unusual but fun and exciting way of life.
As a seventh grader, I never considered that smuggling contraband
switchblades and low-grade explosives into the United States from Mexico
(for resale to my classmates at very reasonably marked-up prices) would
actually condition me to one day cross international borders in alias and
smuggle banned equipment into Iraq. My unwitting parents had no idea I’d
stashed my illicit merchandise under their vinyl car seats, or that I was oper-
ating an unlicensed import-export business. My siblings and I would feign
sleep in the station wagon in order to get us quickly waved through the hot,
dusty border crossing into the United States. Border officials in those days
were more concerned with painstakingly dismantling beat-up “hippie vans”
in search of drugs than with harassing the Brady Bunch as we returned
from a camping trip to the remote desert beaches of Sonora, Mexico.
Those early forays into Mexico left their mark on me and, although I
didn’t realize it at the time, influenced the course of my life. I was instantly
hooked on the colorful sights, indecipherable sounds, and alien smells of
the border and beach towns. Not to mention the exquisite food, the exotic
culture, and the pretty girls. I especially loved the Spanish language. I studied
Spanish in school, but conversing with willing native speakers on Mexican
soil provided the best education. My love of Mexico is as strong today as it
was when I was a kid. I make my own frijoles de la olla, listen to Latin pop and
cumbias, and know my way around Baja better than most of the locals. It feels
good when Mexican friends tell me I’m more Mexican than they are.
Other early experiences, seemingly innocuous or just plain idiotic one-
offs when they happened, also served me well in my future life as a spook.
One of my earliest and most vivid childhood memories involves two
neighbor kids who were my very first friends. Billy and Carlos, who lived
in the cul-de-sac across the dirt alley from my house, approached me one