CHAPTER 7
GOING OPERATIONAL
F
rom inside the restroom stall, I could overhear a giddy, animated con-
versation between what sounded like two long-lost but equally ine-
briated Pakistani twins who had just been reunited moments earlier, right
there in the men’s room of the Quality Inn Skydome lounge in Crystal
City, Virginia. Or were they Bangladeshi? There were several other loud,
intoxicated patrons in the restroom, and I’d already had a bit too much
to drink myself, but even in the fog of war (and fiesta) I’m pretty good
at picking out accents. Nonetheless, as I exited the stall I was shocked to
see that one of the two “Pakistanis” was my good buddy R. J. from CIA
training. With blond hair, blue eyes, and as fair-skinned as my sister’s mar-
tyred Priscilla doll, R. J. had somehow convinced his new best friend that
he was from Rawalpindi. (R. J. had actually spent part of his youth in Ban-
gladesh, hence my confusion over the accent.)
I washed my hands, broke up the budding bromance, and dragged R.
J. back out to my going-away party in the dimly lit rotating lounge over-
looking the Pentagon and the National Mall. Motown hits were spinning,
and good tequila flowed freely. My wife Stacy and I had to catch a flight
to Latin America early the next morning, and I wanted to spend as much
quality time as possible with R. J. and my other close CIA friends before
heading out on my first assignment.
I was one of the first to deploy from our group, but my fellow party-
going spy school graduates would soon be dispatched as well to the four
corners of the earth as CIA operatives. R. J. was slated for South Asia,
where he would bear witness to the real Charlie Wilson’s War. My brothers
and sisters in arms (and in trench coats) and I had grown very close in
training at the Farm, and it would be years before we saw each other again.93