It seems that this book only has about 100 pages relating to Macedonia. If this is the extent of its information, I think that I will wait until it is remaindered for $3.99.
The New York Times > Magazine > Lives: Too Hot to Handle
By LINDSAY MORAN
Published: December 19, 2004
When I finally ''broke cover,'' A.'s respect for me, even though I was a woman, increased exponentially. We were sitting in his Mercedes next to what appeared to be a city dump near Skopje, Macedonia's capital.
''I love C.I.A.!'' he exclaimed loudly. A., a jovial and dapper businessman I had been developing for the autumn months of 2000, was an Albanian well connected to a number of significant Kosovars. The agency was interested in Kosovo, the contentious region bordering Macedonia to the north, and so far, A. had given me solid information.
Weeks earlier, I cautioned A. that it was too risky to meet publicly. ''We can use my friend's apartment!'' he suggested.
''Your car will do,'' I replied. ''How would you like to work for the C.I.A., too?'' I had written up a careful ''pitch proposal'' and sent it back to headquarters, outlining how I thought the recruitment meeting would play out.
''C/O Hadley anticipates little risk of blowback in executing the pitch,'' I'd written, referring to myself by my alias in the third person as is characteristic of C.I.A. case officers and also, I often considered, insane people. ''C/O Hadley doubts that Subject ever would report the pitch or C/O's true affiliation to the local police or security services.''
After a nanosecond of consideration about the implications of committing espionage, A. shrugged and said, ''O.K.''
The C.I.A. never said recruiting an agent could be this easy.
''You cannot tell anyone,'' I told him. ''Not even your wife.''
''I never tell my wife anything,'' he answered with a wink.
''And if anyone catches us together, or asks how you know me. . . . '' I braced myself. ''Tell them we're having an affair.''
A. was nearly beside himself with enthusiasm. ''If we must do it, then we will make sex.''
''We don't actually have an affair,'' I told him. ''That's only our cover story -- for if we get caught. I give you money, and you give me information. Just like you've been doing.''
''No holding hands?'' he asked.
''It's business. Serious business, O.K.? Because if you get caught, you could go to jail.''
''Bah!'' A. waved his hand. ''We will not get caught. I will tell everyone we are making sex.''
I pictured A. bragging about his young American concubine to a rapt audience at the Albanian pizzeria. ''Don't tell anyone anything,'' I said.
''O.K., O.K.'' A. rolled his eyes as if I were a huge bore.
I pulled out a secrecy agreement for A. to sign, as well as 10 crisp $100 bills. I sensed that he couldn't pass up this chance to prove to himself that he wasn't a small fry. While he had been relatively easy to recruit, he continued to be difficult to handle.
''Why can we not have relations?'' A. again pleaded, as we drove along a mountainous southern Macedonian thoroughfare. I don't get paid nearly enough to deal with this, I thought. He looked beseechingly at me from behind the steering wheel. ''Keep your eyes on the road,'' I said. ''Do I have to remind you? You're married.''
''Ach!'' he groaned. ''Here, it is normal to be married and have some other girlfriends too.'' I was less concerned about his amorous intentions than I was about his getting caught. He didn't pay much attention to the security measures in which I had diligently trained him.
''Never call me on the phone,'' I had said countless times. ''We'll just meet at the time and place we agreed upon, and if one of us doesn't show up, we go to Plan B.''
''Of course!'' He appeared offended that I reminded him.
Inevitably, I was on the way to one of our prearranged meeting sites when my mobile phone would ring. From the caller ID, I could see that A. was not even using a pay phone, as I had instructed him to do in an emergency. Often, I just let it ring. But occasionally, anxious that something had happened to A., I would answer, hoping that my voice conveyed my exasperation.
''Lisssaaaaa!'' he would shout, no matter how many times I had instructed him not to use my name, even though it was an alias. ''I am on my way to . . . the place . . . now.''
Sometimes I arrived at the designated meeting spot, where he was supposed to be skulking imperceptibly among the shadows, to find him in the middle of the road, chatting on his mobile phone. Once he even had a bouquet of vibrant flowers that he used to flag me down, like an aircraft router guiding a plane to its gate. I always worried for A., but in the end he remained blinded by the allure of the C.I.A. What never got easier for me was having to feed his ego while making it clear that I'd never sleep with him.
Lindsay Moran is the author of a memoir, ''Blowing My Cover: My Life as a C.I.A. Spy and Other Misadventures,'' to be published next month by G.P. Putnam's Sons and from which this article was adapted.
