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This episode includes depictions of drug use and addiction. Please be advised. October 1976, Mexico City. Two American men in their early 20s walk through a street crowded with prostitutes and bars. The shorter of the two is Dalton Lee, 5 foot 2 with messy dark hair down to his shoulders and a thick moustache. He moves with the sullen swagger of those who earn their living on the shadier side of the law. Next to him is his friend Christopher Boyce. Tall, clean shaven and wearing a blazer and flared jeans. He looks like a rich American tourist. The pair make their way to the quiet park where they are to meet their Soviet contact. Rain starts to fall and Boyce moves under the dark shade of a tree, pulling his blazer collar up against the weather. Lee isn't bothered by the rain, but he can feel a familiar painful ache spreading through his body. The telltale signs of heroin withdrawal. I'll be right back. Lee ignores Boyce's annoyed expression and ducks behind some thick bushes in the park. He fishes out a small paper envelope from his back pocket. He taps some of the brown powder that's inside the envelope onto the back of his hand and quickly snorts it. A soft warmth begins to encase him and his pain melts away. He returns to Boyce just as a shadowy figure in a trench coat and holding an umbrella approaches. It's Boris Grishin, their Soviet handler. Lee meets with Grishin regularly, but until now, Boyce has had any direct contact with the kgb. And that's exactly how Lee wanted to keep it, because he's conning them both. He's been taking advantage of his position as the courier of CIA secrets from Boyce to the kgb. He's squeezing more money out of the Soviets by telling them that Boyce can get them anything they want to know about the CIA's spy satellites. And he's been lying to Boyce about how much the KGB is paying for those secrets. But now BO Gate crashed this meeting with the Soviets, a situation that could expose Lee's lies to both sides. The KGB man stops in front of them and eyes Boyce with a blank expression. Would you like to share my umbrella? Without waiting for a reply, Grishin lifts his umbrella higher and turns his head towards the street. On cue, a black limousine emerges from the traffic. The rain glitters in his headlights as it pulls over to the sidewalk. Grisheen opens the car door for the two young men to get in. As they do, Lee tugs at Boyce's shoulder. Tell him you can get anything they want. What why? Grigin gives them both a sharp look as he shuts the car door on them. The bald headed driver puts his foot down hard. The limo shoots into a gap in the traffic and starts weaving in and out of the cars with the heroin now cocooning him in its embrace. Lee laughs at the sight of Boyce gripping the door, his knuckles white. No looks are freaking scared man. It's to get rid of surveillance. Through his heroin haze, Lee slowly realizes the limo isn't taking them to their usual restaurant. Hey, I thought we were going to dinner. Grishin glances over his shoulder at Lee. Dinner is at the embassy tonight. Lee's heart starts beating faster. This is bad, he thought. If his con was uncovered tonight, at least he and Boyce would be in a public place. The KGB wouldn't cause trouble at the restaurant. But the embassy is another matter. It's Soviet territory and Lee's no longer sure he can rely on Boyce to have his back.
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From Audible Originals. I'm Raza Jaffrey and this is the spy who Beneath the veneer of the everyday lurks the realm of the spy. It's a dank, murky world full of dark corners, sinister motives and corrupted morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. It's the 1970s and America's youth are losing trust in their leaders and elders. Watergate, the Vietnam War and stories of the CIA meddling in other countries are alienating a generation who embraced the concepts of free love and now want water. And in Los Angeles, two young men from fine, upstanding middle class all American families are about to find a way to rebel that will strike at the very heart of the USA's espionage machine. What you're about to hear are dramatized reconstructions of events based on the information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadowy realm of the spy, the full story is rarely clear. You're listening to the spy who sold codes and cocaine. This is Episode one the Black Vault. March 1974 Two years earlier the Mojave Desert, California. 21 year old Christopher Boyce balances precariously against a rock face and smiles at the prairie falcon chicks hiding in their nest inside a small cave. He watches them fondly for a moment and then tugs on the rope tied around his waist. At the other end of the rope, on the cliff ledge above him, is his childhood friend Dalton Lee, who starts hauling him up. With Lee's help, Boyce drags himself up over the lip of the cliff. He rolls onto his back and smiles at the dome of blue sky above. Lee raises an eyebrow. So beautiful, man. Three Prairie falcon chicks In a few weeks they'll be old enough to trap. Lee and Boyce were altar boys at the local Catholic church in Palos Verdes, a rapidly expanding and affluent area on the outskirts of Los Angeles. Lee was adopted as a baby by a wealthy doctor. Boyce's father used to be in the FBI. A year separated them at school, but a shared passion for falconry drew them close. It kept the bond strong after graduation. Now they meet up every couple of weekends for these desert camping trips to either fly birds of prey or trap new ones. Lee sits down to roll a joint. You can have them. The last prairie falcon I had was a putz. Wouldn't listen to me. Lee inhales the marijuana smoke deeply and then hands the Joint to Boyce, whose expression is now pensive. Not sure how many more trips I can do this year. My father has gotten me a job at some aerospace defense company. Lee grins under his thick black mustache. Knew he would. Your dad can't bear the idea that his son's a dropout who can't hold down a job. Yeah, yeah, that's me. The disappointing eldest son. You bet you are. He was supposed to be a lawyer. At least that's what your dad told mine. Boyce grimaces as he rolls onto his stomach and hands back the joint. His chestnut hair is brushed back from his thin, handsome face and his thoughtful eyes have an injured expression. How come your dad is so chilled? He must know you're the local drug dealer. They never talk about it, so he doesn't have to admit it, but he got me a top dollar lawyer. The judges can't keep up with him, let alone the cops, but one day your luck's gonna run out. Now I'm moving into wholesale now. Found some direct contacts with the Mexican growers. Less risky than selling on the streets. And I'm good at this, man. I'm a successful businessman. If only it wasn't illegal, Dolores.
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Shit.
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Why shouldn't people take drugs if they want to? It's no worse than alcohol. Boyce nods despite his clean cut. Look, Boyce likes pills, weed, and cocaine every bit as much as Lee. But unlike Lee, Boyce keeps his habits secret from his religious and law abiding family. He stares into the distance. Yeah, they'll lock you up, but they won't touch the President who's neck deep in conspiracy. Exactly. Nixon could break the law and no one does shit. Royce nods and scowls. He can feel the familiar anger against the injustices of the world pulsing through his veins. Fuck you. Politicians. They spend money building nukes instead of helping people and they think it gives them the right to do whatever they want. Still, not much we can do about it. Just don't let them drag you down. Well, I can't. It really gets to me. Boyce looks around eagerly as he hears the mother prairie falcon returning to her nest. His face is wistful as he watches her majestic circling. I just want to move out here and become a falconing hermit. Lee smiles at the absurdity of it, but being with birds is Boyce's only relief from the restless, angry energy he carries with him wherever he goes. Eight months later Redondo Beach, Los Angeles Boyce tries to focus on the words coming out of his boss's mouth amidst the Explosions going on in his brain. He has worked as a clerk at aerospace firm TRW's Defense and Space Group for four months. It's a boring low level role that his father secured through the old boys network to make extra money. He also took an evening bar job. The exhaustion was getting to him. So this morning he popped two amphetamine pills. Unfortunately, as soon as he arrived at work, his boss called him into his office for an important meeting. You've impressed us boys. You're clever, hard working and you come from a good family. We're promoting you to a job that requires top secret clearance. Boyce blinks rapidly to control the buzzing of his body. He forces his lips to form some normal words. Yes sir. Thank you sir. His boss gets up indicating that Boyce should follow him. They crossed the TRW campus to a building with a strange white igloo shape on the top of it that Boyce was always told is strictly off limits. His boss presses a code on a security keypad and lowers his voice as they enter the building. This is where we make and operate some of the most sophisticated spy satellites in the world on behalf of the CIA. Boyce's brain reels at the mention of the CIA spy satellites. What are they? Eyes in the sky. Well, in orbit really. But our satellites can now watch our enemies without them knowing. We can even listen in on their communications. Of course, our adversaries have their own satellites and they're trying to listen to our communications as well. But we use computers to encrypt all our messages so they can't be read. And that is where you come in, son. His boss punches in the code needed to access another security door. But Boyce is confused. Me? You're going to be operating the encryption machines. You'll be changing the codes, taking all the messages from the satellites and liaising with the CIA on where those messages need to be sent. Boyce doesn't understand any of it, but he nods sagely and follows his boss into a room where a small group of men and women look at them with curiosity. Everyone, this is Christopher Boyce, the new guy. All of them immediately get up and crowd round him, smiling. Welcome man. Great to meet you. But Boyce can't take his eyes off the huge gleaming steel door at the end of the room. It looks like a bank vault. His boss sees his glance and grins. He enters a three digit code on the vault combination and spins a small wheel. Only six people are allowed behind this door, boys, and you are now one of them. The door a foot Thick and made of heavy steel slowly swings open. Welcome to the Black Vault. Behind the vault door is a long, thin, narrow room with a single desk and chair, a variety of odd looking machines and filing cabinets. It doesn't look very impressive, but if Boyce has understood his boss correctly, then this is one of the nerve centers of America's secret spy communications. He grins to himself as he wonders how he, a 21 year old college dropout high on amphetamines, ended up here. Two months later, early January 1975 in a plane traveling from Mexico City to Los Angeles. Dalton Lee unclicks his seatbelt and retrieves a heavy leather satchel from under his seat. He walks with it casually to the toilets at the rear of the plane. Locking the door, he takes a screwdriver from his bag and swiftly unscrews the panel behind the toilet paper dispenser. He smiles at the large empty space that's revealed and immediately stacks it with plastic bags full of cocaine. From his satchel, he screws the panel back into place and then flushes the toilet in case anyone is waiting outside. Lee returns to his seat with a satisfied smile. Now that he's a wholesale drug dealer, he has to smuggle large amounts of drugs into the U.S. but he's got a method. He studies the flight schedule of planes. He chose this flight because after landing and refueling in Los Angeles, the plane will fly a domestic route within the US with the drugs still concealed on the plane, Lee can clear customs with nothing to hide. He will then book himself onto the domestic flight and retrieve the drugs midair. And it has worked every single time. The next morning, TRW's Black Vault Redondo Beach, California Boyce opens up a heavy gray steel cube to expose the wires, dials and switches inside. This is the Black Vaults encryption machine. Its job is to scramble outgoing messages and unscramble incoming ones. Boyce removes a thin piece of cardboard riddled with small square holes from the machine. It's a computer punch card that contains yesterday's encryption code. Boyce drops it into a bag at the foot of the desk. Later, someone will empty that bag into the Bolt's electric blender to turn it into pulp. Yesterday's code card removed. Boyce inserts the one for today. He knows that right now, all across the world, replicas of that card are being loaded into other encryption machines used by US Intelligence. Card inserted. Boyce turns the machine on and closes the panel. He then turns to the teletype that's connected to the encryption machine. It Looks like a printer, and he will spend the rest of the day using it to send and receive messages with agents in the field. The teletype shudders into life and starts printing an incoming message that's been decoded by the encryption machine. He rips it off and reads the instructions on where to send it. This one is to do with the Rhyolite spy satellite system, which eavesdrops on China and the eastern Soviet Union. The signals are relayed via the Pine Gap satellite station that the CIA built deep in the Australian desert. It's so secret, most Australians have no idea it exists. Boyce reads the message with rising anger. Australia agreed to host that base on the proviso that the CIA shares all the intelligence received through it. But at the top of this message is a clear instruction from the CIA not to share this message with the Australians. It's not the first time he's had such instructions. He knows the CIA is spying on America's allies as well as its enemies. He clenches his jaw as he sits down to obey the message. He feels an impotent rage that he's become a cog and a secret in the intelligence machine that lies constantly. But if he quits, he'll be letting down his father once again. Later that day. The Black Vault Boyce puts his briefcase of clinking bottles carefully on the ground as he punches in the code for the Black Vault. Hey, Boise's back with the booze. Boyce has smuggled in several bottles of alcohol using an official Black vault briefcase which TRW's guards are not allowed to search. He closes the door behind him to conceal the party from anyone who might be passing. The vault is soundproofed and no one else is allowed into the anteroom. And on days when satellite traffic is slow, the six employees allowed inside turn it into a party palace. He hands over the tequila and rum to Gene Norman, a Vietnam veteran who spends his days telling lurid stories about the war and growing his own marijuana plant inside the Black Vault. Today he's using the vault's document pulping blender to make cocktails. Boyce feels a pair of arms wrap around him from behind the vaults. Female systems analyst whispers into his ear, if we do it inside the Black Vault doesn't count in the real world, you know. Boyce gives what he hopes is a polite smile. But I feel bad about your boyfriend. God, it's your morals that make you so sexy. Norman pours the drinks and starts handing them out. The analyst takes the one and starts dancing suggestively in the middle of the room with her eyes on Boyce. Boyce ignores her and sits down next to Norman. I got another message that the rhyolite intelligence shouldn't be shared with Australians. Norman shrugs. So it's not right. The Australians are our allies. You know the CIA infiltrated the unions there and they're spying on other allies like France. I read the messages. Jesus, boys, what do you expect? You should have seen the the CIA pulled in Vietnam. So we lied to our allies. They're probably lying to us. And this stuff needs to be kept secret. You know how much the Ruskies would pay for what's inside this vault? Boyce looks around at the untidy stacks of files and papers. But this stuff Mad. For just one of those cipher codes you load into that encryptor every day, they'd probably pay 20 grand. Norman gets up to dance with the analyst. Boyce is left on his own with an idea bubbling at the corner of his mind. In a safe under the floor are the cipher codes he needs to use each day. If the Soviets got hold of just one of them, it would help them decrypt all of America's spy communications for that day. Boyce realizes his security Security clearance means he now has access to some of the US Government's biggest secrets and with it, a means to stick it to his own government. A few days later, January 1975 Palos Verdes, Los Angeles. Boyce walks into one of Lee's house parties. He nods at people he recognizes from school, but there are many others he doesn't know. Lee's parties are becoming notorious. Littered on coffee tables and sideboards throughout the house is the reason why free cocaine and marijuana. Boyce gets a beer and edges his way through a group of people dancing in the swaying. Hey Jack, you seen Dalton? Boyce is a regular at Lee's parties, but tonight he's here with a purpose. Jack points to the kitchen. Lee's there cozying up to a much taller blonde surfer girl whose glassy smile reveals she has taken something more than the free cocaine. Dalton, need to talk to you. Lee looks up from nibbling the girl's shoulder. Kind of busy, buddy. Trust me, this is more important. Lee hesitates, but reluctantly follows Boyce into the study, shutting the door behind them. Lee empties out a little bag of cocaine and starts cutting lines for them both. This better be good, man. I've been trying to get close to Janice for months now. You got her addicted. She'll be easy. Lee grins, lines chopped. He rolls A dollar bill into a hollow cylinder and snorts the cocaine up his nose. He hands it on to Boyce, who does the same and starts talking. You know I told you my job is linked to the CIA? Yeah, you're full of man. I'm working on a top secret vault that takes messages from spy satellites off. And the the CIA are pulling. You wouldn't believe. They need to be stopped and I know how to do it. You and whose army? I'm serious, Matt. Who are the CIA scared of? Well, not you, that's for sure. The ussr. The ussr yeah. They'll pay for these secrets. So here's what we do. I can get secrets out of the vault, no problem. Then you take them to the Soviet Embassy in Mexico. Why Mexico? We can't go to the embassy here, can we? We'd be arrested in minutes. You go to Mexico all the time and you're used to smuggling stuff across the border. It's perfect. You're crazy. Lee leans down and snorts another line. What's come over you anyway? You're the good boy. Daddy thinks you're going to be a liar, remember? Boyce stands and paces the room. We can finally do it, Dalton. We can bring the bastards to their knees, make them sit up and listen. But Boyce can see he's lost his audience. As Lee starts glancing towards the door. He sits back down and changes tack. Do you know how much money we're talking about here? 20 to $50,000. Per trip. Lee's eyes swivel back to Boyce. Per trip. Boyce can see Lee's drug dealer brain worry weighing up risk versus gain. But then Lee shakes his head. It's crazy, man. Besides, I don't need this kind of distraction. I gotta focus on my dope business. Lee gets up and returns to his blonde surfer girl, leaving Boyce to snort the rest of the cocaine and think of another way to strike his blow of rebellion. Two months LATER Redondo Beach, Los Angeles In a faded stucco apartment near the pier, Lee and an associate are taking an inventory of their combined drug stash. Bulging plastic bags of heroin, cocaine, LSD and amphetamine pills cover the dining table. Recognizing the knock, Lee gives a cursory glance through the peephole, then unlocks the door. He's expecting these visitors. One is a regular customer who called earlier to say he'd be bringing a potential new customer. Come in, gentlemen. The newcomer has long, dirty hair and the unkempt appearance of an addict. His eyes widen slightly at the drugs and the the table. Lee grins at him. So I hear you're after Snow. Snow is street slang for cocaine. The Newcomer nods his head. Yeah, just moved here from Frisco. I'm looking for a reliable and high quality supply. Hey, you come to the right place. We got the purest stuff on the West Coast. How much you after? £2 initially. If it goes well, there'll be more orders after that. Lee is delighted. His drunk business has taken a hit lately. He lost almost $10,000 in a drug buy that went sour. Then Mexico's government devalued the peso, causing him to lose thousands on the money he stashed in Mexican banks. He could do with a couple of high value and hungry customers. He picks up a bulging bag of white powder from the table and with a small spoon takes out a sample. Try it. Lee hands over the spoon, expecting the stranger to snort it up his nose. Instead, he fishes out a glass vial of fluid from his pocket. He drops the granules into it and the liquid turns milky, confirming it is cocaine. Lee exchanges a wary look with his associate and then turns back to the Newcomer. Why don't you sniff it? I didn't come here to party. For a moment, nobody speaks, and then. Ah, shit. He's a knock. Lee and his business partner dive towards the drugs on the table, but it's already too late. Police officers burst through the front door, shouting and pointing guns at them. Glass shatters as Lee's partner hurls himself through a window to escape. Lee dives into the bathroom, his arms full of as many drugs as he can carry, and slams the door on the undercover cop who's giving chase. He desperately tries to lock the door, but the cop is too strong. Andrew Dalton Lee, you are under arrest. Later that day, the sheriff's Office, Redondo Beach, California. Lee, with his hands cuffed behind his back, is pulled past a room where a police officer weighs and tags the drugs seized from his apartment. He watches with anguish. His business can't take another financial hit like this. The goods on the table are worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. The undercover cop who arrested him smiles viciously. You're going away for a long time, Lee. Shouldn't you be arresting murderers? I'm just a businessman. Yeah, well, your business is killing kids, scumbag. Lee is checked in and the list of offenses he's charged with is extensive. Oh dearly. So many different narcotics and so much of it. You are going down for a long time. Lee panics. He knows getting bail will cost more money than he can raise. At the moment. And it means he could be in jail for months until his case comes up, he thinks. Quickly. As he's thrust towards the interview room, he adopts a hang dog. Look, you're right. The dope's ruining my life, but I can't see a way out. I should have thought of that before you chose your line of business. If you let me out of here, I could help you. He sees a flicker of interest in the cop's eyes. With his direct links to the Mexican growers, he'd be a valuable police informant. I'm listening. I can help you set up drug stings. I'm a known quantity. People trust me. The flicker of interest grows. The cop reveals he has a high profile lawyer and a professional football player in his sights. But so far they've eluded him. Lee offers to set up a drug sting and wear a wire so the cop can get enough evidence to put them away. The cop is seduced by the prospect of such high profile arrests. He agrees to to drop most of the charges and reduces Lee's bail. As Lee pays the bail, the cop tears a piece of paper out of his notebook with an address written on it. I meet you here in a week to work out the details. Lee gives what he intends to be a disarming smile. The cop's suspicions return. Lee, you screw me around, you're going in the slammer for a long time. And a rich kid like you won't last long. Trust me. Lee assures him he's genuine, but he has no intention of becoming an informer. Not only is it against his principles, but he knows his Mexican associates would hunt him down and kill him. He also has no intention of going to jail. That means his only option is to flee to Mexico. But if he's going on the run, he's going to need money. He heads towards Redondo Pier to find a payphone. He needs to call Boyce. A few days later. Palos Verdes, Los Angeles. In his father's den, Lee mixes up two gin and tonics. He hands one to Boyce before settling onto a leather sofa, his brows knitted. Concentration. Okay, one more time. What do I do when I get to Mexico City? Boyce, dressed in a homemade sweater, leans back into his chair. Get a phone book. Look up the address of the embassy. You walk in like you own the place. You give the note to the first security officer you see and you stall until someone important reads it. Simple. What about my money? The airfare is in the the envelope with the note. No, I mean My money from the Soviets. Take it out with them. Yeah. How do I know they won't just call the police? This is my ass on the line. You know I'm not forcing you to do this. Lee sips his drink and wonders if the risk is worth it. He opens the envelope Boyce gave him and reads out the typewritten note inside. Enclosed is a computer card from a National Security Agency cryptosystem. If you want to do business, please advise the courier. He then takes out the thin piece of card covered in numbers and letters with punched round holes in. Doesn't look worth $20,000. Boyce seems to read his mind. You're about to offer them the key to American defense secrets. Secrets that could change the balance of the Cold War. Do you really think they are not going to pay up, Lee? He rubs his mustache and grins. Well, when you put it that way. Early April 1975 Mexico City Dalton Lee walks along a pavement. To his left are six lanes of jammed up traffic. To his right is a cream fence. It had once been decorative but is now reinforced with ugly sheets of painted metal to prevent people looking into the gardens of the Soviet Embassy. At the entrance gates a grim faced Soviet guard watches Lee's approach. Lee puffs his chest out and musters all the confidence he can summon. He regrets not taking a pinch of cocaine to help him through. Excuse me, do you speak English? The guard stares at him. Saudi sum. I have information for the ussr. I need to speak to somebody. To his surprise, the guard opens the gate for him. Without any further questions, Lee walks through lush gardens with neatly trimmed hedges and trickling fountains. He heads towards an elaborate portugo entrance where he is stopped by another guard and goes through the same process. The guard escorts him past the lobby and down a long corridor to a meeting room. Inside is an athletic man with thick black eyebrows. Please sit down. My name is Vasily Okana. I'm dealing with your proposal. You have information for us? Lee hands Okana the note and crypto card Christopher Boyce gave him him. Okana reads it, then looks at Lee. Who is your friend who supplies this information? I can't tell you his name, but he has a sensitive job working for the government on their spy satellites. We're prepared to deliver American defense secrets to you, but we expect to be well paid. I see. Okana's eyebrows twitch as he examines it closely. Worried that he doesn't seem impressed, Lee embarks on a sales pitch. This is just a sample. I'm sure my friend can get you whatever you Want I see? Please excuse me for a moment. While you wait, would you like some vodka? Lee's eyes light up. I'd like that very much. As Okana disappears, a male servant enters with two large bottles of vodka and a bowl of caviar nestled in some ice. Lee helps himself, and soon the heady glow of the vodka relaxes him. He smiles when Okana returns, and the Soviet smiles back. We accept your proposition. We look forward to a mutually profitable enterprise. Excellent. Okana pours more vodka and the pair clink glasses in a toast. The Soviet then hands over an envelope with $250 inside. This is a token of our good faith for the cipher code you have provided. We cannot pay you the full amount in case you are arrested when you leave here. We will pay the full amount at our next meeting. Lee peeks inside the envelope and grins when he sees the money. Okana rests an elbow on the table and leans in towards Lee. It is very important that you never come to the embassy again. It is being watched by both Mexican police and US Spies. Okanawa tells Lee that if he wishes to meet, he should put adhesive tape in the shape of an X on lampposts at major intersections. He hands over postcards featuring the specific intersections to use. It is only now that Lee realizes Okana is probably a KGB officer. The day after you put these X's up, I will meet you at the Villa nova Restaurant at 6pm I will say, do you know the restaurant in San Francisco? You must reply, no, but I know the restaurant in Los Angeles. Lee repeats his instructions alongside another swig of vodka. Got it. And the next meeting, you'll hand over the Benjies. The what? The Benjies. You know, Benjamin Franklin? The guy on the money. Dollars. Benji's. Yeah. I'll give you the money then. The pair shake hands, and as he leaves, Lee feels like James Bond. He's got code words and secret signals and everything. Walking back along the noisy street, Lee chuckles to himself. Spying is way easier than drug dealing. The next day. Hermosa Beach, Los Angeles. Christopher Boyce walks hand in hand along the beach with his girlfriend, Alana. He met her when he used to work at the bar. She's a small, bubbly blonde with morals that run deep. As they walk up to the Strand, a wide walkway with shops and restaurants. He spots a payphone. Hey, honey, I promised Dalton I'd call him. Okay? I'll get us some burgers. He kisses her and then dodges the highway around roller skaters to get to the payphone. As Lee picks up the phone at his hotel in Mexico City. Boyce wheels off the script they agreed upon. He needs to know what happened at the Soviet embassy. But public payphones and hotel lines have operators who might be listening in. Hello, Senor Gomez, this is Felipe. Hola, Senor Felipe. And how is Senora Gomez, your good wife? Lee abruptly goes off script. Fucked if I know. But you were right. My uncle says hi. He's very interested in what you've been up to. Boyce stops breathing for a moment. The Soviets bought it. You can tell. Lee is grinning at the other end of the phone now. Don't get fired. Stay away from any damn cliffs because we're on a ride, buddy, and it's already golden. Boyce hangs up and leans against the edge of the phone booth for a moment. His legs feel weak and his throat tight. He never thought Lee would go through with it. The Soviets must have paid for the encryption card. What had seemed a game of possibilities is now a shocking reality. He and Boyce Boyce are now spies. The next day, the Mojave Desert, California. Boyce stands amid the scrubby rock strewn hills and strokes his latest prairie falcon. Since the phone call with Lee, he's felt sick and tense and unable to concentrate. He's hoping a weekend hawking in the wilderness will bring him peace. He carefully unties the leather hood that covers the bird's eyes. It ruffles its feathers and its beady eyes swivel as it immediately looks for its prey. Boyce smiles. You ready, boy? The bird suddenly dives into the air, flapping powerfully to gain altitude. Boyce shields his eyes from the sun and watches it climb higher and higher. The bird finds a thermal warm air spiraling up from the hot hills. It begins circling on it to conserve energy. The sight floods Boyce with a tingling happiness, but then the fear and anxiety rushes back to douse it. He wonders how long he'll be able to enjoy such freedom. He imagines his arrest, his parents, grief, his eight younger siblings, confusion. His falcon given away or released somewhere unsuitable. He doubles over as if someone has punched him in the stomach. What have I done? Fuck have I done? He feels sick. But then, here's his falcon's cry. He looks up in time to see the falcon diving fast, its talons outstretched in front and his wings balancing imperfectly above the twisting course of a terrified mouse. In seconds, the mouse is dead.
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Yes.
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Well done, boy. Boyce is about to run over to share the kill with his falcon and maintain the bond. But then he stops his Legs feel heavy as lead. He sinks to the ground, weighed down with a wave of self loathing. Why must he interfere? Isn't that what. What's wrong with the world? Humans taking over. Destroying all that's wild and beautiful. Just like the CIA. Interfering in countries, changing elected governments. Killing people who get in the way. Anger and fear surge and mix inside him in a toxic cocktail. He throws his head back and screams from the bottom of his lungs into the empty desert. He starts hitting his chest and head before lying face down on the dirt and sobbing like a child. His falcon flies up from its kill in fright and perches on a nearby rock to watch him. The figure on the ground doesn't move for over an hour. Finally, Boyce gets up. He dusts his jeans off and holds up his gloved fist calmly for the falcon to return. He's made his decision. He'll finish what he started. He'll hit the CIA and the government where it hurts because it's the only weapon he has against their power hungry corruption that is destroying the world. A few weeks later. Culiacan, Mexico near the northwestern coast of Mexico, Lee sits in a traditional cantina. The mint green walls are peeling and littered with faded photos. Lee sits alone at a wooden table with two beers. Yesterday, Lee delivered 10 more of the Black Vault code cards swiped by Boyce to the Soviets. Each card gives the Soviets the key to decode American spy communications for a specific day. But Lee is unconcerned by the threat to America's national security he's just created. The Soviets paid $3,000 for the guards and he's already decided how he's going to spend his share of it. A Mexican farmer in jeans and a grubby baseball cap enters the cantina and sits down opposite Lee. I thought you lost all your money. The farmer is one of many who grow drugs under the auspices of the powerful families who control the area. I got a new business venture and it's cast iron. The farmer sips his beer without taking his eyes off Lee's face. Growing drugs is a high risk business. If Lee doesn't pay when the crop is ready, it will cause money problems up and down the supply chain. What is this business venture? It's what you might call classified. Just give me the stuff. I'm good for the money. I promise. The two men agree to a deal. As he finishes his beer, Lee is hit with another brilliant idea. Boyce has no way of knowing how much money the Russians gave him. So what if he lies to Boyce and takes the lion's share for himself. Boyce isn't motivated by the money. He's doing this to stick it to the man, so it's not like he's really ripping him off. And he can then use that extra cash to do more drug deals like this one and triple his money. If he plays this right, he could soon be retiring to his own Caribbean island, and neither his best friend nor the KGB will know that they're bankrolling his drug business. From Audible Originals this is the first episode in our season the Spy who Sold Codes and Cocaine A quick note about our dialogue we can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors, particularly far back in history, but our scenes are written using the best available sources, so even if a scene or conversation has been recreated it for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season, including the Falcon and the Snowman by Robert Lindsay and American Sons by Christopher Boyce, Kate Boyce and Vince Font. The Spy who is hosted by me, Raza Jaffrey. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Audible. For Yellowant. This episode was written by Judy Cooper and researched by Louise Byrne, with thanks to Marina Watson and Russ Avery. Our managing producer is Jay Priest for Vespucci. Our senior producer is Ashley Clivery. Our sound designer is Alex Portfelix. Natalia Rodriguez is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frison Sink. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkan. The executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Executive producers for Audible are Estelle Doyle, Theodore Leludis and Marshall Louis.