Working at the CIA changed author Michael Garner forever. During his 3-year stint at the Agency, Garner experienced what appeared to be a mélange of surveillance in which the US government or another entity penetrated every aspect of his professional and private life. He watched words change on his screen in real time on his personal computer at home, and items in his apartment were altered while he was in another room. When he described what appeared to be happening to a senior CIA manager, she said it was “plausible” that the Agency was responsible.
There were hints that Garner was being subtly recruited by the CIA’s Directorate of Operations to be a case officer—in everyday language, a “spy.” Other hints suggested a malicious counterintelligence operation to pin him as a traitor. Was he going crazy? What was the truth?
For over a decade, Garner thought he’d never know what happened… until he met Jess, a former case officer who spelled out plainly who may have been responsible. This book describes it all—and lays out what was probably really going on.
Working at the CIA changed author Michael Garner forever. During his 3-year stint at the Agency, Garner experienced what appeared to be a mélange of surveillance in which the US government or another entity penetrated every aspect of his professional and private life. He watched words change on his screen in real time on his personal computer at home, and items in his apartment were altered while he was in another room. When he described what appeared to be happening to a senior CIA manager, she said it was “plausible” that the Agency was responsible.
There were hints that Garner was being subtly recruited by the CIA’s Directorate of Operations to be a case officer—in everyday language, a “spy.” Other hints suggested a malicious counterintelligence operation to pin him as a traitor. Was he going crazy? What was the truth?
For over a decade, Garner thought he’d never know what happened… until he met Jess, a former case officer who spelled out plainly who may have been responsible. This book describes it all—and lays out what was probably really going on.
I didn’t want to write a chapter with a bunch of self-indulgent flotsam about me. I wanted to jump right into the juicy CIA stuff; if that’s what you want, just skip this chapter. I don’t want to keep you from instant gratification.
But I have very smart friends, and one of them suggested I write this chapter. So under duress, I am. But I’ll at least try to keep it entertaining—
I am trying to get at something so simple
that I have to talk plainly
so the words don’t disfigure it
and if it turns out that what I say is [boring],
then at least let it be harmless
like a leaky boat in the reeds
that is bothering no one.[1]
I was born in 1979 near New Canaan, Connecticut. (Note to CIA: please redact the year.)
My parents met in Paris in what could easily be adapted into a Hallmark Channel movie. Sitting in a small café, my mother was nursing a cold. My father, at a nearby table, offered her a handkerchief, and she replied, “Merci.” Both my parents were American but were in Paris for a while and spoke French when they met. They chatted casually for a few minutes until my mother noticed an envelope in my father’s pocket. She saw an American stamp on it, and as a stamp collector, asked if he knew someone in the US. He replied that, actually, he was from North Carolina. My mom was a Jersey girl; they switched to English.
Over the coming months, my mom lived in the small town of Breitenbach, Switzerland and worked as a secretary, typing up German letters—but not very well, from her telling; she didn’t really know German. My father came every weekend from Paris to court her, and I guess the charm offensive worked because they were later married.
My father was kind, sensitive, and brilliant. He studied French literature and later got a doctorate from Columbia before working in public schools. My mother worked in special education and rose to the level of director before she retired.[2] They both cared about public service and wanted to give back to society and help the less fortunate. Sadly, my father passed away suddenly in 2002.
My mother’s parents came to the US to escape World War II. But tragically, the Holocaust claimed the lives of both of my Austrian grandfather’s parents. My grandmother’s parents, incredibly, were sent to Dachau early on but were released when they were able to obtain and show proof of onward travel. They were never very religious, but once, my grandmother (Oma) told me, “Never forget you’re Jewish.” But despite their identity as Jews, my grandparents hated what the state of Israel was doing regarding settlements and my grandfather wrote letters to the editor to that effect.
My grandfather (Opa) was “the total package.” I truly admired him, and not just because he predicted that, out of all his grandchildren, I’d be the most successful. He worked passionately to help the Allies win WWII by assisting General Cable Corporation with Operation Pluto (“pipeline under the ocean”) to send supplies across the British channel into France.
(Years later, the Austrian government granted me citizenship because of what the Nazis did to my relatives. Having lived briefly in Austria after that, I can say I’m proud to be an Austrian citizen, where everyone I met was kind, intelligent, and caring. When I casually mentioned being a gay Jew [as a test], they were very welcoming, and several of them even came over to give me a hug.[3])
I attended kindergarten in Connecticut before we moved to Texas. My brother rode the same bus as me, but he was six years older so he rode in the back of the bus with the cool, older kids. My kindergarten teacher—this is my only claim to fame—was James Earl Jones’s mother.[4] Once, she removed a staple from my finger after I was “experimenting” with a stapler. In my report card, I recall she made a comment about me being a sensitive and precocious child (self-stapling notwithstanding).
I was definitely quite sensitive, and, for many years, slightly shy. I was an introvert, standing by and watching others while taking mental notes in a somewhat detached way. Extroverts seemed so alien to me—how could you just go out and loudly assert yourself without first carefully weighing what you were going to say? What if you were… wrong!?
After I finished kindergarten, we moved to Austin where my parents found new job opportunities. I went to public schools—specifically, public magnet schools for junior high and high school. My high school was a “science academy.” Academy students didn’t have many classes with the “regular” students, but I did make some friends there.
I didn’t have one cohesive friend group in high school; I had a few groups that I rotated through. It was interesting that there was not so much of an obsession with being “cool”—everyone in the Science Academy was pretty talented and driven so there wasn’t the kind of anti-intellectualism you see at a lot of American schools. Zach’s talent was debate; Darrick was a great musician and, well, valedictorian; Anya authored several books; Ari was a 3D animator; and so on. My focus was languages; I graduated with five years of Spanish credit and four years of Russian. I was also the co-editor of the high school newspaper and won some minor awards for that. On the last day of school, I really appreciated the feedback from my journalism teacher. She told me, “you almost made it, but not quite.” Essentially, she saw promise in my writing, but thought I needed to keep working on it. (Clearly, I haven’t.)
[1] David Berman, “Self Portrait at 28,” 185-191.
[2] Years later, in the midst of writing this book, I invited my mother to travel with me to Connecticut, where she had been Director of Special Services. I was pleasantly surprised when I invited those who had worked for her to come for dinner; not only did they come, they even invited others. Over a meal at The Village Restaurant in Litchfield, Connecticut, they unanimously emphasized that my mother was one of the best bosses they ever had because she was fair and truly cared about what was best for the kids. One of them even said that my mother had called her in and disciplined her a few times, but in retrospect she appreciated it because my mother was always right.
[3] With the rise of the far-right around the world, I know my experience was not “statistically representative.” But it felt good, nonetheless.
[4] Amusingly, my friend Laura was reading draft number 26 of this book and relayed that she had worked with James Earl Jones in the production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof in London and knew his son well.
My Life as a CIA Spy details intrigue in a ‘spy story that isn’t’, as noted in the subtitle I Was Never a CIA Spy. Michael Garner’s memoir is stranger than fiction: the extensive interceptions are spine-chilling.
Commencing at the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA)’s mandatory Career Analyst Program, the menace generated by ‘cloak-and-dagger messages’ left the author feeling extremely vulnerable. Garner resolutely questions his perceptions: did ‘impossible things’ transpire ‘so matter-of-factly that it seems normal that an absurd thing happened’ (author’s italics)? He wonders about ‘paranoia and maybe even schizophrenia’ and being ‘maliciously gaslit’, conceding that ‘coincidences in life happen all the time, but when they start to happen ten or twenty times a week instead of once or twice, it can’t but start to have an effect’ on a person’s sense of sanity.
Coincidence versus counterintelligence surveillance is a recurring theme. Garner readily admits how improbable his encounters sound, exploring psychological theories in an attempt to explain them because ‘humans are symbolic creatures, and we love to search for a deeper meaning, whether or not there is one’.
The book is an easy read, although the expression is sometimes clumsy: further proofreading to eliminate occasional errors and enhance fluency would be beneficial. Garner’s jocular, self-deprecating wit provides levity in an often-dark story, while the elucidatory footnotes add humour and context.
The unrelenting surveillances and veiled threats sometimes read like a list: a change in pace with the inclusion of, for example, more physical descriptions would add interest and give the reader a break from the ‘totalistic environment’ of the CIA.
Garner’s experiences led him to professional help, and ‘decades later, [he] finally feel[s] whole. Not because of some magical, overnight transformation, but because of consistently pushing [him]self … to improve … while still embracing an element of imperfection’.
Garner has ‘turned to art as a way to try to transmogrify [his] trauma into something that may benefit others’. He wrote this memoir as ‘a companion piece for [his] first art exhibition’. He ‘may never know with total certainty’ what happened, but now that he has ‘left the Agency, a weight has been lifted’.
My Life as a CIA Spy ends with Garner stating, ‘there is always hope’. This positive message extends beyond the author’s life, reassuring the audience that healing can occur from even the most challenging circumstances. A deep-dive inside this memoir’s bold, attractive cover is sure to satisfy readers.