Before I joined the CIA, I carried an image of espionage in my mind: rain-slicked alleyways gleaming beneath streetlamps, encrypted phones designed to self-destruct, brush passes executed in crowded train stations, figures silhouetted against rooftops at dusk. Never had I imagined the psychology that underpinned it all.
Ten years inside the CIA taught me that the true engine of espionage was never the gadget or the illusion of a glamorous life. It was vulnerability, the invisible fractures in a person’s life—the unmet longing, the private grievance, the wound carried in silence. These were the fault lines an officer learned to recognize, not to exploit indiscriminately, but to understand. Because those fault lines determined whether someone could survive the grueling life of a spy or be undone by it.
My job was not to kick down doors. It was to understand people, to study what they feared, what they wanted, what they believed they deserved. And most critically, to identify the one thing they would sacrifice everything for or betray everything to protect. That’s where operations began—with a longing, a wound, and sometimes, a love.
Without a clear understanding of an asset’s motivation, an operation can go sideways, quickly. In fiction, we often construct characters whose competence defines them, whose emotional complexity is secondary.
But in real operations, motivation precedes method. No one spies for the sake of adventure alone. They spy because they need something: revenge, money, validation, escape, protection for a child, redemption for a past mistake. Sometimes ideology. Most of the time, something far more personal.
Tradecraft exists to exploit that need, or to shield it. The public imagination tends to treat espionage as a chessboard of nation-states. And yes, geopolitics matters. But on the ground, intelligence is painfully intimate. It’s built in quiet conversations, in the careful construction of trust. It lives in the small details: noticing which photo sits face-down on someone’s desk or hearing the half-second hesitation before they answer a question about their spouse.
That hesitation is your leverage, a revelation. Who they love is their vulnerability. These are the variables even disciplined officers struggle to get right.
The most disciplined men and women I worked with could still be destabilized by a family member, by a love. Not because they were weak, not because they can’t perform under pressure, because they are human. That intersection between tradecraft and private longing is where I find the interesting part of the story.
For me, it’s less about the geopolitical outcome or the disrupted terror plot. It’s the people inside the plot and how they illuminate something fundamental about human nature. It’s how they compartmentalize their life, their love, their grief. Can they separate duty from desire? Can they remain objective when the mission touches the one person they swore to protect?
That’s not just plot tension. That the moral dilemma, and that’s what I’m most interested in as an author. In intelligence work, you are constantly weighing costs. Is the intelligence worth the risk to the source? Is the objective worth the fallout? Is the operation worth what it will do to you?
Writing fiction after working in that world, I’m less interested in glamorizing the spy than I am in understanding them. What does it cost to live in a state of perpetual of calculation? What parts of yourself must you suppress to stay effective? And what happens when the very thing that makes you good at your job, your ability to read and use human motivation, collides with your own?
There’s a reason espionage stories endure. Not because of the silenced pistols or coded messages. But because they are stories about divided selves. About loyalty under pressure. About identity constructed and deconstructed in real time. We like to believe we would be rational under those circumstances. That we would choose country over person. Duty over desire. Strategy over emotion. But in my limited experience, it’s never that simple.
Tradecraft teaches you how to manipulate variables, but life reminds you that you are one. And maybe that’s the truest intersection of espionage and character motivation. No matter how skilled the operator, no matter how airtight the plan, the human heart remains the most unpredictable element in the room. That’s not a flaw in the system—that’s the story.
***
