Location: Tirana, Albania, 2014

When I (Max) transitioned from the ‘green’ side of intelligence to the ‘grey’ side, I had certain expectations. I mean, it’s still military intelligence, just a bit different. You trade your uniform for civilian clothes, and your HUMINT objectives become more ambiguous, more aligned with big politics and power dynamics, compared to the ‘green’ side where you focus on analyzing the environment your troops are in or will be in.

The expectations for the grey side are almost epic. It feels like a premium assignment like you’re part of something bigger, better, and more elite. It’s hard not to think of James Bond, the epitome of espionage and intelligence work—at least according to the movie industry. You imagine beautiful women, fast cars, casino nights, and regular visits to the opera house in Vienna. But that picture quickly crumbles when you find yourself in a dirty apartment in a shady suburb of Tirana. And no, Albania has very little in common with Austria and the glittering lights of Vienna.

I look at the mattress in the apartment. It’s filthy to the point that no amount of sheets will give you peace of mind sleeping on it. The decision to sleep in my thin sleeping bag on the floor is one of the easier ones I made today. I just got here after meeting a fixer in the coastal town of Durrës, about an hour and a half drive to the west. It felt better there— the breeze, the boardwalk, and it was slightly less depressing, like a budget vacation. Tirana is different. But I’m not here for some R&R; I have a job to do.

As I go through the duffle bag that came with the apartment keys (yes, it’s always a duffle bag), I find a Zastava CZ99. That’s gold in a country where you often get a Yugoslav Tokarev variant. There are also some clothes, maps, two burner phones, and documents—nothing unusual. All of these items are in abundance in Albania, especially the guns; they’re everywhere.

I’m here to escort a source out of the country. A source I recruited as a community asset in a refugee camp back in 2008. I don’t know how she ended up here, but I know she’s valuable enough for them to take the trouble of getting her out. She’s wanted, and it all happened quickly. The SHISH (State Albanian Intelligence) is looking for her. They’re probably not looking too hard at this point; otherwise, she would already be in their custody. But she pinged on their radar, at least. My guess is that her current handlers got overconfident in her abilities and pushed her beyond her capabilities, but I’m not here to guess—I’m here to take her out.

It’s after midnight, and I’m still staring at the ceiling. An intense feeling of loneliness grips me, as it often does in this line of work. You’re always alone, always hunted, and usually left to fend for yourself if there are any problems, which there always are. I go through my plan one more time in my head: Leave at 08:15, call the nightclub owner who’s hiding her for directions, pick her up, ditch the gun, give her a prep talk before the border, cross the border into Kosovo, and hand her over on the other side. The gun is only for the local handover. She’s being hidden by organized crime and dealing with them is always a volatile experience. It has to be gone before the border.

I fiddle with my phone while silently cursing the traffic. A guy named Eren picks up when I call the only number saved on the burner phone. Shit, he’s Turkish—not good when combined with organized crime; they’re hardcore. He gives me brief instructions on how to get into the building when I arrive, then abruptly hangs up. I know the place; I did a drive-by yesterday to get a feel for it. It’s an upscale nightclub just outside the city center. Shady location, and once you decide to go in, you’re committed. No turning back.

I discreetly press down the Zastava in the poorly fitting pancake holster as I step out of the car. I see a man looking down from a window in the industrial-looking building. It’s time. A man opens a door at the loading bay and waves me in. Inside, I’m greeted by a lineup of muscle, just the regular show of force. I show my hands clearly to avoid any misinterpretations—this isn’t the time for misunderstandings. An Eastern European guy steps forward to frisk me, but I take a step back and politely decline. “I don’t need to come in; I’ll just wait here.” I try to smile; it usually helps a bit. After a few minutes, Eren comes down from upstairs. He’s not happy with the deal. The fixer holds the money for their “housing” services and will pay them after we leave. But they want the money now. I keep my cool and call the fixer. After a loud discussion in several languages, the fixer confirms he has the money, and the old deal is back on. He’s dependent on it since we won’t pay him until we’re out of the country.