How to Archer

by Sterling Archer

  DEDICATION

  for Shedley

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Foreword

  Preface

  Introduction

  Section One: How to Spy

  General Tradecraft

  Unarmed Combat

  Weaponry

  Gadgets

  Stellar Navigation

  Tactical Driving

  Other Vehicles

  Poison

  Casinos

  Surveillance

  Interrogation

  Interrogation Resistance

  Escape and Evasion

  Wilderness Survival

  COBRAS

  Section Two: How to Drink

  Cocktail Recipes

  Section Three: How to Style

  Valets

  Clothes

  Shoes

  Personal Grooming

  Physical Fitness

  Section Four: How to Dine

  Dining Out

  Dining In

  Recipes

  Section Five: How to Women

  Amateurs

  For the Ladies

  Professionals

  The Archer Sutra

  Section Six: How to Pay for It

  Personal Finance

  Appendix A: Maps

  Appendix B: First Aid

  Appendix C: Archer’s World Factbook

  Afterword

  Selected Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Credits

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  FOREWORD

  When HarperCollins first approached me to write the foreword to Sterling’s little book, I must admit that I was more than a bit taken aback. Not quite aghast, but definitely shocked, For one thing, Sterling has never been much of a reader. In fact, to the best of my knowledge, the only things he ever read growing up were pornographic comic books (we used to call them “Tijuana bibles,” but I’m sure that’s no longer considered polite, what with all these immigrants driving around everywhere in their lowriders, listening to raps and shooting all the jobs). So the thought of Sterling writing an actual book? With words? Yes, I was definitely shocked.

  I was also surprised to learn that HarperCollins wanted a “how-to” book for spies and didn’t ask me to write it. Needless to say, I have far more experience in all areas of espionage than Sterling will ever have. I also think I could have brought a great deal of profound wisdom and unique insight to such a book, due to my being not only a single mother, but also—and more importantly—an incredibly successful woman in a field almost entirely dominated by men. It probably would have been an inspiration to little girls and young women all over the world.

  Instead, I just assume you’ll be getting crudely drawn maps to every whorehouse on the planet, accompanied by a step-by-step guide about how to rid oneself of pubic lice. Which is all just as well, as far as I’m concerned: I am currently penning my memoirs—Secrets and Silk: The Malory Archer Story—and don’t wish to water down the brand.

  New York, New York

  PREFACE

  My life has basically been one amazing story after another, So when HarperCollins begged me to write a book for them, I naturally assumed they meant a memoir. Something along the lines of John Huston’s An Open Book. Or some other book. And since the publishing business has been circling the drain for a while now, it made sense to me that HarperCollins would be eager to publish a book that would sell literally tons of copies, Also, to be frank, I’ve been living well above my means for pretty much my entire adult life, which made the thought of millions upon millions of dollars in book royalties more than a little appealing to me.

  And so I agreed to take a lunch meeting, to which I brought a rough outline (hastily scribbled on a sheaf of cocktail napkins) of my thrilling life. The two editors from HarperCollins, turns out, were actually editrices.1 This being the publishing world, neither was what you’d call “mildly attractive.” One was pretty mousy, the other sort of squat and boxy and mannish, almost like a young Gertrude Stein. But not nearly as—well yeah, about that ugly.

  Fast-forward five martinis.2

  Somewhere between martinis three and five, apparently, I said something that made Gertrude Junior storm out of the restaurant. Or I repeatedly made elephant noises every single time she tried to talk. It’s all pretty hazy. Anyway, I thought the book deal was dead on arrival. Right up until the mousy one—utterly disarmed by a combination of white Zinfandel and Archer pheromones—put her hand on my knee and asked if we could continue the meeting at my place.

  I’m (at least) seven martinis to the good at this point, I’m also thinking about John Huston, and about how—even though he was a ninety-year-old Mexican hermit when he wrote his memoirs—he probably got laid a bunch of extra times when they were published (which, by that point in his life, was just padding his stats). And so I pour the boozy little editrix into a cab and take her back to my place, thinking I’ll cement the book deal by doing a little stat-padding of my own. But was I in for a surprise once I got her into the bedroom. Because you know how in the movies, when the mousy librarian type takes off her glasses and shakes down her hair, and it turns out that all this time she was ridiculously smoking hot?

  This was not that. At all.

  But by this point I really want HarperCollins to publish my memoirs. And since this pale, timid, and also somewhat (it’s hard to even say this) nether-regionally-unkempt woman seemed to be the only means to that end, I bit the bullet and gave her the same mind-blowing Archer experience that I’ve spent a lifetime sharing with beautiful and exotic women the world over.3

  Twice I thought she’d died. This was not the surprising part.

  The surprise came later, after I had signed the contract and lay in bed (and she staggered around looking for her clothes and just generally not leaving), when I made an offhand joke:

  “Don’t worry, um … gorgeous. I won’t put this in my memoirs.”

  And she hops around to face me—she was hopping around, trying to get her panty hose on, not realizing that why would any self-respecting woman wear panty hose?—and she goes:

  “Memoirs? No, we want a how-to book. For spies.”

  “A how-to book?! A book can’t teach someone how to be equal parts deadly and sexy! That’s like asking a cobra to write a book about how to be a cobra!”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but a how-to book is what you just signed a contract to write.”

  I pause, thinking about my options. And about money. And John Huston. And cobras.

  “Could it have a chapter about cobras?”

  “Um … sure. So listen, I’ve gotta run but … will you call me sometime?”

  “Um … sure.”

  And so a how-to book it is. Whatever. But I can tell you right now it’s nowhere near as exciting as my memoirs would have been. Especially since HarperCollins totally fucked me on the entire chapter about cobras. But if you like this book but also want to read a much better book, you should convince HarperCollins they should publish my memoirs. Maybe start some sort of petition, or a letter-writing campaign. Or, better yet, maybe give that mousy editrix a call.

  Because God knows I didn’t.

  The Long Bar, Raffles Hotel, Singapore4

  INTRODUCTION

  Just so we’re clear, I didn’t want to write a how-to book.5

  Because I’m pretty confident that any book I write will be a runaway bestseller, get translated into about a thousand languages, and wind up on the shelves (though not for very long) of every bookstore from Hoboken to Hanoi. And so I ask you: what do you think’s going to happen when I go mano a mano with some enemy agent who�
�s read the trade secrets of Sterling Archer, the world’s greatest secret agent?

  Answer: I will shoot him in the face.

  But the fact that he (or she—let’s be honest, I’ve shot a woman before) has read this book and gotten a rare glimpse into the mind of Sterling Archer, the world’s greatest secret agent, might give said aforementioned enemy agent crucial insight into my thinkings and doings at a critical moment (i.e., right about the time I would normally shoot him in the face).

  This could make my job harder.

  And while there are many things to like about being a devastatingly handsome, martini-drinking, jet-setting, model-banging, world’s greatest secret agent, hard work isn’t one of them. If I wanted to work hard, I’d be a farmer. Albeit a devastatingly handsome one. So even though my contract with (the man-hating, unkempt überfeminists at) HarperCollins makes it abundantly clear that I am legally bound—especially now that I’ve spent the advance—to write a how-to book, I am doing so only because said aforementioned contract is apparently iron-fucking-clad.

  But whatever. I bloom where I’m planted.

  SECTION ONE

  HOW TO SPY

  Just to reiterate, I think this whole thing is a bad idea, Especially this section. In addition to possibly enjeopardizing my life at some point in the future, sharing my secrets of tradecraft is wildly irresponsible: I bet this book won’t be in stores twenty minutes before some dumb idiot kid catches himself on fire trying to make a Molotov cocktail (see Molotov Cocktail, page 84). But that’s HarperCollins’s problem. And apparently they have the best lawyers in the entire world.6

  Thus, for the first time ever, I will now reveal many of the secret techniques which have helped make me, Sterling Archer, the world’s greatest secret agent. In the world.

  GENERAL TRADECRAFT

  My contract—clearly and repeatedly—states that I am required to deliver a manuscript of no less than 30,000 words. And so the book you just bought7 is going to have exactly 30,000 words in it.8 The good news is that this word-processing software keeps a running tally of each and every word that I type. Like this one and this one and this one and this one and this one.

  The bad news is that there is absolutely no way I can teach you how to be even a regular secret agent—let alone an incredibly stylish one—in 30,000 words. And you can just forget about learning how to become the world’s greatest secret agent. For one thing, that job’s already filled. By me, For another thing, a lot of being the world’s greatest secret agent is just instinct.

  And I cannot teach you how to sense danger, like a dog can sense if there’s a ghost in the house. I cannot teach you how to know, quite possibly before he knows it himself, what your enemy’s next move will be. I cannot teach you how to recognize the precise moment in the evening when the beautiful woman sitting across from you at the baccarat table will decide that—less than one hour from now—she is going to let you do things to her body that just this very morning would have been utterly abhorrent to her. If she could have even imagined them.9

  What I can (and am contractually obligated to) do is paint it all for you in broad strokes. We won’t be able to cover everything, and what we do cover we probably won’t cover all that well, but at least you’ll have some faint notion of what it is that I actually do for a living. Which is—as I may have already mentioned—be Sterling Archer, the world’s greatest secret agent, In keeping with the broad-strokes concept, let me first prime the canvas, if you will, by defining a few core concepts about intelligence gathering for you, to wit and thusly:

  At its most basic level, intelligence gathering is getting someone to show and/or tell you something that they should not, in fact, show and/or tell you. This is not unlike getting a woman to show and/or tell you that she has two kids with her soon-to-be ex-husband, the divorce from whom has not yet been finalized. You obviously don’t care about her still being married (see recipe for Mint Julep, page 82), but the two kids are a definite, possibly asthmatic, deal breaker.10

  And so intelligence gathering is divided into two general categories: human intelligence (or HUMINT) and signals intelligence (or SIGINT).

  Signals intelligence gathering relies on a variety of electronic devices: radios, satellites, um, I suppose the telephone would fall under this heading … look, I’ll be honest: I don’t know much about SIGINT. That’s for the lab-coated geeks in ISIS SIGINT Control. Those pathetic little men with slide rules sticking out of their pocket protectors, wearing ties with short-sleeved shirts. I’m not kidding: they actually wear ties with short sleeves. I guess the short sleeves are more practical attire for what they do all day, which I can only assume is masturbate under their desks while looking at hobbit-porn on the internets. The point is, I know about as much about SIGINT as those fist-glazing nerds know about what a clitoris looks like.11 The whole concept—by which I mean signals intelligence, not that mysterious and magical, sometimes mauve, sometimes brown, amazing little pleasure bean known as the clitoris—is incredibly boring to me. Which is why I focus my considerable talents in the area of human intelligence.

  Human intelligence, as its name implies, is gathered from humans. Also known as people. Sometimes, but not always, these people are exotic, stunning femmes fatales, and I gather intelligence from them during or after sex.12 Sometimes these people are men, who are usually either oily little Peter Lorre types (who can easily be bribed or intimidated into giving me information) or evil, Van Dyke-bearded masterminds with surprisingly big muscles (whom I usually have to fight, in a fairly elaborate set-piece, toward the end of whatever mission I’m on).

  But sometimes the situation calls for something besides sex or fighting. When that happens, in addition to just sort of mentally disengaging from the entire mission, I am forced to use one or more of the numerous espionage techniques at my disposal:

  BRIBERY

  You probably already know what this is. I try not to rely on bribery too heavily, for two reasons: one, it’s pretty boring, Two, ISIS has this whole big voucher process where you have to sign out the money, which they then count—like every single dollar—on Mother’s desk, and the whole time she’s just smirking at you with that smirky little smirk on her smirkly smirking face.

  CUTOUT

  A cutout is just a go-between, who goes between (I just got that) two intelligence agents. The cutout, if compromised, cannot in turn compromise the mission, because he doesn’t know who is supplying the information, who is receiving the information, or even what the information is. Actually, reading back over that I’m not sure the concept was ever properly explained to me. Because that doesn’t seem like it would work, does it? How does he know where he’s going?

  DEAD DROP

  A dead drop is a secret location that makes it possible for two (or more) agents to exchange information without having to meet in person. One agent places the information13 in the dead drop—for example, a mailbox. He then uses a prearranged signal to alert a second agent that a drop has been made—for example, a small red flag on the outside of the… Goddamn it, An hour of research. To basically just learn how the U. S. Postal Service works.

  DISGUISES

  I’m not a huge fan of using disguises. For one thing, if I’m being completely honest, I rely a lot on my looks. For a bunch of stuff, Mostly getting laid. So I’m never eager to put on shabby clothes and some old-guy makeup and a big fake nose. Or whatever, That being said, I will throw on the occasional false mustache. And not just when I’m undercover: sometimes I’ll just put one on and walk around the apartment, yelling at Woodhouse with an Armenian accent. Because, for reasons as yet unknown to me, this literally scares him to death.14

  DOUBLE AGENT

  A double agent is an operative who merely pretends to spy on one intelligence agency (Agency A) on behalf of a second intelligence agency (Agency B) but is in reality loyal to the first intelligence agency (Agency A). And I’m already confused, so here’s a brief example:

  Let’s say I’m in Moscow, doing my
thing. I get captured by an incredibly sexy KGB agent—let’s call her Anya—who not only has perfect breasts but is also into all the same stuff I’m into. It’s like she totally gets me. Anya then attempts to “turn” me—convince me to spy on ISIS for the KGB—using a combination of money, sex, a totally dude-like interest in lacrosse, and being at least somewhat open to the idea of anal. I agree to spy on ISIS for the KGB. But in reality I just pretend to do so, and in fact spy on, and pass disinformation to, the KGB for ISIS, during my bimonthly trips to Moscow. And bimonthly actually works out pretty well for me, because Anya’s hot, but she’s also a little crazy, and it turns out she was just stringing me along on the whole anal thing anyway. So it’s not like I’m looking for anything super-long-term here.

  A redoubled agent is a double agent (ostensibly spying for Agency B, in reality still loyal to Agency A) who has been discovered by the secondary controlling agency (Agency B) and then forced to actually spy on Agency A for Agency B, which he was supposed to be doing all along, That’s also a bit complicated, so using the lovely Anya again, let’s see how that might play out:

  I’m back in Moscow, spying on the KGB for ISIS. Things with Anya are going just okay: we’re both pretty busy with work, she’s (rightfully) a bit suspicious about what I do with my evenings when I’m not with her, and to be honest, the sex just isn’t what it used to be. We get in some huge stupid fight about I can’t even remember what, she starts throwing my stuff all over the bedroom, and the next thing I know, we’re both staring at these secret ISIS codebooks that were in my Hermès grip (which is now so scuffed as to be totally unusable), I am exposed. So, not wanting to end this lovely evening with a 7.62mm Tokarev slug in my brain, I agree to become a redoubled agent and spy on ISIS for the KGB. Anya, for her part, agrees that she has trust issues and promises to see someone about it. The anal question, for now, is left unresolved.

  A triple agent—not to be confused with a redoubled agent15—is simply an intelligence operative who works for three separate intelligence agencies. A triple-double has something to do with basketball, or maybe hockey. I wouldn’t know: I’m more of a lacrosse man, myself.