because I don't think Mao fed his starving republic on a diet of TV Land classics. Which is to say that maybe it was more than the accent; maybe it was also my accompanying wide eyes and gullible smile. Come to think of it, maybe it was I who worked like a Southern charm. Once, I asked a peddler if he had "LV" in the store and he whispered, "Not now." "Why?" I responded vapidly. He nodded toward another woman. "Come back later when she's gone. She pretends to shop, but she's a spy." Whoever she was, she didn't work for us. Possibly she reported to Customs, but I doubt it. Either way, a moment later he threw her out of the store so that I, the spy, could shop. Not only did he fail to suspect me, he shared delicate information! My countenance and personality telegraphed a prodigious navet. It's a circumstance discouraging and frustrating, and I didn't mind at all using it against them. Still, even with my airtight Hee Haw avatar, I couldn't get cocky. A couple of times during my stint with the firm, coworkers returned from a day on the streets and heard, when the elevator opened, "You've been burned." Our manager knew immediately because she had informants on the inside. That was a spotter's worst day of work and also his or her last. It's kind of like accidentally firing yourself. Typically, though, the response was, "I figured." An agent knows when the jig