I said nothing more. Having delivered the damning evidence, I wanted to let off some pressure. It was now up to MARS to decide what to do. He stared at the floor.
“I can’t collaborate with you,” he finally said with much deliberation. “I’ve always been loyal to my country and the agency. I love my family. Those have always been my motives for everything I’ve done, and I can’t sacrifice them—even if I have to pay for it with my job.” It was the reply I’d more or less expected. Even though we were on opposing sides defending the security of our respective countries, we understood each other as only professional colleagues can. Despite the fact that our jobs revolved around deception, we could now speak more or less openly.
But no matter how hard I tried to persuade MARS that he’d be better off spying for us than ruining his career, he continued to refuse, saying that however badly he’d fumbled on the job, he wouldn’t betray his country. “Working for you would be the equivalent of signing my own death warrant,” he said. “If I agreed to spy for the KGB, the CIA would find out about it in three days.”
The conversation lasted for several hours. When he got up to leave, I wished him and his family well.
MARS reported my pitch to the CIA. Luckily, I made it back to Moscow without incident. But I remained intrigued by one thing he’d said—that the CIA would find out about my recruitment attempt “in three days.” I included the detail in my report to the Center and brought it up with Kalugin back in Moscow. Kalugin thought MARS was making it up. The CIA didn’t have sources for that kind of information, he said; it was simply an excuse to fend me off. Eight years later, however, I realized MARS wasn’t inventing it. Until Ames and Hanssen made their reports, no one ever would have suspected how many KGB sources the CIA had.
Despite my failure to recruit MARS, the FCD praised my operation. Our installation of undetected eavesdropping equipment in the Beirut CIA safe house showed our strength to the Americans. Now they had to worry about how long the bugs had been in place, which of their agents had been exposed and how many operations had been compromised.
2
Diplomatic scandals were an unavoidable part of intelligence work. Most international spats remained low level and quickly blew over. But we deliberately fanned some to discredit our adversaries. The many methods included leaking false information to the press and expelling foreign diplomats. Disseminating disinformation, a favorite KGB activity, was the domain of FCD Section A. Its “black” measures included spreading compromising reports about foreign politicians, other well-known individuals and foreign intelligence services, chiefly by planting articles in the Soviet and foreign press. While KGB counterintelligence rarely took part in smear operations, we did occasionally propose them.
In the summer of 1977, my department assigned me to aid preparations for an international conference of UNESCO—the United Nations Educational, Scientific and Cultural Organization—in the Georgian capital Tbilisi. Moscow wanted the event, which would take place in October, to go flawlessly.
In response to requests to various rezidenturas for background information on the conference participants, the Paris station sent word that the American delegation would be headed by a senior diplomat named Constantine Warwariv, the U.S. representative to UNESCO. Several Soviet U.N. diplomats had met Warwariv and reported nothing unusual about the man—aside from one detail. In conversations with undercover KGB agents, Warwariv claimed to have been born in western Ukraine. After the war, he emigrated to the United States, earned a college degree and became a U.S. citizen before joining the State Department.
The Soviet Union annexed the largely Catholic Polish and Lithuanian-influenced enclave of western Ukraine as part of the Molotov-Ribbentrop Pact of 1939. But western Ukrainians resisted Soviet rule and Moscow was forced to fight an ongoing battle to suppress political and religious protesters. When World War II broke out, Ukrainian nationalists collaborated with German forces (which didn’t stop Hitler’s murderous rampage through the region).
Section A investigated the backgrounds of a number of Soviet émigrés who came to occupy prominent posts in the West. One goal was to show that while countries like the United States denounced Nazism, they actually employed former Nazi collaborators. Warwariv would be the newest target. We’d use blackmail. If the diplomat agreed to collaborate with the KGB, we’d promise not to expose him. But since there was little chance he’d acquiesce, the ultimate strategy would be to discredit him.
Following my request, the Ukrainain KGB dug up documents about members of a Warwariv family said to have collaborated with the Nazis during the war. Specifically, a father and son had been killed fighting the Red Army on the side of the Nazis. There was no other information, and no references to another son who could have fled to the West, so I sent an officer to the small town where the family had lived to investigate further. I sent another to Paris. There was little time to produce evidence, but as the conference drew near, my man in Ukraine sent back promising news: he’d found files on the group of Warwarivs in the local archives. The family actually had two sons and a daughter, and both the father and eldest son indeed died in fighting. The younger son retreated with the Nazis as the Red Army attacked German positions in 1944. The daughter, who was deaf, stayed in Ukraine with her mother. But that was the extent of it. There was nothing linking Constantine Warwariv, the UNESCO representative, to the youngest son of a family of Warwarivs who had fled Ukraine.
I conveyed the information to FCD chief Vladimir Kryuchkov, who authorized its use in a pitch to Warwariv in Tbilisi. I was chosen as the point man. Since I was unsure of the Nazi partisan connection, I had to improvise. In the ongoing propaganda battle between the United States and the USSR, tainting a high U.S. official would be a seen as a success. Therefore, simply coming up with insinuations was half the battle. I informed Georgian KGB chief Alexei Inauri about my plans and flew to subtropical Tbilisi three days before the conference was set to begin.
It was still warm and sunny when I arrived. I drove to KGB headquarters before surveying the Intourist hotel where Warwariv would be staying for how many men and what technical equipment I’d need. The day before the conference, I submitted a detailed proposal to Georgian KGB chief Inauri. The long-serving officer was known for imposing strict discipline. His organization was among the most effective of the KGB’s regional Soviet branches. So it was a bit of a surprise to hear the veteran, after approving my ideas, propose something rash.
“The hell with it,” he said. “Why wait? Why don’t we just arrest him as a Nazi sympathizer?” We were all excited about the operation, but Inauri was getting a little carried away.
“We don’t have enough information for that,” I replied cautiously, repeating what I’d already said. “We have to find out his real identity first.”
“Ladno [okay],” Inauri grunted, to my relief. The last hurdle was cleared. My work could proceed.
Warwariv arrived the next day with the other delegates. Following him from the airport, local KGB officers kept him in sight at all times. The American took an active part in the first day of the conference, which went off without a hitch. I decided to make my move that night.
Warwariv returned to his room at about eleven o’clock. I rapped on his door minutes later. Speaking in English, I said I was a KGB officer and gave an assumed name. The slim, wavy-haired diplomat opened the door. I demanded to see his passport, which he produced, then asked his title.
He hid any concern or anxiety. “I’m an employee of the United States State Department,” he said, giving notice he’d be a tough nut to crack.
“Does the State Department know about your past?” I asked sternly.
“What do you mean?” he replied indignantly.
“Does the State Department know you collaborated with the Nazis?”
“I what? I don’t know what you’re talking about.” But his incredulousness bordered on disingenuousness.
“Do you really think the American government would appr
ove?” I continued. “We have proof. There’s little point in denying it. We know your family collaborated with the Nazis during the war.”
“That’s nonsense. You’re confusing me with someone else. I don’t want to talk to you. Would you please leave?” He walked to his bed and lay down.
“You shouldn’t behave like that.” Menacingly, I took several steps forward. “You should really be more cooperative if you know what’s best for you.”
He stood his ground. “You’re violating diplomatic protocol,” he said, raising his voice. His face was red. “I have diplomatic immunity, so this might have repercussions for you.” He got up from his bed.
“I’m not worried about repercussions. Otherwise I wouldn’t be standing here. All I’m interested in is establishing justice.”
There was no way of telling whether he was protesting because he had something to hide or because he was innocent. But I couldn’t retreat without making sure. “We want you to be punished as a Nazi collaborator,” I announced.
“Get out! What the hell could you do to me anyway? I’m an American citizen and I don’t have to listen to your lies!”
I took a stab. “It’s unfortunate you’re being so uncooperative. We also have unofficial levers at our disposal. Don’t forget your sister still lives on Soviet territory.”
Warwariv paused a moment, then smiled. “You’re wrong. My sister’s in the United States.”
He must have thought he’d neutralized my trump—that we could pressure his sister—because she too had emigrated, something the Ukrainian KGB had failed to inform us. But the UNESCO representative had actually stumbled, showing his hand. Admitting to having a sister confirmed his identity. Buoyed, I adopted an even tougher tone.
“Your sister may be out of our reach. But remember, you’re on Soviet territory now.”
Warwariv realized his mistake and changed tack. “Look, I was young at the time,” he pleaded. “I didn’t understand what I was doing. I didn’t know what each side stood for. Anyway, I never took part in partisan fighting.” He began pacing the room.
“Let’s see what we can do about it,” I said, making my pitch. I told him the State Department need never find out about his past if he agreed to spy for the KGB.
Our ensuing negotiations continued until four in the morning. Warwariv finally agreed to cooperate but claimed to be tired and proposed taking up the conversation the following day. I knew leaving his room would mean only a 50 percent chance of success, but I still felt optimistic. I hadn’t expected to come this far. Although we hadn’t reached a concrete agreement, I’d succeeded in getting Warwariv to admit to his identity. If all else failed, we’d be able to properly discredit him. If he reported my pitch to the State Department, he’d have to describe the compromising information we used. Either way, he was in a bad situation.
I left the room to let him sleep. The next morning, he showed up at his scheduled conference meetings; nothing seemed out of the ordinary. Around lunchtime, I received a call from the Center saying the U.S. embassy in Moscow had filed a letter of protest with the Soviet Foreign Ministry about a blackmail attempt against a diplomat in Tbilisi. Warwariv had decided not to cooperate with us, but the information about him was out and a scandal brewing. Back in Moscow, U.S. Ambassador Malcolm Toon issued a statement denouncing the provocation against Warwariv and asking for a meeting with Foreign Ministry representatives.
As soon as it became clear that Warwariv had gone straight to the State Department to report my pitch, the Center launched a propaganda campaign, publishing articles in the Soviet press blaming the United States for hypocrisy by employing Nazi sympathizers. Meanwhile, articles in the American press denounced KGB provocations against U.S. diplomats.
All that was predictable. What came as a surprise was fallout from the incident in various Moscow ministries and agencies. The Foreign Ministry sharply criticized the KGB, saying we’d acted improperly by carrying out clandestine activities, undermining efforts at rapprochement with the West. Kryuchkov was seriously reprimanded. Heads appeared ready to roll—mine especially. Deputy KGB chairman Georgy Tsinev—a powerful relative of Brezhnev’s and head of the SCD—ordered a full report about the incident, promising that those who’d committed mistakes would be duly punished. He bitterly complained that he, as head of counterintelligence on Soviet soil, should have been informed of my plans. But by the time the requested report reached Tsinev’s desk, it was too late for him to do much about it. Kryuchkov and Kalugin protected me by sending me and Directorate K deputy chief Nikolai Lykov to Berlin until things cooled off. Of course, I was grateful for their support. By the time I got back two weeks later, the dust had settled and tempers calmed.
The Americans filed several more protests with the Foreign Ministry. We shot back, publishing a book detailing episodes of Nazi collaboration that was translated and published in the West. Information about Warwariv was of course included. Washington then appealed to the Foreign Ministry to put an end to the affair, but we kept pressing ahead with our propaganda effort. Needless to say, we weren’t interested in punishing Nazi collaborators. The entire incident concerned the KGB’s operational interests—and in that, it was a great success. The State Department finally threw in the towel. Warwariv, whose continued presence in UNESCO tarnished Washington’s reputation, was dismissed.
3
Oleg Kalugin was a fast-tracker. To go from student in 1958 to Washington deputy resident in 1965—it’s a span of about six years. You just don’t get to be deputy resident in the number-one residency in six years. But he does. That’s the measure of Oleg. He’s a very productive intelligence officer.
—David Major, former FBI supervisory special agent and director of
counterintelligence at the National Security Council
Oleg Kalugin is a traitor and a piece of shit for selling out his country to the Americans.
—Leonid Shebarshin, former FCD chief and acting KGB chairman
After graduating from the Foreign Language Institute, Oleg Kalugin, in 1958, became one of the first Soviet Fulbright exchange students at Columbia University. Assigned to New York soon after, he shone under his cover as a Radio Moscow correspondent reporting on the United Nations. As a Line PR officer in Washington from 1965 to 1970, Kalugin circulated in the highest journalistic and political circles. Under cover as a press officer, he regularly met with columnists Walter Lippmann and Joseph Kraft and senators Robert Kennedy and William Fulbright, along with many other prominent Washington insiders.1 His news reports about the United States were fascinating.
He got on well with the Washington rezident, Boris Solomatin. Kalugin returned to Moscow in 1970 after American journalist Jack Anderson exposed him as a KGB officer. Then Solomatin recommended him for work in Directorate K. Kalugin was soon appointed head of the counterintelligence branch and promoted to general, the youngest in KGB history.
I saw little of my old friend until I returned to Moscow from India in 1975 to work directly under him. As my immediate superior, Kalugin had to approve all my operations, which we often planned together. He was an excellent boss, rarely interfering with my work and usually only to support my actions. Working under him, I was awarded the coveted Honored Officer title in 1977 and the Order of the Red Star in 1979. But by then things had begun to change for both of us.
Kalugin was still serving his first tour in the United States as Radio Moscow correspondent when KGB officer Yuri Nosenko defected from the Soviet Union in 1964. Like many others pulled from rezidenturas around the world for fear of possible compromises, Kalugin was sent back to Moscow. (I was, to repeat, recalled from Australia for the same reason.) He had recently recruited his first agent, an American scientist of Russian descent named Anatoly Kotlobai, who provided the KGB with samples of formulas for solid rocket fuel. In his dealings with the KGB, Kotlobai used a pseudonym, Cook. The FBI soon came to suspect Cook and put him under surveillance. He promptly boarded an Air France flight—the French were unlikely to h
ave given him up—and headed to Moscow.
To his surprise, Cook didn’t enjoy life in Russia and began openly criticizing our workers’ paradise. His complaints weren’t well received. Soon the SCD launched an investigation into charges the scientist was actually a double agent working for the CIA. The Second Directorate had a harder time coming up with compelling evidence, however, so Cook soon found himself entrapped in a currency-exchange sting. He was arrested and sentenced to eight years in prison.
Convinced his former agent wasn’t a CIA plant, Kalugin took his concerns to Yuri Andropov in 1979. Kalugin was close to the KGB chief, but that wasn’t enough to convince him of his argument. Andropov nevertheless allowed him to interrogate Cook. When Kalugin met the agent he’d recruited twenty years earlier, Cook was livid. He cursed Kalugin, saying he regretted the day the two had met. Kalugin left feeling even more certain the man had nothing to do with U.S. intelligence.
Such interference did little to dispel certain clouds that were gathering over Kalugin’s head. The young overachiever was fast earning the enmity of many in the FCD leadership, chief among them Vladimir Kryuchkov, the FCD chief and longtime Andropov confidante. Kryuchkov had served in the Soviet embassy in Budapest during the Hungarian Revolution in 1956, when Andropov was ambassador to Hungary. (Moscow’s suppression of Hungarian reformers led by Prime Minister Imre Nagy proved a seminal event for Andropov, who subsequently became intent on tackling Soviet critics.)
The outspoken Kalugin never got on with Kryuchkov, whom he privately criticized as an uninspiring careerist. For his part, Kryuchkov was particularly unhappy over Kalugin’s close relationship with Grigory Grigorenko, the former head of foreign counterintelligence who was now chief of the SCD. Kryuchkov saw Grigorenko’s friendship with Kalugin as a threat to his own control over the FCD. Others in the old guard saw Kalugin as a loose cannon with a playboy lifestyle that reflected a lack of discipline. When rumors began circulating that not only Cook but even Kalugin was an American spy, Kryuchkov did nothing to squelch them.
Spy Handler Page 13
