Daulton confessed to her that he was afraid he was addicted to heroin. He said he was putting on a front: he told his friends that he could take it or leave it—but in fact, he couldn’t.
“I don’t want to be a junkie,” he said, grabbing Betsy Lee in a way that frightened her.
He broke into tears and said he desperately needed someone to love; he embraced her and said it again and again, the tears rolling down his face. He said none of the girls except Betsy Lee cared anything about him except for his dope, and he repeated that he needed someone to love and to love him.
Betsy Lee had always suspected Daulton had a crush on her, but she wasn’t prepared for the avalanche of affection and emotion that cascaded out of him. Kindly, she said she would work with him to kick the heroin and no matter what happened, she would always be his friend.
But she made it clear that she was talking about friendship, not love.
Daulton said he couldn’t possibly get off drugs without her help; he said he couldn’t live without drugs unless he had someone to lean on. Touched, Betsy Lee said, “We’ll do it together,” wondering if his addiction might not be as much psychological as it was physical.
For the next few days, they met several hours a day at her house or his, and talked over his problems. And as they did, he began to spill out more about his new business operations in Mexico City. But Betsy Lee still couldn’t believe the crazy picture of this sad friend working as a spy, and she ascribed it to madness induced by narcotics.
After a few weeks, Betsy Lee gave up the effort to liberate Daulton from his addiction; it was just taking too much of her time, she said, and just stopped calling him.
Many months later, however, after Betsy Lee knew that many of Daulton’s ramblings about spies and Russian agents and stolen documents had been true, she would look back on the period when he was trying desperately but unsuccessfully to get off drugs, and say:
“It was so sad. He had really heavy emotional problems. He was confused; and I don’t think he knew what he was doing. I think he just thought he could get away with something, make some money and feel important.”
Daulton eventually gave the Minox and tripod to Chris, and a few weeks later Chris handed Daulton four rolls of film and said the Russians should pay $50,000 for the pictures.
The next day, the first Tuesday in November, Daulton got an early-morning Mexicana Airlines Boeing 727 flight from Los Angeles and flew to Benito Juárez International Airport in Mexico City—a bustling, noisy confluence of air routes from around the country and a microcosm of its peoples: farmers from the interior, wealthy businessmen from Guadalajara and other cities, uniformed soldiers home for leave, and others.
Daulton had never had higher hopes about scoring with the Russians than on this trip.
After a limousine ride to the María Isabel-Sheraton Hotel and a quick shower, he hailed a taxi and taped X’s at an intersection southwest of Chapultepec Park. At six the following evening he was waiting near the Bali Restaurant for The Colonel to arrive. But he didn’t show up, which puzzled Daulton because the Russians had never missed a meeting.
He had dinner by himself and returned to the hotel. Following the backup plan, he went to the Bali the next morning at ten. Fifteen minutes went by and still The Colonel didn’t show.
Even though he had been told never to go to the embassy on his own, Daulton decided to go there and investigate. He had film that was worth thousands, and he wanted the cash to front a drug buy in Culiacán. Daulton looked into the guardhouse and didn’t recognize any of the faces he saw. But he noticed that each time an automobile left or arrived at the embassy, a gate was opened.
It was a foolhardy idea, he thought, but why not? Daulton was high on coke he’d snorted to fortify himself, and it urged him on; the next time a car passed, Daulton strode matter-of-factly onto the grounds of the embassy and, bypassing the guardhouse, he entered the main building, startling a guard. He said that he wanted to see Colonel Muzankov, and pointed to his own front teeth with lips opened wide to make the guard understand whom he wanted to see. He was ordered to wait, and a few moments later Steely Teeth appeared and escorted him to what appeared to be a small office.
He scolded Daulton for coming to the embassy, but Daulton protested that he had made the mark and no one had met him.
“Where did you make the mark?” the Red Army general inquired of his spy, and Daulton told him.
“That was the wrong street,” he said. Daulton had placed the adhesive marks on lampposts a full block from where they were supposed to be.
The Colonel good-naturedly brushed it off, as if to say, “No matter.” Then he asked what new information Daulton had brought.
Daulton reached into his pocket and handed him the four cartridges of film Chris had given him. Karpov, the chauffeur, came in a few minutes later, smiled slightly at Daulton (intimidating him as usual) and took away the film to be developed.
A servant arrived and placed caviar and full bottles of vodka in front of Daulton and his case officer. From past experience, Daulton knew that it was the custom for each man to finish his own bottle at one sitting, and he braced for the challenge.
It was not yet eleven in the morning, but the two men began drinking the vodka, chasing it down with mineral water.
“To peace,” the Russian said, as usual.
“To peace,” Daulton agreed.
As they waited for the film to be developed, the level of vodka in their respective bottles continued to descend, and Steely Teeth asked the latest news about Cristobal. Daulton said his friend felt it would be foolish to come to Mexico as requested because he feared his superiors might hear of the trip, and that might blow the whole thing. But Daulton announced he had brought the “best” package of information so far and he knew the Russians should be happy.
“It’s what you want,” Daulton said.
“Es goot,” his comrade said, clearly anxious for the work in the darkroom to be finished.
The Russian, whose bottle of vodka was emptying faster than Daulton’s, said he was optimistic that from now on this would be a mutually beneficial operation for all—his country, Daulton and his socialist friend.
“Es goot,” Daulton mimicked, saying that his friend had told him the information he had brought today should be worth $50,000.
As they waited, the Russian emotionally assailed the government of Mexico, saying that it was run by and for the rich, that there was such poverty that it was only a matter of time before the Mexican people overturned their government and embraced Communism.
Daulton asked if any decision had been made on his request to carry cocaine in the diplomatic mail, and the man shook his head, as if to say it was out of his hands. He had recommended acceptance of Daulton’s proposal to higher authorities, he said reassuringly, but had not heard from them.
Daulton admired a Russian-made rug in the office with knowledgeable appreciation and told the agent he had a collection of Oriental rugs. The Russian replied with a grin that if that was the case, he must have a Russian rug, because the finest carpets in the world came from the Caucasus Mountains in his country.
At that moment, the door opened and Karpov came in carrying a stack of photographs which he placed in front of The Colonel.
Daulton lounged back in his seat, waiting for The Colonel to praise the pictures. But except for the slick sound of the glossies’ slapping together as the Russian turned from one to the next, there was silence. After a while, Daulton squinted across the table to see what he was looking at.
The first few pictures seemed dark. The Colonel frowned and went on without saying anything. He paused at several on which Daulton could see, upside down, some typewritten text, but the images looked gray and some of the lettering was fuzzy. Then there were more dark prints, and the Russian sighed.
Daulton sensed things weren’t going as well as he had expected.
Steely Teeth lit a cigarette, and except for the rhythmic slapping of the glossies, there was more silence
in the room. He flipped over one picture and stared at it for a long time, then turned it vertically, then horizontally again, as if he were attempting to decipher something.
Daulton rose slightly out of his seat to see what it was that interested him. Vodka and cocaine had left their mark on Daulton, and he had to struggle to bring his eyes into sharp focus.
What he saw puzzled him. He thought he saw the curves of a woman.
He looked again and decided that he could definitely see the nipples of a woman and, below them, a triangle of pubic hair. He shook his head, trying to shake off the effects of the coke, and looked again.
Daulton was sure now that he was looking at a photograph of a nude woman. The Colonel also studied the picture, but he didn’t say anything. Daulton decided that he had better not say anything either.
The KGB officer turned over another picture from the stack and Daulton saw a nude man and a nude woman. It looked as if they were fucking on a bed. Daulton shifted uncomfortably in his chair and avoided the Russian’s eyes.
There was more silence.
The Colonel turned another picture, then another and another. They were all nudes.
Muzankov picked up the pictures and slammed them down hard in front of Daulton so that they slid across the table and almost landed in his lap, and then he let loose with an angry tirade in Russian.
Daulton didn’t know what he was saying, but from the look on his face he knew what he meant. He fought to conceal his surprise and fear and said with a hastily mobilized smile that his friend must have sent the pictures as a joke.
Unfortunately, the KGB man did not enjoy the joke. He studied Daulton for a long moment, then began looking at the remaining pictures in the stack of more than one hundred exposures.
Some were “goot,” he said. But too many, he said, were overexposed.
“Look at thees—terrible,” he said of one group of glossies.
“Basura”—garbage—he said of another.
Daulton’s friend, he implored, must practice; he was not a good photographer yet. It was essential that he obtain instruction from Soviet experts who could meet him in Los Angeles, Mexico City or somewhere else. It was necessary, the Russian repeated, for his friend to become a better photographer.
He pointed out more examples of bad photography—documents that were fuzzy or shot from out of range—and he said the camera should be placed exactly forty centimeters from the documents that were being photographed.
Daulton, once again, said his friend couldn’t leave America without taking a risk because his employers required him to inform them each time he left the United States. “Then you should come to Vienna,” the Russian said. The Russians would pay for the trip, he continued, and Daulton could get photography lessons and other training; he, in turn, could coach Cristobal.
Daulton heard him out, but refused to commit himself.
“What about the money?” he said, undaunted by the dressing down and the embarrassment over the nudes. Chris had said this delivery was worth $50,000, and he was determined to get it.
The Soviet agent laughed and said most of the photographs were worthless. But when he saw Daulton about to protest, he assured him that he would be paid something for the shipment, and if the quality improved, future shipments would be worth much more. Daulton relaxed and vowed to himself to have a serious talk with Chris about his nude pictures.
The two men tossed down more glasses of vodka; lunch was brought in; and the Russian said they should move ahead with plans for the Vienna trip. Daulton, beneath his alcoholic haze, wondered whether the Russians might be planning to spirit him away permanently to Eastern Europe, but he tried not to reveal his wariness. Whether he made the trip, he told the Russian, depended on some business problems he had to deal with in the United States, and he repeated he would let him know his decision later.
The Colonel said they needed some means of direct communication when Daulton was in America and gave Daulton a list of three pay telephones and their numbers in California—one in a parking garage in San Francisco, one in Santa Monica across from a statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary and one at Grauman’s Chinese Theater in Hollywood, the theater with the footprints of famous movie stars cast in concrete near the entrance. He simply ignored Chris’s proposal for a telephone drop in Hermosa Beach. Daulton was given a list of times when he was supposed to be waiting near each phone for a call. The Colonel also asked if there was an address in California where the Russians could send mail to him without being detected. Daulton suggested a mail drop at the home of his sister in Santa Cruz. The Colonel explained how the mail drop was to work:
From time to time the Russians would send him a picture showing the Pyramid of the Sun. One of Mexico’s most famous landmarks, the pyramid was a huge archaeological ruin a few miles from Mexico City that had been built 2,400 years ago by an ancient Mexican culture.
The postcards, the Russian said, would be mailed to him at his sister’s address inside an envelope. But he emphasized that the message on the card would be less important than the date listed on it: Daulton was to add seven days to the date to determine when the next meeting was to occur. The meeting would be at 1800 hours on the designated day, or if for any reason this meeting was missed, it would be at 1000 hours the following morning.
Daulton brought up the money again, insisting the material he had brought was worth at least $5,000. Without a word, the Russian handed Daulton an envelope containing $6,500—$5,000 for the delivery, and $1,500 to finance a trip to Vienna. But he reiterated his concern that the quality of the photography had to be improved. He urged Daulton again to ask his friend for data on TRW’s infrared sensors and to see if he could obtain ciphers for the coding machines several months ahead of when they would be used. For each package of the advance ciphers, he said, there would be a premium payment of $10,000.
They were the kind of parting words Daulton liked to hear.
“It doesn’t matter what we send them; they’ll pay for it,” Chris insisted when Daulton complained about the nudes. Chris explained that he had photographed pictures in a copy of Hustler magazine that someone had left in the vault.
“Big joke; it’s my fuckin’ ass that’s on the line, fucker,” Daulton said angrily. “I’m risking my life. Big fuckin’ joke; it wasn’t funny.” But, correctly, Chris pointed out that Daulton had returned with another envelope filled with cash, and that in itself, he said, proved his point. Daulton said he had to agree, and they both burst into smug laughter. Daulton could not forget the eager look on the Russian’s face. Nevertheless, he said, “Please try to get something good next time.” Then he filled Chris in on more of the details of his trip. They passed a joint back and forth and decided that since Daulton had a code name, Chris should have one too. Daulton thought of one, and they agreed on it: “Falcon.”
23
Far from Palos Verdes, Redondo Beach or Mexico City, the simmering political dispute in Australia over the American bases near Alice Springs was coming to a boil in October of 1975.
Whether or not the controversy over the secret bases was fueled by facts leaked to Labour Party members or the press by the KGB—information the KGB had purchased in Mexico City from two young Americans—is a matter for conjecture. But one thing was obvious: politically damaging hints about the CIA’s activities in Australia were coming from somewhere and threatening to ignite a fire storm that might consume the bases politically.
Cables flew back and forth between Canberra and Washington. On the day following Whitlam’s speech, senior Australian military and intelligence officials in Canberra briefed Queen Elizabeth’s governor-general, Sir John Kerr (who had a personal background in military intelligence during World War II), and advised him of the CIA’s grave apprehension that public discussion of the facilities could be disastrous.
On November 10, 1975, five days after Daulton’s latest delivery in Mexico City, the Australian Security Intelligence Organization received a message from its liaison officer w
ith the CIA in Washington. Repeating expressions of concern voiced previously by the U.S. intelligence agency over public discussion of the bases, he said he had just returned from a meeting with senior CIA representatives and, attempting to summarize its contents, he reported:
CIA IS PERPLEXED AS TO WHAT ALL THIS MEANS. DOES THIS SIGNIFY SOME CHANGE IN OUR BILATERAL INTELLIGENCE SECURITY RELATED FIELD. CIA CANNOT SEE HOW THIS DIALOGUE WITH CONTINUED REFERENCE TO CIA CAN DO OTHER THAN BLOW THE LID OFF THOSE INSTALLATIONS IN AUSTRALIA WHERE THE PERSONS CONCERNED HAVE BEEN WORKING AND THAT ARE VITAL TO BOTH OUR SERVICES AND COUNTRIES, PARTICULARLY THE INSTALLATIONS AT ALICE SPRINGS.
Nevertheless, members of the Labour Party were increasingly raising public inquiries and making pointed comments about the mysterious facilities. Late in October the Government revealed that construction of the bases had not been supervised by the U.S. Department of Defense, as claimed by the previous government, but by a CIA official, whose name became public. It was revealed during inquiries by Labour Party members that not even senior members of the Australian Foreign Ministry had been told the exact function of the bases.
But the mystery over the purpose of the bases in the Australian desert was not the only one being talked about regarding the CIA.
Prime Minister Whitlam began to charge in public that the American intelligence organization—which at that time was incurring growing international notoriety over its suspected machinations in Chile—had tampered with the Australian political process by secretly channeling funds to his opponents in the Liberal and National Country parties—politicians who had supported the American bases. Whitlam demanded an investigation by the Australian Defense Department to identify, once and for all, the real purpose of the bases.
In early November, the Prime Minister said in a speech that he had confirmed reports the CIA had indeed built the facilities. This official acknowledgment of the CIA’s role in Australia intensified the crisis atmosphere within certain components of the CIA, where it was feared the political brouhaha could explode and force closing of the bases. The threat was perceived as anything but a minor matter. Within the National Security Council, the bases were considered absolutely vital to America’s survivability in an era of nuclear warfare, not only because of Projects Rhyolite and Argus but because of other satellite espionage systems that were considered indispensable to the country’s efforts to keep a constant eye on Soviet military preparedness.
The Falcon and the Snowman Page 16
