Wilderness of Mirrors

by David C. Martin

  The State Department dispatched a secret cable to the United States political adviser in Berlin: “It is possible Stein was implicated or may have information concerning the death of Walter Krivitsky.” The Germans had had ample motive and opportunity to kill Krivitsky, the cable pointed out. Krivitsky “had predicted the Soviet-German pact” and had spent the last days of his life “on the farm of an acquaintance, Eitel Wolf Dobert, an ex-German Army officer.” (The cable did not mention it, but the dates of the Foreign Office telegrams indicated that Stein had been dispatched to the United States at the same time that Krivitsky’s revelations were appearing in The Saturday Evening Post.) Washington directed that “records of the Foreign Office and the Abwehr should be checked for more data. Secure if possible the present location of Stein, data concerning his travel in United States and his possible relations with Soviet police or military from Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung and other sources. Furnish full name and photograph.”

  Six months went by without an answer from Berlin. “Encountering difficulty identify Stein as FONOFF [Foreign Office] employed at least five that name, none with recorded service in U.S. Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung now being checked. Full report follows.”

  For ten days “in the heavily bombed, extremely cold and poorly lighted” remains of a library in the Russian sector of Berlin, two researchers scanned back copies of the Deutsche Allgemeine Zeitung for a mention of the mysterious Stein. “The name Stein appeared but once,” they reported, “as one Fritz Stein, author of an article originating in Paris in 1941.” Apparently the Stein sent to the United States had not produced a single article for the newspaper that paid his salary.

  A further search of the Foreign Office files turned up “references to a certain Stein in Rio de Janeiro, 1941 [which] might possibly give a promising clue.” An entry in the Foreign Office log for February 20, 1941, referred to “Telegram No. 222 of the Naval Attaché, Rio de Janeiro: ‘Abflug Stein.’ ” Although “the documents to which the entries refer have … been destroyed,” Berlin reported, “records in Rio, especially those of the airlines, may shed light on the Stein whose flight (‘Abflug’) is mentioned as having occurred 10 days after Krivitsky’s murder.”

  From there the trail went cold. No records of Stein’s flight to Rio could be found. Krivitsky’s death remained on the books as a suicide, although his friends and a number of officers in the fledgling American intelligence community had no doubt that he had been murdered. “My personal view is that he was executed,” said one intelligence officer who reviewed the case.

  No one had better reason to suspect foul play than Whittaker Chambers, who had defected from the Soviet cause at approximately the same time as Krivitsky. Terrified that he was about to become a victim of Stalin’s purges, KARL, as Chambers was known to his Soviet controllers, had abandoned his duties as a courier for a Washington spy ring and fled to a bungalow in Daytona Beach, where he and his wife took turns sitting up through the night with a loaded revolver. Chambers felt that he could not be too careful, considering the murder of Ignatz Reiss in Switzerland and, closer to home, the disappearance of Juliette Poyntz, an underground associate who had walked out of her New York apartment one day, leaving all her belongings behind, and was never seen again. When he learned of Krivitsky’s death, Chambers immediately arranged for the Russian’s widow and son to go into hiding with his own family.

  Chambers and Krivitsky had first met through a free-lance journalist named Isaac Don Levine, a Ukrainian exile who had assisted Krivitsky in the preparation of his memoirs. After each had overcome his suspicion that the other had been sent to kill him, the two defectors had become close friends. Krivitsky urged Chambers to follow his example and tell the world everything he knew about the machinations of Stalin’s spies. “Informing is a duty,” he told Chambers. “One does not come away from Stalin easy.” Chambers resisted, fearing not only a vengeful Russian intelligence service but the FBI as well. “I wonder if you really know how deep the water is,” Chambers said to a friend who was pressing him to speak out. Finally, prodded by Krivitsky and incensed by the duplicity of the Nazi-Soviet pact, Chambers consented to tell his story to the government, insisting that he speak personally with President Roosevelt but settling for Assistant Secretary of State Adolf Berle. Chambers spent a long evening at Berle’s home, rattling off the names of Soviet spies, underground contacts, and mere sympathizers he had known. One of the names he mentioned was that of an up-and-coming State Department officer, Alger Hiss. Months later, Levine told Chambers that Berle had relayed his information to Roosevelt but “the President had laughed.” When the FBI learned of Chambers’s allegations, J. Edgar Hoover dismissed them as “either history, hypothesis or deduction.” On December 1, 1942, the FBI recorded that “the instant case regarding Whittaker Chambers is being closed at this time.”

  Krivitsky had also known of Hiss—at least a Soviet defector named Alexander Barmine would later claim that Krivitsky had once included Hiss’s name in a list of Soviet agents. Unlike Chambers, who would be recalled for further questioning and ultimately would produce documentary evidence against Hiss in the form of the famous “pumpkin papers,” Krivitsky was beyond recall—a tragic circumstance, for not only could he have helped clarify the evidence against Hiss, but he could also have testified about other, more important clues he had left. As the journalist Levine later testified under oath, Krivitsky “told me … that he had knowledge of two Soviet agents who had been introduced into the British service, one into the code room of the Imperial Council, the other into that of the Foreign Office…. He knew the name of one of these men. His name was King…. He knew something about the second man, his characteristics, but he did not know his name nor his alias. The characteristics were that of a young Scotsman who had been imbued with Communism in the early thirties, and who subsequently was induced to enter the service of the British diplomacy.”

  Krivitsky had imparted this information to Levine in strictest confidence, but Levine had betrayed that confidence in the fall of 1939 when the alliance between Hitler and Stalin suddenly raised the prospect that a Soviet spy in London would be serving the Nazis as well. Levine contacted the State Department, which made arrangements for him to meet with the British ambassador in Washington. “Lord Lothian listened to my story, and there was a very obvious smile on his face, a smile of incredulity. However, since I did give the name, he thought, in view of the introduction from the State Department, that the matter should be looked into. Two or three weeks later, sometime in October, 1939, I received a telephone call from the British Embassy…. It appeared there was no longer any smile on Lord Lothian’s face. They found that King was in the code room in the Foreign Office, and apparently they had put him under surveillance. The information was confirmed. The man was arrested and now they wanted to know about the second man, the Scotsman whom I described even to the point of his clothes … according to Krivitsky’s description of the man to me.”

  In January of 1940 Krivitsky had secretly boarded a British vessel in Nova Scotia and was escorted by convoy to Liverpool. Living under the name Walter Thomas, he spent more than a month in England answering questions put to him by representatives of British intelligence, but he was unable to provide any further information about the identity of the second man. He was, however, able to tell the British in equally vague terms about a third man, a young British journalist sent to Spain to spy for the Russians during the Spanish Civil War.

  Krivitsky and Chambers were the right defectors at the wrong time. Had they been listened to more carefully, the careers of several well-placed Soviet agents might have been aborted at an early stage. The two defectors had offered detailed information about Soviet intelligence operations, yet no one in Western intelligence exhibited any interest until the journalist Levine practically force-fed them to the authorities. Even so, Krivitsky’s pleas for protection from the assassins he feared were stalking him had been fobbed off by the State Department with evasive suggestions that he cont
act the local police. Chambers would not be interviewed by the FBI until four years after his defection, and it was not until 1945 that anyone began to take him seriously.

  The prewar complacency about Soviet espionage was almost touching—a clinging to the belief that great nations did not resort to such seamy stratagems, that men of good family and proper education did not betray their countries. The onset of war marked the loss of innocence, but the expediency of the alliance with Russia against the Axis powers precluded any meaningful retaliation against Stalin’s spies. “I was told not to take any action. I was to watch them, to take note, but do nothing,” said Peer de Silva, a security officer with the Manhattan Engineering Project who worked with the FBI in the surveillance of Soviet agents. “We were convinced they had deep penetrations of the government,” said Robert Collier, one of only three agents assigned to the FBI’s Soviet espionage division, but “nobody was paying any attention to what was happening.”

  Finally, in 1945, as the world crawled out from beneath the rubble of war, events conspired to shake the West from its indifference toward Soviet espionage. With the end of the wartime alliance against Fascism came the beginning of the competition between capitalism and Communism that would dominate the second half of the century, and the gray dawn of the Cold War cast a new light upon the shadow world of espionage. Suddenly, Soviet agents were seen not as the petty malefactors of a backward colossus but as the secret army of a malevolent power bent on world domination. To counter this threat, the United States raised a secret army of its own: the Central Intelligence Agency.

  In a memo to Harry Truman, presidential adviser Clark Clifford defined the new Agency’s primary mission: “Our suspicion of the Soviet Union … must be replaced by an accurate knowledge of the motives and methods of the Soviet government.” But knowledge could not keep pace with events: a Soviet-backed civil war in Greece; the installation of a Kremlin puppet in Czechoslovakia; Communist agitation and subversion in France and Italy; the detonation of Russia’s first atomic weapon. The CIA was thrown into the breach not to gather intelligence as originally intended but to stem the tide whenever and wherever Communist expansion threatened American interests. Espionage—the business of stealing the enemy’s secrets—was soon dwarfed by covert action—the business of manipulating foreign governments through a host of paramilitary, propaganda, and political schemes.

  But always deep within the Agency there remained a hardened inner core that never took its eyes off the main target: the Soviet Union and its intelligence service, the KGB, which one way or the other had driven Krivitsky to his death. The CIA would storm about the globe, fighting behind the lines in Korea, overthrowing leftist regimes in Iran and Guatemala, suppressing a Communist insurgency in the Philippines, but always the flame burned brightest at the core. This was espionage, pure and elemental. This was combat as ruthless and unforgiving as any of the brushfire wars that peppered the landscape of the Cold War.

  No one waged this secret war with greater intensity, with colder rage, than James Jesus Angleton and William King Harvey, two very different men—different from each other and from the rest of humanity—who were better known to their adversaries in the Kremlin than to their own countrymen. For the better part of three decades they confronted the KGB in a daily battle of deception, a battle fought in a maze of agents and double agents, spies and counterspies, intelligence and counterintelligence. Though neither Angleton nor Harvey knew it at the time, their battle had begun with the death of Walter Krivitsky. The death itself was a mystery that would never be satisfactorily solved, but the warnings that Krivitsky had left about the young Scotsman in the Foreign Office and the British journalist in Spain would prove all too accurate. Angleton and Harvey would play key roles in the case that Krivitsky had outlined in such vague and indistinct strokes. But that was only one of many cases in the labyrinth of espionage. Searching for solutions, Angleton and Harvey would be lured deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, pursuing the traces of Soviet plots, both real and imagined, each step taking them farther into a bewildering world of intrigue that Angleton called the “wilderness of mirrors.”

  The Poet and the Cop

  2

  In many ways James Jesus Angleton was as singular a man as ever worked for the United States government. He would become more singular with the passage of time, but even in 1945, at the age of twenty-eight, he was a breed apart. He was the firstborn son of Hugh Angleton, a man who had moved west to Idaho not long after the turn of the century and then set off for Mexico with “Black Jack” Pershing in pursuit of Pancho Villa. There he had taken a wife, a seventeen-year-old Mexican beauty, and brought her home to Boise, where James Jesus was born in 1917. He was a sickly child who suffered from tuberculosis and had to spend much of his youth in the hot, dry climate of Arizona, which he hated. When the boy was sixteen, Hugh Angleton moved his family to Italy to seek his fortune, which he found in Milan as the head of National Cash Register. His eldest son went off to Malvern College in England and then on to Yale University.

  James Jesus was the sum of all those varied parts—and more. He was possessed of (some would say possessed by) a mind of the first rank—a mind not content to dwell on the surface but always probing deeper in search of a hidden meaning; a mind fully confident of its powers and unafraid to draw the most unorthodox conclusions; a mind that attracted others by its brilliance and held them with its complexity. Two of his loves were fly-casting and poetry—coaxing forth the secret life that lurked beneath the water’s surface; unraveling the enigmas of Ezra Pound’s Cantos or E. E. Cummings’s elliptic verse.

  At Yale, Angleton and his roommate, Reed Whittemore, who would later become a poet of some note, founded a literary journal, Furioso, which during its short and irregular life published the best American poets of the day: Pound, Cummings, Archibald MacLeish, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens. “Dear Angleton—in certainly printing a certain poem you and your confrère have paid me one deep compliment, and I heartily thank you for both,” Cummings wrote. The idiosyncratic poet took an interest in the young undergraduate, and as Angleton approached graduation, Cummings wrote to Pound that “Jim Angleton has been seemingly got hold of by an intelligent prof & apparently begins to begin to realize that comp mil ser [compulsory military service] might give the former a respite from poisonal responsibility … maybe he’s developing?” Instead, Angleton went on to Harvard Law. It was not until 1943 that an intelligent prof, Norman Holmes Pearson of Yale, recruited his former student into the X-2, or counterintelligence, branch of the Office of Strategic Services, an ad hoc aggregation of scholars, aristocrats, and eccentrics who made up America’s wartime intelligence service. “He took to it like a dog to water,” Pearson said later, and a phrase composed by Cummings in a letter to Angleton’s young wife, Cicely, captured the reason why. “What a miracle of momentous complexity is The Poet,” Cummings wrote.

  Angleton began his OSS career with two weeks of basic training in Maryland’s Catoctin Mountains. Another recruit, Dr. Bruno Uberti, a refugee from Fascist Italy, recalled that at the end of training each student was required to evaluate his classmates. Angleton guessed that Uberti must have been a very good basketball player, judging by the way he jumped. “It was true that I had been a good basketball player,” Uberti said. “I had played on the Italian national team.” Afterward, Angleton confided to Uberti that he had once seen him play in Milan.

  “I considered him extremely brilliant but a little strange,” Uberti said of Angleton. “I met a lot of important Americans from [General William] Donovan [head of the OSS] on down, but Angleton was the personality which impressed me the most. He made a terrific great impression. A very exceptional man. He had something more. He had a strange genius I would say—full of impossible ideas, colossal ideas. I would have liked to have been one of his friends, but he never gave me a chance because he was so secretive.”

  In 1943 Angleton checked into the ramshackle and shell-scarred Rose Garden Hotel on Lon
don’s Ryder Street, headquarters for the combined counterintelligence operations of the OSS and MI6, Britain’s secret service. It was midway through the war, and the Americans knew nothing of counterintelligence. Angleton and the rest of the Americans had come to London to learn the business from the British, and one of their tutors was a young man named Harold “Kim” Philby. Philby “gave a one- to one-and-a-half-hour talk on the subject of turning agents—double agents,” one of the Americans recalled. “I do remember being very impressed. He really knew what he was doing.”

  Philby, former correspondent for The Times of London, had joined MI6 in the summer of 1940, less than six months after Krivitsky had warned the British authorities about a young British journalist sent to spy for the Russians during the Spanish Civil War. A routine trace had been run on Philby’s name, and the answer came back: “Nothing recorded against.” Those who knew him personally must have recalled the left-wing activism of Philby’s youth, but that seemed nothing more than an adolescent peccadillo, now long past.

  Philby had come to Marx as a student at Trinity College, Cambridge. He had begun his journey in 1931 by joining the Cambridge University Socialist Society, and like many other students disenchanted with capitalism and alarmed at the rise of Fascism, he had moved steadily left toward the Soviet alternative. He had been to Berlin, had heard Hitler’s venomous denunciations of the Jews and witnessed Nazi intimidation of the Communist Party, and by the time he came down from Cambridge in 1933, he was a fellow traveler. At the age of twenty-one he had rushed to riot-torn Vienna, where the shelling of workers’ tenements by government artillery marked the downfall of social democracy in Central Europe. There his conversion had become complete with his marriage to Litzi Friedman, a young Jewish girl who was an avowed Communist.

  Back in London with his new bride, Philby underwent a radical, and at the time inexplicable, change. He suddenly avoided his fellow Cambridge Marxists and began frequenting the German Embassy. By 1936 he had joined the Anglo-German Fellowship, which was a Nazi front organization. The next year, he left Litzi, his only remaining overt link to Communism, and headed for the Spanish Civil War—a young British journalist sent to spy for the Russians.