Malia Natirbov, a fellow Russian expatriate as well as a close personal friend since childhood, provided critically important descriptions of the world in which George grew up and contributed a vital part of the "Turkish Rondo" chapter. Mrs. Wayne Allen, a niece by marriage and a business partner of George, added humor and spice to the alfalfa story.
Three of George's old army buddies, Michael Gavrisheff, David Chavchavadze, and Otis E. Hays, Jr., George's boss in wartime Alaska, made the "Olive Drab" tale complete.
Dick Kovich's close personal association with George over many years enabled him to supply many intimate vignettes that help to illustrate George's unique character. Dick's descriptions and technical expertise regarding the Pacific Ocean operations for the CIA chapter as well as other information for the Nosenko episode were most beneficial.
Ted Poling, a longtime professional partner to George and a close personal friend to him from their first meeting in the early 1950s until George's death, provided critical insight into the Popov operation as well as general guidance throughout my effort with this work.
Leonard McCoy's patient advice, encouragement, and corrections helped me begin and complete the project. He also provided essential facts for the Penkovsky, Nosenko, and Cherepanov operations. Paul Garbler's contributions to the CIA chapter and the chapters on the Penkovsky and Cherepanov affairs were equally vital.
I especially wish to acknowledge the help of Harold T. ("Shergie") Shergold of the British Secret Intelligence Service, without whose counsel I could never have accurately completed the chapter on Penkovsky. His willingness to host a special meeting with Michael Stokes, his partner in the Penkovsky operation, so that the three of us could discuss the episode in detail, was particularly beneficial.
Yuri Nosenko, former KGB officer and now grateful American citizen, offered much of his time and unique understanding of events for the Popov, Penkovsky, Cherepanov, and Nosenko episodes. Numerous other publications have presented the Nosenko story, but this version is corroborated by him.
First Lt. Christian Teutsch, presidential firing party platoon leader of the Old Guard, provided demonstrations and explanations of the intricate maneuvers of the military burial details at Arlington National Cemetery.
The manuscript benefited considerably from a reading by George H. McLoone, Ph.D. His patient suggestions on style are much appreciated. For her suggestions, additional thanks go to my cousin, Laura S. Ashley, Ph.D.
Brig. Gen. Robert C. Cassibry, U.S.A. Ret., and his wife, Patricia; the Reverend William F. Myers; Judge Clifford R. Oviatt, deceased, and his wife, Diana; Eleanor J. Riles, Ph.D.; as well as James C. Roberts, president, Radio America, all made significant contributions to the writing.
Many more of George's friends were extremely helpful; a number of them are recognized in the notes. Some prefer not to be named. I thank all of them, as well as those mentioned above, for their help in making this work possible. Any errors remaining in the text are mine.
The CIA's Publications Review Board has reviewed the manuscript for this hook to assist the author in eliminating classified information, and poses no security objection to its publication. However, this review should not be construed as an official release of information, confirmation of its accuracy, or an endorsement of the author's views.
CIA SpyMaster
PART I
The Good Soldier
CHAPTER 1
The Old Guard
With a bit of nervous apprehension, all parties sat down. The uneasiness would last only momentarily because George soon created, as he had with Pyotr Popov, a warm relationship with Oleg Penkovsky. They all knew this to be a vital element in the proper handling of the prospect. They recognized that defectors want to be taken into the family of their employer and that George could accomplish this better than anyone else could. It was obvious to all that George should be the leader of the discussions; consequently, the team left it pretty well up to him to run the meetings.
Speaking in Russian, George began, "You know, Penkovsky, what do we speak, what language? How's your English?" Penkovsky, responding in Russian, forthrightly replied, "My English stinks. Let's speak Russian."
Harold Shergold and Michael Stokes from British intelligence spoke some Russian. American Joe Bulik's Russian was rusty, so George translated everything, back and forth. George asked Penkovsky to be plain and distinct. He asked his fellow case officers to be very quiet while he listened to the Soviet colonel. He would translate and explain as necessary. He especially wanted the team to get very accurate recordings, so he said, "Penkovsky, what we have to say is very important. We would like to tape it. We ask your permission. Do you want us to?" (They had been doing it anyway.) Penkovsky replied, "I insist upon it." "Great," responded George. Now the case officers could use the good Dutch electronics for their recordings. It was bulky and could not readily be secreted like the diminutive CIA recorders they currently were using. Now they could record with true fidelity.
George continued, "Penkovsky, this material which we are anxious to get from you, and which you are almost killing yourself trying to get to us, what is it all about?" Penkovsky paused, leaned forward, and began to speak.
George Kisevalter, who had successfully shepherded in Popov, the first great Agency coup, would now marshal in Penkovsky, the man who wished to become the greatest spy in history. Who was George Kisevalter and how can one account for his unique ability to relate to these Cold War Soviet military officers? Although I cannot provide the definitive statement on George, I can describe that part of the elephant that I felt. This is that narrative. It begins on one brilliant morning in early November of 1997. I am suddenly conscious of the bright sun, unchecked by even a single cloud anywhere in northern Virginia that day. It beams down on the burial escort assembling for a full-honor funeral at Arlington National Cemetery. The light reflecting off the brightly polished brass buckles, insignias, and other accouterments of the forty-four soldiers flashes in my eyes as they begin the trek to their solemn duty. Every man in the escort is in his twenties, stands stiffly erect at six feet and one inch in height, and exudes a sharp military bearing honed by many grueling hours of practice. One hundred burials take place at Arlington Cemetery every week, throughout the year. There is ample opportunity for these men to exercise their craft; perfection is routinely achieved. They are from the U.S. Army's Third Infantry Regiment, the Old Guard, a contingent of proud professionals. The soldiers promptly fall in line behind thirty members of the U.S. Army Band, "Pershing's Own." Together, these formations approach the Old Post Chapel at Fort Myer, just outside the gate to Arlington National Cemetery.
Arriving at the chapel, all halt and snap to the left, facing the chapel entrance. Close by are the company commander, a captain, the chaplain, and a team of eight casket bearers: seven soldiers and one sergeant. Punctually, a hearse rounds the corner, the casket team leader raises his hand in salute, and the escort commander, a lieutenant, ever so deliberately lifts his saber in salute. The hearse halts; the lieutenant and the casket team leader complete their salutes. George Kisevalter will be interred at Arlington, joining his wife, Ferdi, who preceded him eight years before. The most celebrated case officer in the history of the Central Intelligence Agency would no longer be available for the director's special projects.
Suddenly, all present come to a brace. The casket team advances to the hearse and halts. As the captain raises his hand in salute, the band commences "Abide with Me." The casket team steps off and releases the casket lock. The team removes the casket from the hearse and cautiously turn it and themselves toward the chapel. The chaplain approaches the casket, faces about, and leads the team into the chapel. The captain drops his hand and the music stops. The chapel outer doors are closed.
The chapel is almost full, with about two hundred people. George's daughter, Eva, and a dozen of her close associates are here. A busload of people from Vinson Hall has come. There George spent the last eight years of his life, alternately enthral
ling his new friends with glorious stories of his life and beating their brains out in bridge games. I am reminded that two days after George died, I was walking the corridors of Vinson Hall after meeting there with Eva, and I was following close behind a man and a woman who were deeply engaged in conversation. I could not help but overhear their dialogue. "You won, didn't you?" implored the man. "Yes," replied the lady. "How much?" "Good amount. It was the first time ever that I won." "Who took George's place?" he inquired.
A contingent of retired CIA people is here, a few of the many who served with him forty or more years ago. Dick Kovich, one of George's old CIA buddies, once told me that all of the people in George's group at the Agency were continually concerned about his health because he was always overweight and drank far too much. There was no doubt among many at the Agency that George would not live too long. Accordingly, in every intelligence operation dating back to 1953, an alternate case officer was routinely assigned. Well, he fooled them all. He lived to be eighty-seven while most of the others were going to their graves. Richard Helms, the last CIA director under whom George served, is here. Some of George's friends from the old McLean neighborhood and his real-estate associates are here. Michael Gavrisheff, an old army buddy from WWII, has shown up.
Evoking George's childhood, a sprinkling of Orthodox Russians present will cross themselves three times at the appropriate moments during the service. The officiating chaplain, a young army captain, is Protestant. He leads the two soldiers of the honor guard who wheel the casket into the nave. In the hush, the steel taps on the soldier's shoes strike the ceramic-tile floor of the chapel in unison, like hammers ringing on an anvil.
"I am the resurrection and the life, " the chaplain intones. "He that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die. "At the first recognition of the chaplain's voice, the congregation rises. As the procession passes the front pews of the nave, the chaplain mounts the two steps leading to the altar, and the soldiers, guiding their weighty cargo, halt. Simultaneously, the two execute abrupt, disciplined turns and, in unison, step smartly away from one another to opposite sides of the sanctuary. There they each execute another turn and stride the length of the chapel to its rear. The resounding click of their taps on the floor resonates again as they exit. My eyes are focused on the flag-covered, rosewood casket, positioned front and center, just below the altar. It is so close yet so far away. I am trying to review in my mind what I will say. I want to do justice to George's memory. I have memorized my words, and I am determined not to read them. I carry the words in the breast pocket of my jacket just in case.
My thoughts are racing when the chaplain announces that Eva will say a few words. She steps up to the lectern. She is strikingly attractive, a tall, slim, blonde beauty, all decked out in black. She smiles demurely, yet with moisture in each eye. She begins:
"Hi there-I'm Eva-best known to most of you as George's little girl.
"I think I can speak for my father when I say we're both overwhelmed that so many of you are here today to pay tribute to him.
"Because many of you have known my father for at least as long as I have, and because you have had many different experiences with George, you each have your own special and unique memories. However, there is one common thread for all of us who knew him well, myself included, that we all share, and that is that he has beaten each and every one of us at one card game or another. But if you knew him really well, there's now a problem that many of us now share; and that is, who's going to do our taxes?
"The only truly unique point of view that I can share with you is that of being the daughter of George Kisevalter. Although my father was blessed with an amazing gift that you all admired greatly, it was no blessing for me, the daughter. He was the man with the remarkable memory; the man who forgot nothing; the father who forgot nothing. Although I did not inherit this remarkable gift, I did inherit the sense of value my father placed on friendship. Maybe it's because we were both only-children. I'm not sure. But I can't tell you how much your friendship meant to him. Some of you I've met only once in my life, and I may have been too young to even recall the meeting. But I know from the warm and enthusiastic way that he spoke of all of you how proud he was of you and how grateful he was to have had your friendship and so am I. I feel so lucky that my father surrounded me with so many interesting, accomplished, and wonderful people. And with the friends I've chosen, I feel that that is the one area where I think I've done as well as my father.
"And it's because of my father's long and productive life that we're all together here today. Again, I'm sure I speak for my father when I say thank you all so much for making him happy and proud.
"Thank you."
She has done well. It had to have been tough for her. She steps down and nods for me to take her place.
I try to convey an appreciation of George's professional life: his engineering and his Agency activities. I explain that he was a good engineer and that engineering was his first love, but I review some of his intelligence accomplishments and tell why he became the backstop for all major clandestine operations during the Cold War. I describe his search for the truth in everything that he did, the high value he placed on personal associations, and his lifetime affection for bears-especially bears: bears in zoos, bear artifacts, bear stories. I even explain how his physical appearance, tall and portly, with small shoulders and wide hips, reminded one of a bear, and many gave him the nickname "Teddy Bear." I speak of his fondness for Eva and Ferdi and how these two affected his life up until the moment he died. And lastly, I relate the way that he gallantly accepted his own death. I descend the steps, take my seat.
The chaplain asks, "Does anyone else wish to say something?" One of George's CIA colleagues rises and declares, "George, there never has been another like you." Others rise and bid George adieu in their own ways. One fellow plaintively evokes something about the "old boys." The chaplain offers a short homily. I never cease to be amazed how preachers can do this at funerals if they had not known the deceased, but he does well. I have the feeling that most of the people here today feel uncomfortable, or at least awkward, just as I do. After all, we are contemplating our own mortality as we observe that of our friend's, a man who seemed bigger than life itself. The chaplain finally issues the invitation, "Let us pray."
Unto God's gracious mercy and protection we commit you. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you, The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace, both now and evermore. Amen.
The sun bursts through the stained-glass windows mounted on the south wall. The sanctuary is simple yet effective. My thoughts drift back to the days when George and I first got acquainted, the initial impressions that we made upon each other, the struggles we both experienced when we first were getting used to the other during our second careers in the real-estate office, and the stories, especially the stories. It was twenty-four years ago, but it seems even further in the past, in another life and in a place so far away. The first thing that comes to my mind is Mac. Mac and George, George and Mac-they were like brothers in that office, almost twins. Then I recall the story of George's friend, John Lavine, the tale that I call "Swedish Rhapsody." Like most of George's stories, it was interspersed with so many rich asides that one could easily get lost if he did not work to keep track of the main theme. Looking up from my desk one day, I sighed plaintively and contemplated the task before me: how best to market a recently listed piece of commercial land in McLean. Turning my head to gaze out the window and reflecting on which candidates would best be suited to its development, I caught sight of him staring at me. Once more, George interrupted my train of thought.
"I'll tell you a story," he said. "It's about an experience that I had with a good friend of mine, John Lavine, who worked with the Agency. He was with our Technical Systems Division, a fine officer and a splendid electrical technician. He was of Swedish de
scent and spoke Swedish. He now lives in Minneapolis. I am the godfather of one of his sons. Both of his sons went to West Point. In fact, at the appropriate time, I assisted both of them by writing letters to their congressman, the two then-U.S. senators serving Minnesota, and Hubert Humphrey, who, at the time, was our vice-president. Both boys did very well. One was a national champion parachute jumper for accuracy. He could jump from 3,000 feet up and land on a dime. Brave, brave man. Anyone who jumps from these planes, to me, is a brave man. The two of them are now out of the army. Time has gone by. We're talking fifteen to twenty years ago. Anyway, that is the nature of the relationship.
`John was working for us as chief of our technical services in Berlin while I was there with the Popov operation, an affair with a Soviet defector that consumed more than six years. John kept everything running smoothly from an electrical standpoint while we were there and he was doing a fine job of it all. Eventually, there occurred a long break in the activity with Popov when he left Karlshorst to return to Moscow. An interesting assignment came up during that interval. One day, Bill Harvey, chief of Berlin Base, came to me and said, `George, we have an important task for you while you're waiting for the next step with Popov. The Agency chief in one of our allied countries would like to see you; he needs some help that maybe you can give to him.'
"I thought that I might need some technical assistance during this sojourn. Moreover, I wanted to do Lavine a favor, so I arranged for him to accompany me on the trip. After I arrived I was introduced to the local security chief. We hit it off quite well, right from the start. He spoke English and that certainly facilitated things because I did not speak his language. Now, I happened to have known, from New York days, a fellow by the name of Henning Christiani. Henning worked with me at Madigan-Hyland Consulting Engineers before the Second World War. While he was with us he managed the design and development of the Cherry Street Bridge in New Haven, Connecticut. He built it on a special assignment. Nice job. Incidentally, the Yale-Dartmouth game is being played right now, this very minute. I've often been to that game and seen Henning's bridge. I was the best man in his wedding. Later, tragically, he was killed in an automobile accident.
CIA Spymaster_George Kisevalter Page 2
