CIA Spymaster_George Kisevalter

by Clarence Ashley III

  Nosenko maintained that some of his later statements were contradictory because he had been drunk during the initial meetings. He had no regrets regarding lying about the telegram, saying he had done so in order to encourage the CIA to accept his defection quickly: "They were not moving, and I was concerned that General Gribanov would soon be arriving in Geneva." He felt justified in his declaration of rank. After all, early in the summer of 1963 the papers for his promotion to lieutenant colonel had been sent to the personnel directorate of the KGB, signed, and approved by all chiefs and Party members. His promotion would have been finalized routinely within months along with other officers in his promotion group. Moreover, as the travel papers of the Cherepanov chase indicated, he had the temporary rank of lieutenant colonel.

  By possessing the travel documents for the Cherepanov chase, Nosenko proved the authenticity of the Cherepanov papers. Why else would there have been such a chase? Cherepanov's actions must have been of critical importance to the KGB. Moreover, according to these documents, Cherepanov had worked in the same American Embassy Section of the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB in which Nosenko claimed to have worked, and at the same time. Thus, they verified Nosenko's background and, by implication, some of his bona fides. In addition, these papers confirmed his own story about the entrapment of Popov. Nosenko's claims and the Cherepanov papers were mutually supportive.

  The conventional lie-detector test indicated that Nosenko was cooperating truthfully. Nosenko was cleared by Solie's investigation in October 1968. Not until March 1969, however, was Nosenko freed. He then was given his back pay and his resettlement expense money. He had been incarcerated for five years. For 1,277 days he had been held in hostile, solitary confinement. He had been interrogated a total of 292 times. There is no precedent in CIA history for such an incarceration. Presumably, it will never happen again.'3

  For years after Nosenko was released, the Agency used him only a little. The FBI, on the other hand, used him extensively at their Counter Intelligence School at Quantico, Virginia. By 1973 Nosenko was accepted by the DCI. Eventually, the CIA followed the FBI example, hiring him as a lecturer and sending him to dozens of foreign countries to brief case officers and operators.

  Throughout all of this time, the myth of Golitsyn's mole, "Sasha," secreted somewhere high within the echelons of the CIA hierarchy continued. This burlesque had been gnawing at the entrails of the clandestine services group since 1962. The calumny assembled was that Sasha had a Slavic background, a last name that probably started with a K, a previous station assignment in Germany, and a foreign-born wife. The search for Sasha, conducted principally by Angleton and his sidekick Golitsyn, terrorized the clandestine services group and the Office of Security. As a result, the Soviet Bloc Division was directed to have no further contacts with Soviets. In effect, they were shut down fora decade.

  When I learned of this crippling of the Agency, I had the answer to a question that had plagued me during my years there. As a missile analyst and later as a systems analyst evaluating intelligence collection systems, I had observed very little capability of the clandestine services group against the Soviet missile threat. Almost never, in my experience, had they produced tangible results. There was always the hope that a tremendous cache of intimate, technical details could arrive at any time, perhaps even manuals of the type provided by Penkovsky, but none was forthcoming.

  Had there been a real Sasha, he could not have done as much damage to clandestine services group as this phantom Sasha. To make matters worse, numerous case officers were suspected of being the mole. The careers of many were damaged, and some were forced to leave the Agency. Some of those maligned at least had the satisfaction of successful lawsuits settled with monetary compensation and the restoration of their good names, albeit many hard years later. The Soviet Bloc Division chief, the individual who had met Nosenko in Frankfurt and who had continually doubted his credentials, ironically became one of those suspected. To remove him from the scene, he was offered the post of chief in Paris. He accepted the job with some remorse, only to have Angleton, the chief of counterintelligence for the Agency, secretly advise the chief of the French Intelligence Service that the head CIA man in Paris was a Soviet spy. Even Angleton himself was suspected of being Sasha. This has been characterized as the snake finally swallowing itself. George was never seriously suspected of being Sasha, notwithstanding his amazing fit to the Sasha profile. Evidently, he was untouchable.

  In 1978, the U.S. House of Representatives formed a committee to further investigate various aspects of the assassination of President Kennedy. They concluded that Nosenko had lied about Oswald. Two years later, the FBI concluded that Fedora was a KGB plant, then reversed themselves. So, in the minds of some, confusion about Nosenko still reigns.

  There never was any doubt in George's mind of Nosenko's bona fides. He and George communicated often. There were frequent telephone calls, letters, Christmas cards, and a few visits when the Ukrainian was in Washington. Nosenko knew that George was a legend at the Agency. George was instrumental in developing two premier sources, Popov and Penkovsky, both of whom were on Nosenko's "watch." He naturally had great respect for George's professional ability. He considered George to be a very intelligent individual and, more importantly, a nonpompous, humble, and caring human being.

  After a few minutes George hung up, turned to me, and said, "Nosenko is a good man. I said good-by to him. He was a good friend. I will never see him again." I departed, fearing as to the condition that I might find George in the next time that we met.

  CHAPTER 21

  Mementos

  It was Wednesday, October the twenty-second. As I sauntered up the back walkway of Vinson Hall I could not help but marvel at the gorgeous fall day. The giant hardwoods were almost at their best. One more week would bring in their peak colors. George was fortunate to have such a lovely scene upon which to gaze from the great windows of his end-unit apartment, although he never had acknowledged this to me. I wondered to myself if he appreciated what he had. After all, he never seemed to appreciate esthetics, good music, or fine art. In fact, he didn't like any music, so far as I could tell, even though he probably had considerable knowledge in the classics. He did have some attractive pictures and figures of bears, but aside from these, he did not appear to have much interest in art or things of beauty.

  Strolling along, I again reflected on his situation here. He was well liked at Vinson Hall. He was not a joiner, but once the folks here got to know him, they considered him to be warm and dependable. They knew that he was very intelligent and, at first, believed him to be very lucky at bridge. Soon enough, they recognized that he was a bridge genius. He never failed to attend the bridge events and, in addition, he often played in private games. One lady was so grateful to him for playing with her invalid husband each week. I wondered how much lunch money George had taken from that poor soul.

  George knew the rules at Vinson Hall and even if he could not make an exact fit to them, he did his best. One issue had to do with the dining room. Coats and ties were required of the men for evening dining. "George had some old green thing that he called a coat," said one of his friends. "With that, he would wear a tie that never matched, in order to conform. But to complement this outfit, he would wear his slippers for dinner." At first, his friends thought the slippers were hilarious, but eventually all got used to the scene and thought no more of it. One evening, George's daughter, Eva, and some of his friends at the home gave him a surprise birthday party. He had no idea it was coming. Knowing of his obsession with bears, many of the attendees gave him bear figures, bear statues, and bear pictures. One of his friends, however, bought him a "God-awful" bright-red Mickey Mouse tie. Amusingly, George liked it and wore it to dinner.

  I wanted to review with him his comprehensive photo albums and souvenirs. There were people in his past whom I wished to identify. Most were his relatives and buddies; some were historically notable. I also wanted to ask him about some of his
philosophies and personal attitudes. I knew most of these from long-ago discussions, but I wanted to get his most recent take on things. He could be full of surprises, so I wanted to find out now what might be on his mind. I particularly wanted to know if he had changed his outlook on life in light of his illness. I approached his apartment door with apprehension, as I never knew how I would find him. His health was failing and the rises and falls of his spirits were a day-to-day thing. I noted that the doorway was open, so I called out and entered.

  "Hello, George!"

  "You're right on time."

  "How are you?"

  "I live as the Lord wishes, from day to day, and I thank him for each pain-free minute. It won't be long now."

  "You can't talk like that; we have a lot to do. What can I do to make you feel better?"

  "Nothing. The only one who can help me is the one above."

  "Well, you know, `the Lord helps them that help themselves.' Besides, I need your help."

  "Okay, I'll try. The last time we met you said that you wanted to see my souvenirs. I have them down. If you will go into the bedroom you will see three boxes on the bed. Bring those, as well as the picture books."

  I brought out the complete cache, the souvenirs of a lifetime, and started with a big, dusty, old box. The first thing inside to attract my attention was a small red box with a double-headed eagle, embossed in gold. I said to George, "This is the Russian imperial crown." I opened the box. "Look at that big, red Maltese cross. This medal is beautiful. It must be almost two inches square. I believe that this is baked red enamel inlaid into the gold cross. There is a date painted on the back; it's in Cyrillic. I think it must be 22 September 1782. That was during the reign of the coarse-grained German woman who became empress when her idiot husband mysteriously died, wasn't it?"

  "You're right."

  "There is a note in the box. It says, 'St. Vladimirs Cross ... signifying distinguished work for Tsar Nicholas' Army. Georgi G. Kisevalter ... 1914.' There is no apostrophe on Vladimirs."

  "Prince Vladimir died in the eleventh century, before there were any apostrophes. Seventeen eighty-two is probably the date that Empress Catherine commissioned the medal. During that time Russia was at war with Turkey. My father would have received that medal for the work that he did with munitions during the early part of the First World War. It signifies distinguished work."

  "Here are some documents written in Russian: a birth certificate, two pages. Aha! This is yours! Let's look at this. Yokohama. Oh, this is the trip to America when you were five years old. I have never seen anybody who had his life so well documented as you do; you have a photograph for every month of your life. This says, `United States declares war on Germany, 1917.' I can't remember; were you in Chicago or where?"

  "New York. How do you like those railroad trains? They really go back."

  "Your dad was inspecting railroad cars near Harrisburg?"

  "Think of the years. This is around 1917, 1918, 1920. They were developing railroad engines at the same time that they were developing the munitions. When I say munitions, they were developing the cannons as well as the shells. And, in addition, they were developing locomotives. And then they were transporting those across the U.S. to the West Coast and then across the Pacific to Russia."

  "Let's go through these papers. Here's one dated I November 1918. `His Excellency Boris Bachmetiev, Ambassador of Russia presents George G. Kisewalter, Mechanical Engineer as Acting Assistant Comptroller, Department of Russian State Control.' And it is signed by Robert Lansing, secretary of state of the United States of America. Okay, this was during the period after the Bolshevik Revolution when the supporters of the Kerensky government were fighting the Bolsheviks. Didn't you tell me that Robert Lansing was the uncle of John Foster and Allen Dulles?"

  "You are correct."

  "Well, I see that your father's name was spelled with a w instead of a v. It would be pronounced Kiss-walter, the way that you always pronounced it to me, not Keese-ay-valter as many of your old CIA buddies pronounce the name. Which is correct?"

  "It doesn't matter."

  "Look at this, George. This must be a special passport: `6 May, 1925, The Russian Consulate General in New York, Madame Rose Kisevalter, accompanied by her son, George, fifteen years of age, traveling to France and Switzerland and returning to the United States. Bearer is a Russian citizen. Consul General Oustinoff.' You went to see your grandfather and cousins in southern France, didn't you?"

  "Correct."

  "What's this; a beauty contest? That's the ugliest group I have ever seen!"

  "This is the Senior French Club at Stuyvesant High School. I was lousy. That made Mother unhappy. She didn't want me to kick footballs until I studied irregular verbs. Now, this photo was taken at the French summer camp in New York. It was a YMCA camp, oriented toward the language."

  "Did you learn Latin?"

  "I speak a smattering of Greek, no Latin. I stayed away from that like poison."

  "Who are these people?"

  "There is Malia Natirbov in the group. We said good-by to each other when he was here last week. I will never see him again. I won't be here when he comes back from his trip to Circassia, where he was born."

  "Don't talk like that! Keep on saying that you will get better!"

  "That's what Malia said to me. I told him that I can say it, but it isn't true."

  "This is a patent-12 February 1929. 'G. G. Kisevalter and his Heirs, for seventeen years. Boats.' This is a patent that your father received for the design of the pontoons on Lindbergh's plane."

  "You're right. You're absolutely right."

  "Here is your soccer team at Dartmouth. Are you in here?"

  "I think so."

  "Is Rockefeller in here?"

  "Maybe. Let me see. I think Nelson is the husky, little fellow. He couldn't hit the side of a barn with the ball. As I said, we stunk."

  "Here is another patent. It's dated 23 June 1936 and it's about `Wind Motors.' Your father did significant work of many different kinds, over an extended period of time. Your dad was all right. He was a mechanical engineer, my kind of people."

  "This looks like it's Alaska. Start of the war, World War II."

  "It is. We were building a radar station in the Aleutians."

  "This is probably a Soviet that you worked with while you were there?"

  "Right. We were in Fairbanks. The man's name was Machin. Machin was in charge of all of the Soviets there. He is the one to whom I said, `Look, you want to make a hit with the Americans? Give them a typewritten recommendation of promotion for their efficiency reports instead of paying them money. They will just blow the money on poker or whatnot.' He appreciated that. He became a general. He later became the commander of all of the Soviet MIGs at a base in Germany."

  "Who is that?"

  "Gavrisheff, my second in command in Alaska."

  "Fancy names. Fancy mustaches too. Fancy everything with these guys. Your friend-the sergeant later promoted to second lieutenant-that's his picture, isn't it?"

  "David Chavchavadze. His card is here. He visited me last week. Dedicated man. He sleeps in Buckingham Palace when he goes to London. Why not? His aunt was the duchess of Kent."

  "This says, `Pentagon, 1944.' What is this about?"

  "Yes; I'm in Washington."

  "And where are you in this group picture? Is this a class or something?"

  "There also is a future U.S. senator in there; you can find him."

  "I do see you, but there is no way in the world that I am going to recognize whoever the other guy is.,,

  "It's what's-his-name, from Wisconsin."

  "Joe McCarthy?"

  "No, but you're getting close."

  "He is the only one that I know of from Wisconsin. Tell me."

  "Well, he's the guy who was giving the sheep prize, whatever."

  I realized he was talking about the man who would award a "fleecing" prize to the bureaucrat who had made the most outrageous waste of taxpayers'
money. "William Proxmire."

  "Right. He was the number-two guy in the class of over a hundred."

  "And who was number one?"

  "Me."

  "Ha, I knew it! What was the class about?"

  "The Japanese order of battle. We knew everyJapanese division by heart."

  "Why Japanese OB? You were working there in Russian intelligence."

  "Because that was a side issue at that time, in addition to intelligence on the Soviet Army, as if I didn't have enough to do."

  "What are these?"

  "We have re-recaptured them from the Germans: Gehlen and company, articles of unknown Soviet and German weaponry."

  "These are medals that the Germans collected from defeated Soviets and then you got these from the Germans?"

  "Yes."

  "But some of these medals are American."

  "That's right, that's right."

  "It's an exotic kind of collection, here."

  "For bravery and so on, the Soviet Army. The Germans got them off dead Russians and Americans; then other Americans got them off dead Germans."

  "This gives me a terribly somber feeling to think that some American lad used to wear these. Here are some American's captain bars. There's no doubt a story behind these. Ah, these look very interesting-a lot of words written in Russian and a lot of photographs. These look like passport papers. Why would the Soviets have these kinds of papers? I mean, a soldier wouldn't be carrying something like that, would he?"