Circle of Treason

by Sandra V. Grimes

  While the Polyakov operation was running smoothly in the field, a mini-revolution was about to begin at headquarters that would have a lasting and profound effect on the case and on the handling of future generations of sensitive sources. The man at the center of the upheaval was Richard (Dick) Stolz, a career Soviet operations officer and newly appointed deputy chief of SE Division. A kind, thoughtful man with impeccable operational skills, Stolz was the model for the adage that good men can and do succeed in bureaucracies. He had become intimately involved in the Polyakov operation in the early 1970s, when he was chief of the division’s Counterintelligence Group. Accordingly he was well aware of our June 1972 one-on-one contact with Polyakov in Moscow and our subsequent realization that we had severely limited options to communicate with him during his scheduled assignment to Hanoi. To Stolz this was unacceptable and, as the consummate professional, he quietly vowed that if he ever found himself in a position to rectify this shortcoming he would take on the challenge. That opportunity presented itself several years later when he returned to the division following his tour of duty as chief in Belgrade.

  Stolz’s request to the technical support component responsible for supporting agent operations was specific. Provide our source with a short-range, high-speed, two-way communications device that encrypted the transmitted information, was small in size to allow for concealment, was portable, and would function for years. Stolz’s explanation as to the importance of his request was equally direct. We were currently handling the highest ranking Soviet intelligence officer in the history of the U.S. government and he would be returning to Moscow in about two years from what could be his last overseas assignment. Time-critical intelligence would be available to this source and we were obligated to provide him with the most secure, current, and reliable means possible to report that information. It would be a dereliction of duty if we were forced to rely only on a cumbersome and dangerous series of dead drops and signal sites to communicate with a source of such stature and access.

  The engineers’ response to Stolz’s request was equally straightforward. Sorry, but it could not be accomplished. We have neither the funds nor the expertise and we do not believe the latter exists elsewhere. Not to be deterred, Stolz broadened his efforts, taking his problem to an Agency group that did not routinely support DO efforts but that researched and developed cutting-edge technologies, on occasion in concert with private industry. Perhaps eager to enter the world of clandestine operations or perhaps simply to be part of a new and exciting scientific adventure, they offered to broker contact with an external company they believed could develop and deliver the requested equipment within the required time frame.

  The Division eagerly accepted the offer with one proviso. A division case officer had to be directly and intimately involved in the project from the beginning. Accepted by the specialized Agency group, Dick C, a division officer with Moscow experience, met with the contractor’s engineers and designers and, among other things, negotiated the system requirements and designs, and developed the testing and operational scenarios.

  Two years later and just before Polyakov’s reassignment to Moscow in 1976, the cooperation between a private contractor and SE Division resulted in the completion of Polyakov’s handheld, two-way, encrypted communications device. Appropriately code-named Unique, but known as Buster in the CIA’s technical support group, it was the first of its kind in U.S. spy equipment annals. Although built only for Polyakov on an accelerated basis, many of the lessons learned from its development were incorporated in successor systems.

  Unique was a two-way system that was agent-initiated and consisted of three primary components: two portable base stations and one agent unit. The base station received Polyakov’s message and then transmitted acknowledgment of receipt to Polyakov’s agent unit along with any other required brief message. The cryptography in the equipment was revolutionary in that it synchronized automatically between the base station and the agent unit. Plans called for one of the base stations to be located in the CIA premises inside the U.S. embassy in Moscow and one to be taken to a CIA officer’s apartment or used on the street for prescheduled opportunities, thus affording Polyakov additional transmission sites. Before a scheduled exchange Polyakov typed his comments on a small keyboard built into his agent unit, placed it in his pocket, and boarded public transportation that took him past the U.S. embassy. Approaching the embassy he activated the unit, which transmitted the information to the base station in a 2.6-second burst. Polyakov’s tram continued on its way and he read our message in the privacy of his apartment.

  In early 1976 the Polyakov operation was running on autopilot, with a satisfied asset and satisfied intelligence community customers who received his production. Difficulty and impending tragedy then struck. A cable arrived from New Delhi with the news that Paul was sick—potentially very sick. He eventually was evacuated to Georgetown University Hospital, where he was diagnosed with a rare and terminal lung disease. Within the corridors of headquarters our first concern was for Paul’s well-being and that of his family. Nevertheless, we also had to focus on our friend in the field. We had meetings to conduct, intelligence to process, and, of critical importance, an asset to ready for internal handling on untested state-of-the-art communications equipment.

  The last meeting between Paul and Polyakov was bittersweet. Business as always came first and then it was time for the final good-bye. Neither discussed the future difficulties each might face, although each understood that Paul’s had more clarity than Polyakov’s. The atmosphere and banter was simply that of two old friends relaxing and enjoying one another’s company. As a token of the personal and secret bond they had forged, Polyakov presented Paul with a bottle of his Ukrainian homeland’s Three Stars cognac, the first gift he had given to one of his CIA handlers. The meeting ended with a handshake and this chapter in the operation was closed. Paul would lose his personal battle after a four-year struggle.

  THE POLYAKOV CASE—THE END

  THE SENIOR CIA OFFICER KNOWN for this book’s purposes as “Mr. K” assumed the role of Polyakov’s case officer following Paul’s departure from India. By design, his participation in the operation had always been important. Now his role was crucial. In the past he appeared for debriefing sessions infrequently; however, now his travel and meetings with Polyakov became more recurrent and lengthy. Moreover, he assumed complete responsibility for the successful implementation of an internal communications plan with equipment that neither he nor Polyakov had seen. Those at headquarters in charge of assembling the required volume of material and equipment were mindful that Mr. K knew the intelligence business far better than they and that he would not tolerate mistakes or omissions. Accordingly, frantic days were the rule during July and early August of 1976, as we anxiously awaited the arrival of the final components of the system from the contractor as well as the completion of the concealment device Stolz had requested from the DO engineers. We met our deadline for transmittal to the field with only a few days to spare. It was time to cross our fingers and pray that everything would work and that the two principals would be pleased.

  Polyakov was stunned by Unique. Always a harsh critic of CIA spy equipment, he had not expected a system that was so technically advanced, tested perfectly, and was agent-friendly. Needless to say, Mr. K did not tell Polyakov that the CIA had not developed Unique, and remained silent when Polyakov complimented “the boys from the center” for their success. This was a phrase he previously had used only when irritated with our handling of a particular matter, noting that any shortcoming in the operation was never the fault of field personnel but always those at the center. Over the years we had made minor mistakes such as selecting the incorrect size of fishhook or other miscellaneous hunting accessories he had requested. However, he was right and we gladly accepted such observations as “Can’t they tell the difference between a brook trout and a sturgeon?”

  Polyakov left New Delhi in August 1976 confident that our mutual com
mitment and cooperation would continue uninterrupted until his retirement from the GRU regardless of whether that occurred before or after another overseas tour. He had Unique and was headed for a senior position as Chief of the Second Faculty at the GRU’s Military-Diplomatic Academy (MDA). The MDA was the GRU’s training facility for new officers as well as providing course instruction to military intelligence officers from allied socialist countries such as East Germany and Bulgaria.

  Our first scheduled contact with Polyakov following his return to Moscow was planned for early December via Unique. We were confident that there would be a successful exchange, but as professionals we recognized there were many variables that could lead to failure. Anything could go wrong—from a technical malfunction to a snowstorm forcing tram route closures. At this point all we could do was wait. A cable finally arrived from Moscow Station with the news that the first Unique exchange had taken place on schedule and without mishap. The Stolz-inspired and Stolz-led mini-revolution had achieved success. At headquarters we opened the bottle of Three Stars cognac. With a collective sigh of relief and thanks, the privileged few aware of the achievement toasted Polyakov, whose sacrifices required that we perform beyond what we imagined possible.1

  The next three years in the operation were more productive than anyone could have envisioned. It was long recognized that Polyakov’s access in Moscow would be far greater than when he was abroad, but the breadth and depth of that access as a general at the MDA was unexpected. The quality and number of documents he photographed and passed via dead drop was staggering even to the most knowledgeable headquarters officer. On the counterintelligence side highlights included hundreds of pages of the complete GRU training manual, which was immediately dubbed the “GRU Bible.” It was a comprehensive statement of GRU operational philosophy, modus operandi, and rules and regulations governing espionage activities outside the Soviet Union. Polyakov also provided the identities, biographic information, and training results of three-plus years of GRU graduating classes slated for assignment abroad, in effect eradicating their cover and that of their replacements for years. And, in his usual subtle and personal way, Polyakov surprised us by requisitioning GRU-fabricated concealment devices to pass his photographed material. This was the first time he had not handcrafted the device he used to pass us materials, and it was viewed by many at headquarters as a statement from the old soldier. “I’ve given you the gold mine and, just for the fun of it, here’s another gift for the technical boys at the center.” Our technical personnel were amazed at the simplicity, craftsmanship, and obvious long-term durability of the GRU spy gear.

  On the positive intelligence side he passed copies of a highly restricted top secret version of Military Thought, top secret Communist Party publications never before acquired, and more of the Military-Industrial Commission collection requirements mentioned earlier. The translation load at headquarters was enormous, but no one complained.

  Our exchanges via Unique continued uninterrupted, with the exception of an extended period beginning in September 1977, when then-Director of the CIA Stansfield Turner ordered Moscow Station to cease all operational activity until further notice. (The genesis and consequences of this stand-down are covered in Chapter 7 on the Kulak case.) The following year Polyakov advised us that he would be returning to New Delhi on what would surely be his last tour in the West. Once again it was time to gear up for handling abroad.

  Headquarters received news of Polyakov’s impending assignment with mixed reactions. On the positive side, we would be able to sit down with our trusted and respected comrade and work toward our common goals. However, that he was being posted to New Delhi again was selfishly greeted with less enthusiasm. We already had a wealth of information on GRU operations and Soviet plans and intentions in India that he had supplied during his previous tour. What could have changed in the three years since that could not be covered in several meetings? Despite our preference for an assignment to Tokyo or Beijing, where Polyakov would have been in a position to satisfy critical collection requirements about technology transfer and Chinese military capabilities and weapons development, the same energy and thought that went into the planning of the first New Delhi tour went into the “Delhi Two” operational phase.

  Scotty S, another Russian-speaking SE Division employee, was tapped to serve as Polyakov’s primary handler. A likable, well-regarded officer in his late thirties, Scotty had established a reputation as a hardworking, dependable professional who would ensure that there would be no mistakes in the operation. The only potential problem he and headquarters had to address was Polyakov’s reaction to the almost eighteen years difference in their ages. As a Soviet military man, Polyakov tended to equate age with rank and, by extension, his importance in our eyes. To assuage his possible misgivings, Mr. K continued his participation in the operation. It was he who traveled to New Delhi to re-establish contact with Polyakov, conduct initial debriefings, and lay the groundwork for the introduction of Scotty. Our concerns were unfounded. Polyakov had no reservations about Scotty’s relative youth, and together they established a productive and personal relationship.

  In May 1980 Polyakov informed us that GRU headquarters had requested that he return to Moscow to attend a meeting on military attaché matters. Unexpected news or events always occurred in operations, but they were never welcomed, particularly with an asset of Polyakov’s stature and importance. Was this a security problem or a legitimate request from GRU headquarters? There was no consensus. While we had no history or current knowledge of such a conference, there were no looming security issues in the Polyakov operation. Accordingly, the guidance to Scotty for the last meeting before Polyakov’s departure was basic and clear-cut. Review the internal communications plans and the timing of his anticipated return to New Delhi.

  Polyakov was strangely calm during our final contact. He reassured Scotty and by extension CIA headquarters that our contact would not be severed. In the unforeseen circumstance that he should not return, he had Unique and would be in touch. “I will survive. Do not worry about me.” Toward the end of the meeting, Scotty nervously commented that he looked forward to the day when he and Polyakov could enjoy drinks and a meal together in the United States. Polyakov’s response was the same as on several previous occasions, but more relaxed and matter-of-fact. He was born, had lived, and would die a Russian. When asked what would happen if our cooperation were discovered, he quietly replied, “a common, unmarked grave.” There were no good-byes, but simply a handshake and a “see you upon your return.”

  Polyakov failed to reappear in New Delhi, and there was no communication from Moscow. Months passed and then several years. Endless discussions took place at headquarters about his status with no satisfactory answers. Unfortunately, due to an inexcusable error we were unaware that shortly after Polyakov’s return he began writing articles for the monthly Soviet hunting and sporting magazine Okhota, a publication to which he had been a contributing author between overseas assignments. Personnel in the division’s component responsible for acquiring the issues each month did not initiate the collection requirement until asked for a status report of their review of the material. Back issues were immediately obtained and scanned for mention of D. F. Polyakov. While our inattention to operational detail was indefensible, it was ameliorated by the news that Polyakov had been a frequent contributor to Okhota since his arrival in Moscow.

  A collective sigh of relief and a thank God could be heard among those working on the case. Polyakov was alive, and apparently well, given the appearance of his articles. He had not been compromised, but what had happened? The possibilities were as numerous as the meetings on the matter. They ranged from medical problems that forced his retirement to his continued GRU employment but having an inoperable Unique. Nevertheless, the previously agreed-upon plan would remain in effect. We would rely on Polyakov to decide if and when to break his silence. Our role would be to wait, reassured that knowledge of his secret past remained his and ours a
lone.

  It had been four years since Polyakov’s return to Moscow, when an unexpected event occurred in the now dormant case. A copy of Okhota arrived at headquarters. It contained another Polyakov-authored article, but this one raised eyebrows. It was not about hunting for big game or similar topics about which he had previously written. It was a recipe for coot, and contained detailed instructions and ingredients for preparation. Some viewed the article as an anomaly and, therefore, possibly a signal from Polyakov that he not only was alive but also was somehow trying to re-establish our communications link. Others were more pessimistic, but agreed that the theory should be pursued. His Okhota articles and the thousands of pages of cables and transcripts were scoured for answers. A hint was found in the operational files. During a brief conversation in the mid-1970s, Paul D and Polyakov discussed possibly using Okhota to establish communications should other options fail.

  After much review and testing of the coot recipe ingredients, it was determined that they could be used for secret writing. Extrapolating from these discoveries, we could send a letter to the editor of Okhota, with questions for Polyakov on his article. The benign correspondence would contain secret writing that Polyakov could develop using the ingredients he had provided in the recipe. But should we proceed, given that our hypothesis was based on few facts and a great deal of conjecture? Burton Gerber, then chief of SE Division, made the final decision. The risks to this noble man were too great. We would take no action that might put his life in further jeopardy. He had reached mandatory retirement age and we would let him live in peace. The final chapter had been written in the Polyakov case, or so we thought.

  One year later Ames volunteered to the KGB and identified General Polyakov, among many others, as an American spy. The roll-up of our assets began in June 1985. By 1986 we were forced to concede that there was a possibility that Polyakov was among the missing. In mid-1986 one of his sons, a Soviet Ministry of Foreign Affairs officer stationed in New Delhi, left for Moscow on what we assumed but could not confirm was home leave. He did not return to India. About the same time Polyakov’s articles suddenly stopped appearing in Okhota. Lastly, there was an unsourced report about the arrest of a GRU general who had served in Greece. While Polyakov had never served in Greece, it was discussed as a possible assignment for him in the 1960s, and that he was a general could not be ignored.