Best Man

by Doug Raber

  “And what am I to do with that?”

  “It concerns the Crypto AG problem.”*

  I had discussed the cryptography machines with him during one of my visits to Teheran, and he introduced me to several helpful government officials who were involved in purchases of such things.

  “You are certainly aware of the Swiss representative of the company who has been held under arrest for several months now. There seem to be concerns that these machines might decrease the security of communications rather than making the codes invulnerable. These documents will provide the evidence your government will need to trust the machines. They will also suggest a pathway for providing compensation, so the detainee can be released.”

  “This seems dangerous, Timothy. I am not involved in such things.”

  “That is exactly why this will work. You only need to pass the film to someone who would be involved. All you would need to say is that I gave it to you. They will be pleased that you helped them solve a difficult problem, and your stature will increase. Maybe it will be the same for me as well.”

  “This is excellent, Timothy.”

  I poured the last of the champagne into our glasses and proposed a toast.

  “To the success of our work at the CW negotiations.”

  We clinked our glasses and emptied them. It was a good day’s work.

  • • • • •

  Next, I turned to the Russians.* They had become more reasonable negotiating partners since the breakup of the Soviet Union, yet they held a very strong hand as the inheritor of all the Soviet weapons programs. I admired their reluctance, based on a longstanding culture of secrecy, to having international inspection teams that could demand unrestricted access to Russian factories. But somehow, I needed to find a way to make it happen.

  On issues such as inspections, no country was desirous of providing experts from other nations with access to their manufacturing sites. Whether chemical weapons had been destroyed, or if they had never existed, such inspections could result in the loss of valuable commercial data, proprietary information that could be used by competing nations to undermine a country’s economic strength.

  There was no doubt that both countries wanted the chemical weapons talks to succeed, but there were enormous questions about how much each nation was willing to compromise. The breakthroughs came after Vasili Yevchenko and I shared secrets. Each disclosure gave the other side something that provided enormous leverage over their adversary.

  My first two weeks at the negotiations were focused on the overall progress in the talks, and on several occasions, I found it necessary to share confidential information with some of the other parties. I knew my end goal, and I felt that my logic would override any policy that might have been developed on the other side of the Atlantic. A careful mix of shared secrets and true lies would justify my approach and secure the objective.

  During my third week in Geneva, Vasili invited me to dinner at a Russian restaurant.

  “Very authentic, Timothy. Very Russian. Not very good food, but that is the point, no? Is authentic.”

  He was right to the extent I could determine. The food was not very good.

  “Be careful of what you say, Timothy. Many spies here in Geneva.”

  With that warning, we began our meal with vodka. Vasili ordered two bottles, and I was concerned that I would become too drunk to function.

  “I make special order for vodka,” he said pointing to the two varieties. “One bottle is Russia’s best, and the other is from USA.”

  He dropped his voice to a near whisper as he continued.

  “They may be watching, so listen to me very carefully. In Russian language, the two words are almost the same. You know this, I am certain. Vodka is vodka, but voda means water. It is the same with these two bottles. Drinking from Russian bottle will make you more intoxicated, so we should mostly drink from other bottle. If they watch, they will believe we are not sober.”

  The waiter had left two small glasses for each of us, and Vasili filled all four. He picked up the first, and I did the same. We downed our shots in a single gulp, and my throat was on fire.

  “Okay, Timothy. You are like a Russian. Now the next one. Be sure to make same expression this time.”

  It was only water, but I made myself react the same way. If we were careful, I would be just fine, even if we consumed that entire bottle.

  For the better part of an hour, we drank from the two vodka bottles and ate small bites from a plate of pickles, sausage, and black bread. As time went on, we ascertained that someone might be watching, but no one was close enough to our table to be listening.

  “I have big news for you, Timothy. Something your government can use as lever to force Russian agreement.”

  “What is it?”

  “Inspections. President Yeltsin has said to our team that Russia will accept inspections.* Even unannounced inspections. This is big surprise. If you demand this, our negotiators will continue to say no. No way. But it will be for show. If Americans keep saying they must have inspections, we will give in. We will make big compromise.”

  “Then your negotiators will be expecting something from our side.”

  “Yes, of course. You must make trade also. We give you what you want by signing chemical weapons agreement, but you must offer something to us.”

  I had known it was coming, so I was ready. I took a sheet of paper from my pocket. It had only a few words, but these were accompanied by numbers.

  “And what do you show me?”

  “Missiles. My government is very concerned by your ICBMs, and especially those with multiple warheads.”

  “You also have many. And they are aimed at Russia.”

  “That is exactly the point, Vasili. We would reduce our number of missiles. It is a new position for us, and it is a secret. But you can share these numbers with your government, and they will know how far they can go in discussions. This is only Russia and the U.S., so it is not difficult. The paper in your hand is the key to everything. Your people will think they have beaten us on the number of missiles.”

  He refilled our glasses, this time with the Russian vodka.

  “This is good. I propose a toast to you, Timothy. We drink to fewer bombs and less chemicals. Our goal is having alcohol as our only chemical.”

  We each drank, slamming the empty glass on the table. Then he filled our glasses once more, and I made the next toast.

  “I toast to drinking together instead of fighting each other.”

  We drank again and guffawed with delight. Despite what an observer might have concluded, it was not the laughter of drunkenness but the roar of success.

  * * *

  32

  Bosnia

  My success in passing secret documents to coerce agreement on the chemical weapons treaty provided only a brief respite from the fear of retribution. It was extraordinarily difficult for me to ascertain where the threats were coming from. Was it my own government? The Russians? Or representatives from one of the many other countries who were not fully satisfied with the outcome of the negotiations?

  As I prepared for my next assignment, several events caused me to conclude that physical danger might be imminent. A recounting of the months following the Geneva talks will reveal the incontrovertible evidence of how I discovered what appeared to be plots against my well-being and even my life.

  The first of several incidents took place in Prague, where I had gone to work on an import-export arrangement for Biggers & Hayes. I was there for about a week, and I was thoroughly enjoying my two roles as a businessman and tourist. Most of my evenings were spent alone, by which I don’t mean in my hotel room, but without a companion. I enjoyed the food, the Czech beer, and the chamber-music concerts that seemed to be everywhere.

  Early one evening, as I strolled toward a concert, I saw Josef walking toward me. He was on the opposite side of the street, and he seemed to be alone. Nevertheless, I refrained from calling out to him, as I could n
ever be certain that I was free from surveillance. As he passed me, I looked directly at his eyes, but I was astonished to discover that his only response was to look down at the pavement. There was no sign of recognition, no words, not even a disguised gesture to say, ‘not now.’

  My hopes for a follow-up contact the next day were in vain. It was apparent that Josef wanted nothing to do with me, and I was crushed. Even though we had not passed secrets between us for several years, I still considered him to be my best agent. And I had continued to think of him as my friend, but this encounter appeared to put that to an end. Which frightened me in turn, for if he were not a friend, he must be a foe. What allies, I wondered, might be walking behind him, ready to pounce on me like a cat on a mouse.

  In an instant, I decided it was no longer safe to be seen at the concert I had planned to attend, and I returned to the security of my hotel room. It seemed clear that Prague was no longer a safe environment for me, and I avoided the city for a considerable length of time after that experience.

  • • • • •

  A second incident that made me fear for my safety took place in early spring in Graz, a city in southern Austria near the border with Slovenia. Its proximity to that former Yugoslav republic was the primary reason for my presence, but I must make a digression to fully explain.

  Slovenia had been an independent country for more than a year, but the more recent independence of the Republic of Bosnia and Herzegovina was being threatened by a combination of internal dissent and external military force. Reza Kashani had been correct in his predictions. Bosnia was almost fifty percent Muslim, while Catholic and Orthodox sects comprised the rest of the population. Many of the Christians were Serbs, and they found a strong ally in neighboring Serbia as small riots blossomed into larger military campaigns.

  Shortly after my close encounter in Prague, I returned to Washington, believing that my overseas mission was complete. But almost as soon as I arrived home, Pamela made urgent contact with me. This interaction was more formal and less intimate than many of our previous encounters, and we met for dinner at a nice restaurant.

  “The Balkans are going all to hell, Timothy. There’s already heavy fighting across the former Yugoslav republics, and our people are afraid it could bleed over into Greece and Turkey. We’re talking about civil wars, and it’s edging ever closer to NATO countries.”

  “What help could I be? I’ve always worked on treaty negotiations, and I’ve only shot a gun a couple of times in my whole life.”

  “That’s exactly the point. We don’t need you to fight. There’s too much fighting already. We want you to assist in negotiating a peaceful solution.”

  “Are there talks in progress?”

  “Not yet. We want you to initiate that.”

  I was flabbergasted.

  “That’s not how I’ve ever operated, Pamela. I’ve always been in the background. As a technical advisor.”

  “It’s the same thing. You will be sitting down with people at a table but there will be fewer people and the table will be smaller.”

  “How?” I asked. She already knew I would not refuse.

  “We’re setting up a base in Graz, Austria. You will be one of several people, although you will not be working together. It’s your language skills we want, Timothy. In Graz, you can pass for a local, and we’ll provide you with an Austrian passport.”

  “Why would I need that? I can go back and forth between here and Austria with no difficulty.”

  “It’s not for travel between the U.S. and Austria. This will allow you to travel through the former Yugoslav republics. Bosnia, Croatia, Serbia, Kosovo. All the hotspots.”

  “That could be dangerous.”

  “Yes.”

  • • • • •

  So, I found myself living in Graz on a long-term assignment.

  “Maybe a year,” Pamala had said. “Maybe longer.”

  I had rented a flat in the Old Town, beneath a fortress dating to the 16th century, and my existence might have been idyllic were it not for the purpose of my visit. I would be commuting from this quaint, medieval environment to a war zone.

  In those early days of the Yugoslav wars, our government was attempting to maintain a semblance of neutrality rather than take sides in a religious war. The other Americans assigned to the task of negotiating peace remained unknown to me, and messages were transmitted by way of dead drops. In certain locations, specified in advance, a scrap of paper or a piece of microfilm would be hidden behind a loose brick in a centuries-old wall. Or perhaps beneath a rock in a garden behind the opera house.

  The specific event that caused me to recognize the extent to which I was in jeopardy took place during my first week in Graz. I was still learning my way around, and I went for a long walk through the city. Suddenly I saw something that made me cringe in terror.

  On the path along the banks of the Mur River, a man had paused about a hundred feet in front of me, and I recognized him. It was the man who had been with Pamela in Vienna that time several years earlier. The man I had identified as Putin. And he was right there in Graz, within shouting distance. Or shooting distance, if that were his intention.

  I stepped off the path, and he did not see me. He stopped and sat for a few moments on a bench beside the path. It looked as though he only wanted to tie his shoe. When he continued toward his destination, I doubled back and tried to stay as far behind him as possible. Confrontations would not help me complete my mission, and I only wanted to keep myself away from the threat of violence.

  I stopped to rest on the same bench where the man had paused. Nothing looked out of the ordinary, but I later remembered touching a sticky material on the bench. I assumed it was a drop of sap that had fallen from a tree branch overhead, and I wiped it off quickly and thought no more about it. At least, not then.

  The man never reappeared during the time I was in Graz, perhaps because he had gone elsewhere, or possibly because he more carefully avoided being seen by me. There was no way to know.

  I always remained vigilant, however. After all, I was a covert operative with no colleagues to provide support, and the precarious nature of my situation was never far from my mind.

  I recall one weekend around that time when I fell quite ill. It began with a runny nose and nausea, and I recall a tightness in my chest that made it difficult to breathe.* If I had been in the States, I would have seen a physician, but I didn’t trust the medical practitioners that I might find in Graz. The illness didn’t last long, however, and I did not associate it at the time with the subsequent emotional distress I felt over the next several years nor with my occasional experience with slightly impaired memory.

  One might think that these symptoms would have terrified me, in view of my work the preceding year on the chemical weapons negotiations. But the connection never crossed my mind until several years later when I described my illness to a physician in Washington during my annual physical examination. In a very casual manner, he asked if my apartment in Graz might have led to an accidental exposure to organophosphate chemicals that were sometimes used in insecticides.

  “If so,” he advised, “you are quite fortunate that the exposure was very minor.”

  Naturally, I told him that an accidental pesticide exposure was highly unlikely. However, I did not reveal my concern that there existed another, more plausible explanation for my symptoms. I was keenly aware of that the KGB had used chemical agents and toxins to assassinate perceived enemies, and I did not wish to be such a victim at the hands of Putin.

  • • • • •

  From Graz, I began making periodic trips to Zagreb, probably two times per month, always by car, and always alone. The trip required some four hours, with more-or-less equal portions in Austria, Slovenia, and finally Croatia. Under other circumstances, these would have been quite pleasant jaunts through lovely countryside, but this could not be the case when hostilities were so near. I much preferred driving on back roads where military checkpoints w
ere infrequent, but the risk of meeting armed bandits or partisans always made me nervous.

  The papers I carried identified me as a businessman, and I could explain quite convincingly to a potential adversary that I sought business dealings that would bring more food and consumer goods into whatever area they might be defending. Of course, my eloquence would never save me if my other papers were to be discovered. Those papers would demonstrate that my true wares were neither food nor clothing but something far less tangible. I was dealing in information, and if that secret were to have been uncovered, it might quickly have led to my execution as a spy.

  For that reason, I carried only the bare minimum of such documents when I traveled, and the small hidden compartment in the trunk of my automobile was so covered in filth, that even the most intrepid interlocutor was unlikely to find it. The most important information was never committed to paper, so my intellect remained my most important means for transmitting information.

  Zagreb, the capital city of Croatia, was a beautiful place, but its history as part of what had been Yugoslavia meant that intrigue and danger were inescapable. The city had once been a hub in the Soviet empire, and now it was surrounded by former Yugoslav republics that were at war with each other or engaged in bloody conflict among factions within their own borders. Zagreb was far enough north of the worst fighting in Bosnia to offer a semblance of safety, but it was only an illusion. Consequently, a deep and abiding dread accompanied me every time I traveled to a rendezvous.

  Sometimes, I doubted the value of the entire effort. The U.S. government took the position that its actions were humanitarian and had the goal of bringing peace to a ravaged part of the world, while my counterparts were frequently the purveyors of brutal onslaughts of murder and rape. I was reasonably certain that the actions I undertook, and the information I provided, would result in further death and destruction. Names of people, locations of military forces, times of planned attacks. All of it was information that could be used for tactical advantage. It could be used to kill others. And if they knew I had this information, they would kill me.