Laughter in the Shadows

by Stuart Methven

  The clamor against the war made it hard to study. I found myself tagging along behind draft card burners and antiwar protestors to “get a feel” for the mood of the country I had been away from for the better part of twelve years. I audited “sit-ins” and “love-ins” on the Boston Common and let my hair grow long. I wrote my thesis on parapolitics and pacification and was invited to join Kissinger’s private “round table” on Vietnam. At one point we briefed presidential candidate George Romney, who later said he had been “brainwashed” on the war in Vietnam. Fortunately, his “brainwashing” did not occur at our round table in Cambridge, or I would have been called on the carpet in Langley.

  A Thai graduate student and friend who knew I had been in Vietnam asked me to give a talk to his Harvard club about the war. I was reluctant to accept his invitation, because the week before violent student demonstrations at Harvard had prevented Defense Secretary Robert McNamara from speaking and forced him to leave. My Thai friend assured me I would be speaking only informally, and, besides, it was the students, not the administration, who had invited me.

  I was having a glass of sherry when a group of demonstrators stormed into the club. I decided I had better leave, but my student hosts stepped in front of the demonstrators and talked to them, pointing out that I was their guest. They were welcome to stay and listen, or they could leave. Most of them stayed.

  I didn’t waste time trying to justify the war. I told the students I had spent a lot of time in Vietnam attending funerals of schoolteachers, nurses, and hamlet officials assassinated by the Viet Cong. Contrary to popular belief, I said the Viet Cong were not the shining freedom fighters portrayed in the media. To the contrary, they had no compunction about beheading innocent villagers and sticking their heads in toilet bowls. The insurgency was not a “people’s revolution,” and brutal acts had been committed by both sides. The people of South Vietnam wanted only to live in peace and tend to their rice paddies, and even though they might have little use for their own government, they didn’t want to be dominated by the North Vietnamese.

  When the talk was over, I was surprised both by the applause and by later comments that this was the first time they had heard about the atrocities committed by the other side. In the end, I learned more from them than they did from me. They told me their biggest problem with the war was that the government and the Pentagon kept lying about it with their constant barrage of propaganda saying that we were “winning hearts and minds,” that we were fighting for a just cause, and that there was a “light at the end of the tunnel.” One student told me something that kept coming back to me as the antiwar protests reached a crescendo. “Our government lies at its peril.”

  My sabbatical went fast. In June 1967, I donned cap and gown. My family came down from New Hampshire and applauded when I was handed my master’s degree in international relations.

  I said good-bye to my hippie classmates, had my hair cut, and went back to Langley, where I learned of my new assignment: Deputy Chief, Samudra.

  CHAPTER 9: Samudra

  Espionage … the most contagious plague of courts … a viper among roses … spider of antechambers weaving the strands of its subtle talk to catch every passing fly, parrot with curved beak reporting everything it hears… . All qualities of which anyone would be ashamed, save the one … born to the service of evil.

  —UMBERTO ECO, The Island of the Day Before

  The Samudran archipelago, more than three thousand islands covering an area of 750 square miles, is known for its volcanoes, java coffee, Melanese dancers, batik cloth, and fire-spitting dragons. Rich in oil, spices, and minerals, the country’s revenues pile up, ensuring that the mainland and outer island Samudrans could maintain their laid-back tropical lifestyle.

  Following World War II, Samudra gained its independence from colonial rule, and Bwang Karno became its first president. During the Cold War, the neutralist president sided with the Soviet Union, which showed its appreciation by equipping and training the Samudran armed forces presenting the navy with two frigates and a battle cruiser and equipping the air force with a squadron of MiGs.

  Alarmed about the country’s list toward the Soviet Union, a group of army officers decided to act. The cabal overthrew the leftist president, stuffed the bodies of his pro-communist generals in a crocodile hole, and proclaimed the cabal’s leader, Colonel Suwanto, president.

  I arrived in Bintang, the Samudran capital, in 1969. My first task, as deputy chief of station (DCOS), was to coordinate with the Samudrans plans for the coming visit of President Richard Nixon. The mayor of Bintang had taken pains to spruce up the capital for the visit, including painting one side of the navy’s one battle cruiser, a gift from the USSR, that would be visible to the presidential motorcade.

  Joy, Gray, and Megan arrived a month after the visit. Laurie, having graduated from Langley High School, had married the son of an Agency officer and moved to Charlottesville, Virginia. Since there was no high school in Bintang, Kent was sent to boarding school in the Berkshires. A year after his graduation from Jakanda’s International School, Gray left to attend Australia’s Geelong School, which sent students for a year to “Timbertop” in the Australian highlands, where, in addition to their studies, the students underwent a toughening process previously undergone by Prince Charles, heir to the British throne.

  During the summer, Bill Bell, director of the International Nickel Company for Southeast Asia, arranged temporary jobs for the boys on a volcanic nickel-rich island off the Samudran coast, where they learned the basics of surveying, mining, and prospecting.

  Laurie came one fall with Marcus, our first grandchild.

  The Russians

  President Suwanto, even though a hard-line anticommunist, hadn’t gotten around to expelling the large contingent of Soviet “advisers” left over from the precoup era. Bintang, with so many Russians around, was a beehive of espionage activity and ideal hunting ground for Soviet stalkers.

  Recruiting Russians had always been the province of the Soviet Division, which held that only its officers had the sophistication necessary to run operations against the Soviet target. The recruiting record of the Soviet Division had been so dismal, however, that the task of recruiting Russians had been turned over to the field.

  The Soviet official is a hard nut to crack. The case officer pursuing his Russian quarry has to start from scratch, because of the paucity of case studies to draw on. Most of the Soviet Division’s agents were “walkins” who had knocked on the doors of American embassies asking for asylum and a free trip to the U.S.A. Case studies of the few “moles” not interred in the Siberian steppes or those still mining the lodes of the Kremlin were kept under lock and key in the tombs of the Soviet Division.

  Defector files were available, but since most defectors are suspect agent provocateurs or “doubles” run by the Soviet intelligence service, the KGB (Committee for State Security), counterintelligence officers, responsible for ferreting out moles and penetrations of the Agency, are anathema to case officers who look upon them as vultures ready to descend and expose the cancerous insides of their recruited agents.

  Nevertheless, recruitment of Soviets was the biggest game in most Stations of any size, and Bintang, with its large Soviet presence, was a privileged spy game preserve, abounding with spoor for hunting these priority targets.

  The Soviets in Samudra, although numerous, were hard to get at. Most lived in the Soviet compound, but a few KGB and GRU (Soviet Military Intelligence) “trusties” were allowed to live outside the compound in Bintang.

  Once the case officer selected his target, he would run name checks for background information, which was usually not very informative: heavy drinker (most Soviets living abroad), woman chaser (with their wives in Moscow, almost all were philanderers), hard-line communist (he wouldn’t have been allowed outside the USSR if he weren’t).

  Contacting Soviets was difficult, and the case officer had to use his ingenuity. Surveillance was difficult, because pal
e-faced case officers didn’t blend in with dark-skinned Samudrans. Vehicular surveillance was possible, however. Cars belonging to foreign embassies were identifiable by their CD (diplomatic corps) license plates, with each country being assigned a numerical prefix. CD-37 was the Soviet embassy prefix, and one case officer deliberately smashed into a CD-37 car as it left the Soviet compound, assuming the Soviet would get out of his car to inspect the damage, allowing the case officer, after exchanging insurance information, to try to arrange for a future meeting.

  This particular Soviet, however, did not get out of his car, leaving his chauffer to inspect the damage. The driver glared briefly at the case officer, then got back in and drove away.

  Another case officer set his fishing pole downstream from where he had heard his target went fishing. When the Soviet target arrived, he spotted the interloper even though he was fifty yards downstream, picked up his tackle, and left.

  To assist his case officers in contacting their Soviet targets, the COS asked the American ambassador to challenge his Soviet counterpart to an intramural volleyball match. The Soviet ambassador immediately accepted the challenge and fielded a team of burly KGB officers.

  The semipro Soviets trounced their amateur American counterparts, wolfed down the hamburgers and the beer offered by the U.S. ambassador, and left before Station officers had a chance to exchange calling cards.

  Yuri

  My first Soviet target in Jakanda was the deputy chief of the KGB contingent there. Yuri was a known hard-core Soviet, and it would be difficult, if not impossible, to recruit him.

  Yuri was short, arrogant, and crass, constantly hitching up his trousers and leaving his fly open. His suits were rarely pressed, and his gruff manner and rudeness hinted at this peasant background. He was my target, however, and I had to pursue him.

  Yuri lived in the Soviet embassy compound. Since I had access to him only at official embassy functions, I decided use my daughter. One of Megan’s friends had a pony cart, which the girls had recently been riding around in selling Girl Scout cookies to members of the international community. I asked Megan to make a detour with the pony cart and deliver two boxes of cookies to Yuri’s apartment.

  The girls, excited about their mission to the compound, trotted off. When they arrived at the gate to the embassy compound, they waited until an embassy car arrived and the guard opened the gate. They trotted in behind the car and were inside the compound before the guard could close the gate. The girls waved to the guard and trotted off to Yuri’s apartment building, which I had shown them on a map of the compound, hopped out, and left the surrey parked outside.

  They walked up to the second floor and knocked on the door of Yuri’s apartment. A burly woman with a red kerchief tied around her head peered out, looking up and down the corridor. When she saw the two figures in green uniforms, she stepped back to close the door. Several other ladies, however, apparently visiting Mrs. Yuri, peered out into the hall and, seeing the girls, urged Mrs. Yuri to invite them inside.

  Once inside, the girls opened one of the boxes and began passing it around. The ladies chattered and giggled as they sampled the cookies, until suddenly there was a loud banging on the door. A burly Russian burst into the room and began shouting at the women, pointing at the two girls. The women, however, were not intimidated and formed a protective circle around their visitors, shouting at the intruder, who was still pointing excitedly at the green-uniformed figures. It was a standoff until a uniformed Soviet entered and called over Madame Yuri.

  The girls decided it was a good time to leave. They curtsied politely to the ladies, handed both boxes to Yuri’s wife, and dashed out past the two men standing by the door. They ran down the corridor and the stairs and out to the pony cart, which was still standing by the curb. A crowd had gathered around the cart, and the girls had to push through them to get to it. Taking up the reins, they rode off, waving to the crowd of onlookers. When they got to the gate at the entrance to the compound, they urged the pony forward and ducked under the barrier before the guard could react. Once safely out of the compound, they turned and waved to the guard, who was shaking his fist in the air.

  The girls had effected the first American penetration of the Soviet compound. I wondered about Yuri’s reaction when he found my embassy calling card inside the box of cookies.

  I found out when Yuri confronted me during a reception at the Swedish embassy. To the amusement of nearby diplomats, Yuri lambasted me for “using children to do CIA dirty work.” It was obvious I was wasting my time on the thick-skinned Yuri, who was too hard core.

  My last run at Yuri was during the International Trade Fair, which took place every December. Various countries promoted and exhibited their national products and specialties, the Swedes flogging glassware, the Japanese cameras, the Chinese their silk, and the Russians tractors and vodka. The Americans, because of “budget limitations,” had to be satisfied with a plywood mock-up of the New York City skyline plus four Georgia O’Keefe reproductions. The fair was a mecca of espionage activities and targets of opportunity. The KGB chief sent out his case officers disguised as “fair guides,” Mossad agents from Israel posing as “buyers” plied Arab nations’ pavilions, and Chinese Communists went about pilfering brochures from the Taiwan exhibit.

  On opening day, I went directly to the Soviet pavilion, walking along the red carpet lined with hammer and sickle flags. Yuri was standing behind a long table with bottles of different-colored vodkas arranged in ten-pin triangles. He didn’t look particularly pleased to see me approaching, but because he couldn’t turn me away, he grudgingly offered me a glass of vodka.

  I offered a toast to “Mother Russia,” za vache zdorobie, thanked Yuri, and emptied the glass. I turned to walk away, but Yuri had decided he wasn’t going to let his American counterpart off that easily. He told me to try the “top-quality” yellow vodka. I drank and gave another toast to the Motherland. Yuri then urged me to sample the red vodka, which he said went down best when chased with 150-proof Stolichnaya.

  Yuri was trying to get me drunk, and I knew if I didn’t break away from my KGB counterpart with his rainbow of vodkas, he would succeed. I grabbed Yuri by the arm and insisted he come over to visit the American pavilion. He tried to beg off, but I persisted, urging him in a loud voice to permit me to repay the hospitality of our grand Russian ally.

  I then guided him to our pavilion to a table in the back, where I had stashed a bottle of Jack Daniels for “special guests.” I poured out a double shot for Yuri, who tossed it down, and before he could protest, I poured him a second double shot. When I offered him a third drink, he shattered his glass by slamming it down on the table. He then abruptly turned around and left, without even bothering to offer a toast to Uncle Sam.

  I was still woozy from Yuri’s vodka and went out to the car, where Nick, my driver, was waiting. I climbed in and told Nick to drive me home, then promptly fell asleep. I had barely dropped off when the car stopped. Nick had turned around and told me to look out the window. A Mercedes with CD-37 plates had gone off the road and was sitting in the middle of a field. A figure was leaning against the Mercedes, emptying his bladder on the rear wheel. It was Yuri.

  I got out of my car and walked across the field and came up behind Yuri. When I tapped him on the shoulder. The Russian jerked around in surprise and immediately tried zipping up his fly. His privates became caught in his zipper, and Yuri cried out, and then, when he recognized who had tapped on his shoulder, he yelled even louder, frantically tugging at his zipper.

  Yuri was finally able to zip up his pants, but he was still weaving unsteadily. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to steady him, and offered him a ride. He shucked my hand off, growling that he didn’t need my help because he had his own car. Just then the radiator of the Mercedes let out a hissing noise and the front wheels sank into the wet ground.

  Finally, realizing his car wasn’t going anywhere, Yuri grudgingly let me guide him across the field and up the bank to my
car. Nick was standing, holding the back door open, and he helped me get the protesting Yuri inside. I quietly told Nick to drive us to my house. When we arrived at my house, Yuri was still grumbling. I helped him out of the car, led him inside, and sat him in a chair facing the Christmas tree we had just decorated the night before. I then went out to the kitchen, brought out two glasses of eggnog, and handed one to Yuri, which he immediately drank.

  When he put his glass down, I told him it was customary during the Yuletide season for guests to hang an ornament on the Christmas tree. I held out a shiny red ball, helped him out of the chair, and guided him over to the tree. Yuri mumbled something about heathen customs, but finally hung the ornament on a branch of the tree, unaware that Joy had just taken a picture with my Polaroid.

  Yuri again insisted on leaving, but I stalled him long enough so that I could find a copy of the Reader’s Digest, which featured an article on “The KGB in America.” I slipped the magazine into the pocket of his overcoat, helped him out to the car, and told Nick to drive Yuri to the Soviet embassy.

  A half hour later, Nick returned and told me what had happened when Yuri arrived at his embassy. The security guard, obviously surprised to see a KGB officer arriving in an American embassy car, rushed down the steps to open the car door. Yuri almost fell out of the car before the guard caught him, the Readers Digest and the Polaroid photo dropping out of his pocket. The security guard quickly picked up the magazine and photo and then helped the KGB deputy up the steps into the embassy.

  Leaving Yuri at the entrance to his embassy in a U.S. embassy car was like leaving a wreath for an intended Mafia victim. Three weeks later Yuri was sent back to Moscow, a blot on his KGB escutcheon.

  Although chances were I would never know, it was possible that one day Yuri might conclude that a defector’s life might have more to offer than being a disgraced officer in his own service.