Do svedana, Yuri, good-bye.
The Defector
Defectors. All of us. While we are fresh, we are handed round and used. When our tricks are known and we are past our prime, we are tossed onto the rubbish heap.
—JOHN LE CARRE, Absolute Friends
One target literally fell into the Station’s hands. A drunk Soviet crashed his car through the gates of the American embassy. The Marine guard, who pulled him out of the car, heard him mumble something about “asylum.”
Most defectors resist being “turned around” and sent back to work in place. They resist because they wouldn’t have defected in the first place if they knew they would have to go back. In the case of the gate crasher, he had a good reason for not going back. He had absconded with his embassy’s petty cash fund and blown it all at the local casino.
We weren’t going to turn him away, but we had to do something with him right away. We spirited “Dimitri” out of the embassy and stashed him in a spare bedroom in my house. Meanwhile, the Soviet ambassador launched a protest with the Samudran Foreign Ministry about “foreign agents” kidnapping one of their diplomats. The Foreign Ministry “took note” of the Soviet ambassador’s protest and passed it along to the Security Service.
While we waited for a decision to be made about the defector, I stayed at home and took meals into his bedroom. Karl, a Russian-speaking case officer, came over to talk to Dimitri and make him feel more at ease. While all this activity was going on in the house, including visits from the station chief, I overheard a conversation between Gray and Megan talking about the “funny goings-on.” “Megan, you know why Bill and Karl keep coming by the house? Because that missing Russian that everyone is talking about is hiding out in our house!”
When it was decided that the defector should be sent to the United States, Karl and I accompanied him. After we landed and were saying good-bye, Dimitri, who had become attached to us, looked so worried that the officers who had met us suggested we take him out to dinner and they would pick him up later. We drove to a restaurant in nearby Falls Church that had a band and floorshow that might help to ease Dimitri’s transition. We had just been seated and ordered a round of drinks when all the lights went out. The worst cloudburst in fifty years dumped a foot of rain and flooded streets, knocking out power in Washington and Virginia. We sat in the dark for almost an hour before they were able to bring out candles. I noticed the wide-eyed expression on Dimitri’s face. The Russian was probably wondering if he had made the right choice in defecting to a “land of plenty” that had no electric power.
Dimitri was eventually given a new identity and resettled in the American Midwest. He brooded about his wife and son back in Moscow and started to drink heavily, calling his case officer to come to his rescue. This went on for almost a year until he made contact for the last time. He was phoning from the Soviet consulate in New York and said he had decided to turn himself in. He was calling to say good-bye.
The last I heard of Dimitri was a year later, when another defector reported that Dimitri had resurfaced in Moscow and was giving lectures at the KGB Academy on “CIA Brainwashing Techniques.”
Maria
Since Yuri had undoubtedly “burned” me with the Soviet embassy, I would have to recruit an access agent to get at my next Soviet target.
Maria was dark haired, tall, and, with her smooth, olive complexion, stunning. Her Russian father had immigrated to China in the 1920s as part of the White Russian diaspora. From her father, Maria inherited her height, sharp tongue, and volatile temper; from her Chinese mother, high cheekbones and a slight epicanthic slant to her eyes.
I first heard and then saw Maria playing tennis. She was leaping like a gazelle around the court, chasing lobs, smashing returns, and cursing in a mix of Russian, Samudran, and English. Her partner was a Soviet embassy diplomat, which surprised me, because Soviet officials normally shunned White Russians, whom they considered “closet czarists.” Maria must have been an exception, because she was often seen at Soviet embassy functions.
The next time I saw Maria she was sitting beside the Hotel Samudra swimming pool, conversing with a Russian, who I recognized from a rogues’ gallery photo as a GRU colonel, Boris Ossofsky, head of the Soviet Military Mission in Samudra.
Boris
In contrast to most of the burly Soviets in Jakarta, Boris Ossofsky was delicate, fine-featured, and frail looking. His blotched complexion indicated he was sensitive to the tropical sun, which he tried to keep at bay with dark glasses and a wide-brim straw hat. Boris had a gentle face and, according to what Maria told me later, spoke soft classical Russian unlike the guttural patois spoken by the new apparatchik generation.
When I observed her at the pool laughing and whispering with Boris, it was obvious Maria had excellent rapport with a potential new target. I hadn’t considered the possibility of a White Russian as an access agent. Maria, however, was apparently well liked by the Soviets, who often invited her to receptions at their embassy and vied for her as a doubles partner.
Maria would make an ideal access agent, although she would bristle at the term and prefer “soul mate” or “friendly intermediary.” Maria and Boris. My adrenalin was pumping.
At the tennis courts, I noticed that between sets Maria had gone over to talk to an American who happened to be a friend of mine at the embassy. She played tennis with Maria and agreed to introduce me. Maria gripped my hand hard as if she was grasping a tennis racket. Her English was excellent but rapid fire, and I had a hard time breaking in. At one point in the conversation, she said she heard Americans were great dog lovers, and she was looking for a dog as a pet for her children.
I told Maria a friend of mine had recently had a litter of Labrador puppies shipped in from Australia. I would ask him to give me one for Maria. The friend in question was the local Pan American Airlines representative, who was a good source of gossip on the comings and goings of foreign visitors. I was sure he would spring a puppy for me if I asked him.
A few weeks later I presented Maria with a Labrador puppy, which paved the way for a lasting friendship. Maria liked to gossip and was a fount of information on the international community, especially the extramarital affairs of members of the diplomatic community, including several prominent ambassadors.
Maria was not as forthcoming with me about her Soviet friends. She usually cut me off when I brought up the subject of the Russians, telling me Americans don’t know the difference between Russians and Soviets. She asked how “you Americans, with your Elvis Presley, Coca-Cola, and Hollywood could possibly be interested in the land of Tchaikovsky, Dostoevsky, and the Bolshoi.”
When I brought up the Cold War, she said it was nothing more than a “stupid squabble between overgrown bullies bragging about who had the most nukes.”
Later on I decided I would try a different approach. I told Maria I had a friend in the United States who was working toward a doctorate in Russian studies. His doctoral thesis focused on profiles of Soviet citizens. He had completed profiles on Russian émigré defectors, exiled writers, and dissidents living in the United States. But they were anomalies. He wanted profiles of Soviets such as those living abroad and asked me if I could help him in his research. I was about to go on, but Maria, seeing through my charade, interrupted. “You say you have a friend in America who wants to know about the kinds of Russians living in Samudra for some paper he’s writing? You can do better than that!”
My drooping fig leaf left me vulnerable, and I braced for another tirade on my “lack of sensitivity” about the Russian soul. It didn’t come. Instead, Maria asked if I had a particular Russian in mind whose id I wanted her to dissect. “Like Boris, maybe?”
Maria probably didn’t believe there was a professor, but it didn’t matter. She told me, “OK. I’ll do your Freud thing and look into the soul of my friend, Boris. I always wanted to be a couch doctor!”
Couch Doctor
The character profile was a recent Headquarters requirement
. New times required new methods. Psychologists had extended their Rorshach tentacles into field operations, and a psychological profile was required on any prospective Soviet recruitment candidate. Twenty pages of questions from breast-feeding and thumb sucking, to fingernail chewing and masturbation. There were two pages of questions about dreams.
Maria liked the idea of probing Boris id, telling me, “You want to know what Boris thinks about his mommy’s boobies? I’ll get him talking about ‘Mother Russia’ and go from there. Masturbation? I’ll ask him how he copes in Samudra with his wife back in Moscow!”
I passed Maria the questions piecemeal to avoid overloading her and making Boris suspicious. She was intrigued by the questions, but I cautioned her that probing too deeply might set off alarm bells, leading Boris to clam up or even become hostile. Maria told me to relax. Her Slavic instincts would tell her how to play Boris without making him suspicious. I should have given Maria more credit. She was almost professional in eliciting answers from Boris to even the most sensitive questions. Boris liked talking to Maria about himself, and in a matter of weeks I had enough material for the psychologists to chew on.
The feedback from Headquarters was excellent, highlighting a number of Boris’s vulnerabilities I had overlooked, particularly his chronic hypochondria. Foreigners stationed in the tropics, with lots of time on their hands, have a tendency to develop symptoms of a variety of tropical diseases. In his conversations with Maria, Boris had alluded to a variety of ailments he had experienced, including boils, rashes, stomach pains, and mysterious blotches on his skin. He had obsessions about coming down with a fatal disease such as dengue fever or cerebral malaria. He had dreams about succumbing to the dreaded yellow monkey disease.
Boris needed an American doctor.
Doctor Andy
The time had come to cut Maria out of the operation. I thanked for her help with Boris and told her that she could now stop playing couch doctor and go back to just being friends with Boris.
Doctor Andrew, “Andy,” was the American embassy physician. He had helped me once with Mikolai, a Yugoslav friend who had come to my house late one night covered with blood. Mikolai was sobbing uncontrollably and it was several minutes before he calmed down enough to tell me he had just killed his wife, Jill.
I was worried about Mikolai’s bleeding and called Andy, who immediately came over. He examined Mikolai and told me that, despite being soaked with blood, my Yugoslav friend was unhurt. We concluded the blood must have come from his wife, and the three of us rushed over to Mikolai’s house. Jill lay sprawled on the patio in a pool of blood. The tiles were littered with broken glass, several shards protruding from her hair. Andy knelt down and felt her pulse. Jill was in shock but still alive, and like in one of those old westerns, Andy told Mikolai to quickly bring towels and a basin of warm water.
After Andy cleaned and bandaged her wounds, Jill began to come around. Andy told Mikolai his wife had suffered a concussion from the bottle of Campari he had smashed over her head. The Campari also accounted for most of the “blood” splattered over the patio. Mikolai sheepishly admitted his Slavic temper had gotten the better of him. Andy gave Mikolai a sedative to give his wife and told him to bring her by the embassy the next day so he could check on her condition. Andy and I then went back to my house.
I apologized to Andy for rousting him out in the middle of the night, but Andy insisted it was a welcome change from his daily routine of treating bored wives with imaginary ailments, diaper-rashed infants, and worried husbands checking for signs of gonorrhea. He said if I had any more interesting cases to give him a call.
I took Andy up on his offer sooner than expected. Going through Boris’s file, two items caught my attention: his hypochondria and the address of his apartment. Boris lived at #10 Jalan Baru, the same street Dr. Andy lived on.
I asked Andy over for dinner to thank him for helping me out with my Yugoslav friend. After dinner, I asked Andy if he could help me out again, this time with a Russian military officer. I asked him if his Hippocratic oath of confidentiality would apply in this case, which was highly sensitive. He said that secrecy was as much a part of his profession as it was of mine.
I told Andy about Boris and about his hypochondria, which would make him amenable to an approach from an American doctor. I briefed him on what we knew about Boris, his habits, and the location of his apartment. I wanted Andy to contact the Soviet, develop a friendship with him, and later introduce me.
The plan for contacting Boris was simple. We knew that Boris went for a walk every evening after he came back from work. He walked along a path by the river, stopping frequently to look at the fishing boats or the Samudran sunset. Andy should begin walking along the same path Boris took and inevitably they would meet. Andy should not acknowledge Boris the first time their paths crossed, but later he should nod to him and wish him a good evening. Later he could try to start a conversation with Boris, and eventually he could sit beside him on one of the benches on the promontory where Boris usually stopped to watch the sunset.
I gave Andy a photograph of Boris and asked him to keep me posted.
Two weeks later Andy came by my house, and I could tell he was very pleased with himself. He told me that he and Boris had already become friends. He had passed Boris several times along the path until one afternoon Boris asked Andy to sit with him on the promontory.
They didn’t talk much at first, concentrating on watching the praus. Boris commented that they were probably similar to those described by Marco Polo in his thirteenth-century journals. He seemed to be well read, and they conversed on a variety of subjects except for world affairs.
The sunset watch became almost a ritual, until one afternoon Boris didn’t arrive on the promontory. He showed up the next day later than usual complaining of stomach cramps, which he said had kept him from coming the day before. The cramps still gnawed at him, so Andy confided that he was a doctor and would bring some medicine for Boris the following afternoon, which he did. The next day Boris told Andy his cramps had disappeared, and he was so pleased he invited Andy to come to his apartment over the weekend, saying they could watch the sun go down from his terrace while drinking his own elixir of vodka and caviar.
“How’s that for Operation Hippocrates? We sit there watching the sun go down over the Jaya River and he tells me all about the sunsets over the Volga! Then he wonders if I can balance his metabolism and expunge the nasty larvae corroding his intestines. Next thing I’ll become his confessor. Now, about my fee—”
I encouraged Andy to continue the relationship. The two men soon became close, alternating “consultations” and chess at Andy’s house with vodka sunset watches at Boris’s apartment. Boris began telling Andy intimate details of his life, details he hadn’t even told Maria. When he looked over the trees at the minarets of the mosques in the distance, he told Andy how much he missed Moscow with its Orthodox cupolas and the ice-crusted Volga. For his part, Andy treated Boris’s ulcer, soothed his rheumatoid pains, and elevated his metabolism to its maximum.
It was time for Andy to introduce his “friend” to Boris. Andy wasn’t enthusiastic and made excuses about delaying the introduction. I reminded Andy of our original agreement and assured him the introduction wouldn’t affect his friendship with Boris or tarnish his physician’s credentials. We would play it out as a “good-cop-bad-cop” routine—Andy the good friend/physician and me the “bad” bureaucrat/political officer. All I would ask of Andy, once the introduction had taken place, was to keep me advised of any feedback about “the American political officer he had met at Andy’s house.”
Andy was relieved he could be able to continue his relationship with Boris without being tainted. He was certain Boris would tell him what he thought of me, and if he suspected my motives.
We arranged for me to be at Andy’s house one night when Boris was due to come over for a game of chess. He introduced me as an embassy officer who had come by to pick up some pills. I let a couple of
weeks go by, and for my second meeting, I told Andy I wanted to talk to Boris alone. When the Russian came by, I would tell him that Andy was out on a call, that he would be back shortly, and that I was just minding his office until he came back.
When Boris arrived, he seemed undecided about whether to wait for Andy or leave. I offered him a drink from Andy’s bar, assuring him the doctor would be back shortly. Boris accepted the offer of a drink and agreed to wait until Andy returned. Boris pointed to the chessboard and asked if I played. I told him the game was too complicated for me, but my son, Gray, played and often talked about the great Russian chess players. I added that I was sure he would be very excited if he could play with a Russian chess master like Boris.
It wasn’t a subtle ploy, but I wasn’t sure I’d get another crack at Boris. The chess gambit would give me an opportunity to talk to Boris without Andy being around. Boris smiled and didn’t reply.
When Andy returned, and I told him I had asked Boris to play chess with my son, Andy picked up on the cue and told Boris he ought to take me up on the invitation and inspire a future American chess champion. Andy added that he would be happy to help arrange the match. I suggested a time and date, and although I could see Boris didn’t like being pressured, he agreed and told Andy to arrange it.
The day of the proposed match, I wasn’t sure Boris would show. Andy told me it was all arranged and that he had given Boris my address, but that he knew the Russian wasn’t enthusiastic about coming to my house. Boris surprised me, arriving at the time agreed on. I introduced him to Gray, and the two sat down to play. I went to my study until the match was over and Boris got ready to leave. I offered him a drink, but he declined. He said he had enjoyed playing with Gray and they had arranged a rematch.
Boris came to the house several times afterward to play chess with Gray, but on only one occasion did he agree to stay for a drink. I tried talking to him about Russia, the competition in space, and nuclear proliferation, but Boris said he wasn’t interested in world politics.
Laughter in the Shadows Page 16