by David Wise
As soon as Freundlich received Cassidy’s warning call, he left his apartment and was gone for several hours. The FBI agents who had him under cautious surveillance believe he put his report in a dead drop near a building on the Grand Concourse, in the Bronx. But they could not be sure of that.
As Robert C. Loughney, one of the FBI agents, put it, “After IXORA got the call, and he reacted, the question was how close to get with our surveillance. If we went forward with a full-court press, he would know we were into his knickers.”
In July 1972, two months after his telephone call to Freundlich, Cassidy traveled to Washington to meet with Mikhail Danilin. At the meeting, Cassidy recounted, “I mentioned I had called the New York contact. And Danilin was surprised. He looked a little bewildered but passed it off right away and didn’t question me. It was clear to me he didn’t know what I was talking about.”
The FBI concluded that no one in the GRU had told Danilin about Cassidy’s call. Certainly, Freundlich was under standing orders to report any call from Cassidy and possibly other sentinels. Perhaps there were real Soviet spies in the American military with similar instructions; there was no way to know. The cryptic call IXORA had received six months earlier might have come from a real spy. But either the GRU had cut Danilin out of the loop, for some internal bureaucratic reason, or it had simply neglected to keep him informed.
Danilin may well have let his organization know exactly how he felt about what had happened. On November 2, when Danilin asked Cassidy for specific military documents by name—implying the existence of a genuine mole—he also ordered him to destroy the instructions and parol for the telephone warning.
He was directed to have no further contact with Edmund Freundlich. Uncle Eddie would receive no more calls from Joe Cassidy. But the FBI had plans for IXORA.
C H A P T E R: 14
THE BIG APPLE
In June 1973, four months after he retired from the army, Cassidy got a letter from his Soviet controllers instructing him to purchase a shortwave radio.
“Buy a new Zenith Royal 7000 radio,” the message said. “Do it outside your home city and without registering your name. Pay in cash.”
Cassidy acted on his instructions. “I bought the radio for around two hundred and fifty dollars, a Zenith Royal 7000 Trans-Oceanic,” he said. “I still have it.” The Russians provided him with certain times and frequencies to listen to Radio Moscow on the mornings of the first and third Mondays of each month. The messages were transmitted in Morse code, in a cipher keyed to the same miniature dictionary, The Universal Webster, that Cassidy had been given by the Soviets nearly seven years earlier. He used the dictionary to decipher the coded messages.
In early September, Mikhail Danilin left Washington for the last time. Cassidy was told in the June letter that his next personal meeting, with a new “Mike,” was to take place in December in New York City where Russian intelligence officers worked under diplomatic cover at the Soviet mission to the United Nations and in the UN secretariat. “Return in your package both special cameras unless you have a new job with an access to classified documents,” the instructions continued. “Your messages to me are okay but in the future try to leave larger margins on both sides on the top and at the bottom of the sheets you are writing on. . . . Do not forget to steam my letter before developing.”
Finally, the letter asked Cassidy to brush up on his cryptography. It included sixteen six-digit groups containing a coded test message. “To refresh your skill in reading my coded messages try to work out this one,” the letter said.
A few days before Christmas, Cassidy drove north from Florida to keep the rendezvous with the Russians. “I had to drive,” he recalled. “If I flew, it would look funny going through security with a hollow rock full of film.”¹ The fake rock, it had also occurred to him, might look to security like a good place to hide drugs. Aside from Cassidy’s concerns about airport security, he was going to need a car in New York to go to all the drop, signal, and meeting sites specified by the Russians. In the end, however, O’Flaherty decided to transport the rock north.
In New York, Cassidy checked into a motel in Howard Beach, Queens, which, to the vast embarrassment of both Cassidy and the bureau, turned out to be a hot-sheet motel, whose patrons used it for quickie sex. Next day, WALLFLOWER moved to the Hilton near John F. Kennedy International Airport.
Meanwhile, O’Flaherty flew to New York from Tampa, carrying a gym bag with the hollow rock, which contained the two small cameras and films of secret documents that Cassidy had photographed before he retired. O’Flaherty, with his FBI credentials, would have no trouble going through security. But no one at the airport bothered to ask why he was traveling with a rock in his carry-on bag. In New York, fortunately, O’Flaherty had not been booked at the seedy motel; he stayed with his mother in Rockaway Point, Queens, in the house where he had grown up.
Cassidy’s instructions from the Russians, were, as always, detailed and meticulous. “Come to New York City on December 22, 1973 (Saturday),” he was told. “At 2 P.M. leave your stuff at the following place: From 104th Street in Queens walk west along 165 Avenue to its dead-end. Put your package behind the right side of the concrete wall with railings preventing cars from going further.” If for some reason the dead drop was not suitable, he was given a “reserve place” in Brooklyn.
The meeting place with the new “Mike” was to be an antique shop in Brooklyn. “At 4 P.M. come to the entrance to ‘Bea’s As Is’ at 3004 Avenue J. Stay there for 3–5 minutes then walk slowly along right side of Avenue J, turn right to New York Avenue, turn right to Avenue K, towards Nostrand Avenue. Have a book size package in yellow wrapping in your hand and a smoking pipe in your mouth.”
The instructions then supplied the seemingly odd parol that was to be used for identification. “If someone approaches you and asks: ‘Could you tell me where is the nearest drive-in theatre?’ You should answer: ‘Beltsville Drive-in is the nearest I know but the best one is Rockville Drive-in Theatre.’ ”²
If no one approached Cassidy, he was told to “repeat the whole thing on the next day.”
After the personal meeting with the new “Mike,” Cassidy was instructed to go to a dead drop in Brooklyn to pick up his rock: “My package will be between the pole and metal fence going along 36 Street.”
The GRU was not making matters easy for Cassidy in the Big Apple. To signal that the pickup had taken place successfully, he was to drive all the way to the Yorkville section of Manhattan and place “a horizontal line with a red marker on the lamp pole located at the south-eastern corner of the intersection of the First Avenue and 90 Street (near Mobil Gas Station) in Manhattan, NYC.” But not just anywhere on the pole. “It should be put on the side of the lamp pole facing First Avenue and as high as approximately 3–4 feet from the ground.” The Soviets undoubtedly wanted the mark to be facing the street at that height so it could easily be seen from a car driving by.
If Cassidy failed to establish contact with the GRU on either day, he was given several alternate dates to appear at the antique shop. He was directed to “come to New York City on the last Saturday of last month of each quarter (March 30, June 29, September 28, December 28, 1974 . . . etc.) until we meet at 4 P.M. Stay at the entrance to ‘Bea’s As Is’ Shop.” But if he received a postcard signed “Mike,” he was to appear at the shop at 4 P.M. two weeks after the date on the card.
O’Flaherty met Cassidy in New York and gave him the hollow rock. At 2 P.M. Saturday, Cassidy hid the rock in the dead drop in Queens. Then he drove to a shopping mall in Flatbush to kill time until the meeting. At 4 P.M., he was waiting in front of the antique shop, yellow package in hand and pipe in mouth. FBI agents had the shop and the entire area under surveillance.
Cassidy did not have to start down the complicated route he had been given. A man approached and asked about the nearest drive-in theater. Cassidy gave the required reply. They began walking slowly along the street, talking as they went. The Russian intr
oduced himself, not surprisingly, as “Mike.” He proved to be none other than Oleg I. Likhachev, the same officer who had handled Cassidy for a time in Washington four years earlier, before Cassidy had been transferred to MacDill.
Likhachev, now stationed in New York, explained that the rock that Cassidy was to pick up in Brooklyn after their meeting would contain a vial of acetone, which he was to use in the future as the first step in developing secret writing. The Soviets had coated their invisible writing with a new, protective chemical layer that required the use of acetone as a solvent before steaming the pages and crushing the capsules to develop the writing as before.
When Likhachev confessed he had not yet retrieved the rock that Cassidy had left two hours earlier, Cassidy complained and pretended to be highly upset. The previous “Mike,” he let Likhachev know, had always cleared the dead drop quickly. Any delay, Cassidy implied, was jeopardizing his security. He did not need to spell out the reason for the GRU man; if someone accidentally happened on the rock, opened it, and turned the film over to the authorities, the documents might be traced back to Cassidy.
Likhachev sought to soothe his agent. “We really like you,” he said. “You’re number one with us.”
Now that Cassidy had returned to civilian life, Likhachev encouraged him to find employment that would continue to give him access to information of interest to the Russians. He suggested a mapmaking agency or a government printing office where regulations or manuals were produced.
As they strolled along the Brooklyn streets, Likhachev worked the conversation around to his main purpose.
“Do you have any trouble getting on military bases?” he asked.
“No,” Cassidy replied, “I have a sticker on my car.”
“We’d like you to make several trips around the country,” Likhachev said. “You’ll be traveling around checking bases.” He then assigned Cassidy to go to the Dugway Proving Grounds in Utah, the nerve-gas test site, and to several other military bases.
“At Dugway, where you see humps, especially look for humps with pipes on them, let me know. And anything else you can find out about Dugway.” The Russian also asked Cassidy to travel to Key West and find out how many submarines were based there. He was instructed as well to visit the Orlando naval-training center and a nuclear-ammunition depot at the air force base in Charleston. Finally, he was told to spy on a 1,700-acre former army base at Slidell, Louisiana, across from New Orleans on the north side of Lake Pontchartrain. The base, once used as an artillery range, had been turned over to the Louisiana National Guard. The Soviets apparently suspected the army was hiding nerve-gas stocks at Slidell because they directed Cassidy to look for twenty mounds with pipes sticking up from them, the same configuration he was told to look for at Dugway. But Likhachev told Cassidy, without explanation, not to travel to the West Coast or New England.
Finally, Likhachev pressed Cassidy to find a replacement for himself, now that he had left the army. “He wanted me to try to develop other sergeants,” Cassidy recalled. “Did I know a sergeant who could do the work I was doing? He said, ‘There is a weakness in every man. We try to exploit it.’ ”
Cassidy realized he was in a delicate position; how could he satisfy the Soviets and still get out of the assignment? Cassidy remembered Nicky, a master sergeant at Edgewood Arsenal who had a job similar to his but in the other lab (DDEL). “I went up to Edgewood and took him and his wife to dinner—to renew my friendship, to see if he was still there and had the same job.”
With the FBI’s approval, Cassidy passed on the sergeant’s name to the Soviets. Behind the scenes, the bureau then warned Nicky that he might be contacted by a foreign intelligence service. The sergeant did receive a phone call from a foreigner, but the caller hung up.
Later, the Russians urged Cassidy to set up a meeting between one of the Soviets and the new sergeant. But Cassidy refused, and he hit upon a good excuse. It was too risky for him, he warned the GRU. “I told the Soviets I didn’t want to divulge to the sergeant what I was doing.”
After the meeting with Likhachev, Cassidy drove first to the dead drop to pick up his rock, then into Manhattan to leave the red mark on the lamp pole in Yorkville. Afterward, he made the long drive back to Queens to meet with O’Flaherty and other FBI agents waiting at the house in Rockaway Point.
O’Flaherty recalled the scene. “We sat at the kitchen table and got a hammer and broke open the rock gently. We counted the money and looked for the microdot and the secret writing.”
It was close to midnight when Cassidy drove back to the Hilton. It had been a long day. But now, as a civilian, he had a new assignment; he was to crisscross the country spying on military bases for Moscow.
Cassidy headed home for Florida, but there was a problem. It was the time of the gas shortage, and he was running low. On his way from New York, he drove through Springfield, Virginia, where Charlie Bevels lived, and at 2 A.M. “we gave him twenty-five gallons of gas,” Bevels recalled. “I think it was Christmas morning.”
For Cassidy, it was another Christmas Day spent on the road, away from Marie. It was getting increasingly hard to explain to the neighbors.
For some time now, the couple next door had been expressing curiosity about why Cassidy traveled so often. “In Saint Petersburg,” Marie Cassidy said, “the Mitchells, Bill and Betty Mae, especially Betty Mae, a school administrator, were suspicious. They wondered why Joe would go away for several days at a time. I would say, ‘You know the military. Especially Strike Command, they’re all over the place.’ No one else ever suspected.”
C H A P T E R: 15
A SECRET MEDAL
By 1974, Joe Cassidy had been living his hazardous double life for fifteen years, pretending to the Soviets that he was a traitor to America. Other than his wife, Marie, he could confide in no one. Not even his children or his closest friends had a clue.
Those inside the government who did know the truth decided that, after so many years, Cassidy’s extraordinary service to the nation deserved recognition. The problem was that any award or accolade would have to be secret.
Early in 1974, Cassidy was told that he would be given a medal in private by the president of the United States, Richard Nixon.
“The presentation was supposed to be in the White House by the president,” Cassidy said. “But because of Watergate, I was told it wouldn’t be possible. He was resigning or heading toward resignation.” The award ceremony was switched to the Pentagon.
Cassidy, modest to a fault, said, “I didn’t care it wasn’t the president. I was surprised I was going to get anything.” Still, he was impressed by the initial news. “To go to the White House and get a medal? I was surprised.”
Accompanied by Marie, Cassidy arrived at the Pentagon for the ceremony. Gathered around Cassidy were the FBI case agents who had watched over him for fifteen years: Jimmy Morrissey, Donald Gruentzel, and Charlie Bevels from the Washington field office, and Jack O’Flaherty and Dennis Dickson from Tampa. On hand as well was Eugene Peterson, the deputy chief of the Soviet section, who had supervised the operation for a decade. Instead of Nixon, General Creighton W. Abrams, the chief of staff of the United States Army, presented the medal to Cassidy on February 2.
Creighton Abrams, the son of a railway mechanic, was only five foot nine, but as compact as one of the tanks that he commanded in World War II, when he led a battalion onto the beaches of Normandy and later punched through the Nazi lines that had encircled the 101st Airborne division at Bastogne.¹
It was a proud moment for Cassidy. Wearing a seersucker jacket and a summer tie—he had just arrived from Florida—the former sergeant major, a tanned, white-haired, handsome figure, stood erect in the flag-bedecked office as General Abrams pinned the Distinguished Service Medal on him. The award is the fourth-highest U.S. military decoration, and the highest civilian noncombat medal. The accompanying citation read:
The United States of America
To all who shall see these presents, greeting
:
This is to certify that the President of the United States of America authorized by act of Congress July 9, 1918 has awarded the Distinguished Service Medal to Sergeant Major Joseph Edward Cassidy for exceptionally meritorious service in a duty of great responsibility.
Marie Cassidy, too, received recognition from the government for her contribution to Operation SHOCKER. General Abrams presented her with the army’s certificate of appreciation and a citation, prepared and dated a month earlier, that read:
Mrs. Joseph Edward Cassidy
On the occasion of the retirement of her husband from active duty with the United States Army has earned the Army’s grateful appreciation for her own unselfish, faithful and devoted service. Her unfailing support and understanding helped to make possible her husband’s lasting contribution to the nation. Given under my hand this 2nd day of January 1974 Creighton W. Abrams (signature), General, United States Army, Chief of Staff.
After Abrams pinned on the medal and congratulated the Cassidys, the five FBI agents lined up behind Cassidy and his wife for an official photograph. Everyone was smiling.
Except for that brief moment when the picture was taken, there was no way that Cassidy could be allowed to wear his decoration; if seen, it might endanger the security of the entire operation. As soon as the secret ceremony was over, General Abrams took the medal back.
Cassidy, accompanied most of the time by Marie, and Beau, their miniature poodle, began spying on military bases around the country for the GRU and writing detailed reports for the Russians on what he found. First, however, he sent the reports to the FBI. “They would screen them and tell me what I could give to the Russians.” The bureau provided him with a per diem allowance for his expenses on the road. Although Marie Cassidy did not make the drive to Dugway, she was at her husband’s side as he reconnoitered the bases at Key West, Charleston, and Slidell, Louisiana.