by Marc Ruskin
13
False Flags
The best way to catch an individual—specifically, an American—known to have classified information or materiel for sale is to pose as a spy from a foreign country interested in buying it. However, posing as a spy and setting up an elaborate sting is also an effective way to waste a lot of resources on a wild goose chase. Going in, you can’t be sure how it will turn out, but in this regrettable day and age you have to find out. Establish trust and slowly but surely approach the truth. These are called “False Flag” operations, and following TURKEY CLUB, which truly soured me on criminal UC investigations as they appeared to be conducted in the twenty-first-century Bureau, I was recruited for what became a series of these short-term espionage cases that stretched almost until my retirement. Aware of my disenchantment with criminal UC ops, a manager in the counterintel side of the Bureau opened this new door and I walked through without hesitation, migrating from the world of criminal UC to the world of FCI UC: a long-term Group I Foreign Counterintelligence operation. My commitment would be three to five years. Fine. This would be my longest UC op to date, replacing RUN-DMV, which ran for two and a half years. For the foreseeable future, I would inhabit the world of intelligence officers, spies, and counter-spies. A new dark side ruled not so much by violence and intimidation, but by cunning, ruse, and methodical planning and execution.
I would live in New York—home of the United Nations, with the presence of foreign missions from the entire globe (friend and foe alike), the new Vienna, the world capital of espionage and counterintelligence—but my new bureaucratic home base was a small office lost in the depths of JEH. These few men and women, a dozen or so, in the FBI’s espionage unit were responsible for uncovering and rapidly apprehending the most reprehensible of evildoers, those who would sell out their country and its people. Traitors. The U.S. Constitution makes special mention of the crime—“The Congress shall have Power to declare the Punishment of Treason”—a federal statute singles them out for the harshest treatment—“Whoever, owing allegiance to the United States, levies war against them or adheres to their enemies, giving them aid and comfort within the United States or elsewhere, is guilty of treason and shall suffer death, or shall be imprisoned.…”
* * *
The issues that surfaced as a result of the substantial press coverage of many of my False Flag ops are thorny indeed. Spying between hostile sovereign powers is expected, even encouraged by their constituencies. How often is the CIA criticized for excessive intelligence-gathering overseas? Never. Just the opposite, in fact. The loudest cries from legislators and the media are reserved for failures to provide actionable intelligence: for not knowing more about WMDs that may or may not have been secreted in Iraq, about reliable resistance fighters in Iraq and Syria, about impending conflicts here and there. But espionage between allies is an issue, lacking moral clarity and unanimity of condemnation or even consensus among those who drive public opinion. The Edward Snowden leaks, taken at face value, suggest that it has happened, and if current news reports are to be credited, it is still a common practice by many world powers. Publicly condemned but tacitly taken for granted.
Some ops were morally unambiguous. An engineer from a nuclear research lab, believing me to be an intelligence officer working as a proxy for a hostile Middle Eastern power:
Alejandro, I can provide a blueprint for building a dirty bomb. Complete instructions, ingredients, parts, processes, everything. Can you find out for me what they would pay?
Rafael, Just to be sure that I understand this clearly. You mean radioactive. That is correct, no?
It certainly was. A U.S. citizen was putting up for sale the recipe for mass destruction and terror, for use at the local mega-shopping mall situated in Anywhere, U.S.A.
I’m sure they will be very interested.
And they were very interested. I never learned what happened next. With my UC job completed, I almost never did. (Best guess: Leavenworth.)
* * *
Many details of the Group I op, my primary assignment during this period, starting with its name, were and still are classified. Any detailed discussion is strictly forbidden, and with good reason. There are two categories of classified materials: those that are reasonable and necessary to legitimate national security concerns, and those that are ridiculous and excessive, the product of mid-level bureaucrats erring on the side of C.Y.A. Working at U.S. embassies, I had been exposed to large volumes of both. Standard coffee-and-breakfast reading for “cleared” personnel is all the cable traffic, relaying news and analysis from around the globe, much of which is marked “Secret.” (The “art” of classification is an arcane one, fully understood only by true devotees—not by flummoxed bystanders such as myself.) Much of what was marked Secret could be read with coffee and breakfast a few days later in The New York Times. The legal nicety, and an important one, is that even after the news has appeared in the Times, the information is still classified. Which means that even with security clearances, you’d still better not talk about that tidbit of information, regardless of whether it was picked up by Nightline and discussed the previous evening. Therefore the following narratives leave out all classified details. Corroborating facts are derived from FBI and DOJ press releases, court documents, and other public records. And there are some sanitized, quasi-fictional elements that convey what happened but with false specificity.
The most notable episode by far featured one Roy Lynn Oakley, an employee of Bechtel Jacobs, which had been the prime contractor at the Department of Energy’s East Tennessee Technology Park. Their business was uranium enrichment. As a supervisor in facilities maintenance, Oakley had virtually unlimited access to the physical plant (though not to files and documents). He put out the word that he wanted to sell some kind of classified equipment or materiel, presumably something to do with uranium enrichment, stolen from the facility. When the Bureau got wind of the offer, the reaction was immediate and from the highest levels. The risks posed by whatever was in Oakley’s possession could only be imagined. Was it radioactive? If so, what was the extent of the potential damage if deliberately or accidentally mishandled? Detonation? Widespread contamination? Would evacuations be called for? Or just the opposite, quarantine and roadblocks? The science-fiction nightmare scenario, the Stephen King page-turner brought to life. Lack of knowledge breeds fear and spurs the imagination. FBI Director Mueller wanted the facts. Now.
Jonathan Sarno, senior analyst within the espionage unit, reached me late on Friday afternoon, January 19, 2007. Over an encrypted phone line he provided sketchy details. As in all False Flag ops, I would pose as an intelligence officer from another country—in this case, France. Flash back nearly a decade, when SECDIV cancelled my orders to LEGAT Paris because a particularly obnoxious desk-jockey had feared my recruitment by intelligence officers working for the French espionage agencies. Now here I was being recruited to pose as an intelligence officer from France. I was over that outrage, though the irony did not escape me. Sarno and espionage supervisor Michelle Levens were leaving for Reagan National to catch a shuttle to New York. Could we meet me at my cubicle in New York the next morning? (Though infrequently used, I maintained a desk in my squad area.) Chris Day, the case agent in Knoxville, was waiting for confirmation of the appointment. He’d get on the next flight out and join us.
On that midwinter Saturday, the floor was quiet, a few agents scattered around, catching up on paperwork, maybe preparing for some kind of op or just coming in from one. Jon, Michelle, Chris, and I settled down by my cubicle with coffee. Chris was a mid-career agent with a military background. With goatee and longish hair, he had the demeanor of a Special Ops veteran—somewhat offbeat, and very bright, very tough. He filled me in on the details. A confidential source in Houston, a contractor with significant overseas experience, had received a call from Oakley, with whom he had worked at the facility a few years earlier. Oakley claimed to have something of great value to sell. He did not want to describe it
over the phone, but hinted that it would be “worth millions” to any country seeking to develop or enhance its “capabilities”—and there was only one kind of capability that could have a connection with Oak Ridge. Oakley’s old friend understood. Would he have any contacts from his overseas construction contracts? Preferably a European country. Preferably France (France?). Oakley was adamant that he did not want to be helping the North Koreans, who were up to no good, or any Middle Eastern countries, which were even worse. So here was a potential traitor with principles! If the good friend could help, there’d be “something in it” for him. His friend said he could help. Oakley then concluded the call after providing his friend with the phone number to an “untraceable” TracFone (the sort of anonymous cell phone available at any Best Buy), and his friend agreed to put this number in the right hands. And he kept his word, though not in quite the anticipated manner. He called the FBI.
Chris Day’s initial investigation in Tennessee had confirmed the information provided by the source. Oakley had worked at Oak Ridge, and he had had access to valuable, classified materiel. The untraceable TracFone had been traced back to a local Walmart—and video surveillance cameras had recorded its purchase by Roy Lynn Oakley. Chris had also obtained the number to Oakley’s “real” cell phone, as well as his home number. Even his wife’s cell-phone number. And his home address, employment history, banking information, DMV records, firearms licenses—of this I made a mental note—everything. He was pretty thorough. My appreciation of Day’s professionalism moved up several notches with every detail. I was immediately on board with this investigation. I could work with these people. I wanted to.
In the course of that Saturday, the four of us developed an approach and a script for my initial call. As in all False Flags, the initial call would open the door or shut it forever. The first call with a subject in such an op is particularly critical. I would have one opportunity and one only to persuade the traitor that I was indeed a French intelligence officer. The slightest doubt in his mind, and it would be over. By the time we had worked out what I could and could not say when talking to Oakley (and then the Department of Justice attorneys would have final word on every variation in the script), it was after 9:00 p.m. Director Mueller and Attorney General Alberto Gonzales were briefed on developments.
Then and there—my cubicle at the FBI offices in New York—I used the TracFone provided by Chris Day and punched in the number for Oakley’s TracFone. His phone was not powered up. I was diverted directly to voice mail and left a message. My name was Jean-Marc. We had a mutual friend in Houston. He sends his greetings. We are very interested in the product that you have. In the event that Oakley was not sophisticated enough to bring up the number of the missed call on his machine (unlikely, but possible), I spoke it out, slowly and clear, asking that he call back at one the following afternoon.
The next day, Sunday, our team of four gathered back at my cubicle. No return call. Another call to Oakley, but his TracFone was still off. I didn’t leave a message. He would see that there had been a second missed call. If he ever turned the phone back on. Time was not on our side. We had to make contact, and soon. Chris had the other phone numbers, but there was the obvious problem all of us saw: Jean-Marc could not know any of these numbers, because Oakley had not passed them to his friend, the source in Houston. I suggested that I go ahead and call Oakley’s personal cell. If he asked how I had obtained the number (and assuming we even got that far without a hang-up), I would say we have ways of obtaining all sorts of information … it’s what we do for a living … After all, he wouldn’t know what we—French intelligence—are capable of. And I would be simply “Jean-Marc.” If Oakley asked about my last name, I would say, “It’s safer for you not to know.”
Sunday, early afternoon, I made the call. To Oakley’s personal cell. He answered.
Oakley: Hello.
MR (in his heavily French-accented English): Hello … my name is Jean-Marc. A friend sends his greetings, a friend from Houston. We are very interested … you know what I am talking about?
Oakley: I know … but I don’t need to talk on this phone.
We agreed that I would call him back in an hour on his TracFone. Five minutes later, my TracFone rang.
Oakley: Hello, Jean-Marc. I’m on the phone I bought so that I could talk to you all.
MR: Very good, very good. Tell me, what name do you want me to use?
Oakley: Why don’t you call me Paul Collins? [Chris Day later researched Oakley’s alias: A Paul Collins wrote a conspiracy-theory-laden far-right blog. The disconcerting choice might provide some insight into Oakley’s mind-set.]
MR: Yes, yes, very good. Can you pleese tell me, what it ees, that you have to sell us.
And he did. Fuel rods (as later described in a DOJ Press Release). Classified. From Oak Ridge.
MR: Pleese tell me. What is eet that you are looking for, precisely?
Oakley: Two hundred thousand dollars.
MR: That is a lot of money … I will need to talk to my chiefs, back in my country. I will call now, eet is six hours later een my country. [Lest there be any doubt down the road that he was dealing with an agent of a foreign power.] You understand?
Oakley: Yeah, yeah, okay, I do. Just call me back on this phone that I got … Just forget about the other number.
MR: Yes, yes, of course, I have already forgotten eet. Tell me Paul, thees phone, you must buy meenutes for eet, yes? You have eenough meenutes?
The surveillance team that was covering Oakley 24/7 reported that he jumped into his pickup and raced off. Destination: Walmart. Purpose: purchase additional minutes. A real pro. Still, we had progressed from initial contact to active negotiations. Following a number of agitated calls between JEH and DOJ, Jean-Marc placed another call to Paul Collins and we sealed the deal.
MR: Hello, Paul?
Oakley: Hello!
MR: Paul, my superiors, they may be eenterested. But Paul, they have talked to our engineers. The say that a fair price, one hundred and twenty thousand dollars, that would be thee correct price.
Oakley: Jean-Marc, if it’s worth one twenty, it’s worth two hundred. You can tell your boss I ain’t going to argue about price.
MR: Paul, I will need to know more about what thees rods are used for, to tell my superiors in Paris, eef I can persuade them to pay thees much.
Oakley: If you’re interested, you’re going to have to come down and look at them yourself. There ain’t too much I can tell you on this phone, in case somebody could be listening. What I can tell you is that they’re used with uranium. For gaseous diffusion.
MR: For gaseous diffusion?!
Oakley certainly knew which words to use in order to ratchet up the already stratospheric frenzy level at JEH and Justice. I told Oakley that I would call the following evening to finalize arrangements for a likely purchase later in the week.
We booked a flight for early the next morning, Monday, to Knoxville. Not being much of an early riser, I joked that arrival at LaGuardia at such an hour might not be a feasible accomplishment. Chuckling, Chris responded that if he didn’t see me at the airport, he’d be at my Manhattan apartment posthaste, dragging me out of bed if need be. You will be on that flight. He was not being humorous. I could see it in his eyes. (Urgent as the case may have been, there was no call for using the Director’s personal BuPlane. Arrival a few hours earlier would not have advanced my communications with Roy, alias Paul.)
At the FBI’s Oak Ridge Resident Agency, an RA out of the Knoxville Division, my first impression was that of an ants’ nest that has just been kicked. Hundreds of agents and higher-ups, Justice Department officials, SWAT teams, and Temporary Duty Assignment Special Operation Groups were brought in to maintain twenty-four-hour surveillance on Oakley and his residence. Special agents and engineers from the Department of Energy had been brought in. Other than when Oakley was known to be asleep, Bureau surveillance planes were flying donuts high overhead. (This was still the pre-drone era.) In
my experience, the attention to detail in this National Security Op was off the charts.
A state-of-the-art CP, Command Post, had been set up in the Oak Ridge Resident Agency. The CP, with banks of phone lines, computers, video monitors, all the technical gadgetry, manned by duty agents round the clock, would be the nerve center of the op. Next door, Special Agent in Charge Rick Lambert, ordinarily based in Headquarters City, Knoxville, had established an office in order to personally manage the op—a first in my experience.
Trim and athletic, in a crisply pressed dark-blue suit, with steel-gray hair, bright eyes behind wire glasses, Rick projected a calm confidence belying the controlled chaos of the satellite office. Not merely a manager, a true leader. He greeted me warmly—he was to prove very supportive throughout the week—and introduced me to the brass from JEH. These included managers from the WMD (Weapons of Mass Destruction) Unit, and any other unit that had any conceivable connection with the subject matter. Essentially they were observers, relaying developments to their respective bosses back in Washington.
Initially, the powers that be wanted the deal to go down within a couple of days—midweek—but Oakley wanted a little more time, and it soon became apparent that a slightly later date was more realistic. A number of teams, all with critical tasks, needed to be in place prior to the meet. These people are the best, but there are limits. So we ultimately scheduled for Friday. The SWAT guys were planning the operational details. How to deploy the teams. Where to set up the vehicles. The execution of the arrest. The engineers would be handling risk containment, HAZMAT, procurement of specialized radiation-related equipment, radioactive material handling protocols. Tech teams were bringing in state-of-the-art equipment to record the meet from a variety of locations, accounting for all possible scenarios. The SOGs were glued to Oakley. The CP, coordinating all, pulling here and tugging there, serving as liaison with JEH, doing all to assure that everything would come together at show-time Friday morning. It’s important to note that all this activity, intense as it was, would not have been observable to the keenest eye. All was conducted with the utmost discretion—to all outward appearances, Oak Ridge was, as always, a tranquil backwater town.