Spy Handler

by Victor Cherkashin

  I decided to get inside the apartment. We already had our lead: the cleaning woman. Since the presence of a KGB officer would have elicited unnecessary attention, PATRIOT and I agreed that he would approach her. PATRIOT, the ladies’ man, was highly suitable for the job. We knew what days the woman cleaned the apartment. Showing up on one of them, PATRIOT rang the doorbell. The cleaning woman answered the door. She was young and not immune to PATRIOT’s charm, which he poured on while explaining that he wanted to rent an apartment in the area and moved quickly to chatting her up. She agreed to meet him for dinner.

  After a few dates, PATRIOT suggested meeting at the apartment. Several days later, he was in. His carefully disguised observation focused on a sofa with a wooden frame. Later that day, he proposed fixing a bugging device to the bottom. I cabled the Center, which sent a package containing an eavesdropping device to my specifications. It was lodged inside a piece of wood with two sharp metal studs on one of its broad ends. The bug would work for up to a week. PATRIOT would have to find a way to whack the contraption into place under the couch without his new girlfriend noticing.

  PATRIOT arranged to meet her at the safe house early one afternoon. When she wasn’t looking, he slipped the bugging device out of a bag and swung it upward underneath the couch. Half an hour later, I met him in the hills above the city.

  “I don’t know if I did it properly,” PATRIOT said worriedly. “When I attached the piece of wood, it seemed only one nail took hold.” That meant that the device might be hanging down on one side—and thereby visible—or have fallen off altogether.

  “I think it’s best if you go back to fix it,” I said. “Or completely remove it. It’s not worth the risk. How long is your friend supposed to be there?”

  “Another few hours.”

  “Okay—go.”

  Two hours later, we met at another rendezvous point. PATRIOT removed the device from his bag. It had been a very close call. “When I walked in the door, I could see it lying on the floor,” he said. One of the studs had been badly attached in Moscow and fell off the bug.

  Back at the rezidentura, we decided on another approach. This time a technician would make sure our devices worked properly. Several days later, PATRIOT asked Hamid of the Deuxième Bureau to obtain a copy of the keys to the apartment, and we soon had a set. PATRIOT helped us plan the new operation by describing the apartment’s layout. When it was empty one night, two officers kept a lookout while another installed a miniature camera in a chandelier and an eavesdropping bug inside an electric socket.

  Everything went smoothly and we were soon documenting everything that went on in the apartment. But the Center decided not to use the information because it deemed the Middle Eastern political situation too tense. I was soon working on other cases—with no way of knowing that the information our eavesdropping provided would lead me back to MARS in the West German capital Bonn seven years later.

  5

  By the time we moved to Beirut, Elena had come to terms with my commitment to the KGB. She later told me that she learned to appear calm no matter what happened. In Lebanon, unsolicited advice the ambassador’s wife gave Elena mirrored her own suspicions: “When people here look at you, they don’t see you for who you are,” she said sternly. “They judge your country by your actions. You should act accordingly.”

  In August 1968, I took my family for a six-week vacation at a state sanatorium in Kislovodsk, a pleasant resort in southern Russia. Near the end of the month, the radio announced that Soviet tanks were advancing on Prague, the Czechoslovak capital. The object was to crush the liberalization movement called “socialism with a human face.” In our own capital, dissidents staged small protests that were quickly broken up. Still, the atmosphere was tense, although most Soviet people supported the move as the media presented it: suppression of rebellion in Czechoslovakia. For my part, I believed the Czechoslovak Communist Party had let the situation spiral out of control. I agreed with the KGB leadership that we had to fight Western attempts to turn socialist countries against Moscow. We had to help the Czechoslovak Party leadership regain its grip on power.

  But many countries bitterly opposed Moscow’s actions and international relations soured. There seemed a chance our adversaries would take retaliatory measures. When I returned to Beirut, however, work continued with no discernible difference.

  As the embassy’s cultural attaché, I handled a number of Soviet delegations coming through the Middle East. I escorted poets Evgeny Yevtushenko, Kaisyn Kuliev and a number of sports teams, including Moscow’s Spartak soccer club. I also worked with student exchanges, interviewing candidates for study programs in the Soviet Union. But stepped-up CIA activities in Beirut left me less and less time for my cultural cover work.

  One morning, the rezident, looking worried, called me into his office. “An urgent case has come up. We have to take Mikhail Ivanov to Damascus right away. I’ll explain on the way.”

  The son-in-law of an influential Soviet minister, Ivanov (a fictional name) was a talented Middle East correspondent for the Moscow newspaper Izvestiya. Although the sociable young journalist was on good terms with the KGB, he remained highly independent. Caring little for the opinions of either those in the Soviet community in Lebanon or others back home, he did what he wanted.

  “The Americans tried to pitch him,” the rezident said, meaning he’d been subject to a recruitment attempt. “I’ve cabled the Center. We need to get him out of the way of any further provocations.”

  I rushed home to pack a change of clothes. Less than an hour later, the rezident, Ivanov and I were making our way southwest toward Syria. Checking in to a Damascus hotel, we holed ourselves up in my room, where I asked Ivanov to relate exactly what had happened.

  “If you want me to begin at the beginning,” he said nervously, “that would be my setting foot in a casino.” I should have known. I liked Ivanov, an eminently decent guy. Gambling was his only discernible vice and was not uncommon among young men let loose in a new environment free of the restrictions imposed back home. Young diplomats, correspondents and other official Soviet representatives abroad grew up in relative privilege, a generation away from the privations of the 1930s and 1940s. Many were shucking the ideological restrictions closely followed by their parents.

  “It was all right at first—I guess that’s how it always is,” Ivanov continued. “Anyway, pretty soon I was losing money. I only had a limited amount because my wife handles the finances. So I began to spend the bureau’s cash. I was soon $10,000 in debt. Then you can imagine.” Ivanov probably had about a month or so before he’d be found out. Enveloped in scandal, recalled and demoted, he’d no longer be allowed to travel abroad. His whole life would change.

  “A contact of mine in the casino took me aside and said he could help.”

  “Who?” I asked.

  “He’s Lebanese but works for an American company.” CIA, of course, I thought, but didn’t say anything. “He said he had some pull with the managers and he’d see what he could do. And he did—he went to them and promised I’d pay off my debt if they’d give me some time. They agreed. At the same time, he said he had a friend who could help me.

  “So he called his friend and an American came to meet us. My Lebanese acquaintance left. The American told me he knew who I was, that he’s involved in the press and had read my articles. He said he understood my situation and felt sorry for me. Then he proposed to help me think about what to do.

  “A few drinks later, he admitted that he was from the CIA. He said he was ready to help me pay my debts in return for political information. ‘You can’t tell anyone about this,’ he told me. ‘Especially at the Soviet embassy. They wouldn’t be very happy about our helping you solve your problem.’ As if I didn’t know that!

  “I thought those guys could help me. I knew it wasn’t the best option, that I’d be taking a chance. But I couldn’t think of any other way of coming up with $10,000 at that moment, so I kind of agreed without completel
y committing. I said it sounded good, but that I’d have to think about it.”

  Ivanov was pale and clearly worried but maintained his composure. Although I couldn’t be absolutely certain, he seemed to be telling the truth. He’d made a mistake by gambling and had tried to correct it without anyone finding out, but there were boundaries he didn’t want to cross. He knew he was taking a chance by confessing to me. He could have been arrested simply for speaking to a CIA officer. He must have been relying on his high connections and our good relationship.

  “I did think about the offer,” Ivanov continued. “But when he began to describe what I’d have to do, that I’d have to meet secretly with the CIA and hand over information, I realized what he was really talking about. I refused and came straight to you.”

  As far as I could tell, Ivanov’s story checked out. We informed the Center, which got in touch with Ivanov’s father-in-law, the minister. Ivanov was recalled together with his wife and children. He was given a round dressing down, but his high connections saved him from further punishment. Izvestiya paid his debts to the casino and Ivanov continued working for the paper. His was one of many gambling problems in the Soviet community in Lebanon, and not all worked out so well for those in trouble.

  6

  The Cold War wasn’t really cold at all. It was a very hot war, with all kinds of measures used by the opposing sides. In the background were the Korean and Vietnam Wars and other conflicts all over the globe. The Middle East was an especially dangerous, potentially explosive zone. Beirut in all this wasn’t a political center, but a stage for propaganda wars. Lebanon was the only Middle East country with a free press. It had newspapers published by all sides in the various conflicts. You could see playing out before you the battle between the monarchist states—such as the Saudis, who were influenced by the West—against those fighting for independence from the West, such as Egypt. We naturally sided with the Arabs to counter Israel’s backing by the United States. We supported Palestinian demands against Israel because we thought they were fairer.

  —Yuri Kotov, KGB political intelligence officer, stationed in Israel

  1965–1967, Lebanon 1967–1968, Egypt 1968–1971

  Although civil war between Lebanon’s Muslim and Christian populations didn’t erupt until 1975, the country began to radicalize in the wake of the Six Day War of June 1967 between Israel and the Arab states of Egypt, Jordan and Syria. The conflict ended in a massive victory for Israel, which snapped up an area four times the size of its original territory, including the entire Sinai Peninsula, all Jordanian-occupied territory west of the River Jordan and the strategic Golan Heights of Syria. The changed power dynamic in the region boosted the role of extremist groups.

  The Arab–Israeli war also caused U.S.-Soviet relations to deteriorate over the Middle East after the thaw that followed the successful resolution of the Suez Canal crisis in 1956. Washington said it had nothing to do with the Six Day War. Secretary of State Dean Rusk assured the Soviet government that Israel had decided to attack Egyptian military bases in the Sinai Peninsula and Syria without U.S. approval. We accepted the explanation, and the Americans congratulated themselves on having prevented Soviet ties from worsening.

  In fact, however, the KGB informed the Politburo that U.S. President Lyndon Johnson had given his blessing to the Israeli decision to attack Arab targets. Several opinions exist as to why Moscow publicly accepted Washington’s line. The most compelling is that if the Soviet Union had officially acknowledged U.S. involvement in the conflict, Moscow would have had to take some kind of action to support its Arab allies—but didn’t plan on doing so at the time. In any case, the Six Day War helped turn the Middle East into a permanent foreign policy hot spot.

  While the Lebanese government remained essentially pro-American, hundreds of thousands of Palestinians poured into refugee camps in Lebanon. That swelled the membership of Islamic groups there, which began launching attacks against Israel. Those groups included the Palestine Liberation Organization (PLO), which set up in Lebanon after its expulsion from Jordan in 1970, and later the radical Shiite militia Hezbollah.

  If Beirut had earlier been a gold mine for free intelligence searches, providing cover and opportunities at every turn, the city’s changing allegiances and lifestyles made information gathering increasingly difficult. The Casino du Liban shut its doors and other bars and nightclubs began to empty as foreign companies pulled out staff.

  The nature of my own work changed too, even though there was no longer much need for me to be out on the streets. I’d developed contacts in the U.S. embassy and built a network of agents to plan operations and recruit more people. Following the Six Day War, the Center increased its requests for political intelligence. In the fall, Yuri Kotov, a Line PR officer in Israel, arrived in Beirut to contribute to political intelligence gathering. “Castiron Kotov,” as he came to be known, was a man of deeply held principles whose mind was difficult to change once it had latched onto something. He became a good friend—after he overcame his suspicions of me. Kotov and many like him believed that counterintelligence officers mainly dug for compromising information on their fellow Soviets.

  Working closely with future Russian Prime Minister Yevgeny Primakov, Kotov later took part in highly sensitive Sovietbrokered shuttle diplomacy between Arabs and Israelis. In 1967, however, he was assigned to collect intelligence on Americans in Beirut. In time, his family grew close to mine; we often went fishing in the Mediterranean Sea and drove into the hills for kebab picnics. Since working in counterintelligence meant living in relative isolation from one’s own community as well as the local population, I was happy we got on.

  In early 1968, Kotov and I were involved in a case that reflected Beirut’s increasingly tense atmosphere. It began one evening when shocking news reached the rezidentura: Alexander Khomyakov, a second secretary in the Soviet embassy, was visiting the apartment of Soviet trade representative Vasily Vasiliev in downtown Beirut when Lebanese soldiers burst in, firing machine guns. They killed Khomyakov and wounded Vasiliev in the shoulder. There was no indication about what prompted the attack.

  As information trickled in about the incident, we learned that it involved an operation by the GRU, Soviet military intelligence, which didn’t always keep the KGB apprised of its activities. The Beirut GRU rezidentura had come up with a plan to steal a Frenchbuilt Mirage jet fighter belonging to the Lebanese military and fly it to Soviet territory. Vasiliev and Khomyakov approached a Lebanese pilot and offered to pay him $1 million for the job. He agreed and planning went ahead. The last meeting was scheduled to take place in Vasiliev’s apartment. What the GRU officers didn’t know was that the CIA had learned about the scheme early on and tipped off the Deuxième Bureau. The GRU walked straight into a Lebanese setup.

  The hare-brained scheme amounted to little more than sheer adventurism. The Lebanese air force couldn’t have had more than ten planes, most of them secondhand Mirages. Those outdated aircraft would have been of little use as models for technology development. They would also have needed a massive auxiliary fuel tank to safely reach Soviet soil. They would have had to fly through Turkish airspace, a huge risk given Turkey’s alliance with the United States and its NATO membership. The GRU compounded its conceptual mistakes with major operational ones. The two Russians should have known Vasiliev’s apartment would be bugged by the Americans. But taking that into account wouldn’t even have helped, since the pilot whom Vasiliev and Khomyakov had recruited was himself likely a Lebanese agent.

  As the three men discussed details of the operation on the last fateful night, Lebanese soldiers fanned out to surround the building. One group climbed the stairs and rang the apartment doorbell. Grabbing his pistol, Khomyakov opened the door, saw soldiers with automatic rifles, and slammed it shut again. It was hit by bursts of machine gun bullets. Khomyakov fired back. The Lebanese detail continued firing, now hitting Khomyakov several times and Vasiliev in the shoulder.

  At the time, we only knew
that the Lebanese had driven both wounded Soviets away in a car. We were told that Vasiliev was arrested and Khomyakov’s body taken to a morgue. By noon the next day, the Lebanese government confirmed that the two Russians had been shot. Vasiliev’s wounds were superficial and he was soon released. Meanwhile, the coroner examining Khomyakov had found a weak pulse, and the diplomat was rushed to a military hospital.

  By early afternoon, the Soviet ambassador, Sarvar Azimov, demanded permission to see him. I accompanied him to the hospital, where a doctor told us none of his vital organs had been hurt and his condition was stable. We were then allowed to see Khomyakov, who was lying naked on an examining table. He smiled at us weakly. He had five bullet wounds in his shoulder and back. Surprisingly, he hadn’t been bandaged. The Lebanese had operated to remove the bullet lodged in his shoulder. Two days later, we were given permission to take him out of the country. We flew him to Moscow, where he had another operation on his shoulder.

  No direct proof followed, but PATRIOT’s agents in the Deuxième Bureau later told us the Americans had approved the Lebanese operation. The episode worsened relations between Beirut and Moscow. Although no major measures, such as withdrawing diplomatic staff, were taken, the Soviet Foreign Ministry lodged a letter of protest. The incident challenged an unspoken agreement that had existed between intelligence agencies since the end of the war that the adversaries’ officers would not be physically harmed. That agreement had protected intelligence staffs from being caught up in spiraling cycles of tit-for-tat attacks. The understanding was questioned again in 1975, when the CIA mistakenly suspected the KGB of assassinating CIA Athens station chief Richard Welch. The attack was later blamed on the Greek 17 November terrorist group. But Moscow’s serious reaction to the accusation led to talks between the two sides to resolve the suspicions. The KGB leadership, seeking to calm worries about work abroad becoming more dangerous, took the unusual step of informing lower-ranking officers of the result.