A Spy's Journey

by Floyd Paseman

  While this was one of my most productive tours, two related management incidents are worthy of mentioning here. The first occurred about halfway through my tour. In this case, a very senior officer came out on a visit, and a small number of our operations officers, myself included, were invited to our chief’s home to meet and talk to this officer. When he arrived, it was obvious that he had already had a wee bit too much of the local barley. Nonetheless, we had a relatively good dinner, with engaging conversation. However, right after dinner, the senior officer informed our host, “I would like to get these young officers together for a discussion.” So we all reassembled in the living room. This senior officer then spoke on the meaning of the United States Constitution. While alternately talking and dribbling his drink onto his suit, he began, “I want to make sure that all of you engaged in espionage understand your obligation to the United States Constitution.…” This dragged on for nearly 30 minutes. I looked to my left, and two of my colleagues on the couch had dozed off. Our chief, mindful of the fact that he worked for this fellow, remained the only attentive one in the room.

  Then the real action began. Into the room bounded the chief’s over-sexed male dog. The dog ran straight to our visitor and promptly began humping his leg. It was wild, with the officer attempting to continue his lecture about the Constitution, while the chief attempted unsuccessfully to kick the dog off the poor fellow’s vibrating leg. I just had to wake my colleagues for the show.

  But we had not seen the last of this same dog and his companion mutt. One time when our chief was on a visit back to Washington, I happened over to his house to check on things. As I arrived, I noticed the servant trying to round up both critters into the house. I asked him if I could help, and he replied that I could, since he needed to get the dogs into the house for the phone call. Incredulous, I went inside with one of the two mutts to watch the servant hold them up to the phone one at a time. The chief had called long distance to talk to the dogs. Now I love dogs as much as the next person, but …

  We had one of the most memorable senior management experiments at this time, during the Reagan years. Bill Casey, a man of action, believed that the CIA had grown too timid and was determined to do something about it. For some time he had been looking for a new Deputy Director for Operations (DDO), the head of the clandestine service. And, despite the fact that there were many qualified and willing candidates, he decided to bring in an outsider—with disastrous results. In early 1981, he selected a man who was a total outsider and moved him into a position in the Directorate of Administration. Casey was determined. As Bob Woodward describes it in his book, “Casey was afflicted with the disease … called ‘I’ll freshen up this place by bringing in my own people.’”1 Now he wanted to move the man over to be the head of the clandestine service (the DO), despite substantial opposition to the appointment by the intelligence professionals. That, of course, made Bill Casey even more convinced it was the right move.

  On the morning of May 11, 1981, Casey announced the appointment. The joke that made the rounds this time was that Casey was turning the CIA into a version of the TV show Fantasy Island, in which anyone could have whatever job they wanted. To his credit, the officer tried hard early on, but he didn’t understand the system, and he made lots of promises everyone knew he couldn’t keep, such as more pay for case officers, more money for human spying, and so forth. Everyone tried hard to be supportive, but I knew of no one who thought things would work. Additionally, in typical Casey fashion, he had not consulted anyone in Congress. And, although the Deputy Director for Operations appointment didn’t need congressional confirmation, the congressional leadership was not happy about finding out about this important appointment after the fact. A headline in the Washington Star, “Casey Picks Amateur for Most Sensitive CIA Job,” written by a venerated CIA veteran, didn’t help.2 And the press play got worse over the next month.

  But adverse press and legal issues continued until the officer finally felt compelled to resign. Casey then named a longtime professional to the job, and business went back to normal.3

  1. Bob Woodward, Veil: The Secret Wars of the CIA, 1981–1987 (New York: Simon & Schuster,1987), p. 77.

  2. Cord Meyer, “Casey Picks Amateur for Most Sensitive CIA Job,” Washington Star, May 15, 1981, editorial page.

  3. Woodward, Veil, pp. 140–147.

  NINE

  INTO MANAGEMENT

  1983–1985

  I was greatly pleased when I was reassigned to the territory in Asia I had come to love. I was also pleased to get another overseas assignment instead of having to work back at headquarters. I signed on to be a spy, I loved being a spy, and I could really only be a spy overseas.

  Not long after I arrived I found myself back in the middle of the action. A team of assassins from North Korea had just killed a large official delegation of South Korean officials in a terrible bombing in Rangoon, Burma. They had planted claymore mines in the ceiling of a memorial to the father of Burmese independence, Aung San. When the delegation arrived to lay a wreath, the North Koreans detonated the claymores, killing seven senior South Korean officials, including two presidential advisors and four cabinet members. I was asked to fly into Rangoon to see what we could do to help apprehend the perpetrators and assist the host government.

  I have seen a significant amount of damage from bombs and terrorists, but nothing prepared me for this carnage. At the bombing site, police and local officials were still picking up pieces of human flesh. By the time I arrived, local authorities had apprehended two of the assassins. One was killed trying to escape, and the second was found swimming in the Irrawaddy River, trying to make his escape. As police approached, he held a grenade against his chest and detonated it. Somehow he survived, and eventually confessed. Rumors abounded afterward that the police had extracted a confession by first addicting the survivor to heroin, and then withdrawing it. But to my knowledge, this has never been confirmed. We could do little to assist, other than provide intelligence leads for follow-up, so I returned and began my next tour.

  Again, I was lucky to be where I was when a lot of action was underway. We had a large and successful number of operations against communist bloc officials, including the KGB. We also had a number of excellent officers, including several of the best female case officers I’ve seen.

  In one operation, a female officer was doing an outstanding job collecting biographic data on a senior KGB official from a minority group in the Soviet Union. When compiled with some excellent research by headquarters, her research told us that the Bolsheviks had executed the officer’s father during the Russian Revolution. We learned that the officer had experienced—and resented—significant persecution throughout his life for being a member of a minority group. The KGB official commented frequently that he was jealous of the pay and perks that Americans overseas accrued. In all, he was an attractive and vulnerable target.

  Our officer focused on this target for a little over a year. Then, as her regular transfer time approached, we began thinking of how to effect a turnover to attempt to complete the recruitment. But as time wound down, we also discovered that the KGB officer had fallen head-over-heels for our officer—a difficult situation to manage. When she discovered this, she properly reported it to management. The KGB officer had been calling her late at night, talking about how much he wanted to see her, and how he missed their frequent meetings and conversations. Things got even more difficult to manage when he began to show up and knock on her door late at night, wanting to get to know her better. This was something that none of us wanted to have happen. “Hell, he wants to get in my pants,” she said, “only in his dreams.”

  Fortunately, we had a second officer who was also in regular contact with this KGB officer and would occasionally see him at a local club, where they would have a beer or two and chat. Finally, the KGB officer’s amorous advances toward our officer became intolerable. So one evening the second officer sidled up to the target and said simply, “Look, stop p
estering [our officer] with your late-night visits. It ain’t going anywhere.” The KGB officer was crestfallen and made one last effort that evening to visit our officer’s apartment, where he wailed and cried, begging to be let in. The second officer became concerned and began to walk by the female officer’s apartment several times a night. On this particular night, he happened to be walking by when he saw the KGB officer enter the apartment house, and he knew what was up. After waiting several minutes, the second officer went into the apartment house and, as the KGB officer was wailing, tapped him on the shoulder. He scared the guy so much that he never bothered the female officer again. We didn’t get the recruitment, but we do take care of our own in the CIA.

  While the CIA kept track of the KGB, our Cold War opponent kept good track of us, too. However, they lacked the analytical skills and logic that have made our operations so successful.

  On one occasion, I had begun another developmental effort against a KGB officer who was under non-official cover (NOC), and things were going along quite well. We shared a number of lunches, and he and his wife had been dinner guests at our home. As is the normal case, the KGB officer wanted to reciprocate, and told me that he had some very interesting slides to show me. I was curious, and accepted the dinner invitation.

  As in many of these cases, the evening began with more than a liberal sprinkling of liquor. An excellent meal was followed with several types of Russian liquors. Finally, he trotted out a slide projector and told me, “I am going to educate you about the realities of life in the Soviet Union.” This was followed by a one-hour presentation of slides of the synagogues of the Soviet Union. With each slide, he would proclaim the virtues of religious freedom for the Jews in the Soviet Union. Being a guest, I didn’t argue with him and simply said that the pictures were beautiful. With the evening over, my wife and I went home—confused as could be about why he had put on this elaborate show.

  I reported the details to headquarters, and we just couldn’t make sense of it. I saw the fellow a few more times over the next few months, and each time he would ask, “What did you think of the slides? We treat the Jews very well in the Soviet Union.” I did dispute this a couple of times, but it seemed to make no difference, and I never carried the development much further. It wasn’t until after the fall of the Berlin Wall, when we acquired a number of KGB files, including my own, that things finally came together. The KGB file reported that I was Jewish. It was based on my defense a few years earlier of the Israeli ambassador, and the fact that I played tennis with him regularly. The file also noted that I had insisted that the Israeli ambassador play in the tennis tournament and, in the spirit of fair play, played as his partner in the tournament. The KGB analysis was that only a Jew would defend another Jew and thus, despite no other information corroborating my religion, concluded that I had to be Jewish. They simply could not overcome their own prejudice. Thus, when the KGB officer reported my development of him—and vice versa—his bureau set the stage for the slide show of synagogues with the belief that it would impress me enough to gain a measure of my sympathy. Later in my career, when I served in Germany, this same information was passed to the East German Intelligence Service, the STASI, who published their data about me in an exposé of the CIA. To the dreaded STASI, I was still Jewish more than a decade later.

  Another story involves a Soviet journalist and suspected intelligence officer, whom I met infrequently. He was awestruck by the active red-light and bar district in town and, according to a number of reports, spent a considerable time indulging in the pleasures of both. I never much liked him, but we did have lunch together from time to time.

  On one occasion, we were having lunch when the American Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) was having its annual convention in town. There is, of course, no more patriotic group in the world. The journalist suggested that we go down to the bar district after lunch because he wanted to visit the convention and write an article on it for his Soviet paper. I asked him, “You aren’t going to that group and introducing yourself as a Soviet journalist, are you? You’d have to be nuts!” He was adamant, and I agreed to go as far as the edge of the district with him, hoping to talk him out of this crazy idea.

  At the edge of the bar district were an unusually large number of policemen, who mainly discouraged tourists and the inquisitive from going into the area where the convention was taking place. I couldn’t talk the KGB journalist out of going into the bar where the convention headquarters was, so I left. I later found out that he had waltzed right into the convention center where some of the lubricated veterans were raising hell, introduced himself, and showed his Soviet press credentials. According to the journalist himself, a number of the veterans proceeded to beat the crap out of him, and unceremoniously threw him out into the street. Steaming, he then approached the local police and demanded that they go back in with him and arrest the perpetrators. The police ignored him. When I saw him several weeks later, he was still steaming—and still bruised. I suggested to him that he had a terrific story to write about his reception. We met occasionally after that, but I was more convinced than ever that he demonstrated none of the good judgment we would expect of an agent.

  In one of the most fascinating adventures I’ve ever taken part in, several of our officers had been in frequent contact with a KGB official. He was intelligent, open-minded, and had shown more than a few signs of vulnerability to recruitment. Things developed over most of a year, and with headquarters’ concurrence, we fashioned a recruitment attempt. We planned to have an officer from an adjoining country do the honors due to local sensitivities with the host government.

  The KGB officer was an avid swimmer who swam laps at a local club in the early-morning hours when few others were around. Our officer did his bit during one of the KGB fellow’s morning swims. We offered a deal he couldn’t refuse, including a substantial amount of cash, and the promise of protecting his relationship with us. He initially indicated willingness to consider the offer. Our officer made arrangements to meet again the next day to discuss the final terms. So far, so good. But unbeknownst to us, another Western service was also finalizing a recruitment pitch to the same KGB man, and late that afternoon that service dispatched an officer and made a recruitment pitch to him. They also offered him a substantial amount of cash, and made the same commitment to protecting his work as a spy for them. To say the least, the KGB fellow was both honored and scared.

  The upshot was that he decided to report both pitches, and the next evening, the local Soviet Embassy decided to call a press conference and expose the wickedness of the Western intelligence services. But they made a miscalculation. They did indeed hold the press conference, at a major hotel, and they relayed, relatively accurately, the recruitment pitches made by both Western intelligence services. But—not unlike their normal understanding of events in a free-press environment—they never expected the reception they got. There was uproar of laughter and derision; they in fact made fools of themselves. The local press, and in fact several national presses, covered the event with great jocularity. The Soviets never did really understand what had happened to them in their time of indignation. Despite the fact that we didn’t get the recruitment, we scored a wonderful propaganda coup, since the event was reported in every major newspaper in every country in the region. We couldn’t have planned it better ourselves.

  I had the great good fortune that one of the finest case officers I ever met worked for me. I’ll call her Julie. She was courageous, intelligent, had excellent language skills, and had a great wit, too. I liked Julie immediately upon her arrival. She had a Ph.D. from a foreign university, but she was one of the greatest pranksters I ever met. And, she retaliated with a vengeance. I had only been in country several weeks more than she had when, one morning I sat down at my desk to read the morning traffic. There, in my in box, was an official community notice with the heading, “The Ambassador’s Missing Painting!” The official notice went on to describe the ambassador’s great consternati
on that one of his favorite paintings, Eastern Justice, was missing from his home following a large reception the previous weekend. It described a petite oriental lady blindfolded, with the scales of justice in her hand. I could hardly believe the notice. Who would be so crass as to steal a painting from the ambassador’s residence? I put the notice in my out basket and made a mental note to mention it at our staff meeting. Then I picked up my coffee cup, looked up, and saw right in front of me—Eastern Justice hanging on my wall. I had a near heart attack and, as this officer and the rest of my colleagues collapsed in laughter, realized that I had been had.

  Julie was exceptional—and fearless. Late in her tour, we had a terrorist walk-in. He was a Middle Easterner, and he looked exactly like Rasputin, the legendary Russian mystic. With long, shaggy hair and beard, he appeared in a flowing orange robe. Julie was on call the day he walked in, so she went down to meet and debrief him. Shortly afterward, I was called to our chief’s office, where he and our chief of operations berated me for allowing a female officer to handle a terrorist. I responded that I saw no difference between risking the life of a female officer versus risking the life of a male officer, and that I considered her as capable as any officer and, frankly, better than many male officers.