Undercover with FBI Counterintelligence
Washington, D.C., November-December 1994
At 7:30 a.m. precisely, the Monday after Thanksgiving weekend, I found my way to the Badge Room at FBI Headquarters on Pennsylvania Avenue.
Moments later, John H appeared at my side.
J. Edgar Hoover, Clarence Kelly, a ghastly William Webster... up to the fourth floor, a restricted zone, down a long corridor to the office of Allyson G, whom I'd first and last seen at Clair George's house 14 months before.
We shook hands. John Q wore a good suit and had a green Pelikan pen clipped to his shirt pocket.
Down
another long corridor, a security guard unlocked a conference room.
John H, John Q, and I were joined at a rectangular table by Jim S (John H's boss in Albuquerque) and a Bureau employee named Dick A.
John H, John Q, and I were joined at a rectangular table by Jim S (John H's boss in Albuquerque) and a Bureau employee named Dick A.
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Bob Blitzer |
He asked questions about how I might feel when, after spending time with Edward Lee Howard and getting to know him, he got caught and put behind bars.
(The Stockholm Syndrome is a phenomenon whereby hostages cultivate sympathetic and protective feelings toward their kidnappers.)
But this was an operation I actually conceived and was executing myself on the frontline, with the FBI's authorization and support.
Pure business.
The Bureau's concern: I might have a change of heart at the last minute.
So Dick A wondered, would I be willing to take a battery of tests for evaluating my state of mind?
"We've been at this for over a year," I said. "And now you want me to take a test?"
I almost got up and walked out.
He had run a few renditions with Middle East terrorists, he said, and seen a couple go south on this very issue. So did I mind if he asked me a couple hard questions?
Blitzer nodded, zoomed his eyes into mine. How
many others knew what I was really up to with Howard?
No one objected.
First off, how did I communicate with John H in Albuquerque?
Blitzer fretted that the KGB might break into my house to check me out.
Solution:
The Bureau should supply me with a safe.
To which destinations could I lure Howard?
"It's better that you are as detached as possible from the actual rendition," he said. "That way, Howard himself won't know your role in this."
I
shrugged. "However you execute this
is fine by me."
We
would be on hold, said Blitzer, until the Justice Department gave a final nod.
Bob G, Jim S, and John H would deliver a
formal presentation two weeks hence.
Indeed, the irony of putting the KGB in Central Europe to work on Spy’s Guide was savored by all in attendance.
"Tell them to shove their battery up their..."
Next
morning, back to Headquarters.
This time we ascended to the seventh floor where the Big Cheese Family resided.
John H, John Q, and I strolled into the large corner office of Robert
"Bear" Bryant, Assistant Director for National Security, after first
meeting his deputy, John Lewis.
Bryant
had a large paunch and a mumbling growl of a voice; part grizzly, part teddy
bear. "So where are we on this?" he asked, handing me his business card.
John H briefed the assistant director.
John Q pitched in.
I did, too. Specifically, I mentioned Edward Howard's new idea to write Spy’s Cookbook, a manual for double-agents.
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"Bear" Bryant |
He wanted to haul Howard in, he said, and he ventured his opinion that Budapest would be our best bet.
Bryant thanked me.
I now had the confidence of the Bureau's national security division at its most senior level.
With advance orders under 6,000 copies, and a cool reception from sales reps, Howard's book had become more trouble than it was worth.
Would I talk to Howard, they asked, and resolve this crisis?
I reached Edward Howard at his Dacha. He answered, but something appeared wrong with the telephone connection.
I hung up, touch-keyed again.
"Call me to-mor-row," he finally managed.
Either I could not hear him, or he could not talk, I wasn't sure which, so I disconnected, redialed.
Howard answered after eight rings.
"Why?"
"I was drinking." He said, like a schoolboy caught cheating on an exam.
"I lost my office, had to move out."
"For a few minutes there," I said, "I thought Howard was dying."
"I'm coming to Washington," said John H. "We have a new problem."
I ordered a latte to-go, and we trudged across the street, up to the fourth floor where John Q and Jim S awaited us.
The Justice Department was waffling, as usual, and holding up a rendition until they could be certain of the evidence stacked up against Edward Howard.
Part of the evidence consisted of a financial log Howard kept that showed how he had laundered cash payments received from the KGB through his wife.
John H possessed a photocopy of the log, but it had been obtained improperly, so a judge might rule that it could not be used as evidence.
The assembled G-men wanted me to travel to Moscow, stay in Howard's apartment, find the log, and photograph it as acceptable evidence.
Their legal rationale: I would be acting in Moscow as an extension of John H which, in effect, would serve as a search warrant.
I was incredulous. The Bureau wanted me to risk my neck to collect something they already had in their possession!
Part Two: gaining access to Howard's computers and sucking them dry.
John Q excused himself so that John H could address this issue.
"I don't have diplomatic cover," I said. "If I got caught, they'd throw me in prison, right?"
Down a floor to the photo-lab, where an expert determined that the best camera for this assignment was not a miniature Minox but a run-of-the-mill Olympus Infinity. He showed me the right distance for snapping documents.
Tom M had sucked the hell out of Aldrich Ames's computers. He pulled a rectangular gizmo from his bag and plugged it into a laptop.
"This is it," said Tom M. "You just plug it into the parallel port. Then you insert this special laser disk, hit a few buttons, and bang! It sucks everything out."
"This is starting to sound like a shitty novel," he said. "What about your wife and children? Are the feebies planning to look after them if you get thrown into the slammer for five years? No. You'll be on your own. Just tell them you've lived up to your end of the bargain. You're in this to lure Howard out, not to photograph evidence in Moscow."
Howard would accept a few extra royalty points (pie-in-the-sky ) in lieu of immediate money.
The manuscript had been readied for publication and galley proofs dispatched to Howard for final correction.
"Of course."
"Meaning what?"
That would be Vladimir Kryuchkov, the former KGB chairman.
It was Presidents Day, a federal holiday. I found John H at home.
"I Just spoke with The Author," I said. "He has some interesting news."
"He wants to write his own book. And he wants The Author and me to help him."
Plus Bob Blitzer had said at headquarters, Whatever happens with Howard, keep the operation spinning for positive intelligence.