Undercover with FBI Counterintelligence
November 1998-January 1999
By
autumn, Vladimir Kryuchkov was growing anxious.
Why had I not yet found a publisher for his book?
In
fact, with the Bureau's knowledge, I had genuinely submitted a manuscript
entitled The Kryuchkov Konfessions to
senior editors at several publishing houses in the United States and
Britain. (The Bureau had no interest in
whether or not Kryuchkov’s book was published in the United States; only that I do whatever felt natural to further
the ruse.)
The various editors
unanimously assessed the former KGB chairman's tome for what it was: dull and
uninteresting.
To
placate Kryuchkov and keep the ruse going, I created a dummy publishing
contract through my own imprint, Enigma Books. Kryuchkov's modest advance on royalties came
from FBI coffers.
On
November 13th, Kryuchkov sealed the agreement with his signature.
Two
months after that, I returned to Russia with my designated editor, Rick K, a trusted publishing colleague whom I recruited as
a witting FBI asset.
Rick had played
roles in some of my private sector intelligence operations; had proven
invaluable as an insertion agent and second set of eyes.
"Don't
bring your address book to Moscow," I preached to Rick what I myself
practiced. "Get an index card,
scramble whatever numbers you might possibly need on it, carry it in your
wallet."
I
assumed, as a matter of caution, that the FSB, Russia's security service,
perused my possessions while I was away from my hotel room.
"And
bring a copy of Publisher’s Weekly,"
I added. "Maybe a New York Review of Books."
By
this time, the FBI had become accustomed to my flying habits. Their accountants squawked about my Delta
Business-elite fares and $400-a-night hotel rooms.
But it was the price they had to pay for this
stagehand production (stagehand being the Bureau's jargon for
sting-undercover operations).
So
Rick and I flew from New York's JFK to Moscow in style and toasted our
partnership-in-espionage with champagne.
Many
hours later, Moscow welcomed us.
Rick,
who met Edward Howard for the first time in the arrival area, was struck by the
deep sadness he detected in this traitor's eyes.
Howard
led us to his brand new Volvo sedan, dark blue with black leather
interior.
He'd finally got the
new car promised him by Kryuchkov for publishing Safe House.
I
was lagging, so I let Rick do most of the yakking, break him into the spy game,
Moscow in January.
It was cold. Bright sunshine reflected off a fresh
snowfall and bestowed upon the Russian capital a clean, fresh radiance.
Rick
commented on the construction going on everywhere.
"That's
democracy for you," said Howard, sardonically.
He
dropped us at the Baltschug Kempinski.
Rick and I checked in, and hoofed in slush to Red Square, stopping at
GUM department store for a beer.
We
spent the rest of the afternoon, and evening, goofing off, drinking bottles of
SchneiderWeiss, first at the Beltschug Bar, then in the lobby, chuckling over
whoever might be deployed to keep tabs on us.
Next
morning, 9:55, Rick and I found Messers Kryuchkov and Prelin sitting stiffly on
wing chairs in the lobby.
Hotel staff
seemed to recognize the former KGB chairman.
(Their manners became impeccable toward Rick and me thereafter.)
Kryuchkov wore the same navy-blue tie with
white vertical stripe.
We
elevated to my room, 614. Lena
Orlova (Howard's assistant, our translator) arrived a few minutes later.
Rick
set glasses before everyone and poured mineral water.
I
provided a status report on the book:
The (dummy) publisher was not happy, I said. We needed more, to use Igor Prelin's
phrase, silver bullets. And so I had a final volley of questions for
Kryuchkov to answer.
The
former KGB chairman stirred, smiled and drummed his fingers on the arm of his
chair. He said he had a few comments to
make: Why was it necessary to answer
more questions? According to simple
logic, he said, based on what I had sliced from his original manuscript, from
the interview transcripts, the new material he had written, why, it all added
up to 400 pages. Wasn't that the precise
number of pages I wanted his book to be?
So why more questions?
I
replied that a number of gaps remained.
Plus we had a few new subject categories to consider for inclusion,
"to satisfy the publisher."
Kryuchkov
turned to Prelin, who had been scratching rashy patches of psoriasis or eczema
on his arms. They conversed in Russian;
Lena Orlova did not translate. (Her
loyalty, transparent.)
Kryuchkov
requested that he and his stooge leave the room to continue their discussion.
When
the Russians returned ten minutes later and re-rumped their rears, Kryuchkov
thanked me politely for my hard work, but declined to answer any further
questions.
Prelin
argued with him. Kryuchkov acquiesced.
"Okay,
ask a question," Prelin instructed.
"In
our last interview," I said, "you referred to the First Directorate
as the White Bone. Why White
Bone?"
"We
were called White Bone by other
directorates of the KGB," replied Kryuchkov.
"What
does it mean?"
"It
is Russian for somebody of noble origins," said Kryuchkov. He looked at Prelin, snapped a few words of
Russian, and rose, ready to leave. What
should have been The Kryuchkov
Konfessions had become the Kryuchkov
Kop-out.
I
gifted the old goat with bags of Tootsie Roll Pops and Hershey's Kisses for his
grandchildren. It sweetened him a
little, but not much.
We
descended to the lobby. While Prelin
searched for Kryuchkov's car and driver, I made small talk about U.S.
politics with the former KGB chairman.
He expressed a fondness for Colin Powell, whom, he said, he once met. But, he added, "a black man could never
be elected President of the United States."
Prelin
returned. The car was ready. Kryuchkov got up from his chair and departed.
Prelin
remained behind. He, Orlova, Rick and I
returned to my room.
"That
went well," I muttered.
My
mind, however, already focused on the upside:
Kryuchkov had thrown a tantrum and failed to cooperate after I'd flown
all the way to Moscow.
Now the dummy
publisher could bail from publishing his dull, dogmatic book without offending
anyone except Kryuchkov himself, who'd already been sucked for all his
worth. Howard and Prelin would
understand.
Prelin
dismissed his boss's behavior with a backhand wave, said something derogatory
about "old people," and announced:
"I will answer your
questions."
His implication: that I could us Prelin's words in the former
KGB chairman's book as Kryuchkov's own.
I
shrugged, why not. Let's grill this
scaly weasel.
"There is no such thing as ugly
women," Prelin began.
"Sometimes, there is not enough vodka." He laughed hard, with a pretentious
self-confidence betrayed by the psoriasis or eczema that had broken out on his
face, neck, knuckles, and arms. Then he
opened himself up to interrogation.
I
began by reminding Prelin about the CIA officer he supposedly recruited and
handled before the officer's untimely demise in Beirut.
Prelin
refused to identify this alleged spy by name, saying only that he had married,
divorced, no children, parents deceased.
He suggested I read a novel he'd published, which he said was thinly
veiled fiction of that case.
"Intelligence
services worldwide study my novels," said Prelin.
In his dreams.
"Bill
Clinton visited Russia in 1970," I said.
"Have you ever seen his KGB file?"
(President
Clinton was not on the FBI's shopping
list; this was my own curiosity.)
"I
was offered $100,000 by American television for information on Clinton's visit
to Moscow. But we wanted Clinton to
become the president in 1992, because he was better than the other candidate [Bush, senior] from the Russian point of view."
"You
mean, what you knew about Clinton might have led to his defeat if publicly
known?"
"Yes,"
said Prelin. "That's why we did not
give this information."
"A
girlfriend?"
"There
were some things," said Prelin.
"I wouldn't respect him if he did not have affairs with Russian
girls."
"So
just sexual adventures?"
"You
should have come to Moscow when you were 22 or 23 and KGB was in good
shape. You'd be sitting with Ames, in
same prison maybe. I can only tell you
that our information (on Clinton) could have influenced the election."
"Would
it be enough to get him into trouble today?"
"Yeah,
it could," said Prelin. "But
we're not interested in anything bad happening to Clinton. With his problems now [Monica Lewinsky,
impeachment], the combination would finish him."
"What
about Princess Diana?" I asked.
"An accident?"
(Again,
my own curiosity.)
"Ha! It's a great motive for an assassination, for
the Royal Family to have somebody in the family who has an Egyptian husband,
which means the young princes would have brothers and sisters of different
origins. Diana was going to become a
Moslem. So she'd have Moslem
children. That doesn't strengthen the
lot of the British Monarchy, it is strong point against. So if you examine as Sherlock Holmes taught
us, ask yourself a question: Who
gains? You get the answer: Royal Family."
"Is
British Intelligence capable of doing this kind of thing?"
"Ha! Better than any intelligence service in the
world. I consider the British the most
cruel of the white population. They are
the most cruel nation."
"With
your understanding of intelligence," I said, "is this something
British Intelligence would take upon itself to execute, or would they require
instruction from the Royal Family?"
"You
think during the Stalin era we shot anybody without instructions? You think that Martin Luther King or Kennedy
was assassinated without instructions from a higher echelon?"
"What
higher echelon?"
"[Lyndon] Johnson knew about it."
"Is
that what the KGB believes?"
"Our
organization thinks it was a plot," said Prelin.
"You
are familiar with the circumstances of Princess Diana's accident. How could that have been a staged
assassination?"
"Why
not?" said Prelin. "A few days
ago the same thing was tried with a Russian provincial governor. He was driving on a two-lane highway, they
detonated a fifty-gram explosive. It's
nothing to damage a car, just a simple explosive. They were counting on a psychological effect. The whole idea is to scare the driver."
"Where
would the explosive be?"
"In
our case, the thing went off too early," said Prelin. "The driver got scared, but he had time
to react. Now, about Diana. As far as I know, the experts were
considering this. Some people were
blaming the paparazzi, that somebody was taking pictures in front of the car
with a flash. No. I can put something on the windshield of your
car that will have the same effect. It
will flash in an instant, and when the car is moving, when it's dark in the
tunnel, such a flash will make you blind."
"What
kind of flash?" I asked.
"Some
chemicals, manganese and selenium. It
will not burn, just a bright light. The
thing is so weak, no traces. It would be
a tiny thing. Magnetic. Where the wipers are. At the right place, by remote control,
flash!"
"Has
British Intelligence used this method before?"
"Ha! They've done things better than this. The British service were intensely trying to
recruit a Soviet scientist. It was 1976
or '77, he went to London on a delegation, they tried to recruit him. He was there a month. They started following him. He went to our embassy, reported it, and they
told him to go to Berne, in Switzerland.
The British followed him there, tried to recruit him again in his hotel
room. They gave him a drug, but they
gave him too much and he died. And they
just threw him out of the window. The
Swiss gave the body back. We examined
it. We found traces of the drug, proved
he was dead before he went out the window.
So we know very well about the British."
Here
was the old-guard KGB's (big) mouthpiece, telling me in the space of 15 minutes that 1) the KGB had a file on Clinton that could have prevented his
election and re-election, 2) Lyndon Johnson conspired to assassinate President
John F. Kennedy, and 3) British Intelligence murdered Princess Diana on
instructions from the British Monarchy.
A conspiracy theorist's dream!
At
6 p.m. Howard arrived at the Baltschug Kempinski with his new girlfriend, Mila,
to take Rick and me out for a "real" Russian dinner.
Mila,
from the Ukraine, was a blonde knockout.
Young, curvy, vivacious. The kind of trophy wife rich cretins like to
show off in Monte Carlo. Mila
apologized, in excellent English, for wearing sunglasses, meant to hide a bad
case of conjunctivitis. Or recent
plastic surgery. Or a black eye.
The
two had met, said Howard, on March 8th (International Women's Day in
Russia) 1997, at a party. Mila was a
divorcee with a 22 month-old son.
Howard
found a space outside Le Romanoff.
(You
wouldn't call a decent restaurant Le Stalin or Le Khrushchev. Not unless their specialty was boiled
potatoes and cabbage.)
Rick
focused on Mila; I, on Howard, as we had pre-arranged.
Howard
requested that I not mention Mila to Lena Orlova; he was juggling both women.
By
chance, said Howard, he had bumped into a woman from the U.S. Agency for
International Development whom he'd known in the Peace Corps many years
earlier. She met Howard a second time
and told him that she'd had to report their encounter to the U.S. Embassy. As a result, the embassy's legat (FBI representative) had made
Howard a new offer: Come home, admit
espionage, and spend two years at a minimum-security prison.
"Sounds
like a fair deal to me, Ed," I said.
"Why not go for it?"
"First
off," said Howard, "who knows what could happen to me in prison? And after I got out, I'd probably wind up
back in Moscow because my experience and contacts are here. So why
bother?" He paused. "Maybe in a couple years they'll offer
me a better deal."
I
asked him if he still wanted to sneak back into the United States for a visit.
Howard
puffed on a Salem (was back to chain-smoking) and smiled. "Yeah, I'd like to take a Greyhound bus
tour and see the Grand Canyon. But I'll
have to be careful. One of my KGB
contacts told me, 'They [the FBI] have given up on you. They'll only get you if
you show up on U.S. territory.'"
As
far as I knew, and I knew a lot, Howard's KGB contact had it right.
From where had the Russians gotten such good
intelligence?
(The
on-going spy hunt back in Washington had focused, erroneously, on a CIA officer
named Brian Kelley.)
As
we ate our meals, a trio of Russian musicians performed traditional tunes,
including one by Pushkin.
Howard
was so cheap, he wouldn't even order a second bottle of wine, so I took control
of ordering--and the tab. This cheered
him significantly, and he opened up with an interesting tidbit on George
Blake: The British traitor had finally
been venturing out of Russia for vacations abroad. Blake marveled at the ease with which Howard
traveled so freely around Europe. So
last summer he'd taken his wife on a Mediterranean cruise.
I
asked Howard about his business.
"My
KGB contacts liked to point me out as a success story," said Howard. "Doing well, making money."
But
he was not as buoyant as the summer before.
The Russian stock market had petered out, was losing money, not making
any. And Howard, with his accountant mentality, defined himself by financial
worth and fiscal growth.
His enthusiasm
for meeting new clients had waned in this declining market, so I needed a new
lure.
Since Howard was no longer flush
with cash, he would probably be willing to meet a movie producer to discuss a hefty sum for film rights to his book Safe House, wouldn't he?
"I'm
there," said Howard. And speaking
of books, his old KGB handler Igor Batamirov was thinking about writing one.
Next
day, Rick set off with Igor Prelin to meet a couple of old-fogy generals about
their own scribing for publication.
He
returned to the hotel and joined me for a six p.m. meeting with Igor Batamirov,
as arranged by Howard, who'd cautioned, "Don't tell Prelin about this. He wants a piece of everything."
Batamirov
cut a formidable presence in sport coat, V-neck sweater, slacks, and English
driver's cap, overcoat and woolen scarf.
His large, doughy face sat heavily upon a wide-girth double chin.
Batamirov
wore a six-piece gold puzzle ring he had acquired in Kuwait. When I mentioned I’d once bought a similar
ring, an eight-piece, at the souk in Beirut, Batamirov smiled. His best years, the early 1970s, he said,
had been spent in Beirut.
This
former counterintelligence chief, who had run both Howard and Ames, exuded a
low-key self-confidence. He was, he
knew, a master-of-the-kingdom. Unlike
Prelin, he had no need to toot his own horn.
Batamirov
gazed into space as he spoke decent English, lapsing into quiet, reflective
moments that added to his authoritative air.
He told me he retired from active service in 1994, after five years as
counterintelligence chief. Soon after,
he divorced his wife of many years and married a woman with whom, he said, he'd
enjoyed an intimate relationship for 22 years.
"It
was always my plan to marry this woman," said Batamirov. "But two things had to happen
first: One, my children had to grow up,
and two, I had to retire. Otherwise it
would have ruined my career."
Batamirov
knew I’d come to town to see his former boss.
He'd read Kryuchkov's book, as published in Russia, found it
"very dull."
As
for his own book, Batamirov told me of his fascination for what he called
"the phenomenon and psychology of betrayal."
"Excellent,"
I said. "Sounds like a whole
chapter. Maybe even a book unto itself."
Batamirov
responded to my questions in a deliberate, thoughtful manner, avoiding eye
contact until strategic moments, when he would use such contact to conclude an
important point or assess its impact on his listener.
I
asked about Ames. Batamirov confirmed that he had been Ames's handler.
I
asked about Yurchenko, and told him that Kryuchkov seemed to believe
Yurchenko's version of his defection.
"Yurchenko
is a liar," said Batamirov.
"And Kryuchkov is a fool."
I
coached Batamirov on the basic elements of a book proposal. He listened carefully, and said he would be
willing to visit the United States and meet prospective publishers.
I
knew the FBI was going to love this one.
Edward
Howard drove Rick and me to the airport next day.
We agreed that our next meeting would take
place in Havana, where Howard promised to introduce me to his Cuban
intelligence pals.
Rick
and I were the only passengers flying Business Elite back to New York, a whole
cabin to ourselves.
Hearing the aircraft
door clunk shut was, for me, a golden moment.