ALTHOUGH THERE WAS NO VISIBLE HIERARCHY among the KGB operatives I worked with, there was a sense that some agents had achieved the status of undercover “royalty.” Near the end of the summer of 1976, Sergej showed up one day with some “very good news” to share with me. Our leaders had approved a proposal to introduce me to a couple who went by the names of Peter and Helen. The reverence with which Sergej spoke about Peter and Helen reminded me of the time he had handed me a tape recording of one of the most famous KGB spies, Colonel Rudolf Abel. It was as if he were entrusting me with a precious religious relic.

“Who are Peter and Helen?” I asked innocently.

Sergej leaned in as if to impart a deep secret. “Well, I can tell you that they are real Americans, and they have served our cause extremely well. Beyond that, please do not ask any more questions.”

I looked forward to meeting this illustrious couple and to have another opportunity to talk with some real Americans. Sergej took me to the couple’s apartment in the chic Arbat district. After he rang the bell and identified himself, he quickly turned to depart. “Aren’t you staying?” I asked as the door opened.

“No, you go on in,” he said with the same excited grin he had displayed when first telling me about Peter and Helen.

I turned back and saw a man who appeared to be in his seventies, with thinning gray hair and a dull, yellowish cast to his wrinkled face. But as soon as he opened his mouth, his voice projected the vitality of someone much younger, and in his handshake I felt the steely determination of a man who was not to be trifled with.

“Come on in, Comrade Bruno!” Peter said as he added a friendly slap on the back to his greeting. “Bruno” was the code name I had been given for the purposes of working with Peter and Helen.

When I stepped inside, I was amazed by the attractiveness of their place, which by Soviet standards was a luxury apartment. The interior, including the furniture, was much more refined than anything I had seen in Moscow.

When Helen came into the room and greeted me, she seemed just as strongly determined as her husband—if not more so. Her voice was very deep and raspy, likely the result of years of heavy smoking.

After the exchange of initial pleasantries, during which both Peter and Helen behaved like children in a toy store in their eagerness to converse with me, Helen said, “Would you like some tea? I would offer you some coffee, but they don’t know what good coffee is around here.”

This kicked off a short discussion about their longing for good coffee. Watching them banter, I enjoyed their lively personalities and the sound of American English. While Helen served tea and cookies, Peter engaged me in conversation.

“Bruno, we are very happy to be able to talk to somebody freely in English. This is also a time for us to pass the torch to the next generation—of which you are a part. We will help you as much as we can.”

As I listened with great interest, Peter began sharing bits and pieces of seemingly unconnected information about his past.

“You know, Bruno, I played football for Mississippi State.” This soon led to, “I tell you, the Spanish Civil War was hell—but at least I made a lot of friends there.”

The more we talked, the more I began to ask questions—the guards of secrecy having been lowered very quickly.

“Did you meet Germans and Russians in the war?” I asked.

“I sure did. I was a member of the Fifteenth International Brigade. We fought a good fight, but in the end we had no chance against Franco, who was supported by Hitler and Mussolini.”

“So how did you wind up here?” I asked the one question that would have made Sergej wince.

Peter let out a hearty laugh, “One day you may read about it, for now I can only tell you that Helen and I spent eight years in a British prison.”

“Eight years?” Earlier, Peter had mentioned that he was sixty-six. The fact that he looked a decade older now made sense. No doubt the rigors of prison had added some years to his appearance. Moreover, his eyesight was failing, requiring him to use very strong reading glasses, and his arthritic, bony hands were the sign of a man who had aged before his time.

“Our friends got us out, you know. They will always get you out, you can bet on that.” He gave me a knowing look, as if to assure me not to be afraid of going to prison. Over time, Peter would disclose more details about his past, but he and Helen never told the entire story.

Much later, I pieced together the truth. Peter and Helen Kroger were actually Morris and Lona Cohen, who had met and married in the United States. Morris had recruited Lona to join him in spying for the KGB, and they were instrumental in the theft of atomic secrets—he by recruiting and handling a number of young physicists, and she as a courier.

The exact role the couple played in the theft of the biggest secret of all time, and any relationship they may have had with Julius and Ethel Rosenberg—who were convicted and executed for sharing atomic secrets with the Soviets—is something that probably can be found only in the vaults of the KGB’s archives.

In 1950, when the FBI was closing in on the atomic spies, Peter and Helen fled to Moscow before taking up residence in Poland to prepare for yet another mission. In 1954, they moved to England, posing as a couple from New Zealand, and set up shop as antique book dealers to cover for their underground activities. For almost seven years, they acted as radio operators for the spy ring led by Gordon Lonsdale, until all three were arrested in 1961. Eight years later, Peter and Helen were exchanged for a British national after serving only a portion of their twenty- and twenty-five-year sentences.

Among the illegals who operated on behalf of the KGB during those years, Peter and Helen Kroger were true standouts. Their undying belief in the Communist cause was the perfect foundation for their activities. They had none of the flaws that compromised many other illegals. They didn’t drink, they didn’t party, they weren’t in it for the money; instead, they were true soldiers of the revolution. And as far as I know, they held fast to their ideals to the very end, even through the collapse of the Soviet Union.

After that first day, I felt a similar reverence for this couple to what Sergej had expressed, even though I didn’t yet know their full story. Also, I felt as if I had made two very good friends in what was essentially a friendless environment.

The systematic and elaborate preparation for my eventual deployment continued into February 1977, when I spent two weeks with Peter in a two-bedroom apartment—just him and me. An elderly lady who came to the apartment in the mornings prepared meals for the entire day.

I expected to have the same kind of enjoyable interactions I was accustomed to in my weekly visits with Peter and Helen; but when he got away from his lovely wife, Peter turned into a cranky and rigid old man.

He immediately imposed a routine that began with getting out of bed at 6:00 a.m., an hour earlier than what I was used to. At 7:00, we walked for an hour in the biting February cold. The ground was slippery, and I often had to steady Peter to keep him from falling.

During the day, we spent much of our time in conversation about the United States, the Soviet Union, spy work, and the future of the world. But Peter was a hard taskmaster, sort of like the early Nikolai, and was quick to anger whenever I did something to displease him.

One day, as I looked out the apartment window at the demolition of a nearby building, I ruminated out loud, “I wonder if they will ironball this thing down.”

This was an invented word and not in Peter’s vocabulary.

“Don’t you ever do that again!” he yelled.

I looked at him in shock at this unexpected outburst, but he was merely warming up to a full fury.

“If you are experimenting with a language you have not yet mastered,” he roared, “you will be dead meat!”

My mouth hung open as he stormed into the other room.

My face grew hot and my heart began to race. I had never felt more afraid of anyone in my life—including my father. Was this the end of our relationship? Would we ever talk again? Would he report my transgression to headquarters?

I worried for about an hour, until Peter regained his composure and came out of the room. When he returned, he restated his point, but this time with calm logic. I apologized, and our relationship was whole again.

In spite of the rough moments, the two weeks we spent together were an overall success. The ability to hear and imitate a male speaker in the American vernacular improved my English pronunciation enormously. I felt ready for the next step.

If only I knew when and what that would be.