Spring 1987
Jonna
The driver of the Land Rover that had picked me up was Eric Cooper, the entry-team leader. After locating the local jail and generally getting our bearings in the city, we had dropped off the other two members of the team in the center of town, and Cooper and I proceeded to a hotel where we rented a room with a view of the Soviet compound that was our target, which would function as an observation post (OP).
As we completed the preliminary photographic casing of the Soviet stronghold from the window of the hotel room—I would develop the film later that day—Cooper went over the details of the operation.
His team was a unique group of individuals with unusual and dangerous skills. Locksmiths who would dangle from mountain-climbing pitons in an urban environment, ninjalike shadows armed with the latest in electronics, computer geeks who work out at the gym. Very good at their jobs, the team was pretty much a desperate and dangerous tool-of-last-resort—they were called in only when less high-risk options wouldn’t work. Most of them didn’t have a long career doing this type of work, so it was usually a group of younger rather than older guys.
The team would be more or less left to their own devices, since their operational expertise was something no one else could help them with. Also, their forged identity papers, issued by our documents section at headquarters, were quite in order, and their cover as tourists—the same as mine—was more than sufficient in this remote mountain town where more than two hundred thousand tourists flocked each year.
Cooper said this particular Soviet legation had been targeted because of the short staff here in this small, relatively insignificant country. With less than half the manpower available at most other Soviet installations, this staff was stretched thin. Adding to our advantage was the fact that their annual vacation was pulling people away from these mountains back to Mother Russia. The Agency, and the team’s chain of command at the Citadel, were betting that when all of these factors came to bear on their compound, the KGB’s security here would not be as stringent as it would be in a major capital.
The more Cooper talked, the more I wondered, Has he been there before?
As high-level KGB defector Victor Sheymov, who came over to our side in 1980, had confirmed to U.S. Intelligence—and later in his own published memoirs*—most Soviet garrisons around the world had special secure rooms, to include: the KGB’s rezidentura, or station; the GRU (the Soviet military intelligence organization and sister service to the KGB) rezidentura; and the Sanctum, where the KAPELLE device was kept in a special enclosure.
Cooper shot me a glance with those steely blue eyes and smiled. He was handsome, and had an aura of danger and excitement. I found my mind drifting.
“I’m not losing you here, am I?” he asked a bit too patronizingly.
“Keep going,” I said, my cheeks reddening despite my effort to appear cool.
The rezidenturas were places set aside for classified work free from the threat of technical intercept, he went on, but they were not considered secure enough for the storage of classified materials, which were brought in during the workday and always returned at night to the Sanctum for secure storage. Usually, all classified materials used in the KGB’s operations and sent in the diplomatic pouch were on undeveloped thirty-five-millimeter film, and only direct contact paper copies were made of classified documents or cipher traffic for use in the Sanctum. The paper could not be easily copied, and it could be quickly destroyed if the stronghold were to be overrun.
“This adds another measure of security,” Cooper sighed, “in a landscape littered with measures of security.”
“You wouldn’t be making the big bucks if it was easy,” I chided, knowing that he was on the same pay scale as the rest of us government employees, and none of us were here because of the salary. Or was it possible that second-story guys got paid more?
Because of my photo work at the Agency, I knew we had been developing a “film loop” concealment for our small cameras. This device would allow a KGB agent working for us to make copies of the images on the filmstrips while pretending to be simply viewing the film in the rezidentura, even in front of other KGB officers in the same room.
We had every reason to believe that the physical security of the Sanctum would be formidable. And why wouldn’t it be, considering the Soviet state secrets it held? They were built like a bank vault, with thick walls and huge metal doors that protected the single entrance. The vault would be hidden by an innocuous doorway, much like the other doorways in the compound buildings. Usually, neither of these doors had a key lock. The heavy metal security door had redundant dead bolts and combination locks.
Cooper paused for a moment in his narration. I could see that he was mentally placing himself inside the space he was describing. I was now certain he had been inside one of these innermost KGB sanctuaries before; he knew exactly where everything was located and what each next step should be. I had worked with many professional and capable colleagues in the course of my CIA career, but I was truly astounded with this man’s knowledge, preparedness, and obvious courage.
As I finished packing up the photo gear, room service arrived with the fresh lime and sodas we had ordered. Cooper opened the door and tipped the waiter, and as he did so, I ducked out of sight. We sat down on the outside balcony and sipped our drinks in view of the mountains.
“How long have you been doing this, Eric?” I asked.
“Just about forever,” he said, sucking on a lime. “But each new job is basically starting from scratch. The adrenaline rush is addictive.”
I knew what he meant. Although it was impossible to mention it on a CIA recruiting poster, most field operatives were adrenaline junkies. If we weren’t, no amount of money would be able to get us to do some of the things we did. I would always remember the almost physical thrill that had shot through me the first time I had met with a Russian asset.
“As my division chief, Tony Mendez, always says, ‘If we weren’t doing this, we’d all be robbing banks.’ ”
Eric grinned, his eyes flashing in recognition.
After a moment of silence, I resumed our discussion.
“Aren’t there guards in the Sanctum?”
In most strongholds, he explained, a sentry was on duty all the time with a secret viewing aperture inside the vaulted area where he could monitor the anteroom.
“He can open the outer door with a switch,” Cooper stated matter-of-factly. “The outer door has a concealed button which signals the sentry. When the bell is pressed, the sentry pushes his own button, opening the cover-door lock and admitting the visitor. Once the cover door is locked behind the visitor, and the sentry verifies the identity of the visitor by looking through the peephole, he opens the vault door.”
“You have been there before,” I said, lowering my eyes to my glass.
Cooper pretended not to have heard me.
The security didn’t stop there, he continued.
His demeanor, as he waltzed me thorough the secret rooms, suddenly reminded me of an expert military briefer. That’s it, I thought, he’s ex-military. Without a conscious effort, I guessed Navy SEAL.
He explained that the Sanctum was divided by a barrier isolating the inner and outer chambers. The KAPELLE operator, also known as a “pianist,” worked in the inner part. He was always escorted by a security guard when leaving the stronghold alone and, as a hedge against defection, if he was married, his spouse could not accompany him, even for a stroll to the marketplace.
“Some marriage,” I offered.
Cooper looked at me and smiled devilishly. “Who in the world would want to defect with his own wife?”
That was as lighthearted as it got.
The Sanctum afforded secure compartments for the most secret discussions. In the inner part, the classified materials were stored in safes. Also in the inner part would be “the Hole,” our final destination. “It’s where KAPELLE is kept.”
“How big is this Hole?” I asked.
“Two meters high, wide, and long.”
I shivered, remembering several hours I had spent as a child playing a lengthy game of hide-and-seek with my sister, Jennifer. Somewhere in the middle of the game she had managed to lock me inside the cabinet under the sink while I was hiding there. Then she had gone outside and begun another game with friends who came by, forgetting my imprisonment. I had spent what seemed like hours locked in that dark space that reeked of Clorox, Drano, and harsh cleansers.
The door to the Hole, secured by a hydraulic dead bolt, was designed to provide electromagnetic and acoustical shielding of the KAPELLE device, he explained. As a result, the inside of the Hole was flooded with electromagnetic “noise.” There was no air-conditioning in this cramped space, and the only physical connection between the enclosure and the outer vaulted room was through legs that the cubicle sat atop, thereby cushioning its physical contact with the building and limiting accoustical noise.
I set my glass down on the balcony table. “This sounds like working on a submarine,” I said. “One of my recurring nightmares.”
“I’ll have to remember that,” he replied with more than casual interest.
That fear of small places had transferred to a real claustrophobia; any tight passage or small closet gave me the creeps. My one visit aboard a submarine had been short. I had run the last twenty yards down the passageway when I saw a crack of daylight at the end. Periodically, I still dreamed about the experience, always awaking in a sweat.
“This is where it gets fun,” Eric continued. His briefing had gone way beyond my end of the operation. Obviously, he trusted me as a colleague. This was such a difference in attitude from that of Smallwood, my nemesis, that I felt touched—even honored.
Once the entry team got inside the enclosure, they would find the KAPELLE bolted down to the floor. The term smoking-bolt operation, I had already learned, was Agency slang for describing the swiftness of a snatch, as in, “There was nothing left but the smoking bolts on the floor.”
Downsized like many of our smaller CIA contingents in the Third World, the entire KGB staff here was probably only two people: the KGB rezident, or chief, and the KAPELLE operator. The KAPELLE device at this backwater outpost would be the same as those elsewhere, only not subject to an around-the-clock guard. The KGB no doubt believed, however, that the physical security measures in place could be relied on to keep its top-secret device safe in this quiet corner of the world.
Slowly and with no wasted motion, I raised my camera so that the viewfinder was filled with the scene. One false move and the moment would be lost.
Two young Buddhist monks, in saffron and cinnamon robes and with shaved heads, were flying a red kite off the side of the mountain.
I depressed the shutter button and moved quietly away.
The boys were so engrossed that they had not even noticed me.
As the afternoon sun began its decline, I was climbing what seemed an endless set of stone stairs leading up through a mist to the top of an almost vertical emerald green mountain. In the distance was a twelve-mile-wide fertile valley formed from an extinct lake bottom. Forty miles to the north and dwarfing other nearby mountaintops, sawtooth peaks rose more than four miles high. The late sun colored them in pastels; they resembled a veil connecting the earth to the clouds.
This long-forgotten outpost on the old Silk Route lay nestled in the center of the valley like an encrusted jewel in the palm of a giant hand. The surrounding chestnut forest and giant rhododendrons were teeming with monkeys; many of them scampered alongside me up the moldering stairs or stood in my way, challenging me with screeching hisses.
I stopped and turned for a moment, framing and shooting several more pictures with my well-traveled Nikon F3. Then I continued a seemingly casual conversation with my colleague, Joe Muldoon, a local resident CIA case officer, as we continued up the steps. I was bringing him up to date on my activities that afternoon with the snatch team. He would never meet the members of the elite team—if there was a problem down the road, he would be able to deny everything. But in reality, any serious probe into the Soviet compound would require the services of the local CIA contingent.
Muldoon was an elf of a man. A shock of gray hair just a bit too long and a magnificent mustache that swept up at its ends accentuated his Irish blue eyes. They were very kind eyes. He was dressed in the casual bush clothes common to foreign residents hereabouts. Although we were alone except for the horde of chattering blue-bellied rhesus monkeys, we spoke softly. This required us to pay close attention to each other’s words, while the noises from the monkey-sentries provided a good measure of security from inquiring ears.
“The hotel room has a good line of sight to the Soviet compound,” I explained. “We cased the place and were able to chart the staff’s routine. I got some good long-lens shots of the buildings, the commo antennas, and the antenna leads running into the building.”
I told Muldoon that the power lines and the heavy-duty air handlers on the roof made our team think that the Sanctum was on the second floor of the center compound building and that the device they were after would be secured inside it. The overhead imagery from CIA satellites should help us confirm that, although I had learned the KGB took every precaution to disguise the exact location of such sensitive equipment. The entry team was conducting an electromagnetic-emanations survey this afternoon, hoping to zero in on the electronic noise of their target area. The team still needed a ground-level reconnaissance of the target compound courtyard, and I’d be helping handle the technical end of that.
Muldoon told me that the local CIA chief planned to ask the head of the U.S. Mission to send an official invitation to the Soviet head of mission, which would be good cover for the messenger—the chief—to enter the Soviet compound and take the close-in photographic images needed to finalize the plan for entry.
Our long walk that morning to the high precipice, far away from town, afforded a measure of privacy and security for a meeting with a local agent, code-named TUGBOAT, who was going to help the team gain access to the center building of the Soviet stronghold. Such a face-to-face was the only way I could decide firsthand what I needed to do to disguise him for his part of the operation. TUGBOAT had already taken great risks working locally for the CIA, and by now he was readily identifiable in this small town. I quietly cursed my boss, who had assured me that this trip was to be a simple photo-surveillance operation. As a result, I had left behind my disguise materials and other tools I could have used to change TUGBOAT’s look and identity.
TUGBOAT was a local security type whom Muldoon had recruited previously to help the Agency with local counternarcotics activities, a dangerous item on the CIA’s operational directive any place in the world. Here, the trail had led into the highest levels of local leadership, making the work that much more hazardous.
Espionage can be a deadly game, of course, but it is usually most life-threatening for a foreign or locally recruited agent. Counterterrorism and counternarcotics operations, however, are different animals. The rules of diplomacy do not come into play, and the targeted individuals are more inclined to shoot, randomly if need be, before asking questions. Diplomacy is out the window, and a criminal’s code of survival is more the order of the day.
As a result of his counternarcotics operations, Muldoon had already been paid a visit by a couple of thugs who showed up at his door late one night making threats. Not wanting to take any chances, he had started taking extraordinary security measures, including carrying a nine-millimeter Browning automatic in his belt. He had his gun today, under his bush jacket, for our clandestine meeting with TUGBOAT, which was unusual behavior for a CIA case officer. Normally, we were armed only in a war zone. But given how high the stakes were now, Muldoon’s every action had become more careful and thought out.
After a breather, we continued up the long flight of steps.
“I can’t believe headquarters is approving such an outrageous plan,” Muldoon said. “But I understand the risk is worth it. The chief says we are to serve up our best assets and efforts. And so, Jonna, I’m happy to be at your service. The fact is, we haven’t had much excitement in this town in a long while. We run our operations against the local drug traffickers and have an occasional heated tennis match with a Russian or a Chinese.”
I could see that Muldoon was one of those people who found humor in everything, including adversity. I liked this slight, gregarious man with a big heart. His “cover job” in the American community was looking after the affairs of errant U.S. citizens who traveled here hoping to dabble in the easy supply of exotic drugs—“chasing the dragon,” as he called it. Most of these foreigners weren’t accustomed to such pure substances, and when one of them fatally overdosed, he arranged for their remains to be shipped back to their next of kin. Because there were no local embalming practices, that meant fresh corpses in crude coffins made locally. The “storage problem,” as he put it, was exacerbated by the scarcity of refrigeration, most of which was owned by Americans.
“On any given weekend,” Muldoon went on, “you can count on finding one or two bodies stuffed in the back of the walk-in freezer at the American commissary, waiting for a Monday morning flight back home.”
I learned that the official drug-related death rate in the country had declined in the past year, but only due to some significant changes in the way such deaths were reported. “If a corpse is found in bed in a hotel room with drug paraphernalia all over the room, and with a tourniquet tying off the arm, it only counts as a drug death if the needle is still in the arm,” Muldoon explained. “If the needle has slipped out and fallen to the floor, as it usually does, the death is not listed as drug-related.”
I listened, enthralled and amazed as always at how bureaucracies could blatantly manipulate and juggle numbers to achieve favorable results.
When we climbed the last step, we arrived at the grounds of a remote temple. My already shortened breath was taken away for a moment.
The huge, low dome of a blazing gold stupa stood in the center of a stone plaza. Affixed around the base—a glittering mound—were a thousand prayer wheels, the major focus of any Tibetan Buddhist temple. Fastened from the spire on top and all around the circumference of the dome were hundreds of small, brightly colored prayer flags and streamers fluttering in the wind. Saffron-robed monks moved slowly through the vast plaza, the smallest of them mere children.
The full effect of the scene took some time to absorb. Without hesitation, I went to work recording the exotic setting with my camera. As I did, Muldoon kept a watchful eye on the scene around us, looking for signs of hostile surveillance. My loosely devised cover as a typical western tourist provided a convincing reason for me to snap pictures.
After about a half hour of shooting, I had worked my way around to the other side of the plaza, where a secluded narrow corridor led into the shadows.
I felt him, rather than saw him, standing there.
TUGBOAT was a small man with a presence that overshadowed his size. He looked like most of the local population: slight, with dark hair and eyes, clean-shaven, coffee-colored skin. His eyes were the first thing you noticed about him. Narrow, observant, intelligent, they measured me with a steady gaze. I guessed him to be in his mid-thirties.
Muldoon was the first to speak, stepping forward and extending his hand. “Glad you could come. This is my colleague, Jane. She flew in yesterday from Washington and is ready to go to work. She brought all of the latest disguise materials.”
I felt my stomach flip over, although not at the lie about my coming in from Washington. Case officers would use this line routinely to make their assets feel important and to make it seem as if CIA headquarters was following every twist and turn in their operation. Rather, I was uneasy because I hadn’t yet told Muldoon that I had not brought anything with me for a disguise case.
As I started to extend my hand to TUGBOAT, I noticed that he was not reciprocating. I quickly ended up adjusting my camera strap instead.
“This is just an initial review,” I explained. “I needed to see what you look like. I’m also familiarizing myself with the rest of the population. Somewhere in there, I’ll design for you a new look that will blend in on the street while concealing your true identity.”
TUGBOAT nodded thoughtfully, then turned to Muldoon to say something. It was only then that I saw the disfiguring birthmark that ran down the right side of his face, starting at the temple and spilling out onto his right cheek.
Oh, great! I’m screwed. There I was with absolutely nothing to work with, and this guy was wearing a neon sign on his face that could be seen a block away.
We continued chatting for a few minutes while I scrutinized TUGBOAT’s mannerisms, and as we parted, I observed him as he moved down the path. As Muldoon and I headed back down the mountain, I explained the challenge of this particular piece of work, finally admitting to him that I had no disguise materials with me, nothing at all.
“Guess we’re just gonna have to get creative,” Muldoon said agreeably.
Rather than becoming upset, as other case officers might have done, he was accepting my difficult challenge as his own. I liked him even better for his generous attitude.
The thought gave me an idea. “Joe, when you get back to the office, ask each of the officers to bring in tomorrow morning any cosmetics that their wives have on hand. Foundation, powder, eyeliner, eyebrow pencils—anything will help.”
I also asked him to have the staffers pool their disguise kits. I knew that each officer was issued one before leaving for a foreign assignment, and I wanted to see everything they had—glasses, mustaches, wigs. Out of these odds and ends, perhaps I could knit together something convincing.
“You got it,” Muldoon said.
We arranged to meet in the morning at the safe house, and he promised to have all of the material there when I arrived. He asked whether I was okay on my own for the evening, or whether I needed anything. I said I was fine. I was planning a shopping trip to the local bazaar to see what I could find for our project. We shook hands and parted.
At ten o’clock the next morning, I proceeded to the safe house in the city center. Taking the customary precautions to ensure that I was not being followed, I walked a circuitous route through the old part of town in the general direction of one of the many tourist attractions. I cut through an alley and came upon an open sewer slicing through the center of the road. Such an obstacle had not been covered in our surveillance training. I held my breath and stepped gingerly over the puddles of raw sewage, then made a hard left and emerged onto the adjoining street.
I turned into the third entrance on my right, and knocked lightly.
Joe Muldoon, wearing an ear-to-ear grin, opened the door immediately. “Good morning, Jonna. Come in and get a load of what I brought for you.”
Moving through the entrance, I saw a dining room table piled high with plastic bags. Muldoon told me that the wives had really gotten into it, as they didn’t often get to participate. It looked as if they had pulled out all the stops.
I sat down at the table, and began to go through the bags.
“This is good stuff, Joe.”
As I began to assemble the necessary materials, Muldoon left to collect TUGBOAT in a car that bore local license plates—in contrast to his official vehicle: an American-made car with official plates. He said he’d be back in an hour, but I didn’t answer or even look up. I was too busy examining a can of Dr. Scholl’s foot powder, thinking about the wondrous possibilities it presented.
When Muldoon returned, he drove directly into the garage and closed the door before allowing his passenger, hidden from sight on the floorboard of the car, to get out. They entered the side door of the house. I was waiting for them in the dining room. The pile of plastic bags was gone, and on the diningroom table was assembled an assortment of cosmetics and applicators, lined up in almost surgical precision. A pile of clean white towels, a brush and comb, and a hinged mirror were also in place.
I welcomed TUGBOAT and asked Muldoon to excuse us.
During my training days, Tony had told me repeatedly that a confident asset could successfully wear a less-than-perfect disguise, but even the best disguise on a hesitant subject would never hold up to close scrutiny. Though these disguise materials could be attributed to luck, TUGBOAT’s final appearance would be a test of my skill. Passing scrutiny, however, would depend on TUGBOAT’s demeanor; he had to feel, from the inside out, that he looked different.
Forty-five minutes later, I summoned Muldoon from the adjacent room. He put down the newspaper he was reading, walked into the dining room, and stopped.
Sitting on a chair next to the table was an older man who appeared to be about sixty. He had close-cropped gray hair, combed straight back and revealing a widow’s peak. His hair was whiter at the temples, and his mustache was large and gray. He wore dark-rimmed glasses, and when he removed them, deep wrinkles were noticeable around his eyes, a feature common among older citizens at this high altitude—prima facie evidence, I had decided, that the ozone layer really was burning away. He held a distinctive hat that I had picked up in the bazaar, one that many police officers wore along with their uniforms. Best of all: his complexion was clear, with no blemishes.
Muldoon let out a low whistle. “How in hell did you do that?”
“Trade secrets,” I said, smiling.
I held up a small container of Dermablend, a cosmetic used to hide surgical scars, varicose veins, and even tattoos. I had remembered putting together a local officer’s disguise kit and including the Dermablend to hide the distinctive tattoo of a cute little skunk on his forearm. Then I nodded toward the table, where the can of Dr. Scholl’s foot powder was sitting. As far as I was concerned, it would forever be known as Dr. Scholl’s Hair Whitening Powder.
When I asked TUGBOAT to address our visitor, a silver-capped front tooth became obvious. For the icing on the cake, when TUGBOAT got up and walked across the room, he had a discreet but discernible limp, the result of an Ace bandage wrapped around his right knee.
“Very nice job,” Muldoon said appreciatively.
I explained that I had photographed TUGBOAT in disguise for black-and-white ID photos. I had tried to find photo paper and fixer the day before with no luck, but I hoped I still might find what I needed at the bazaar. I told Muldoon that I needed a darkroom to work in. We would photograph TUGBOAT’s real government ID card with my thirty-five-millimeter camera and enlarge it to an eleven-by-fourteen print, change his name and title to make him a cop, photograph that, then print it at its regular billfold size and laminate it. I explained that I would still need an official-looking inked stamp with the national logo on it.
TUGBOAT looked up. “I can get that. I see those lying about at the Post and Telegraph office. It would be easy enough to walk off with one.”
His voice was soft and his English was accented, but clear.
“That’s a great idea, but let me have one of my guys get it,” Muldoon said. “You, my friend, are too valuable to risk at this point.”
The next morning, Muldoon and TUGBOAT returned to the safe house at the predetermined hour. I was waiting in the dining room with the newly forged police ID card. When I showed it to TUGBOAT and Muldoon, they looked at it in amazement. While the card appeared to be old, the photo of TUGBOAT was crisp and clear. The aged police officer stared out of the card at them, looking rather stern.
The ID card had to be just right. I knew that the initial use of his disguise would be at twilight, at the gates to the stronghold, and that it would be these credentials, not his face, that would undergo the most intense scrutiny.
The purple stamp of the country seal was slightly smudged, the lamination was scratched and chipped, and there was just the right amount of dirt on the card to make it believable.
“How’d you do this?” Muldoon wanted to know.
It had taken me most of the night to produce the smudged and abraded identity document. The real problem had been finding fresh photo chemicals in this little off-the-beaten-path wreck of a Third World city. I had purchased and tested four packages of photographic fixer before finding one fresh enough to make the photograph permanent.
I explained that the photo and language on the card were easy enough, and the authenticating stamp was just the right touch. “But it looked too precise, you know? So I poured some hot coffee on it, laid it on the garage floor, and rubbed it on the cement with my shoe.”
The card had acquired the patina of almost everything in this country: aged, dirty, and smudged. In fact, it was perfect, well worth the long day and night I had turned in without Tom Smallwood’s help.
Muldoon and TUGBOAT left the safe house, and I heard the sound of the car’s motor fade into the morning.
I sat down on a hard-backed chair and let my back relax.
Fifteen minutes later, after I had reassembled the most-useable materials into a single disguise kit, the silence was broken with the noisy arrival of Smallwood, looking surprisingly chipper and ready to go, along with Eric Cooper, looking dashing as usual.
I hadn’t seen my boss since he’d slammed his hotel room door in my face two mornings ago. “Get some sleep?” I asked him.
“Sleep will kill you. In fact, I’ve been making more money at the roulette tables, and Eric has been a great help.”
I could see that the two bosses on the job were birds of a feather—the kind that got their energy from carousing. Part of the spy culture was the undeniable fact that operations officers are addicted to the action; they burn the candle at both ends in the field, then collapse immobile during their infrequent time off with their families. We were all guilty of this flaw.
The next item for the casing of the target had to be ready by the following morning, when the CIA chief would deliver the invitation from the U.S. head of mission to the Soviet head of mission. This would provide an opportunity for collecting imagery close in from the courtyard so the entry team would know which doors were the most likely candidates for accessing the main building and Sanctum.
Woody and I left the safe house together, and made a surveillance detection run—an hour-long drive through town and some of the surrounding countryside—to make certain we were not being followed. We ended up at the local CIA chief’s house. As with the residences of most important foreigners in the city, it was located in a walled compound complete with a gate guard. Once inside, we were directed to a car parked out of sight at the back of the property. The car bore diplomatic license plates and would be the one used to deliver the invitation.
The job at hand was to modify the interior of the vehicle to accommodate a remotely triggered commercial video camera with a wide-angle twenty-eight-millimeter lens. We used this camera often for photo surveillance because it was small and lightweight.
Smallwood retrieved a bag of tools provided by the chief, and we set to work. First we took the seats out of the car and set them on the lawn. Then, the passenger headrest was separated from the seat. We removed the cover from the headrest and took out some of the padding. We were carefully measuring the size of the cavity needed for the camera when a loud bell rang at the gate.
The chief’s wife quickly came out of the house. “It’s the Swedish chargé, a friend of mine. I can’t send her away! Come inside. Quickly.”
Smallwood and I swept up the tools, set the disassembled headrest and camera inside the car, and dashed into the house. We heard the sound of two women talking.
A female chargé, I reflected with pride.
My appreciation for the progress of women in the arena of world diplomacy ended abruptly when we heard the yapping of more than one small dog. As we stood in the darkened bathroom at the back of the house, we heard the dogs running down the hallway at full throttle, their little claws clicking on the hard tile floors.
The chargé was in hot pursuit of her dogs, calling them back and laughing.
As I saw the first dog rounding the corner, I quickly closed and locked the bathroom door. Smallwood and I held our breath as the yapping dogs assaulted the door with their tiny paws.
After the chargé and her pesky entourage finally departed, Woody and I returned to our task. We removed more of the foam padding from the headrest, creating a hollow space large enough to insert the camera. Once it was in place, we covered the lens with a polarizing material that concealed the lens but allowed the camera to see through it. We then put the cover back on the headrest, cutting a slit just long enough for the lens to shoot through. Putting the headrest back onto the metal posts that connected the unit to the seat, we ran the remote shutter cable down through one of the posts. Then the cable was routed just under the seat upholstery and exited near the center console, where it could easily be manipulated by the driver.
An hour later, the CIA chief returned home. He walked around his car, admiring our handiwork. After asking about the technical capabilities of the video camera, and assuring himself that it was not easily seen, he decided to take the cam-car for a test drive. We piled into the backseat with another bag of equipment, and he beeped the horn at his gate. The guard swung the gates open slowly and we headed off into the city.
Nearing the central bazaar, the chief began videotaping the scenery, slowing the car down as he did. We, in turn, pulled out our small, pocket-sized video monitor and made sure that the detail we needed was there at slow speeds. The chief pulled into and out of several parking areas, simulating the entry to and circling of the Soviet compound that he would be undertaking. Because of the position of the camera, he would have to be careful to circle in a counterclockwise direction.
Upon returning to his residence, we all reviewed the tape.
The images were sharp and crisp. Perfect.
The next morning, the plan was set in motion.
The modified vehicle, with the CIA chief again at its wheel, made a call on the Soviet compound. After he showed his identity papers to the guard at the gates on the street, the gates swung open, and the car pulled into the courtyard inside the compound.
Behind the high stone walls, hidden from casual scrutiny, stood a compound with three main buildings in it. The center building itself was by far the grandest and was conspicuous by its size. A second, smaller building appeared to be a security and motor-pool building. The third structure had a number of people moving in and out of it and was probably the logistical center, with a cafeteria and other support offices.
As the car moved into the compound and circled slowly left around the courtyard before parking, the video camera in the passenger side headrest recorded the scene outside—the doors, the locks, the antennas, the windows, the guards—all of the information that the entry team would want to study close-up.
The chief got out of the car, walked up the steps of the center building, and entered briefly. He left an envelope for the head of the mission with the receptionist. Inside was an invitation to an official function being given jointly by the host government and the U.S. Mission. Then he returned to his car and slowly drove away.
Step one had been a piece of cake.
Later that evening, I rendered TUGBOAT unrecognizable once again. Disguised as a local cop, he approached the guard at the gate of the Soviet compound. It was past normal business hours and the center building was presumed to be empty. After presenting his ID card to the guard, TUGBOAT explained politely that he was conducting an Internal Ministry security check of all foreign facilities in the city. He further explained to the guard that he would need access to the compound in order to inspect and check many of the exterior building locks.
When the guard hesitated, TUGBOAT reached into his pocket and handed the guard a considerable roll of money, wrapped in a rubber band. He knew that the guard would be more cooperative if encouraged with a bribe, and when he told him that there might even be a second inspection—that is, the opportunity for another roll of bills—the guard smiled and opened the gate enough to allow TUGBOAT to slip inside.
It took only forty-five minutes for TUGBOAT to make calibrations of all of the exterior locks our team would be facing in the next phase of the operation. This technique was a quick way to determine exactly how to cut a key to fit each particular lock. The locks on these doors would have to be opened rapidly when the team went in to make the snatch.
When he was finished, TUGBOAT, with a nod to the guard, departed the compound, with the specifications we would need to make all the necessary keys.
I made sure that all of the blinds were closed, then walked through the living room of the safe house, down the hallway, and stood by the door to the garage.
The sound of a motor out on the narrow street and then on the other side of the mildewed plaster wall had alerted me that a vehicle was pulling in. I was sure they had arrived, but waited until the garage door slammed shut before opening the door slightly and peering through into the half-light.
I could just see the dark figures emerge as they slowly exited the Land Rover. Five of them filed past me into the dimly lit room. It was an eerie scene; five strangers unrecognizable as Americans stood before me wearing the facial features, skin tones, and ethnic clothing of the local population. There was an uneasy moment while I scrutinized their appearance.
“Excellent,” I murmured, exhaling with relief. The team had just completed their first trial outing and had come back none the worse for wear. Before deploying for this operation, they had visited our disguise labs at headquarters to be measured and fitted. As the OTS officer on the ground here, I would be responsible, if necessary, for any fine-tuning of the materials. Sometimes, even major revisions were called for in the field. The work done by my colleagues at headquarters, though, had been excellent. I required each team member to do a slow 360-degree turn before my eyes, and saw no flaws in their transformations.
The team had made several dry run exercises at one of our remote training sites south of Washington, D.C. Disguise officers had attended as well, performing final fittings and training. After loading into the ops van with all of their equipment, they had rehearsed making their way to a mock-up of the target. Once inside that courtyard, they had exited the van and practiced breaching the locks into the target building.
While the summer heat and humidity on the southeast coast of the United States could be oppressive at times, the high humidity here was causing us some concern, and so, tonight, we had decided to test the disguise systems under local conditions. We drove and walked around for an hour, during which the disguises held up well. But I was still concerned whether the team could stand to wear them for as long as required.
“Can we take off these getups?” one of the team members asked as soon as we returned to the safe house.
I knew the disguises were uncomfortable and a little strange-feeling. One has a certain paranoia when wearing disguises in public for the first time. These guys were obviously not used to wearing them and would need more practice. I would send them out in public a few more times so they could develop not only their stamina, but also their confidence in how well the disguises worked. When the time arrived for them to go to work in the Soviet compound, I didn’t want them distracted from the job because they were uncomfortable or worried about how they looked.
“Sure, you can take them off,” I said. “Just be sure to keep track of your materials so you can quickly get back into character—your own character, not someone else’s.” They laughed, thinking that this was funny, although they knew I was serious.
I went into the kitchen and brought out a six-pack of cold Heineken, an import not available on the local market. Joe Muldoon, ever the helpful facilitator, had supplied the precious loot out of his operational stash.
From my world travels, I knew that each station and base had an area where the “goodies” were kept—usually under lock and key. The goodies varied from city to city and country to country, but they were always things unavailable locally that could be used to sweeten a relationship or grease a palm. In the Muslim world, it might be liquor and Playboy magazines; in Africa, American designer jeans. In this country, where there were few imports and scorching temperatures, it was imported beer. Each member picked up an ice-cold can, and we sat down together in the living room to review the plan.
“It was pretty hot with all that stuff on,” Eric Cooper admitted as he downed a couple of gulps of beer. “Hope we don’t have to wear them for long.”
With most of the fragments for the operation in place, Eric’s next job was to prepare a coherent minute-by-minute scenario that would lay out for each member of the team his particular job. This detailed blueprint would constitute the official operational plan and would be put on the wire to Langley and the Citadel for final approval
“Okay,” said Cooper. “Let’s get started.”
He began with the reminder that this job had to be performed surreptitiously and quickly. The operational goal, of course, was to remove the KAPELLE device from the second floor of the Soviet stronghold. The machine would then be transported out of the country and put into the care of another set of U.S. intelligence officers. They would be responsible for moving it through official channels to the Citadel, its final destination.
On a designated Sunday evening in the near future, we knew the entire Soviet staff planned to be away at a hunting camp one hundred kilometers south, located on a tropical belt along the base of the mountain range. Our local CIA chief had arranged, through friendly government contacts, for the Soviets to be the honored guests of one of the local nabobs, a cousin to the major chieftain, for a weekend hunt. In addition, the country’s top politicians would be attending the event. This was a great honor for the Soviets, and none of them could turn down the invitation without offending the local chieftain and central government. The tiger in these regions was an endangered species, so hunting of this type was rarely done anymore. The great tarai at the private hunting preserve was boggy, malarial, thickly overgrown, and remained one of the few sportsmen’s paradises on this side of the border. Russians are avid hunters anyway, and as we had hoped, the whole contingent had jumped at the chance to do it in style like the minor princes, a century ago: aboard elephants following native “beaters,” who would move around in the bush ahead of them on foot, scaring the tiger into the hunters’ range.
The perimeter security at the Soviets’ gated compound would be left to the chokadar, who by this time had been well taken care of by TUGBOAT. He continued to believe TUGBOAT was a member of the local constabulary concerned with maintaining good security discipline on the property. After the Soviets had departed, TUGBOAT would alert the gate man that he would be bringing a team of security experts in after hours to do a surprise inspection of the compound.
The second line of defense for the center building in the compound, and ultimately the KGB’s Sanctum, was the various layers of carefully designed and constructed physical security. These included the sophisticated key-operated locks on the exterior doors, for which duplicate keys had already been made. Then there was the little problem of the hidden button for the electric lock that opened a particular interior door. This door was on the second floor and looked like any other of the locked doors. It led to the cramped anteroom and the eight-inch-thick steel door leading to the reinforced concrete vault.
Cooper stopped his narrative, allowing himself time to jot something down on the yellow lined pad in his lap.
I could see that he was calculating times for each step and had a stopwatch in his left hand. This guy was a pro.
The vault would have a combination tumbler lock securing two hardened-steel dead bolts, he explained. This was it—the entrance to the Sanctum, where the KAPELLE was bolted down inside the steel enclosure of the Hole, with yet another steel door secured by a special hydraulic lock.
He started and stopped his stopwatch one last time, then made a note.
The members of the crack entry team had been extensively cross-trained. By this time, they had made sure they were fully prepared to defeat all these security measures once inside the compound. They knew that no security device is impervious to unauthorized entry, if left unattended, and every physical security device is rated by the time it takes to defeat it. Generally, the time is measured in hours. This team, however, typically measured its “time on target” in minutes and seconds.
The team’s expertise had been built through years of effort. It operated on an almost military concept of target analysis, first obtaining hard intelligence about the security devices it would face. This was augmented by the acquisition or replication of the devices themselves. Finally, it developed unique means and techniques to defeat the security devices, often spending millions of dollars on multiyear contracts to add new technical weapons to its arsenal. In the end, the team had nothing short of the technical capability to penetrate any security device that could be manufactured.
I had always wondered how the Agency deprogrammed these guys when they retired. In civilian life, what could they possibly do other than get into trouble?
Cooper continued with his detailed plan for the operation.
The team would enter the compound in a van that was being driven into the country by yet another CIA officer, using commercial cover. His only assignment was to drive the van into and then back out of the country, with the stolen device on board when the time came to leave. The trip was long and arduous, over a road built by the local tribes using primitive methods. It had been hacked out of the jungles and mountain passes by hand and paved in many places using crossed sections of trees like garden stepping stones. Even if everything went off without a hitch, the journey would take days.
Upon arrival here, in the next day or two, the CIA officer was to deliver the vehicle to a garage rented in town through a local contact. Then he would wait in a hotel until the operation was completed. Once he successfully delivered the van to the garage, it would be freshly painted with an easily removable paint, decorated with the logo of a local business, then scuffed and dirtied up and given local license plates. The supplies for the temporary paint job, the logos, and the license plates had all been sent in separately from home. I would assist another technical officer from our OTS base in their application. After the operation, the process would be reversed—the van returned to its original appearance, the phony license plates removed. It was not unlike putting a disguise on the van—it would accomplish the same thing. The U.S. government would have deniability, and in the end the van, like the six foreign faces, would vanish.
The van would contain a very special large wooden crate, custom-built by our lab to hold and cradle the delicate Soviet KAPELLE device. The crate would be stenciled with a fictitious commercial logo and would have the appropriate customs markings and tags, prepared by our documents and graphics experts. These would show that the contents, supposedly a piece of testing equipment, had been brought into the country legally and could be readily exported as well. The crate had been specifically sized to fit into an official-looking container once it was delivered into official U.S. intelligence channels in the neighboring country.
Cooper, who would be the driver in and out of the compound during the operation, would be in charge of safekeeping the disguises and entry equipment.
“Jonna and I will pick up the van at 1930 hours at the garage and ensure that the crate, the tools, and the disguise materials are on board,” he said. “After we put on our disguises, we will head off to pick up each team member. Everyone should be in the van by 1940 hours. Then we will head back down the valley toward town to pick up TUGBOAT. He will be waiting at the edge of the bazaar wearing his disguise. I’ve shown each of you his photo so that you can help us recognize him. We will pick him up at 1950 hours. Then we’ll head for the stronghold using an indirect route to ensure there is no surveillance. We have done two dry runs in our Land Rover, and the timing works out fine.”
Cooper, a natural leader in his element, was outlining the plan as if he’d known it all his life. “Once we arrive at the stronghold, the chokadar will be expecting us and should open the gate without hesitation. TUGBOAT will ask the guard to depart immediately and will hand him more cash than he has ever seen in his life. He will never need to return, as he’ll have enough money to take his family with him.”
Cooper took a long pull from his beer. “Once we are inside the compound, our workday starts.” He smiled that charming smile. “You assholes have all had plenty of practice to get ready for this day.”
He swung his gaze around the room, scrutinizing the other four members with the pride of a patriarch inspecting his clan. “I expect you to go through those locks and doors like a hot knife through butter—only faster.”
I understood the entire plan now and fully appreciated all the work that had been put into it. “Since you will be hidden in the back of the van, you won’t need to put on the disguise materials until about five minutes out from the mission gates,” I said. “Does the van have air-conditioning?”
Cooper looked at me as though I was a prima donna. “No, there wasn’t anything with AC where we acquired this heap. For five minutes, I think we can tough it out.”
In the cooler evening air, the disguises should not pose a problem. It was only in the crowded, stuffy van that they would be uncomfortable. Cooper and I would be in our disguises all through the operation, but in the van we would be up front by the windows, where we could get some fresh air while it was moving. It was my job to handle any emergencies with the various disguises, and he was the lookout and wheelman if we had to get away quickly, so he would stick by the van while we were in the compound. TUGBOAT would be with him in case there was a need to deal with any concerned locals who might happen by. Once the entry team and I were through the main gate and in—past the first of the exterior locks—the team’s disguises could come off. And after the KAPELLE device was in the van, the team members could either don their disguises again and leave in the van with Cooper, TUGBOAT, and me, or exit the compound any way they chose as long as the coast looked clear. If there was a flap and they couldn’t reach the van, they would all go over the back wall, where there was easy access from the inside, and melt into the night.
And I’ll be leading the charge, I thought. If for some reason the Soviets came home while we were still there, these guys were not going to believe how fast a woman could move, even one who looked like a local guy!
The team members would then leave the country incrementally over the next few days, making sure to adhere to their cover patterns.
The only member of the team potentially at risk then would be TUGBOAT, if the KGB discovered his connection to the theft. Our exfiltration planning for TUGBOAT and his family was rapidly falling into place. TUGBOAT, however, hoped this would not be necessary, and so did I. Pro-western by nature, he was helping us for all the right reasons—not for money, but because he did not like the presence of representatives of the “Evil Empire” in his native land. He was risking a lot.
All the bases seemed to be covered for our final ops plan, so I left Cooper and the guys talking about the challenges presented by the various locks that had been calibrated or otherwise prepared for, and I went into the adjacent room to do a final check of the disguise materials. I found minor adjustments needed to be made, and worked on those.
As soon as I had arrived in-country, I had received a cable from headquarters asking me to round up the team’s travel documents and photograph them. The film was sent immediately back to headquarters by courier to aid in the preparation of the TUGBOAT exfiltration plan. The border cachets and visas in the team’s passports served as exemplars for TUGBOAT and his family’s alias travel documents if they needed to escape. The turnaround time in getting the false papers back had been record-breaking.
I had recognized Tony’s touch in a number of the communications coming out of headquarters that addressed the details of the operation. Usually a hands-off manager, he clearly recognized the critical stakes involved with this one. I was sure he was following it closely, as were his own superiors. I knew that Tony would be paying special attention to the parts that dealt with the security afforded by well-designed disguise-and-documentation packages and good planning. I could just imagine him, his hooded green-hazel eyes steadily scrutinizing the cable traffic, every now and then putting in a call to a subordinate or getting on the secure line to a senior headquarters officer if he saw a flaw or wanted to make a suggestion. “It’s in the details,” he always counseled. “Take care of the details, and the rest will take care of itself.”
Heading back into the living room, I heard loud laughter. I caught the punch line to a very risqué joke and tried to pretend that I hadn’t heard it. Working with a bunch of guys, no matter how pleasant they tried to be, was always a bit of a dance. It was so tempting to try and be one of them, but that never really worked.
Anyway, it was an old joke. I’d already heard it.
The evening light had faded behind the looming mountaintops; one moment we had been bathed in liquid gold, then the darkness had fallen quickly and quietly, blanketing the small town in a blackish murk.
When we lost the light, the temperature and humidity usually fell quickly. We were counting on that to help keep all the disguises intact.
The van moved down the valley road at a slow but steady speed. There was some local traffic and the occasional oxcart or farm vehicle, but the real obstacle lay ahead in the valley: the low-lying smoke from the cook fires being stoked for the evening meals. Acrid and stinging, it caused eyes to tear and throats to burn.
We had already picked up the team members; they were gathered in the back of the van. They were putting on their disguises, helping each other as necessary, and getting their equipment ready.
I was satisfied with what I was seeing from my perch on the crate just behind the driver’s seat. We all knew that the clock was ticking. Butterflies were beginning their dance in my stomach.
The van made a rolling stop, and TUGBOAT stepped in and sat down in the front passenger seat across from Eric Cooper.
“Five minutes,” Cooper called out. His arm flashed skin much darker than his own as he handed TUGBOAT a small goatskin purse.
TUGBOAT opened it and counted the bills inside, then nodded and put the purse in his pocket. This was the baksheesh for the guard—the offer that the man would not be able to refuse.
Cooper drove carefully, knowing full well that we could not have an accident or be stopped for any reason. As the van rolled through the outskirts of the town and headed for the bazaar, we passed a group of western tourists assembled in front of one of the fabled temples. For a moment, I longed to be one of them, admiring the ancient landmarks and heading off to an evening of good food, drink, and pleasant conversation.
I watched TUGBOAT and Cooper sitting up front in their disguises and was satisfied with how convincing they both looked in this early evening light and under the occasional mercury-vapor lamp.
TUGBOAT’s disguise materials were much improved from those I had improvised for the first part of the operation. Having had some additional supplies shipped in, I had also taught him how to put it on himself with the help of his wife so that we didn’t have to meet clandestinely in advance.
“Somebody roll the windows up,” a voice growled from the back of the van. “The smoke is killing our eyes.”
Cooper complied, and gave the van some more gas. He knew that we couldn’t keep those windows up for long; the temperature in the van was already climbing to an uncomfortable level.
The Soviet compound was on a quiet winding street on the outskirts of town. By the time we arrived at the gate, Cooper had been able to open the window, giving those of us in the back some relief.
The gate man was standing ready for our arrival, according to TUGBOAT’s instructions. He swung open the large ornate iron gate just as we pulled up, and we coasted on through, coming to a gentle stop on the gravel courtyard.
The gate was already being swung closed.
Unfortunately, Cooper and the chokadar had misjudged their distances, and the heavy metal gate caught the van squarely just in front of the back right bumper. It bounced off with a mighty clang! We all froze for a second. I fought back an overwhelming urge to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. After all our planning, to be foiled by a metal gate!
Cooper coolly slipped the van into gear and moved it forward so the guard could finish his job. Once the gate was closed, the van swung around and began backing up to the main door of the center building. Before he’d come to a stop, the team members had the back doors open and were already jumping out with their tools and materials slung over their shoulders in black canvas tool bags. One of them carried a full load of ropes and winches, looking not unlike a Sherpa—the mountain guides western tourists like to hire—ready to begin a high-altitude mountain trek.
I quickly jumped out the back door too, and glanced around in time to see that TUGBOAT already had the guard to the side, over by the gate. He was softly and slowly giving the gate man instructions as he handed him the wad of money. The man nodded his head vigorously but could not take his eyes off the largesse he was holding. It must have been more money than he could have earned in a lifetime and would set him up with a herd of goats in some remote spot in the mountains where no one would ever find him. He could surround himself with his extended family, live out his days in comfort and leisure, and never have to come to this town again.
I witnessed this in an instant, and before I could look back to see what the team members were doing, they were already through the locks on the front door. The keys that had been prepared in advance fit perfectly, and the men had unlocked the doors as though they did it every day. Two of them moved into the foyer of the building, the other two returned to the back of the van, where they unloaded the empty wooden crate gently onto the ground. Then they brought the crate in and positioned it on the floor in the center of the main foyer, readying it to receive the KAPELLE machine.
As I moved up the steps, following them into the building, I could see them in the unlit foyer removing their disguises and putting the pieces down with great care. We had agreed in advance on the positions of each team member’s materials. They had found a convenient place at the base of a marble pedestal holding a white bust of Lenin and placed their stuff at twelve, three, six, and nine o’clock around the base. No detail had been overlooked in this plan—if the wrong man picked up the wrong materials, it could take precious minutes to sort it out. Looking at the arrangement around the bust, I longed for my camera—the image was comical.
I positioned myself near the disguises so I could assist anyone on the way out, or be ready to gather up the materials quickly if needed. My own disguise would remain on throughout the operation—it could prove useful if there was a need for another “local” on the grounds or at the gate. I wanted to focus on only the team and their needs, not worry about my own stuff.
As I took my position, the four-man team was already on their way up the flight of stairs, running to the second floor. They were wearing special footwear: dark shoes with moleskin soles that allowed them great flexibility but left no prints. They also wore gloves, but these were more like the gloves that surgeons use—powdered inside, but colored outside so that they looked like human skin. Again, no fingerprints, and just as important, no sweating skin. It was a narrow, winding stairway, and I wondered how hard it would be to haul the KAPELLE back down. I knew from our planning sessions that they already had a good idea of the exact location of the Sanctum, thanks to the casings we had done earlier and the added advantage of a set of plans of the building provided by TUGBOAT. They also had the benefit of prior experience in regard to the typical location of the hidden button that opened the electric latch on the next door. Still, all of this information was just collateral when you were approaching the real thing.
One notable thing about the Soviets: when they established a procedure, they tended to use it without deviation. KGB defectors like Victor Sheymov had confirmed that the cipher locks on some of the KGB’s most sensitive secured areas were all set on the same combination that never changed. This was both for convenience’s sake and because most Sanctums had round-the-clock guards. The entry team thought they might even know the numbers, but if that combination didn’t work, the team was prepared to force entry.
In the interests of speed, and if all else failed, the team could use a special device they had brought along to breach the vault door. They were already planning to use it against the hydraulic lock on the steel cipher enclosure. Much as a safecracker has to know just where to drill a combination lock on a safe, one had to know just where to pierce the vault door and the hydraulic lock on the cipher enclosure to open them rapidly.
Safecrackers in the movies sometimes use nitroglycerin to crack a safe quickly. The KGB and the CIA had many more sophisticated techniques at their disposal. The entry team had a device with them that OTS had encrypted PLASMA. It could fire a tiny shaped charge of explosive through a steel door and sever the exact part of the lock mechanism that would allow it to be opened immediately.
I heard two muffled thuds in the minutes the team was upstairs. PLASMA.
I looked out through the door into the graveled courtyard. There, taking in the evening air, squatted Cooper and TUGBOAT, down on their haunches, smoking cigarettes, and looking to all the world like two of the local gentry passing gossip. They were actually being watchful lookouts, but they didn’t see a need to acknowledge the noises. Our van was carefully parked out of sight from the street. Through the metal gates to the compound, I could see local traffic moving slowly down it, lights on, a smoky haze covering everything. Nothing unusual.
Suddenly, a pedestrian stopped outside the gates and called to our two sentries, motioning them over to the gate. Cooper gave TUGBOAT a long, slow look, and the local got up and walked over to the gate in an unhurried, casual manner. There was a brief conversation through the steel bars, and I saw TUGBOAT remove his credential and show it to the man; then there was a handshake. The pedestrian stepped back several feet and gave TUGBOAT a slight bow, then moved off into the darkness of the street. TUGBOAT strolled back over to Cooper and squatted back down, lighting another cigarette. Things looked to be under control.
But sweat was now pouring down my back, trickling past my waistband and down past the small of my back.
I looked up toward the landing on the second floor and saw two team members rigging a tripod device on the rail of the open balcony above the foyer. The tripod had been carried in a sort of black quiver with a strap that was slung across the shoulder of the biggest guy. They pulled short pieces out of the quiver and screwed them together, forming the three legs. A jointed mechanism united these pieces at the head of the tripod. Clamps were pulled out of another bag and locked onto the legs, then attached to the railing. The one who I had thought looked like a Sherpa, with all of those ropes, began attaching them to the tripod rigging. Then they began attaching the bulky KAPELLE machine to the tripod with a lanyard so they could use the rigging like a miniature crane to lower the device down to the floor of the foyer.
Suddenly, one of the legs of the tripod wrenched away from the railing, and the whole apparatus began to reverberate. The big guy reached out and grabbed the collapsing leg, reattached the clamp, tightened it again, and shot the “Sherpa” a look. They hesitated for a moment, testing the problematic leg, then proceeded with their work.
I looked at my watch and realized that it had not been ten minutes since the van had stopped moving and the team had gone to work. The sweat was puddling in my gloves and my shoes. I felt as if I were in an undersea diving suit.
The machine dangled almost at eye level in front of me now, swinging gently on the rope harness that they had passed around it. Just then the entire team flew down the stairs, still moving noiselessly like cats, gently cradling the machine into the crate and bolting it down.
I was amazed that the infamous and sophisticated top-secret device looked like two decrepit old manual typewriters wired and bolted together with a large basket of rotor wheels mounted to the top.
As the team moved past me with the crate, gently sliding it back into the van, I took a quick turn around the base of Lenin to ensure that no souvenirs had been left behind. By the time I got back out into the courtyard, I saw TUGBOAT opening the gate for two of the team, while the “Sherpa” and the big guy headed to the back of the compound, where they would be going over the wall.
Cooper and I drove through the gate and headed toward the outskirts of the city to the garage, where the van would be repainted and the crate stenciled and documented. It would be driven across the border in less than twenty-four hours. I found myself feeling sorry for TUGBOAT. The casual pedestrian had turned out to be an acquaintance of TUGBOAT’s, and had been looking for another friend of his, the security guard. The coincidence would forever alter the lives of TUGBOAT and his family. Although the pedestrian had apparently not recognized TUGBOAT, we could not risk him later piecing together the voice and general profile of the man he had talked to at the gate that night. As a friend of the missing security guard’s, the pedestrian might well be visited by KGB officers to find out what he knew. The U.S. government could not afford to deal with any blowback from this operation.
A week later, we exfiltrated TUGBOAT and his family out of the country to a place they had never seen and to a culture they would spend years trying to understand.
To the best of my knowledge, they were never able to return to their homeland.
*Victor Sheymov, Tower of Secrets (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1993).