John Torpats wanted to save his job, but he had a terrible secret. He decided to tell other secrets about his employer, the CIA, in hopes of winning a lawsuit against them; he knew they would want to keep what he did hidden from public view. In 1961, he sued the Agency for unjust dismissal. A former intelligence officer, Torpats had worked for the CIA from February 1949 to January 1961 and argued that he was denied due process and was dismissed following a mission to Europe in 1956. While stationed overseas, he was accused of disobeying orders and showing poor judgment. After seeing how CIA Director Allen Dulles had included names of HR officials issued in a statement attempting to dismiss the lawsuit, Torpats decided to name the CIA intelligence officials he knew and worked with in a follow-up affidavit:

In early 1956 a situation had developed in a European mission of CIA which my then area superiors, Frank G. Wisner, Richard Helms, John M. Maury, Jr., and N. M. Anikeeff, felt had been mishandled by the personnel of the mission. The mission reports were considered to be unsatisfactory in our component. My superiors felt that I could handle the problem more effectively and expeditiously and decided to send me to do it. The principal figures in this particular mission were Mr. Tracy Barnes, Mr. Thomas Parrott and Mr. Paul Losher. At the time of my separation, Mr. Barnes and Mr. Parrott were employed by the Agency in the Washington, D.C., office.

Notice was given to the mission in April of 1956 that I was being sent over. I was given no special instructions before I left; I was to be on my own. The mission had sent a report on the problem which I later proved was incorrect. Had the mission report been followed, it would have done incalculable harm to the United States.

When I finished my assignment, for which I received several commendations from headquarters, but before I could file my report, Mr. Barnes, on a complaint by Mr. Parrott, put me under house arrest; ordered an investigation, shipped me home; cabled charges against me to headquarters with a demand that I be fired.

In 1957, an employment review board rejected a recommendation that Torpats be fired and instead he was reassigned to a new office where his “skills [could] be utilized.” Torpats explained that in his new role he was given almost nothing to do and in 1958 his performance was reviewed as showing poor judgment, an inability to handle agents, as well as “inflexibility and stubbornness.” After further internal proceedings, Dulles conducted a 10-minute interview with Torpats before telling him to resign, retire, or be fired; the CIA ended up pursuing the latter option.

In his statements to the court, Torpats revealed the CIA’s secret involvement with Estonian émigré organizations and he claimed his perceived lack of objectivity in assessing Estonian émigré issues was a core issue at hand. Dulles strongly opposed the lawsuit, arguing that allowing such cases would undermine the CIA’s operations: “[Torpats] understood that the nature of his work was secret, and that the disclosure of his duties and the names of fellow employees would not be in the best interest of his government. Moreover, he swore, as a condition of his employment that he would never reveal such information.” If CIA officers went to court every time they felt wronged, “Operation of the Central Intelligence Agency, with liability to publicity in this way,” Dulles stated, “would be impossible.” Torpats was suing to be reinstated in his job and asserted he was being targeted by a “small clique of jealous and vindictive individuals” within the Agency. The District Court sided with Dulles and Torpats appealed the decision.

On March 23, 1962, the U.S. Court of Appeals ruled that the CIA Director has broad discretion to fire an employee “in the interest of the United States.” The court ruled that the CIA Director acted within his authority under the National Security Act of 1947, which allows broad discretion in terminating employment for national security reasons. The court noted that Torpats was not barred from other government employment and that his termination was due to a lack of suitability for the position, not security concerns. The real reason Torpats was fired would be hidden for over six decades.

Cover-Ups

Working at the CIA near the end of his career in 1985, Bruce Hemmings was discovering there were cover-ups at the CIA everywhere he looked. Coming off what he felt was a successful assignment as Deputy Chief of Station in Tunisia, he was now posted to the Iran Branch of the Near East Division. Days after being told that his responsibilities would include counterintelligence and counterterrorism, he discovered a bombshell from a thick dossier the CIA had prepared in advance of a May 1985 meeting between Ronald Reagan and Margaret Thatcher: Great Britain was selling arms to Iran, including Chieftain main battle tank parts. The Division’s Chief told Hemmings that the CIA provided the dossier to President Reagan for him to confront the U.K. Prime Minister and the Chief laughed recalling the story that when told the facts, she lied to Reagan’s face “and denied all.”

There was also a series of joint intelligence operations underway, Hemmings learned, that were being conducted between the CIA and the British Secret Intelligence Service (SIS), focusing on cultivating contacts with influential clerical figures inside Iran. These operations, which were largely managed by the British, were intended to generate high-level political intelligence and potentially identify alternative power players within Iran’s leadership, including ayatollahs and mullahs. Despite the apparently strategic importance of these efforts, Hemmings remembered: “I saw little or no good intelligence from any of these British-run operations during my 18 months [in] this Branch.”

A specific case involved a high-level Iranian official, who had prior contact with SIS. He was approached for recruitment by Hemmings and another senior CIA case officer known to Iranians as “Captain Larry.” Hemmings himself met the potential CIA asset under the alias “Brian Duncan.” The source expressed a preference to work with the Americans and indicated that he could provide extensive financial and operational details about Iran’s arms procurement networks, which may have included“ full details, bank account numbers, etc. of overt and clandestine arms purchases, the providers of the arms, banks involved, and Iran’s oil revenues…which would have been a windfall [for] identifying black arms suppliers in the U.S. and Europe and the Arab world/Asia.” Hemmings strongly advocated for handling the source unilaterally in the CIA due to concerns that British intelligence might be compromised or involved in unauthorized arms dealings with Iran. However, CIA leadership insisted on informing the British due to existing liaison agreements, after which SIS assumed control of the case.

The operation quickly deteriorated under British management. Planned meetings were canceled, and although SIS later reported contact with the source, no actionable intelligence was ever produced. The source subsequently returned to Iran, where he was reportedly arrested by Iranian security forces and executed within two months. This outcome for Hemmings raised serious concerns about possible compromise within intelligence channels, particularly given the sensitive nature of the information the source had offered. His attempts to raise these concerns with oversight bodies, including the CIA Inspector General and Senate investigators, were dismissed as “bad luck or excellent security at the Iranian end.” Hemmings maintained that the incident, along with the reported loss of multiple additional agents in Iran during the late 1980s, pointed to a broader counterintelligence failure that authorities were unwilling to investigate. “The fact the Agency lost an additional 6-7 agents in Iran during 1988-89 also did not seem to upset the SSCI [Senate Select Committee on Intelligence] or CIA officials I spoke with,” summarizing their attitude as: “if we ignore it, it will go away.” It turned out there was an additional reason the U.S. had no interest in pursuing the issue of illegal arms sales to Iran.

Discovering Iran-Contra

The more Hemmings discovered, the more he was placed in what he felt was an untenable position: he could lie, perjure himself, or tell the truth and try to disrupt the illegal activities the CIA was being ordered to carry out. In late September 1985, he was assigned to handle a sensitive FBI-related case involving a source with potential access to senior Iranian leadership. Initially, the case had been treated cautiously, as the source’s access had not been verified. The primary goal was to establish secure communication and eventually extract and debrief him. However, the situation changed dramatically when the source reported that a U.S. military aircraft had allegedly landed in Tabriz in and delivered arms to Iran, a violation of the U.S. arms embargo. Hemmings remembered that when FBI Special Agent Randall Boone contacted him with this information, he was asked whether the operation was CIA-related. Hemmings promised to check but found little help in confirming the facts: “I asked two female reports officers, Ken the Covert Action referent, and tried to ask the [Chief of the Near East Division] C/NE/Iran or his deputy. Neither there.” The Chief was rarely in the office or if he was, his door was usually closed. He decided to check with Karen, the Branch Chief’s secretary, who read everything that passed through his desk. He informed her “the FBI was waiting on the line on whether to disseminate it to the community.”She responded,“Tell them not to disseminate it and that it’s not a CIA operation. It’s a White House operation.” Hemmings relayed the information to Boone, not realizing how much grief it was to cause him later.

Hemmings gradually came to understand that elements within the CIA, including senior officials and operatives, had been involved in or aware of covert arms transfers to Iran, often coordinated with Israeli intermediaries. He recalled that key figures within his Division appeared to possess prior knowledge of these operations, including earlier arms flights and high-level visits to Tehran, yet had not shared this information with him even as he worked on intelligence reporting on those events. Over time, he pieced together that individuals such as CIA officers George Cave and others in the Near East Division had been connected to these activities, and that intelligence from the FBI source had in fact accurately described multiple arms shipments and clandestine contacts, including the visit of U.S. officials to Tehran. The FBI, for its part, was aware of illegal arms shipments to the Contras as early as the fall of 1984. Mansur Rafizadeh, former SAVAK Chief in the United States, quoted Cave complaining on a bugged balcony during one failed trip to Iran, “I don’t need this. I have money in the stock market.” At the time, Hemmings did not fully grasp the significance of details such as aliases used by participants, only later recognizing their importance when they appeared in press accounts of the Iran-Contra investigation.

“Stay out of this, Bruce,” an operations support assistant cautioned him. “It’s going to be a flap. [Oliver] North is a cowboy, and they are using [Manucher] Ghorbanifar, who’s a fabricator. We fired him back in ’81 because he lied and wanted money.” Hemmings interpreted these warnings as evidence that at least some within the Agency were aware of the questionable nature of the activities. He further learned of links between the arms trafficking networks connected to the Contras and other covert operations.

The situation came to a head for Hemmings in April 1987, when he received an urgent call from the CIA General Counsel, demanding immediate details about the earlier FBI case in connection with the Senate confirmation hearings of FBI Director William Webster. Hemmings was pressured to produce a memorandum within minutes, under circumstances he considered highly irregular. When he briefed senior CIA officials, including Thomas Twetten, head of the Near East Division, he was instructed to limit his account strictly to his conversation with Boone and to omit any reference to the “White House operation,” as well as other sensitive details involving intermediaries and intelligence sources. Hemmings interpreted these instructions not as a direct order to lie, but as a directive to withhold critical context. A colleague warned him bluntly, “Bruce, your career is over. If you tell the whole truth or if you lie.” He returned to the Iran Branch looking for Karen, the secretary to the Branch Chief, to ask her if she remembered their conversation two years ago about the arms trafficking being a White House operation. She looked him directly in the eyes: “I don’t remember a thing,” she answered and then ended the conversation by walking away.

The motivation for the Iranians and the Enterprise behind Iran-Contra was simple enough in Hemmings’ view: “money, through arms sales.” The desired outcomes for the White House and National Security Council he described as two-fold: “to ensure Iran maintained a rabid anti-Soviet stance, and for domestic political reasons: a White House lawn photo opportunity to open up a channel and votes and some humanitarian concerns to see if the hostages in Lebanon could be released as a good will gesture/quid pro quo.” The entity known as the Enterprise at the center of the Iran-Contra affair was a loosely organized, privately run network that carried out covert operations on behalf of U.S. policy objectives. It emerged in the mid-1980s around the efforts of Oliver North, who, working in the National Security Council, sought ways to continue supporting the Contra rebels in Nicaragua after Congress had prohibited such aid. To do this, North and his associates relied on a group of trusted intermediaries operating outside official channels, including retired Air Force General Richard Secord and businessman Albert Hakim, who helped construct a web of private companies, bank accounts, and international contacts. Ghorbanifar acted as a middleman in Iran-Contra; Cave later issued a burn notice against him, as referenced in the Report of the Congressional Committees Investigating the Iran-Contra Affair which stated, “The decision to consider continued reliance on Ghorbanifar was remarkable. Previously, Agency officials had found his information so marked by deceit, lies, and self-serving proclamations that it had issued a ‘burn notice’ warning the U.S. intelligence community that he could not be trusted and should not be dealt with. Moreover, the information Ghorbanifar was providing was almost impossible to corroborate. He alone was explaining the Iranian position on the hostage issue. The last deal he had helped arrange, the November HAWK shipment, had been a complete disaster.” Twetten later remarked that “This is a guy who lies with zest.”

Through this network, the Enterprise arranged the secret sale of arms to Iran, then under a U.S. embargo, with the expectation that the transactions might help secure the release of American hostages in Lebanon. The profits from those arms deals were then diverted, through a maze of offshore financial channels, to fund the Contras, circumventing the legal restrictions imposed by Congress. The Enterprise provided a layer of deniability for senior officials. The congressional report on the affair explained that the secret organization had broader goals of an ongoing nature, to conduct U.S. foreign policy beyond the bounds of law and oversight: “According to North, CIA Director Casey saw the ‘diversion’ as part of a more grandiose plan to use the Enterprise as a ‘standalone,’ ‘off-the-shelf,’ covert capacity that would act throughout the world while evading Congressional review. To Casey, Poindexter, and North, the diversion was an integral part of selling arms to Iran and just one of the intended uses of the proceeds.”

Warehoused

Born in Plainfield, New Jersey in 1944, Hemmings joined the U.S. Navy and served in the Vietnam War from 1968-1969. He began working at the CIA in 1972 and rose from GS-8 to the rank of GS-14, a senior operations officer. He was awarded the CIA’s Intelligence Commendation Medal in 1985 for work on China; the award is given to recipients for “the performance of especially commendable service or for an act or achievement significantly above normal duties which results in an important contribution to the mission of the Agency.” He retired from the Agency in 1988 and went on to testify on illegal activities before the Senate Subcommittee on Intelligence and the Senate Committee on Governmental Affairs. All that remains publicly available regarding his testimony is his expense bill, recorded in a report from the Secretary of the Senate, confirming that he testified as a witness before the Committee on Intelligence from November 19-22, 1989.

In the final years of his Agency career, he served at Agency headquarters beginning in 1985. By 1986, he was made Deputy Chief of Egyptian Operations in the Near East Division. He was briefly transferred to a non-managerial job in the Foreign Resources Division in Boston in August 1988 but resigned a month later. One of the few public airings of his grievances was found in a Jack Anderson syndicated column in October 1989. In the article, Hemmings called for the establishment of an independent inspector general to oversee complaints against the CIA: “In the area of intelligence, there is no mechanism available to an employee or ex-employee to address…allegations of impropriety.” He explained his learning of a cover-up involving the facts regarding the Iran-Contra and his feelings regarding being “hounded” by the CIA for having “seen too much,” and described his final posting as an attempt to “warehouse” him “in a job without responsibilities,” in Anderson’s retelling.

Hemmings had seen Anderson’s name come up once during his CIA career. In 1985, he happened to speak to a junior officer carrying a “black-tape 201 file” related to Anderson and bearing a cryptonym beginning with “MH” that was catalogued as part of the Agency’s 201 filing system for maintaining records on individuals of intelligence interest. Speaking of his conversation with the junior officer, Hemmings recalled, “He and I knew that it is against the law for CIA to recruit, run, plant stories with, or other have contact with U.S. journalists without the highest level legal permission.” Hemmings doubted that “such legal niceties” were observed in this case and noted that the junior officer was worried that the file existed. Through disclosure of the CIA’s Project Mockingbird, it is known that Anderson was bugged at his office and home in 1963, along with another newsman, which the CIA found “particularly productive in identifying contacts of the newsmen, their method of operation and many of other sources of information.”

The CIA’s wiretapping of Anderson was one of the incidents catalogued in an internal Agency collection of documents nicknamed the Family Jewels. It was compiled in 1973 at the direction of CIA Director James R. Schlesinger shortly after the Watergate scandal broke. Schlesinger asked Agency employees to report to him any activities that may have been violated the Agency’s charter or the U.S. law. The Family Jewels compilation described a wide range of activities, among them the domestic surveillance of antiwar activists, journalists, and other U.S. citizens, a domestic mail-opening program, assassination plots against foreign leaders, the detention and interrogation of individuals, and drug testing and behavioral research. Partially declassified in 2007, the first item on the Family Jewels list remains classified to this day.

Calcutta

“There are some shenanigans going on down there. Don’t get involved.” Hemmings heard this caution while being briefed by his Chief of Station on events occurring in Calcutta, his CIA posting from 1979 to 1980. Once he arrived in India, it did not take him long to discover what the misconduct entailed; there were many problems and numerous sexual affairs involving Agency staff.

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“Asshole!” the CIA officer exclaimed and slammed his hands on the desk in frustration. He took some time to get himself under control. “Give me the manuscript, Mansur,” he demanded, more calmly than before. Mansur Rafizadeh, the former U.S. Chief of SAVAK, had written a book of his experiences as a member of the Iranian secret police. After learning of this, a senior CIA officer whom Rafizadeh knew asked that the two of them meet in a New York hotel suite on March 26, 1986. The officer first tried persuasion, then proposed that the CIA censor and rewrite parts of the manuscript. He offered a large, tax-free payment in exchange for control over the content that had taken him three years to write: “Give us the manuscript and we’ll give your cost plus whatever you think three years of your own time is worth. No receipts necessary. Just give us the total.” When Rafizadeh refused, the Agency officer suggested that the FBI could arrange his assassination without anyone solving the case: “The Bureau will get rid of you. Picture this. You are being interviewed or giving a lecture somewhere. A man in the crowd shoots you. Who could figure out who shot you? One of the Shah’s people? One of Khomeini’s people? After all, you were SAVAK!”

Rafizadeh had difficulty sleeping after the encounter. Would he be taken out through a car bomb? Would he be mugged randomly one day in the street? Would he be surreptitiously drugged and die from an overdose? He informed an old FBI colleague of the conversation; the agent was upset that the Bureau was being portrayed as an assassination arm of the CIA and told him to keep a log of the discussion while he could still remember it well. Rafizadeh also consulted with his lawyer and ensured multiple copies of the manuscript were secretly distributed. With mounting pressure from the Justice Department, he remained defiant and his lawyers insisted he had a right to publish; he had never been a U.S. government employee. Rafizadeh felt that the public had a right to know. Following the emergence of the Iran-Contra arms-for-hostages scandal in late 1986, the U.S. government soon lost interest in stopping the former SAVAK Chief’s memoir.

Methods

The top-secret 1979 Senate document that reporter Dale Van Atta managed to obtain from a U.S. State Department source for Jack Anderson’s syndicated column “Washington Merry-Go-Round” also contained a multitude of secrets; these were never to be publicly revealed again. The report had been triggered by a scandal known as Koreagate, which involved a covert effort by the South Korean government, particularly through the Korean Central Intelligence Agency (KCIA), to influence American policy and decision-making. As U.S. policymakers began reconsidering their level of commitment to South Korea, the KCIA moved to shore up support in Washington. Central to the operation was Tongsun Park, a well-connected South Korean businessman who acted as an intermediary between the KCIA and influential figures in the United States. Park cultivated relationships with members of Congress, offering them cash payments, expensive gifts, and other favors in exchange for political support. A congressional investigation revealed that dozens of members of Congress had been approached and at least ten House members had accepted money or favors.

The resulting report from the Senate committee contained numerous revelations regarding the operations of foreign intelligence services in the United States. Whereas the information regarding Chilean agents has mostly been declassified, the other countries’ activities remain classified to this day. Beyond Chile, according to Anderson’s coverage, the report covered Iran, the Philippines, the Soviet Union, Taiwan, and Yugoslavia, their activities ranging from espionage to assassination. The report, written by Senate staffer Michael Glennon, found that the activities of foreign agencies violated three federal laws, constitutional rights of Americans, and “customary international law.” Glennon concluded that the activities were not stopped due to a multitude of reasons, including “self-protection to bureaucratic laziness and jurisdictional pettifogging,” as summarized by Anderson.

The CIA was hesitant to take action lest it endanger their own agents overseas with retaliatory action from the countries in question. Glennon spelled out that for at least one nation, it was not mere conjecture: “the government of Iran has, several times, threatened to retaliate against CIA if actions were taken against its intelligence operatives in the United States.” For its part, the FBI had made “no affirmative effort” to gather much information on these activities, while the White House’s National Security Council did “not collect significant amounts of intelligence” on the topic. The State Department, in turn, relied on the other three groups to collect the information, which did not amount to much. “Because the pieces are not put together, assessment of the problem and the development of a solution have fallen through the cracks.” Anderson referred to the U.S. as an “easy stomping ground” for foreign spy agencies, adding a quotation from the report that “available evidence indicates that certain residents of the United States have valid reason to fear abridgement of [their] rights and protections by members of foreign intelligence services.”

Similar to Chile, Iran had also been subjected to a CIA-generated coup, following which the new regime had a desire to target dissidents, in this case critics of the Shah, the leader of Iran. Following an exposé on SAVAK and their operations in the U.S., the Iranian government warned of the potential for retaliation on their part. The first secret messenger was Richard Helms, former CIA Director and then the U.S. Ambassador to Iran. Referring to a statement from the Iran Foreign Ministry, Helms wrote in a cable on November 7, 1976 to Secretary of State Henry Kissinger: “The statement serves notice that any restraints imposed upon, or actions taken toward, Iranian representatives in the United States would be reciprocated here.” The Iranian position was clarified in another State Department cable: “[Iranian Ambassador Ardeshir Zahedi] said that if we did not like what SAVAK is doing here, Iran would send its agents home. Then, of course, the United States would have to bring its agents from Iran. It was, he said, simple reciprocity.” On December 27, Helms added: “The Shah is very concerned to maintain the special relationship between Iran and the United States. He contends that no SAVAK representative is operating against the United States or its citizens. Put another way, SAVAK is not authorized to conduct activities counter to U.S. law.” Helms recommended against instigating “an inflammatory, public brouhaha over possibly ill-advised intelligence activity” from SAVAK. “As you well know, we are very beholden here in the intelligence area and therefore correspondingly vulnerable.” These excerpts from the messages were eventually declassified by the State Department.

Helms’ final warning from the Shah came on January 3, 1977, in a note so sensitive he sent it through a double-encrypted State Department line so that his former employer, the CIA, could not read it. The cable quoted the Shah on the subject of the U.S. potentially interfering with SAVAK agents, with him saying that he “would not be able to overlook the presence of 70 of your people who are carrying out activities contrary to Iranian law,” or “others whom we do not know about officially.” A CIA source told Van Atta that Agency officials were “shocked” to learn of this cable’s existence in the Senate report and had not been told of the threats at the time they were made. Anderson reported with that once the Shah and Helms were out of office, Helms helped the former Iranian leader in his search “for a suitable mansion…in the Virginia hunt country.”

As far as the State Department knew, Mansur Rafizadeh was merely an “official at [the] Iranian UN Mission,” as a telegram indicated on December 30, 1976. By August 1977, Jack Anderson revealed in a column that Rafizadeh was in fact the “top SAVAK agent in the United States,” using an FBI telegram as a source that also referred to him as a “foreign liaison source” of the Bureau’s New York office. The Bureau explained this term to Anderson as simply meaning individuals who provided them with information: “if we get something on threats or demonstrations, we call them. They are not paid, and there is nothing covert about it.” Anderson reported that SAVAK documents he obtained indicated the organization was involved in spying on students who opposed the Shah and used methods such as tapping phones, forging documents, and carrying out burglaries to achieve their objectives. At the time, Rafizadeh “vehemently denied any connection with SAVAK.”

Violent Youth

Rafizadeh was introduced to violence early where he grew up in the city of Kerman in Iran, when at the age of thirteen he witnessed the public torture and death of a starving peasant who had stolen grain to feed his family. “Please…He will die!…I beg you, beat me instead,” the man’s wife pleaded. The overseer ordered the punishment to continue, shouting, “Beat him! Beat him! Harder!” The man ultimately died with no one intervening.

When Rafizadeh asked his father why the killers were not punished, he was told: “Injustice begins at the top.” Rafizadeh naively hoped to petition the Shah but this was dismissed; his father explained that real change could not come from authority alone but from education. His father assigned him with the task of reading newspapers aloud to the illiterate, because “the illiterate man is the blind man.”

Rafizadeh experienced violence first-hand at school, with tactics such as the falaka, in which children were beaten on the soles of their feet. He was once struck by a teacher and labeled “an idiot.” Cruelty was widespread, with children re-enacting the brutality they learned from grown-ups on neighborhood animals.

Through reading to townspeople, Rafizadeh learned of their admiration for Americans, whom they view as “principled…humanitarian…generous.” He once saw a man in a three-piece suit leading a donkey wearing a tie, the clothing all donated from the United States. Some men put on American women’s clothes. “Don’t laugh, Mansur. The man is clothed,” his father admonished him. “Be thankful for him.”

Early Leaders

Rafizadeh’s political awakening was sparked by hearing the Iranian politician Mozzafar Baghai speak in Kerman. He recalled being “enchanted” by the speech, particularly its mix of anti-imperialist critique and personal responsibility. Baghai condemned British influence in their country: “People deserve the government that rules them…if the child does not cry, she will give him no milk.” He urged action over passivity: “Do not accept injustice!...Stand up! Fight for your rights. Vote!”

As the movement to nationalize Iran’s oil grew, Rafizadeh joined a peaceful march, but the protest was violently broken up. He was arrested, beaten, and jailed; he felt pride in having taken part in the demonstrations. To his surprise, both his father and Baghai rebuked him for his actions. Baghai explained: “Violence breeds violence…Nothing gained by violence can result in good for the people.” Baghai argued that resisting the police only frightened supporters and weakened the movement. Moving to Iran’s capital to attend Tehran University in 1951, he entered politics and began working with Baghai’s Toilers Party while continuing his studies in law school. During a demonstration in 1951, he witnessed state violence and the Shah’s exercise of power first-hand: “Suddenly I saw tanks moving toward us. Rapid machine-gun fire followed. Bodies fell all around me, including that of my friend, Amir Biyar, killed instantly.”

Rafizadeh supported Iran’s Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh at the time, due to his pursuit of the nationalization of Iranian oil. “To us, he appeared to be the new Messiah,” he recalled, “one possessed of altruism and purity.” His view soured as Mossadegh became more authoritarian: “he would become the body of legislators, pass laws without going to Parliament, and, as chief executive, enforce those laws.” Mossadegh was arrested, confined to house arrest until his death, and the Shah returned to power with General Zahedi installed as Prime Minister. Rafizadeh began to see a downward trend in Iranian leadership: “Zahedi was just another rubber-stamp dictator.” For Rafizadeh, these were simply a course of events happening organically in Iran; he had no idea his installation and the Shah’s return had been engineered by the CIA in conjunction with MI6, complete with project planning, Agency officers executing the plan, and a post-victory celebration.

Capture

After the Toilers Party was blacklisted and forced to stop publishing its newspaper, Rafizadeh was lured away from party headquarters under false pretenses and kidnapped. Goddamn, this time I’m in trouble, he thought. He was taken to Ghazel Ghaleh Prison, where he was beaten and interrogated by the police chief, who threatened him with scissors: “Huh! Want to have your flesh cut, do you? You’d better tell me what I want to know! Who sees Dr. Baghai? Who calls him? Who killed Afshartous? What goes on at party headquarters? What are you planning?”

It took Rafizadeh over a decade to learn what had happened to Mahmoud Afshartous, the police chief who had been kidnapped on April 21, 1953. Several days later, his mutilated body was found. General Nematollah Nassiri later complained to him: “I’m tired of paying these old retired army people forever. I wish they would die already.” As payment for their services, the Shah had placed Afshartous’ killers on a lifetime payroll.

Rafizadeh endured repeated beatings, alternating between brutality and manipulative kindness; the officer told him: “I am a merciful man. I feel great pity for you. Go back to your cell. Think about it. I’m sure you’ll feel differently in the morning.” Eventually, after continued pressure, the prisoners were unexpectedly released after signing a statement: “It is obvious that you are all good people,” they were told. “We apologize for any misunderstanding.” Their release was influenced by higher-level intervention; Rafizadeh saw justice now as an arbitrary system.

When Vice-President Richard Nixon’s visited Iran in December 1953, Rafizadeh participated in a student protest and violence erupted again: “The police followed us inside and opened fire with machine guns. The bullets ricocheted and echoed in the marble lobby. Three students were killed instantly…” Baghai lamented the state of the country: “Here in Iran, we have no freedom—no sign of freedom or democracy.” Rafizadeh was tortured once more by General Azmoudeh, who stated: “You think God will hear you here? Even the braying donkey can’t be heard here.”

Although he continued to be politically active, Baghai encouraged him to leave Iran for education in the United States:“Go there empty, as though you know nothing. Listen to the people. Don’t argue. Don’t show off. Learn!” Before he left, his cousin offered a grim assessment of Iran’s government, which had lost its democratic structure following the 1953 coup: “Our leaders are just such horrifying maids and we have more to fear from them than anything else. Each new ‘servant’ is worse than the last.”

Shock

The Town Crier newspaper of Wayland, Massachusetts had the following note in its February 19, 1959 issue: “An American tradition, Valentine’s Day, was enjoyed for the first time last Saturday by several foreign students who were guests in the following homes...Mr. and Mrs. H. J. Finison...Mansur Rafizadeh of Iran...”

Rafizadeh was terrified of romance more than most Americans, once being touched on the arm by a girl in the back seat of a car. He cautiously eyed the father driving the car in a rear-view mirror, expecting any moment to be castigated by the parent and in his mind, the consequences could have been dire. Instead, the father shook his hand as they exited the car. Dates were also devastatingly nerve-wracking: “Who was behind us—her brother?…I would lose my visa. I would be deported, beaten, disgraced!”

Through dictionary-based communication, he eventually figured out that a nun, Sister Mary Elizabeth, wanted to have sex with him. She later visited him at Harvard University: “She was a beautiful and sensitive person, for whom I shall always reserve a special place in my heart.” Harvard for Rafizadeh at that time offered “such freedom…such simplicity,” yet as he would gaze upon the campus his thoughts would turn back to Iran: “I recalled the bloody hands of my fellow students in Tehran clutching at the windows as they fell.”

Joining SAVAK

In 1959, Rafizadeh had a chance introduction to Senator John F. Kennedy, who listened to his account of life in Iran and “made a promise that if he were elected president in 1960, he would advise the Shah to undertake social reforms.” Rafizadeh’s optimism was quickly dashed by a close associate, Ali Zohari, who wrote to him a warning that “all such men promise many things when they are not in power, but…forget them quickly once they get into office,” and bluntly concluded that “American foreign policy has a love affair going with the Shah. Nothing is going to change.”

After meeting a New York Times reporter whom he helped create news articles on the Shah, Rafizadeh met a man who questioned him persistently and claimed to work for the State Department, later learning this was a CIA man. This marked what he described as his “first tenuous involvement with American intelligence.” He was also encouraged to join Iran’s secret police organization, SAVAK. General Hassan Pakravan argued, “We greatly lack good people. Why don’t you join us?” When he resisted, Pakravan reframed the offer as moral compromise inside of a flawed system: “No one can force you to take this job…But someone will take the job and that someone may be evil.” Rafizadeh did not find it difficult to poke holes in their security apparatus: “How on earth can something stamped ‘Top Secret’ in Farsi require the signature of an American doctor?” he asked Pakravan. “You see?” Pakravan responded. “You see why we need you? That’s just the kind of work we get from these people.”

Rafizadeh was nonetheless completely unequipped for the position, with no training in intelligence work and no clear understanding of what the job required. At first, his cover was that of a student and later that of a diplomat assigned to the United Nations. For the first six months, he was given no real duties. When Pakravan returned to New York after that period, Rafizadeh complained he was representing SAVAK in the United States but doing nothing. “All you have to do, Mansur, is read the newspapers,” Pakravan explained. “Whenever you find an article about Iran, save it. Read The New York Times Book Review, and if there are good books, buy them for me. Twice a month send all the clippings and books to my office in a diplomatic pouch. Do not forget the book reviews.”

In addition to these basic tasks, SAVAK officials frequently sent word about relatives or friends traveling to the United States for medical care, and he was instructed to receive them, arrange hospital visits, and ensure they were properly treated. Over time, he also became responsible for the children of officials studying in America, monitoring their academic performance, managing their allowances, and intervening when difficulties arose. He was now known internally as SAVAK chief in the United States. Rafizadeh’s close associate, General Pakravan, became head of SAVAK in 1961.

The CIA played a central role in the creation and early development of SAVAK, the Agency providing assistance in organizational planning, and training Iranian personnel both domestically and abroad in surveillance, counterintelligence, and interrogation techniques. SAVAK quickly evolved into a powerful instrument of repression, becoming notorious for its surveillance, censorship, and use of imprisonment and torture against political opponents. Jesse Leaf, an Iran desk analyst for the CIA, later reported that the Agency was aware of SAVAK’s torture of dissidents and had instructed SAVAK agents in these techniques, referring to them as being “based on German torture techniques from World War II.” While no Americans did the actual torturing to his knowledge, Leaf did “remember seeing and being told of people who were there seeing the rooms and being told of torture. And I know that the torture rooms were toured and it was all paid for by the USA.” Rafizadeh later stated of SAVAK officers: “I would say about 300, 250 of them, they were sick. They did torture people, they killed people. They did almost everything. Unbelievable what they did.”

Until 1965, Mansur Rafizadeh’s contacts with the FBI and CIA remained largely routine, focused on standard diplomatic and intelligence-related exchanges concerning Iran. That changed during a 1965 meeting in Washington with officials assigned to the CIA’s Iran desk. What began as an ordinary discussion of Iranian affairs shifted into a revealing exchange about how the United States interpreted developments in Iran. One of the CIA officials remarked: ‘“The Shah is advancing toward democracy. The Iranian people have far more freedom than in the past. His opponents are all Communists or reactionaries.” Rafizadeh was struck by what he perceived as a fundamental misunderstanding of the situation. To him, the American analysts were preoccupied with narrow categories, identifying Communists, measuring reforms, and tracking surface-level indicators, while missing what he believed was the deeper political reality unfolding in Iran. He saw a country heading toward instability, where political actors would inevitably deflect blame onto foreign powers such as Moscow, London, or Washington.

Frustrated by what he viewed as a dangerously distorted perspective, Rafizadeh eventually lost it: “You know, you Americans are the broadcasters of our lies,” he exclaimed. “Whatever lie we tell you, you believe!” The Americans were taken aback: “We do not!” they replied. Rafizadeh cited what he considered examples of misinformation regarding land reform, political freedom, and the Shah’s governance.

One of the officers attempted to steer the discussion back to specific operational matters, suggesting that broader political analysis should be set aside. Rafizadeh refused to disengage, insisting that American policymakers, including President Johnson, needed to understand the reality of the situation or risk being misled. When the meeting concluded, he left with the impression that he had been speaking to officials insulated from the realities of Iranian politics, focused only on technical indicators such as infrastructure development and income statistics, rather than what he considered the core issue: the erosion of fundamental political rights in Iran. What Rafizadeh did not know was that the CIA had worked to reinstall the Shah and were not about to sever this established relationship. The Shah acted as one of the CIA’s sources for information on Iran, Leaf explaining: “He was a regular contact for a case officer.”

SAVAK Ops

SAVAK was involved in the targeted elimination of those critical of the Shah, including journalists. One prominent case was Karimpoor Shirazi, editor of the tabloid Shooresh (Rebellion), whose paper published relentless cartoons and articles mocking the royal family. He particularly focused on Princess Ashraf, exposing alleged corruption, sexual scandals, and drug trafficking within the court. When martial law was imposed after the Shah briefly left Iran in 1953, Shirazi was arrested and imprisoned. Princess Ashraf, deeply angered by his publications, pressured the Shah to act, and Shirazi was soon reported dead in a prison fire. Authorities claimed he had been “playing” with a kerosene heater that accidentally ignited his clothing, despite suspicions surrounding the circumstances.

After SAVAK was formed in 1957, many individuals connected to such operations were incorporated into the new security apparatus, either because they were still useful or because they knew too much. Rafizadeh later encountered one such man who proudly admitted his role in Shirazi’s death: “I was the one who soaked him with kerosene while the others held him down. I couldn’t light him because my clothes had too much kerosene on them and I would have burned, too. One of the other guys had to roll up a rag, dip it in kerosene, light a match, and throw it at him as we all ran like hell out of the room.”

Rafizadeh recalled learning of the intercepted surveillance of Princess Shahnaz, the Shah’s daughter, in which she spoke to her father in hostile terms: “Why are you calling me, you bastard? Leave me alone. You are a murderer. A pimp. What do you want from me?” The Shah replied: “I know you’re not feeling well. I’ll call again.” When SAVAK officers attempted to report the conversation, their superiors got angry, instructing them not to forward the material to the Shah; he did not need to read a transcript of his own conversation. The SAVAK director was not impressed: “Later Nassiri told me that he couldn’t believe just how stupid these officers were,” Rafizadeh remarked.

While working in the United States in 1965, Rafizadeh was concerned to learn that the Shah had replaced General Hassan Pakravan with General Nematollah Nassiri as head of SAVAK. Rafizadeh understood the underlying cause to be Pakravan’s opposition to the Shah’s decision to exile Ayatollah Ruhollah Khomeini, whom the Shah had previously removed to Turkey and later indirectly pushed toward political prominence abroad. In Rafizadeh’s interpretation, the Shah’s repression has backfired; he “had transformed Khomeini into a sympathetic symbol of sectarian oppression” and, in effect, “created a new heir apparent.”

During the Shah’s 1967 visit to the United States, Rafizadeh observed that, upon arrival in New York, SAVAK for the first time confronted religious demonstrators openly carrying portraits of Khomeini and demanding his return. The Iranian security services were instructed to discredit them as “traitors,” allegedly funded by foreign governments, and to suppress their visibility in the American press. Rafizadeh witnessed the official American reception of the Shah at the White House, where President Johnson praised him as a reformer guiding Iran toward progress “without violence and bloodshed,” and toasted him as the architect of Iran’s future.

The pattern repeated months later at Harvard University, where the Shah was to receive an honorary degree. While reviewing the prepared speech, Rafizadeh noted its sweeping moral claims about poverty, injustice, and global solidarity, but concluded starkly that “all of this fine-sounding rhetoric was a lie.” He watched security preparations closely as known demonstrators entered the venue, and, contrary to protocol, allowed them to pass: “Good people,” he said to security personnel, knowing they would disrupt the ceremony.

At an event months later at Harvard University, the Shah was met with boos and chants of “Butcher! Liar!” and repeatedly interrupted by students and demonstrators. Security forces struggled to contain the chaos and Rafizadeh had a conflicted reaction, feeling sympathy for the guests but also a sense of satisfaction rooted in resentment toward the Shah. Later, at Logan Airport, the Shah reprimanded him directly, declaring, “You are not doing a good job here,” and ordering him to ensure future control of dissent through bribery or removal of demonstrators. “Here he was again, plotting further bribery and slaughter,” Rafizadeh bitterly recalled. Outwardly, Rafizadeh remained obsequious: “Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty.”

Rafizadeh similarly failed to please the Shah’s sister, Princess Ashraf. There was an incident in New York where, as her security chief, he escorted her through protests condemning her appointment in 1967 as the Iranian delegate to the UN Commission on Human Rights. Demonstrators surrounded her car shouting “Shame, shame! Criminal!” and covering it in shaving cream. “We all began to laugh at the absurdity of the scene,” he remembered. The princess reacted with fury at him: “That entire incident was your fault!” She later proposed violent retaliation against protesters: “Softly, swiftly, you put their heads under water.”

Decline

In the summer of 1974, Rafizadeh accompanied General Nassiri to Washington for medical treatment at Walter Reed Hospital, and watched the collapse of an American presidency on television. “Damn! Damn! Too bad. Good man,” Nassiri commented on Nixon’s resignation. Rafizadeh echoed him: “Yes, General…Good man.” The general insisted it was the end of an era: “No one will ever be like Nixon to the Shah.” Curious about the depth of this political relationship, Rafizadeh pressed further and was told, with calculated vagueness, that “we…here and there, we donate to a campaign.” Rafizadeh described the influence operation as involving millions of dollars routed through intermediaries.

During their stay in Washington, Rafizadeh toured a private intelligence museum and took an interest in some dangerous devices on display that were small but capable of destroying entire buildings, attributed to Communist origin. Nassiri laughed and revealed the deception: “They were not made by the Communists. SAVAK made them! We told the Americans that they were Communist-made, and they believed us.” In a dinner with George H. W. Bush, the Republican National Committee Chair and future CIA Director insisted that SAVAK had to change its methods: “You have to do something about the torturing, the imprisonments.” Nassiri rejected the accusation outright: “We don’t do those things.” Bush pressed further: “If you don’t, why are all those reports coming out?” The Shah had chosen to use the language of “mental torture,” but this framing also drew Bush’s skepticism: “Who is to say that mental torture is any better than physical torture?”

Rafizadeh claimed the depravity went further. In one account, a teacher accused of insulting the Shah was brought from prison and tossed into a lion’s den in the royal zoo. He recalled Nassiri confirming events at the royal zoo, who admitted, “I turned my head. I couldn’t watch.” Following the 1979 Iranian revolution, Rafizadeh noted that Nassiri was “one of the first generals to be mercilessly tortured,” later paraded on television and executed.

By 1971, Rafizadeh had begun communicating regularly with CIA officers. One in particular, who was fluent in Middle Eastern affairs and initially meticulous in recording intelligence reports, later began to using a tape recorder to record their conversations. Over time, Rafizadeh observed the officer’s declining discipline due to alcoholism. He once found the officer asleep at a bar during a dinner arranged to meet his relatives. The officer apologized: “Oh...oh...I’m sorry. I had a hard day today...had a few drinks before you came. I was depressed. You find a table...I’ll wash my face and come over. Everything will be all right—you’ll see.” On another occasion, the officer was found intoxicated in a hotel lobby with classified materials, including a tape recorder and cassettes, left unsecured beside him. Rafizadeh warned him: “if someone hears my voice on this tape, I cannot deny what I said. Then what? I would face the firing squad!” The CIA eventually acknowledged the situation and reassigned the officer, later attempting to have him retire. Rafizadeh thought that despite his faults, the officer was among the more competent he had encountered.

From his point of view, Rafizadeh’s most difficult discussions with CIA personnel involved Iran’s future. He warned repeatedly that failure to plan for succession would be catastrophic. When he asked whether contingency plans existed for the Shah’s departure, an officer responded: “We don’t have any plans, and we don’t need any.” Rafizadeh cautioned: “If you have no undercover people and no contingency plans, when the Shah goes, you are dead.”

Sunset

By the early 1970s, Rafizadeh noted, SAVAK “had stopped informing the CIA about Iranian affairs and had begun surveillance on all CIA officers, tapping their phones and spying on them.” The Iranian secret police were disturbed by a case that involved Major General Ahmed Mogharabi, a senior officer suspected of espionage for the Soviet Union. General Gholam Ali Oveissi, Commander of the Imperial Iranian Ground Forces, warned Rafizadeh of “a very high-ranking army officer of spying for the Soviet Union,” explaining that “someone in my office was definitely leaking information to the Soviet Union, which passed it on to the Iraqis.”

Eventually, SAVAK concluded that Mogharabi had been working with the Soviet intelligence apparatus for nearly thirty years. The scale of the operation astonished even those investigating it, as he was “one of the KGB’s most trusted agents,” equipped with “ultra-sophisticated electronic intelligence devices that had been given to no other KGB agent in the world.”

The case quickly became of great interest to the CIA. The Agency requested both access to the detainee and examination of the recovered devices. SAVAK initially refused and the CIA continued to press them: “We want those devices,” one officer whispered to him, insisting that he intervene. Eventually, an arrangement was reached for the devices to be transferred for examination abroad, with assurances that they would later be returned.He later read in the New York Times a terse report from late 1977: “An Iranian general convicted of spying for an unnamed foreign country was executed today.” In 1978, in response to a query from a member of Congress, the CIA furnished the following information regarding his role in Iran: “our records indicate that General Mogharabi held the position of Deputy Chief (Programs) J-5, within the Supreme Commander’s Staff (SCS) since 1969. His responsibilities included plans, programs and budgets for the military equivalent of our Joint Chiefs of Staff.”

By the mid-1970s, Rafizadeh believed the Iranian system was unraveling internally. Key officials begin to lose faith in the Shah, even as they remained adversaries of one another. “Though each was against the others, privately they were now all against him,” he wrote. “Not a single person had faith in the future, the Shah or any part of his entire system.” General Nassiri, the head of SAVAK, appeared to be increasingly burdened by the demands of the system he served. At first, Nassiri hoped that the Shah might dismiss him before the conditions worsened: “None of the security forces are going to agree to his new plan,” he warned. “They’re not going to take part in wholesale killing. I know it. They’re fed up.” Before leaving for Tehran, Nassiri agreed to accept Rafizadeh’s resignation in advance, saying: “Write your resignation but don’t date it.”

Two years later, Rafizadeh met Nassiri again in Tehran and found him to be profoundly altered. The general arrived late for a lunch, dropping files onto a couch and collapsing next to them: “God, I’m tired,” he said. “Did you have lunch?” When Rafizadeh replied that he waited for him, Nassiri answered: “Poison, that’s what I had.” Nassiri described a system of staged violence: “Tired of killing. Sick of it. Goddamn! I have children! I can’t do it anymore.” He explained that the destruction of civilian property and killings were not incidental but deliberate: “For proof. To prove that it’s terrorist work. To make the people believe that enemies exist. And that the enemies are Communists.” Rafizadeh suggested he resign, but Nassiri responded: “He’ll never let me go. He’d get me somehow.” The psychological toll was weighing heavily upon him: “I’m up to here in blood!…You can’t wash off blood with water.” Rafizadeh noticed that Nassiri spent a lot of his time watching American cartoons on TV and he asked if the SAVAK leader enjoyed them: “Sure,” he replied, “they keep you busy and away from thinking.”

By 1978, Nassiri got his wish, reporting to Rafizadeh: “Two weeks. That’s it. I’ll be out…I’m seventy-one years old…No release for me. Thirteen years with SAVAK…No one knows yet. Don’t tell anyone except the CIA.” Rafizadeh relayed the news to the CIA liaison, noting the sensitivity of the transition, while Nassiri privately identified his successor: “My best friend, Moghadam.” When asked whether the successor knew, Nassiri replied: “No. He doesn’t. Don’t tell him.” Rafizadeh contacted Nasser Moghadam, who initially remained unaware of the appointment. When told directly, the new SAVAK leader reacted with disbelief: “Hmm. I’ll be damned.”

By June 7, as reported in the New York Times, Moghadam formally assumed leadership of SAVAK. Seeking a broader perspective, Rafizadeh met Hassan Pakravan, who immediately sided with the incoming leadership, who predicted the end of the Shah’s reign: “I see nothing but destruction for us…There’s no hope. They’re all crazy. Maniacs.” Pakravan also reflected on the political trajectory of the monarchy, recalling earlier conflicts with the Shah over repression and warning that Iran faced an unstable future. He concluded: “There’s not a thing we can do about it.” Rafizadeh’s had a similar conversation with Gholam Ali Oveissi, who dismissed the views of both Nassiri and Moghadam: “Both of them are wrong and they both belong in jail.” Yet Oveissi also acknowledged the fragility of the system, telling Rafizadeh privately: “Before the real trouble starts, I’ll get out. I’m not going to be trapped.”

Rafizadeh took preparatory steps for the expected fall of the regime, including obtaining passports and visas for his family to live in the United States: “I see trouble…and soon,” he told the Iranian consul. “I’ll have to surrender my diplomatic passport to the next regime.”

Military Coup

In November 1978, Rafizdeh learned that President Jimmy Carter’s national security adviser, Zbigniew Brzezinski, and Ambassador Zahedi favored a military coup in Iran. He was uncertain which of the two had first advanced the idea or persuaded the other, but he was convinced that both supported it. According to him, Henry Kissinger, Nixon’s former national security adviser, had agreed with the plan but added two conditions: “(1) All political prisoners who had been released by the Shah must be reincarcerated and (2) certain others still in custody, such as General Nassiri and Prime Minister Hoveyda, must be released.” The proposed operation centered on General Oveissi, “the martial-law commander,” viewed as the only man capable of carrying it out.

Rafizadeh described how, with this backing, Ambassador Zahedi contacted senior Iranian generals who approached General Oveissi. In his account, they urged him to act quickly, warning, “We’ll be killed behind our desks.” They insisted they were not opposing the Shah but trying to save him, proposing he be moved to Kish Island or Kerman, while “the political prisoners must be reincarcerated; and others, such as General Nassiri, must be set free.” General Oveissi, however, rejected the idea outright. “I swear that I will protect the monarchy,” he said. “I will not do anything against the Shah—I will take orders only from him. Get out—I do not want to hear any more about this matter.” Rafizadeh notes that “two of them were killed during the revolution, one behind his own desk, as he had predicted.”

During the coup planning, Rafizadeh was contacted by the CIA, which asked him to act as intermediary with Oveissi. He asked, “Whose idea is this? Yours?” They replied, “No.” When he asked who was behind it, they only answered, “The American government.” The objective, he was told, was that “The Shah was to be sent to an island, General Oveissi was to lead the coup, and when order was restored in Iran, the Shah was to be brought back.”

When Rafizadeh relayed the proposal, Oveissi again refused. “It seems to me,” the General said, “that there are governments within the government in the United States. No one knows who is boss—who should be making decisions.” He added bluntly, “Tell them I don’t want any part of this.” Pressed for alternatives, Oveissi replied, “No,” and warned that “a coup is not a viable solution to the problem in Iran…When you lower a person into a deep well with a rotten rope, the rope will break and the man will never get out of the well. I refuse to go into this deep well with rotten American rope!” Oveissi had his own plans: “Just between you and me, Mansur, I myself am trying to find a way out of the country. Tell my wife and family not to come back—I will join them.” Afterward, CIA officers informed Rafizadeh that a scrambling device used to secure his phone communications had been damaged and removed. A replacement for this device never arrived from the CIA.

Rafizadeh recounted that in early December 1978 a senior CIA officer, who always happened to wear a flower in his lapel, asked him to drive in silence from La Guardia Airport, saying, “I’m in no mood for a political discussion…Do me a favor and don’t talk.” Only later, at a restaurant, did the officer reveal the purpose of the meeting: “The United States government has finally come to a decision: We’re no longer going to support the Shah. We’re going to sit back and observe.” Washington now accepted it was “too late” to intervene, he was told. When Rafizadeh complained that earlier action might have changed the outcome, the officer replied, “I ask you for a favor—don’t rub salt in our wounds.” He advised Rafizadeh to remove his family from Iran, adding, “the storm is coming.” Shortly afterward, General Moghadam informed Rafizadeh that Shahpur Bakhtiar was the most viable candidate for Prime Minister. He urged him to tell the CIA: “Please ask them to support him.” Rafizadeh, however, replied that Bakhtiar “is not capable of accomplishing anything. He has no followers, no charisma…nothing.” Moghadam insisted he provide “a good recommendation,” but Rafizadeh refused to misrepresent his assessment, saying, “How can I give a good recommendation for something I do not believe in?”

The U.S. government confirmed their ambivalent stance in a cable sent by the U.S. Ambassador to Iran, William H. Sullivan, who reported that on December 26, 1978 he had a “tense, pregnant hour-long audience with the Shah.” The Shah was exploring the imposition of an “iron fist” crackdown. The Ambassador cautioned against the Shah’s idea of leaving Tehran and letting the military carry out repression, arguing that this would not shield him from responsibility and would send the wrong signal. The Shah expressed deep doubts about the feasibility of a military solution. He questioned whether the army would obey orders, whether violence would restore order, and whether workers, especially in the oil fields, would resume production or sabotage infrastructure. At the same time, he feared that surrender could lead to chaos and possibly the disintegration of the armed forces.

Seeking guidance, the Shah asked what the United States wanted him to do. Whereas in 1953, the U.S. had engineered a coup plot from start to finish and had worked to convince the Shah of its merits, there was no longer any such direction forthcoming. The Ambassador reiterated general U.S. support for restoring order but refused to take responsibility for the decision, insisting it was the Shah’s alone, and emphasizing that he did not have the luxury of time to remain undecided. Sullivan wrote that “while [the] Shah seems to be leaning towards the option of the iron first, he clearly has…no confidence it will work. He would also dearly like to have the President of the United States take, or at least share, the decision with him. I believe, as I told him, that if he is going to move in that direction, the decision and responsibility have to be his alone.”

U.S. General Robert E. Huyser was sent to Tehran in January 1979 to explore coup options. He described the messaging provided by the White House as “ambiguous…Brzezinski wanted it to convey to the Iranian military a green light to stage a military coup, and considered that it did so. President Carter intended it to convey such a meaning only as a last resort.”

Bakhtiar was appointed Prime Minister and as the Iranian crisis deepened, Rafizadeh received urgent late-night calls from the new leader, who now warned that Khomeini would arrive on February 1, 1979, and asked him to “make every effort… especially the French government—to delay Khomeini’s arrival for two or three weeks.” Rafizadeh replied that “they cannot do anything about it.” He urged Moghadam to “Leave the country…You don’t realize the danger you’re in.” Moghadam refused. Rafizadeh relayed Moghadam’s request to the CIA that Khoemini’s travel be stopped; an Agency contact responded increduously: “They must think we’re supermen! There’s nothing we can do.” Soon after, intelligence reached Rafizadeh that General Manouchehr Khosrodad had discussed shooting down Khomeini’s plane. The CIA asked him to ensure Moghadam controlled the situation. “Remember, I prevented that bloodshed,” Moghadam later assured him.

On the day Khomeini was expected to arrive in Iran, Rafizadeh personally put Moghadam’s wife and children on the flight from McGuire Air Force Base. He could only think of how mistaken Moghadam was in believing the National Front would stabilize the country and concluded that Moghadam himself would soon be in grave danger. Rafizadeh asked the CIA if they could help save three former SAVAK leaders from execution and his contact replied: “There’s absolutely nothing we can do...Anyway, my son, you have ruined my day. Goodbye.” Nassiri, Pakravan, and Moghadam were all executed by the new regime throughout 1979.

The Shah departed from Iran on January 16, 1979 and subsequently moved through a series of reluctant host countries, including Morocco, the United States, Panama, the Bahamas, and Mexico, before settling in Egypt. The Shah attempted to defend his legacy, relying in part on General Pakravan’s statement: “I assume full responsibility for every action taken by my office,” which Rafizadeh noted the Shah “twisted… to exonerate himself.” During his final hospital visit with the Shah in the United States, Rafizadeh heard the Shah remark, “It’s amazing how much freedom the press has here! It’s unbelievable that they’re allowed to question and criticize the government as they do.” The decline of the Shah’s era culminated in the seizure of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran and the taking of 66 American hostages, 52 of whom were held for 444 days. As the revolution approached, Rafizadeh claimed to have repeatedly urged the CIA to anticipate hostage-taking, arguing that it was deeply embedded in Iranian political culture. Using historical allegories, he warned them that “In a town where mice can eat iron, owls can carry off boys,” and insisted, “History will repeat itself!” He also attempted to alert them through historical precedent, recalling Genghis Khan’s envoys who were “captured in Khorezm, tortured, held hostage, and ultimately killed,” and warning that Iran followed a similar logic of retaliation and escalation. The CIA men laughed incredulously: “We don’t care how Genghis Khan made his reputation.”

When the U.S. Embassy in Tehran was finally seized on November 4, 1979, Rafizadeh heard contradictory reports about Embassy documents, first said to have been removed, then found still inside, some shredded, others discarded. A CIA contact ultimately admitted, “We don’t know,” before conceding that “important papers were shredded at the last minute and put in the garbage.” The Iranians who seized the U.S. Embassy ultimately discovered a large trove of documents, publishing a total of 77 volumes of State Department and CIA materials, some painstakingly reassembled from shredded copies. Rafizadeh’s name appears in Volume 23 through a confidential 1962 memo, which describes a meeting with Baghai where Rafizadeh served as an interpreter for two U.S. State Department officials, Frank Crawford and Douglas Marshall. Rafizadeh was described as “an Iranian student…who is returning to the U.S. to complete his graduate work in Economics….a pleasant and interesting man…”

Almost two years following the Shah’s death in Egypt on July 27, 1980, Rafizadeh visited the Shah’s son at his villa in Rabat, Morocco. “Mansur, I have some top-secret intelligence to disclose to you,” Crown Prince Reza claimed, stating that his father, the former Iranian Prime Minister Asadollah Alam, and his physician all died of the same illness, “malignant lymphoma.” He insisted that “in the early seventies, the three of them vacationed at a European resort,” where “the CIA managed to bombard them with radiation,” concluding dramatically: “The CIA—they were the ones who killed my father!” Rafizadeh was “amazed, not at the news, but at the crown prince’s belief in the story,” since “the CIA was actively assisting the movement to bring the Shah’s son to power.”

In a later visit to the Shah’s burial site at Al Rifai Mosque in Egypt, he saw there “a single bouquet of wilted white flowers” sitting near the resting place. Beneath a dust-covered Persian carpet, the tomb was revealed, the guide offering, “If you’ll pay me fifty cents, I’ll sweep the carpet for you.” Rafizadeh agreed and paid him but quickly regretted it, as the man “scurried off and returned with a large broom and began to sweep wildly,” filling the air with choking dust. Rafizadeh pleaded, “That’s enough! Please stop!” and paid him more when the guide revealed he had two children and needed the money. Left alone, he reflected on the collapse of his former ruler’s imperial status: “Could the Shah ever have dreamed that he would be buried in such a place…” where palaces, jewels, and roses were replaced by “some dead white flowers and a filthy Persian rug? But then could I ever have dreamed that the day would come when I would visit the Shah’s grave and pay three dollars to have it cleaned?”

Buried Secrets

There was several disturbing stories Rafizadeh never addressed in writing or interviews; despite the benign picture he painted of his activities in the United States, 9 years before the publication of his memoir, he was alleged to have committed criminal activities and been a participant in orgies involving high-profile Americans.

Read more

Anthony Burgess did not have much time and wanted to make his remaining hours on Earth count. He was diagnosed with a brain tumor at the age of 39 and was told that he had a year to live. He set out to write a flurry of novels to support his wife, Lynne, with royalties in the event of his death. Among the completed works in 1961 was A Clockwork Orange, a dystopian satire concerning a youth subculture of “ultra-violence” inspired by a Cockney expression he had heard in a bar, “as queer as a clockwork orange.” According to his own analysis, he “felt there might be a meaning in it deeper than a bizarre metaphor of, not necessarily, sexual, queerness.” He finished writing the book quickly, Burgess calling the effort “a jeu d’esprit knocked off for money in three weeks.”

In one early section of the book, the English writer “exorcised” a personal tragedy involving his wife Lynne. In April 1944, while he was stationed with the Army Educational Corps in the British overseas territory of Gibraltar, Lynne was working for the Ministry of War Transport in London. The city was subject to blackout periods at night during the Second World War to make targets less visible to enemy aircraft. During such a blackout, returning home from work after midnight, she was approached by four U.S. soldiers in civilian clothing, who had seemingly deserted their posts and spoke in a southern accent. Their aim was robbery rather than sexual assault; they grabbed her purse and tried to pry the golden wedding ring from her finger. One soldier “was prepared to break or even cut the finger,” according to Burgess. Lynne screamed for help, but none arrived; her yells were silenced by punches to her body and kicks were the last thing she recalled as she fainted to the ground. She happened to be pregnant at the time and lost the child. While recovering in the hospital, Burgess was informed through a letter written to him Lynne’s friend Sonia Brownell as she was too ill.

Burgess immediately approached his superior, Major W.P. Meldrum and requested leave to visit his ailing wife. Meldrum denied the request, which led to a contentious confrontation, Burgess writing: “it is more important to keep up this farce of Army Education than to fly to the bedside of a desperately sick wife? That is how the army sees it. God fuck the army.” Burgess neglected to salute as he left the conversation and his superior demanded that he return to do so.

In the years after they reunited, there were signs that Burgess’ wife could not fully overcome the attack she suffered: “Lynne could not bear to be left alone at night,” Burgess wrote, “even with a dog that flew into an ecstasy of noise at the scuffle of a mouse. She feared the dark, and the fear had its origin in blacked-out wartime London when she had been viciously attacked by four GI deserters.” The attack inspired an early passage in one of the most disturbing scenes of A Clockwork Orange, in which a gang terrorizes a young couple in a cottage by physical assaulting the husband and raping the wife. The final chapter of the book, where the main character outgrows his sociopathy, was cut by the U.S. publisher to maintain a darker ending for the novel: “Eric Swenson, Norton’s vice-president, insisted that the book lose its final chapter,” Burgess explained. “I had to accede to this lopping because I needed the advance, but I was not happy about it.”

Following Lynne’s death in 1968, Burgess was asked to return to the hospital to collect her rings. To obtain the wedding ring, her finger had to be broken, the same one the American GIs had attempted to break many years before.

This is the account you will read—or a slight variation thereof—if you open almost any non-fiction biography, newspaper article, book, or encyclopedia on the topic of Burgess and his famous novel. The only issue with the story is that none of it is true.

A Talent for Fiction

“If you could produce a symphony or write a book but the price was that you had a terrible disease, which would you choose?” This was the question John Wilson tried out on fellow instructors after joining Banbury Grammar School in 1950 as a secondary school teacher. By 1956, Wilson, with his first published novel Time for a Tiger, became Anthony Burgess, a pen name adapted from his middle names: Anthony, from his Catholic confirmation, and Burgess, from his mother’s maiden name. He was married in 1942 to his first wife, born Llewela Jones, known to others as Lynne Burgess.

Biographer Andrew Biswell found it “weirdly prescient” that Burgess had been already speaking of a fatal illness spurring the production of art and then living it himself a few years later. Burgess claimed to have obtained a tumor diagnosis in 1959, although indirectly: “One day in the classroom I decided that I’d had enough…I just lay down on the floor. I was picked up and shoved into the local hospital. Various elementary tests were given and then I was sent home to England. Eventually my wife was told there was evidence of a cerebral tumour, but it was inoperable. She told me that they gave me a year to live.” In terms of why a doctor would deliver such a serious diagnosis without telling the patient directly, Burgess did not attempt to explain. He later claimed that Lynne kept the news from him until Christmas 1959, because “women do not like keeping secrets” and he recounted the conversation with Lynne as follows:

‘What they told me at the hospital was that you have an inoperable cerebral tumour. […]

‘Inoperable? Tumour? I feel all right. The sea air is doing me good. You too.’

‘They said that feeling all right has nothing to do with it. They give you, at the most, a year to live.’

‘Nonsense.’

‘That’s what they say. They seem to know all about it.’

‘I don’t believe it, I can’t.’

‘That’s what they say.’

‘Nothing in writing?’

‘Nothing. But they spoke out loud and clear. Well, no. They mumbled rather.’

A friend who spent 8 years with the couple on and off in their home beginning in 1960 never heard of a supposed tumor: “He was in very good health. I never knew him to be ill,” Mrs. Sweetman is quoted as saying in The Real Life of Anthony Burgess. The tale provided a useful ending, however, to the first volume of his memoirs, Little Wilson and Big God, as the origin story for his prolific output as a writer: “No one would give me a job (‘How long do you propose staying with us?’ — ‘A year. You see, I’m going to die at the end of it.’ — ‘No future in it, old boy’). I would have to turn myself into a professional writer…I sighed and put paper in the typewriter. ‘I’d better start,’ I said. And I did.” Roger Lewis, in his biography of Burgess, refers to the story as “his famous brain tumour and the twelve-month prognosis: his autobiography is a litany of exaggeration and plain lies.” In the 1960s, Burgess gave the tumor anecdote to profilers who repeated it unquestioningly in publications such as The Diplomat and Time in 1966, and Life in 1968.

With the same literary flourish, Burgess decided to develop a tragedy to serve as the basis of the origin story for his best-known 1962 novel, A Clockwork Orange, which shot to fame with its film adaptation by Stanley Kubrick in 1971. After Lynne’s death, he tested with different acquaintances a story about her being assaulted by American GIs, but he could not decide on the details to include. Deborah Rogers, who first became his literary agent in 1968, was provided with three differing accounts of the incident by Burgess. In one version, Lynne was “attacked.” In another, she was raped by a group of deserters. In the third, she was raped, became pregnant, and had an abortion. “I could never work out the details of the GI rape,” Rogers stated. Burgess also tried out the story on the novelist Kingsley Amis, as he described in his memoirs: “he did tell me something about his wife’s rape by some GIs during the war, and went on to say that he was on the look-out for a sword-stick—he had with him a stout but conventional walking-stick—from which if ever menaced by ruffians he would draw and brandish the blade, shouting (and he shouted in illustration), ‘Fuck off, I’ve got cancer!’ Yes, I thought uneasily, seeing the look in his eye, you bloody mean it.”

The writing process for A Clockwork Orange took significantly longer than the three weeks Burgess later claimed. Sixty pages of the novel were completed by June 1961, and after completing seven chapters, he wrote to friends, with Dostoyevsky on his mind: “I’ve just completed Part I—which is just sheer crime. Now comes punishment. The whole thing’s making me rather sick. My horrible juvenile delinquent hero is emerging as too sympathetic a character—almost Christ-like, set upon by the scourging police.” His U.K. editor James Michie recalled receiving the first half of the book and that Burgess proceeded with writing the second half after receiving his advice. In the last half of 1961 he completed the novel, with typed drafts showing that his revisions took place from April to August 1961. The ending presented Burgess with a dilemma in terms of its inclusion in the 1962 U.K. edition and its exclusion in the 1963 U.S. version published by W. W. Norton & Company. Far from being solely excised due to the demands of Norton, Burgess’ own words at the time revealed his own misgivings about the redemptive final chapter: “Should we end here?” he wrote by hand at the end of the penultimate chapter. “An optional ‘epilogue’ follows.”

Eric Swenson, Vice-Chairman and Senior Editor at Norton, disagreed with Burgess’ portrayal of the editing process in the Times Literary Supplement in January 1980, in which the author claimed: “the managing editor was unwilling to publish without the excision of the final chapter…I was told that American readers would prefer unregenerability and thuggishness stretching to the crack of the doom.” A month later, Swenson wrote a rebuttal in a letter to the Times editor: “I am the editor of the American edition of CLOCKWORK ORANGE to which he refers. His claim that we refused to publish unless the last (up-beat) chapter of the published, British edition were dropped is hereby denied. We did tell him that the Polyanna ending left us unconvinced; he replied that he agreed, that he had added it only to mollify his British publisher, and that he would be pleased if we dropped it. As I have written him, we seem to have diametrically opposed memories of the matter. I, however, claim to have supporting documents and witnesses.” Swenson further clarified in an unpublished essay intended for a 1987 reprint of the novel, specifying “the dropping of chapter twenty-one was never a condition of publication.” He also wrote to Burgess directly about the new edition, hoping in vain that “somewhere in your Introduction you might introduce the thought that your publisher has a different memory of events…We would never have excised the last chapter over your objections.”

Burgess first publicized the attack story involving Lynne after her death as a promotion for Kubrick’s film. “Clockwork Orange Gang Killed My Wife” read the London Evening News headline on January 28, 1972. The connection to her death implied in the article was that the attack had supposedly driven her to drink, which ultimately caused her death from cirrhosis in 1968. Burgess sought to “refute” the eye-catching headline, adding however that “it is conceivable that the shock and injury she suffered led to her death 24 years later.”

On February 17, 1972, Burgess published an essay entitled “Clockwork Marmalade,” in which he presented yet another variation on the story: this time the event took place in 1942 and his wife was “robbed and beaten by three GI deserters.” This meant that the event was two years earlier and with one less deserter than the version offered in his memoir, Little Wilson and Big God, published in 1986. In his 1974 Playboy magazine interview the number of deserters was also increased to four and he added speculation regarding beer not present in other accounts:

“My first wife had a traumatic experience during the war, when she was working at the Ministry of War Transport on ships for the D-day landings. She was working very late one night, and coming home off the dock she was very severely mauled by four GI deserters. It often happened that young GIs, probably from unsophosticated states, would think that warm English beer was very weak stuff and would drink too much of it. They’d get drunk, perhaps assault an officer, get frightened, desert and live underground. A lot of these people did odd jobs, but some of them went around mugging and, of course, the blackouts were a natural cover and there weren’t very many police around. My wife was one of their unlucky victims. It wasn’t a sexual assault, it was an attempted robbery, and they tried to take her wedding ring off and she screamed and then they hit her: she was pregnant at the time and lost the child. Involuntary abortion.”

Burgess gave a similar account to Russell Harty in a television interview the same year: “she was attacked by four American soldiers who were not attempting sexual assault, but merely wanted to rob her. They stole her handbag and they wanted to take her wedding ring off...she was carrying our child at the time, she lost the child.” These versions were consistent only in that they no longer involved sexual assault as they did in the earlier iterations. To accept Burgess’ extended memoir account, however, one would need to believe that he never questioned his wife in their remaining 24 years together to fill in the details on the attack missing from Brownell’s second-hand account in her letter. In the same way, he was never curious enough to ask his own doctor about a supposed prognosis giving him a year to live. Both stories employed the literary device of Burgess learning of the news through third parties, who were by that point deceased and, as a result, unable to offer any differing remembrances. How a group of American men in civilian clothing in London could be identified as U.S. soldiers who deserted their posts solely based on their appearance and voices in the middle of the night was never explained by Burgess in any of his retellings.

Although a letter from Brownell was allegedly the source of the story, Burgess misspelled her last name in his 1986 autobiography as “Brownwell.” As he indicated in his autobiography, Brownell later became Sonia Orwell, and her inclusion may be linked to a desire to bolster his connection with the famous author George Orwell, whom he claimed to have seen in pubs. Sonia’s name was easy to drop as she had died in 1980 and could neither confirm nor deny the connection. Brownell was, in Burgess’ words, “an occasional drinking friend of Lynne’s,” but Lynne’s name does not appear in the only published biography of Brownell, entitled The Girl from the Fiction Department. Although it is unknown if he ever actually denied Burgess leave, Major W.P. Meldrum’s name appeared in The Journal of the Army Educational Corps in 1946, in conjunction with an article he contributed describing his work in Gibraltar.

Regarding the origin story for the expression “clockwork orange,” Burgess also had difficulty keeping these anecdotes congruent over the years. In the 1972 essay, the tale was that: “In 1945, back from the army, I heard an 80-year-old Cockney in a London pub say that somebody was ‘as queer as a clockwork orange’.” Forgetting what he had written just a year later, in an article for the New Yorker in 1973, he changed the date of hearing the expression to over six years earlier: “I first heard the expression ‘as queer as a clockwork orange’ in a London pub before the Second World War.” Writers who have researched the phrase, finding no linkage to a known Cockney expression, have suggested that Burgess simply invented the phrase himself.

The term “pathological liar” is applied twice to Burgess in Roger Lewis’ Anthony Burgess: A Biography. It also happens to be the only book cautious enough to append the adjective “allegedly” to the attack incident, assigned to the 1943 portion of a chronology of events in Burgess’ life: “In London, Lynne, pregnant, is allegedly mugged and attacked by GI deserters; she miscarries.” In a short biography of Lynne written on the 100th anniversary of her birth in 2020, Andrew Biswell, who had given the attack story more credence in his biography The Real Life of Anthony Burgess while footnoting the inconsistencies, neglects to mention the alleged incident at all.

Most writers covering the assault story involving Lynne Burgess, even when acknowledging contradictions in the story, quite understandably refuse to believe that Anthony Burgess would invent such a serious incident. His 1972 essay provides a clue as to why he may have, since he used the story as a device to mitigate against criticism of the violence described in his best-known novel and displayed onscreen in Kubrick’s film: “What hurts me, as also Kubrick, is the allegation made by some viewers and readers of A Clockwork Orange that there is a gratuitous indulgence in violence which turns an intended homiletic work into a pornographic one…For my own part, the depiction of violence was intended as both an act of catharsis and an act of charity, since my own wife was the subject of vicious and mindless violence in blacked-out London in 1942, when she was robbed and beaten by three GI deserters. Readers of my book may remember that the author whose wife is raped is the author of a work called A Clockwork Orange.”

The New York Times obituary of Burgess in 1993 placed the onus for the veracity of the story on Burgess himself: “The brutality depicted in ‘A Clockwork Orange’ stemmed in part, he once said, from an assault on his wife during World War II in London that resulted in the loss of their expected child.” The story has been repeated over the years in several books on Burgess and those covering other topics, including The Practice of Writing, The Utopian Dilemma in the Western Political Imagination, Science Fiction Language in Action, and The Complete Kubrick. The story also made its way into a Ph.D. dissertation on “The Blackout in Britain and Germany during the Second World War” in 2011.

Even if meant in jest, Burgess once gave a revealing answer in response to the question, “On what occasions do you lie?” to which he replied: “When I write, when I speak, when I sleep.” In the book Portraits of the Artist in “A Clockwork Orange,” the authors objected to Roger Lewis’ prominent placement of this quotation in his biography of Burgess:

“By this Lewis, who seems somewhat allergic to Burgess’s lies, puts forward the hypothesis that Burgess never told truth. Burgess’s attitude towards the twenty-first chapter seems to substantiate Lewis’s assumption. Is Burgess a liar? Perhaps so. But then Burgess is an artist. As Richard Ellmann pointed out in his analysis of Oscar Wilde’s Intentions, ‘an artist’s task is to make up lies to account for genuine truths whose interest, importance or value cannot necessarily be perceived by his contemporaries without his mediation.’ In which case, Lewis’s quotation is being misused for it is not so much a confession of guilt on Burgess’s part as a declaration of his genius.”

Fiction and non-fiction writing are separate enterprises, and literary talent is no excuse for the insertion of innumerable falsehoods into the decades of text presented to the public as fact. The lies ultimately distort our understanding of a famous work, its author, and a small aspect of the history of World War II. Burgess’ defenders would be better served to read the advice of Mark Twain, who in his essay, “On the Decay of the Art of Lying,” wrote: “Lying is universal—we all do it. Therefore, the wise thing is for us diligently to train ourselves to lie thoughtfully, judiciously; to lie with a good object, and not an evil one; to lie for others’ advantage, and not our own…”

“If you touch her, I will kill you.” This was the warning given to Armando Fernández Larios about Luisa Mónica Lagos Aguirre, who were both members of DINA, the Chilean secret police. The pair were to fly to Miami using aliases, under the pretext of being a couple visiting Disney World. Colonel Pedro Espinoza, DINA’s Chief of Operations, was romantically involved with Lagos and instructed Fernández to keep his hands to himself. Despite the caution from his superior, Fernández spent the flight wondering if Lagos would sleep with him; they were supposedly married in this scenario and sharing hotel rooms after all.

Lagos had begun working as a prostitute during an Organization of American States conference in Santiago, motivated by her desire to maintain a luxurious lifestyle. She worked in a military-run brothel and, while working as an agent for DINA, she used position to gather intelligence from foreign delegates and recruit other women, including her sister, into similar roles. One objective was to entrap Henry Kissinger in a scandal, although he ultimately avoided the setup.

In mid-1976, Espinoza assigned Lagos a more significant mission in the United States. Chosen for her ability to attract men, she was tasked with getting close to exiled Chilean figure Orlando Letelier and gathering information on him. After arriving in the United States, Lagos managed to briefly meet with Letelier: “He was objectively attractive, manly, and gave the impression of a great gentleman,” she recalled. “We spoke little, however, apart from a few elegant flirtations. After excusing himself, he left, apparently to attend to his work and because of his preoccupations with a Venezuelan woman.” She learned little beyond basic details about him, such as the type of car he drove. Since Letelier was often away traveling, Fernández abandoned the mission and spent some time visiting his family in Virginia. Fernández also took the time to attempt to seduce Lagos and in doing so disclosed the true objective of their assignment: “He told me he could not understand a man like Espinoza, who sent a woman he loved to take part in a crime. It was then I learned that the mission was to assassinate Orlando Letelier.”

Michael Townley, a U.S.-born DINA agent, was tasked by Espinoza on September 7 to join the fake couple in the mission. He travelled to New York using a false identity and smuggled in bomb components. He also brought in his shirt pocket a bottle of sarin, a highly lethal nerve agent. The sarin was brought onto the flight concealed in a perfume bottle and had the chemical weapon spilled, it could have caused mass casualties. Townley had developed an interest in espionage and assassination techniques by studying spy and detective novels. He treated fiction as a practical guide, learning tradecraft skills such as using false identities, avoiding detection, and conducting covert operations. A major influence on him was the 1971 novel The Day of the Jackal by English author Frederick Forsyth. Townley admired the book’s assassin: an anonymous, highly skilled operative who could move across borders undetected and carry out missions without leaving a trace. He now sought a similar role for himself in real life; for this mission, he just needed to get through customs first.

At immigration, his passport bearing the false identity “Hans Petersen Silva” was checked against a U.S. government lookout book. He became nervous when the officer appeared to match his alias to an entry. “He examined my passport several times, reread the inscription, and finally shrugged his shoulders and returned it to me,” Townley remembered. He was ultimately cleared and allowed entry.

Following his arrival, Townley met with Fernández and Lagos, describing the female agent as “extremely well-dressed and well-groomed and…carrying a fashion magazine. My initial impression was favorable since she seemed to be a world apart from her and Captain Fernández’s mission.” Fernández provided him with details regarding Letelier’s residence, workplace, vehicles, and daily routines. In looking at the documents, Townley committed as much as he could to memory and destroyed the papers. He took out a photo of Letelier from a hidden compartment in his wallet; he needed to work from memory now and destroy all evidence linking him to his target. Townley then drove to New Jersey to coordinate with Cuban-American associates tied to anti-Castro networks. There, he conveyed that he had received orders for an urgent operation targeting Letelier, the former Chilean cabinet minister living in Washington, D.C.

Soon after, Townley met with the Cuban exiles Guillermo Novo and José Dionisio Suárez Esquivel in New Jersey and formally proposed the assassination plan. He insisted Letelier needed to be killed quickly. The Cuban operatives were initially hesitant but ultimately open to participating, particularly if Townley himself took part in the operation. He was to become more involved in the assassination than he originally thought he would be.

Execution

The team met at a McDonald’s restaurant and checked into various hotels and motels in the area. Rather use the sarin as the assassination weapon, purchases were made at Sears and RadioShack to construct a bomb, which they decided to place under Letelier’s car in advance of his Monday morning drive to work. One of the Cuban operatives, Suárez, wanted the group to build the bomb as quickly as possible, since he had lost his job at a car dealership recently and was to start a new job in New Jersey on Monday. The group began assembling an explosive device on the Saturday but still had time to joke with a waitress at a hotel about her diet through which she had lost a total of 60 pounds. Working from a motel room, they constructed a bomb using TNT, plastique, and improvised triggering components.

That night, satisfied with their work, three members of the group drove to Letelier’s home on Ogden Court, a cul-de-sac in Bethesda, Maryland. On the way there, the two Cuban operatives demanded that Townley install the bomb himself under the car. “They expected me to place the device on the car as they wished to have a DINA agent, namely myself, directly tied to the placing of the device,” he later stated. Townley had not planned on doing this but reluctantly gave in and agreed to tape the bomb to the car.

Upon their first entry into the neighborhood, a group of people were entering a home so the team turned around and waited. Townley was dropped off at the top of a hill; he could see television screens flashing from windows as he walked toward Letelier’s house. There was ample opportunity for Townley to be spotted; he could hear dogs barking. Letelier’s neighbors happened to include an FBI agent on one side and a State Department foreign service officer on the other. His car, a Chevrolet Malibu Classic, was parked in the driveway, its front end pointed toward the house. Townley slid under the driver’s side of the car and removed the bomb hidden underneath his shirt. He attached the device using electrical tape and checked its position using a small flashlight.

At one point, Townley stopped as he heard the sound of footsteps nearby. The noise faded and he proceeded to fasten tape from the speedometer cable to the device. A car engine started up; he could hear a police radio and saw the tires moving out of the corner of his eye. Sweat was pouring profusely from his face as he tried to remain motionless. The car drove on and Townley rechecked his work with the flashlight. Briefly satisfied, he slid out until he remembered the bomb switch—was it in the on or off position? He went back under the car, trying to remember which position turned on the device, and flicked the switch, pushing the tape further into place. Townley’s mind was filled with doubt as he walked back up the hill out of Ogden Court. He warned his conspirators that he was not sure if the switch was in the right position. The operatives agreed to detonate the device when Letelier reached near 46th Street NW and that he was to be alone in the car. Townley was flown out of Washington and before leaving, he delivered a coded message through his wife: the bomb was in place.

After the CIA-supported coup that overthrew the government of Salvador Allende in Chile and brought Augusto Pinochet to power in 1973, Letelier had been imprisoned on Dawson Island and was subjected to harsh interrogation. He was accused of being involved in a propaganda scheme linked to the company ITT, a U.S. manufacturing company. His interrogators claimed he had paid journalist Jack Anderson $70,000, fabricated documents, and personally delivered them to implicate ITT in political interference in Chile. In reality, the documents were real and showed that ITT had offered funds to help block Allende’s rise to the presidency. During questioning of Letelier, the interrogators would switch topics abruptly, as he recalled: “‘Do you know so and so?’ Then they’d change the subject to the Jack Anderson column, and then say, ‘Do you know that your wife is a whore?’”

Scoop

When Dale Van Atta first joined Jack Anderson’s team writing for the syndicated column “Washington Merry-Go-Round” in 1979, one of his first journalistic successes was discovering that members of Congress were editing their own hearing testimony in official transcripts before they were released to the public. One evening, Van Atta visited the Government Printing Office and pretended to be a staffer whose job it was to make the requested revisions for lawmakers. Most of the Printing Office team had left for the day and the relaxed atmosphere worked to Van Atta’s advantage. The editor handed him hearing transcripts marked up with the handwritten alterations from several members of Congress. It turned out that after attending hearings, legislators would return to their offices and request the transcripts, revising them not just for grammar, but occasionally to change their arguments or stated positions. While Washington saw this practice as routine, Van Atta’s exposé of the deceptive practice caused regular American citizens to be outraged.

Among the thousands of edits Van Atta sifted through, he found congressmen completely changing their stances after the fact, such as modifying “most people can take issue” to “most people can take heart” and “I would vote for it” to “I would strongly oppose it” in statements referring to bills under debate. “In other words,” Anderson wrote in his column crediting Van Atta’s work, “the Congressional Record is a fraud. Insiders have called it a travesty, a comic book, a monumental sham.” Initially, the Printing Office addressed the issue by preventing reporters from gaining access to the annotated transcript. The editing practice continued until live television coverage of hearings made such revisions much more challenging to conceal.

Van Atta was on the lookout for more stories. During a 1979 staff meeting, the column’s co-author Joseph Spear mentioned that there were rumors that a Senate committee had drafted a report that described how foreign intelligence operatives were allowed to work freely in the United States. The report had been prompted by a scandal involving the Korean intelligence service, the KCIA, having found to be operating in Washington. This led the Senate to investigate other foreign intelligence services and the extent to which they operated in the U.S. The report existed somewhere in Washington, Spear told the reporters, and their job was to find it. Van Atta was new to this journalistic beat but managed to learn that less than a dozen copies had been circulated to a select few. He discovered their names and targeted one prominent individual, with whom he relentlessly pressed his case, appealing to the man’s sense of fairness and pointing to the public’s right to know.

On a quiet Saturday afternoon, the previously reluctant source handed Van Atta a five-page executive summary of the Senate report. From what he could glean about the full report, there were references to an international terrorist the U.S. had let slip away, a bizarre assassination plot involving a foreign leader in Asia, and details regarding a coordinated network of intelligence agencies who had agreed to eliminate each other’s political opponents domestically and abroad, including within the United States. Van Atta went back to his source and begged for more: “I’ve got to have the whole report.” After two more weeks of pressure, the man relented.

On another Saturday afternoon, Van Atta visited the source’s office and was provided with gloves and a stack of documents with the brief instruction: “Here. You have half an hour.” Van Atta could type faster than he could write by hand, so he asked: “Can I at least use a typewriter to copy information?” The man agreed and left for 30 minutes, returning to collect the material. “Just let me xerox a few pages,” he insisted. The source hesitated for a while before giving in: “Put paper clips on the pages you want and I’ll copy them.” Van Atta proceeded to mark nearly every page with a paper clip. The source had copied the first seventy pages by the time the machine had run out of paper. He did not know how to refill the printer paper, he told the reporter. Van Atta offered to assist him but the man refused; he was not about to let a journalist into the copy room. Van Atta decided he had taken this as far as he could and kept the 70 pages, enough to fuel revelations on foreign intelligence operations spanning eight Jack Anderson columns. The vast majority of the report remains unavailable to the public to this day.

Embassy Row

Townley sat at a restaurant in Miami with a beer in his hand, shaking. His wife asked him what the matter was. “I’m nervous by nature,” he replied. News was circulating about an explosion in Washington, D.C. It turned out the bombing had not gone exactly according to the plan.

Attorney William Hayden happened to be driving behind Letelier’s car the morning of September 21, 1976. Letelier was driving to work with his co-worker, Ronni Moffitt, in the passenger seat, and her husband, Michael Moffitt, sitting in the back seat. The two vehicles passed the Chilean Embassy and entered Sheridan Circle near 23rd Street NW in Washington, D.C. Hayden saw a bright flash of light and was jolted by a shockwave: “I saw an automobile actually coming down out of the air,” he recounted. “There were flames coming out.” Michael Moffitt, injured and disoriented, stumbled out of the car and tried desperately to help Letelier still in the driver’s seat but discovered that the lower half of his body had been blown off. He also saw his wife, Ronni, lying on a lawn; a woman was trying to help her. “Do you want me to help?” Michael asked. “No, let me try to stop the bleeding,” Ronni replied. The woman tried to position her to stop the blood from flowing. Michael remembered that “blood was just pouring out of her mouth.” Police and emergency responders quickly arrived, finding a gruesome scene. Michael shouted: “The fascists killed him. DINA killed him. Pinochet, the murderer.” Letelier was removed from the wreckage but died en route to the hospital. Ronni was also rushed for medical care; Michael was prevented from accompanying her in the ambulance. She died from her injuries 47 minutes after Letelier. Michael appeared on television, still wearing a hospital shirt, grieving the death of his 25-year-old wife. “The United States government helped to overthrow the government of Allende and to put these dictators in power,” he told the press. “And they’re responsible for killing my wife.”

1979 Report

A declassified version of the 1979 Senate “Staff Report Concerning Activities of Certain Foreign Intelligence Agencies in the United States” is partly available through the Reagan Library. However, it presents only the first 15 pages and most information unrelated to Chile remains classified. The report, written by Senate staffer Michael Glennon, found that although Chile did not maintain officially stationed intelligence officers in the U.S., its agents entered the country using false identities to conduct clandestine operations that often went undetected. Chile’s primary intelligence agency, DINA, was established in 1974 under President Augusto Pinochet and led by Manuel Contreras, initially to suppress internal opposition but later expanding its mission internationally to monitor and target dissidents abroad, which included assassination.

In 1977, the report continued, amid growing international criticism, especially following the killing of Letelier and Moffitt in Washington, D.C., DINA was dissolved and replaced by the National Information Center (Central Nacional de Informaciones, CNI). While the new agency had fewer formal powers and some improvements in human rights practices, it continued to carry out intelligence operations. The report highlighted Chile’s central role in Operation Condor, a coordinated network of South American intelligence services that collaborated to track, detain, and eliminate political opponents across borders. This alliance included a secret “phase three” capability, allowing multinational teams to travel globally and conduct assassinations using false documentation.

The report also detailed how Chilean agents used the United States as a base for logistical support, including acquiring surveillance equipment and operating under false passports. It noted that plans were considered to establish a Condor operational base in Miami, though these were abandoned after U.S. objections. Additionally, evidence suggests that international assassination plots, some successful, others foiled, were carried out or planned under Condor’s framework. The report quoted the FBI stating in 1977 that it was “not beyond the realm of possibility that the recent assassination of Orlando Letelier in Washington, D.C. may have been carried out as a third phase of ‘Operation Condor.’” This was supported by subsequent investigations and the Letelier case brought out the beginning of Condor’s exposure to the broader public.

Jackal

The 1979 Senate report contained a brief but significant reference to another assassin, Carlos the Jackal. The Venezuelan’s real name was Ilich Ramírez Sánchez and he had adopted the nom de guerre of Carlos by the time the media had assigned him the additional moniker of “the Jackal.” A journalist from the Guardian used the term after spotting the same Forsyth novel Townley had read, The Day of the Jackal, in a home belonging to one of Carlos’ friends and the nickname stuck. Carlos had already begun carrying out attacks in Europe when he was targeted for elimination by Operation Condor. The report indicated that a “phase three” assassination operation was set in motion in 1974 “following the assassinations of the Bolivian Ambassador in Paris, a Chilean official in the Middle East, and a Uruguayan attaché in Paris.” The network planned to assassinate “three well-known European leftists, one of whom was the notorious terrorist Carlos.” The plot was discovered by the CIA during the initial surveillance stage. U.S. intelligence then alerted European governments, including France and Portugal, which in turn warned potential targets. The countries also confronted “representatives of Condor countries to warn them to call off the action. They did—after denying that it had ever been planned.” This intervention preserved Carlos’ life, after which he went on to commit some of his most violent and high-profile attacks. Then, two years later, the Agency decided that Carlos should, in fact, be eliminated after all and carried out on a plot of their own.

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When Howard “Rocky” Stone ran into Alice Marie Mueller at CIA headquarters in 1950, then located in Washington, DC, they were both working for the little-known Agency. “What’s the CIA?” had been Mueller’s reaction when first told of the job opportunity by a friend. At her CIA interview, she typed slowly, around 20 words a minute, and thought she had failed the test. “Your typing won’t set the world on fire, but that’s not what we’re hiring you to do,” her interviewer admitted. Known by the nickname “Ahme,” stemming from her brother’s struggle to pronounce her name as a toddler, Mueller was placed on the Czechoslovakia desk at the CIA on the intelligence side of the Agency, while Rocky worked on covert operations. Stone remembered her; she had brought a dog to class when she was a student at the University of Southern California and he was a teaching assistant. She remembered him for having given her a bad grade in the class. They were soon married in August 1951 and thrust into the world of espionage. Within a year, they were working to overthrow a foreign government.

As a junior officer, Stone and his new bride were assigned to Tehran, Iran. Ahme recalled the assignment: “During this time, Rocky helped orchestrate the coup that restored Mohammad Reza Pahlavi to the Iranian throne.” Stone remembered safeguarding General Fazlollah Zahedi, the CIA-backed figure in the Iranian military who had just been appointed Prime Minister by the Shah. The CIA’s leader of the project known as TPAJAX, Kermit “Kim” Roosevelt, visited Stone’s safehouse to inform Zahedi that he needed to be ready to announce himself as the new Prime Minister of Iran. The general was so anxious that he was unable to dress himself and Stone helped him button his military jacket. Around two hundred Iranians died on the street that day. Meanwhile, Ahme, his young wife, sat composed in a rocking chair at their home, concealing a handgun beneath her knitting as she kept watch over Ardeshir Zahedi, the general’s 25-year-old son and a CIA asset. In the years that followed, Ardeshir would go on to serve as the Shah’s Ambassador to the United States. Prime Minister Zahedi in the immediate aftermath of the 1953 coup became “a friend of U.S. oil interests,” according to an article in the School of Advanced International Studies of Johns Hopkins University in 1982, “and under his leadership the British monopoly disappeared for all time.”

Sudan

In September 1955, Stone joined the CIA office in Khartoum, Sudan as Station Chief, arriving with his family in tow, including three children under the age of three. He put Ahme to work, having her ride a donkey to the Station to deliver his coded messages. His main task was to recruit agents, who were frequently of questionable character, to provide sensitive information to the Agency. Often this was accomplished through bribes or blackmail, but Stone preferred another approach. Believing he had the ability to “recruit a lamppost” if the occasion called for it, Stone wanted to go after senior government officials known to have good moral character, thinking they would be more reliable. He decided to put this to the test in the attempted recruitment of a high-level government official in a key ministry in Sudan. He spent months staking out his candidate to learn “what this man really wanted out of life.” Included in the man’s profile were what Stone thought were his main characteristics: he was unattractive, had a controlling wife, and took great pride in his child, but he had difficulty paying for the child’s boarding-school tuition.

Stone first targeted the man’s marriage to gain his cooperation. When he would meet with the official and witnessed the wife’s abuse, Stone worked to “put her in her place” and told her that she did not have the right to treat her husband in this fashion. “He loved that,” Stone remembered. “I was doing something that he couldn’t do.” The wife in turn was “amazed that someone in my position would care about a schnook like that.” Next, Stone worked on fixing the funding issue for his child’s schooling, using CIA money to partly pay for the boarding school. The influence operation began to yield results, with the official revealing small pieces of information, until the man one day became a full-blown agent. “When the gate finally opened, it was a flood,” Stone recalled. The official ultimately provided thousands of documents that the CIA found useful over several years; the man died and was never revealed to have been a source for U.S. intelligence. Stone described the process of turning him into an agent as follows: “What I did was take this man apart psychologically and put him back together. My rationalization for meddling in his life was that the man was better off the way we put him back together.”

Sudan received little attention from the United States until the lead-up to independence in 1956, when geopolitical concerns, especially access to the Suez Canal, renewed American interest. U.S. officials pushed strongly for North–South unity, with Ambassador Jefferson Caffrey insisting it be achieved “even at the price of selling the Sudan.” British officials expressed frustration at what they saw as American disregard for the entire country, with one U.S. diplomat using a racial slur in front of the British to dismiss the need to be concerned with the population of 10 million people. During the Cold War, Sudan’s importance grew due to fears of Soviet and Libyan influence, but U.S. understanding of the region remained shallow. After Stone’s departure from the country, the CIA found a distinct lack of local assets and a detailed handbook the Agency prepared for guerrilla warfare exposed their limited knowledge, offering simplistic warnings about dangerous lions, crocodiles (“particularly bad along the Nile”) and witchdoctors (“a thriving business in charms”).

Syria

In 1954, the U.S. State Department in a briefing paper outlined Syria’s unacceptable neutralism: “Of all the Arab states, Syria is at the present time the most wholeheartedly devoted to a neutralist policy with strong anti-Western overtones. This appears to be due primarily to three factors: (1) the Syrians unlike the other Arabs feel themselves free of need to look to the West for any kind of support or help (they are economically self-sufficient); (2) bitterness over Palestine, and spite against the Western powers whom they regard as the creators and supporters of Israel; (3) the tendency in the Islamic world to seek a neutral position (with an anti-’imperialist’ flavor) between West and East. These factors find expression in popular neutralism and anti-Westernism; and such acts as the election of a Communist deputy to Parliament more as an assertion of anti-Westernism with pro-Soviet overtones than as an expression of actual Communist sentiment.” CIA Director Allen Dulles called it an “unhappy situation.”

Arriving in Damascus in April 1957, Stone was brought in to lead the final stages of a plan to install a pro-Western government in Syria, with an earlier coup having failed the previous year. The project, codenamed WAKEFUL, had been underway for two years with positive reports sent from the field to headquarters, which led HQ to believe that “all Rocky needs to do is light a match,” Stone remembered. Ahme, expecting their fourth child, remained behind with the children in Beirut, Lebanon, until suitable accommodations were prepared. During this time, she resided in an apartment above Harold “Kim” Philby, a senior and infamous figure within British intelligence who was secretly acting as a double agent. At that point, Philby was collaborating with the Soviet Union and nearing the final phase of his flight from British authorities, preparing to defect.

The new plan to overthrow the Syrian government involved delivering huge cash bribes to a small number of Syrian leaders. Unlike in Iran, Stone was unable to find any takers capable of undertaking a coup. “It is my duty to inform you that there is no WAKEFUL to trigger,” he wrote to Dulles. He looked for other conspirators to take on the assignment and he shifted his attention to identifying possible collaborators among the Syrian army’s junior officers. His search brought him to a charming tank commander, Captain Abdullah Atiyyah. As Atiyyah later recounted, the two met late one evening in early August at the apartment of a female U.S. Embassy official. Stone was there with his deputy, Francis Jeton, and over several hours Stone carefully laid a rationale as to why the young officer needed to resist communism taking over his country. He then provided details on the plan for the coup, which called for tanks to secure the city of Qatana while key positions in Damascus would be seized. Before agreeing to cooperate, Atiyyah insisted on meeting with the other Syrian leaders involved. The discussion concluded at six the next morning with both sides agreeing that an “ample” amount of cash would be placed in the glove compartment of an unlocked car parked nearby, to be retrieved by one of Atiyyah’s associates.

Responsibility for organizing the requested meeting fell to another CIA officer stationed in Damascus, Arthur C. Close. He was a young Arabist of missionary background who maintained close relationships with the former President Adib Shishakli and his ex–Intelligence Chief, Colonel Ibrahim al-Husseini, then serving as Military Attaché in Rome. CIA contractor Wilbur “Bill” Eveland later described a plan to smuggle Husseini, a giant “moose of a man,” from Beirut into Damascus hidden in Close’s car trunk. At the same time, Atiyyah was instructed to wait at a café at a particular time for a signal: Stone’s wife, Ahme, arrived in a car with diplomatic plates, stepped out, and began writing in a notebook. The scheme nearly collapsed when a child alerted a policeman standing close by that “this lady might be a spy trying to draw something.” Ahme managed to avoid being detained and the rendezvous ultimately proceeded in a shuttered room at another CIA safehouse. Inside, Atiyyah met with Husseini, who was disguised with a false beard and mustache. Having previously worked together, they quickly recognized each other and the young officer pledged his loyalty to the coup’s leadership. After swearing secrecy on a copy of the Koran he carried, Husseini described his rationale for joining the U.S. effort: “I did not participate cheaply. They are going to give us $400 million [$4.74 billion today]…Americans are donkeys and we must avail ourselves of [the] opportunity and have money from them.” He believed the moment offered a chance to restore Syria to its former glory. “We shall not care for them,” he remarked, but “they are giving everything,” and “we must…gain as much as we can from them.” The group “agreed to begin the move,” marking the intended date later in August by tying a knot in Atiyyah’s worry beads. Jeton then joined them and the participants synchronized their watches. From Stone’s vantage point, preparations appeared to be complete.

Unbeknownst to the CIA, Atiyyah, the officer who charmed them, was a government informant. Upon first being contacted by the Americans, he immediately reported the approach to his commanding officer, who in turn instructed him to alert a “responsible man” in Damascus. The money Stone provided was subsequently handed over to Syria’s Deuxième Bureau, which handled military intelligence and internal security, led by Colonel Abdul Hamid Sarraj. Similar encounters with other junior officers, some involving payments of up to $3 million ($36 million today), were likewise disclosed to the Bureau. Sarraj appeared to have allowed the conspiracy to proceed in order to observe its development and by this point he had seen enough.

On August 12, Ahme remembered phoning her husband at his office to let him know their phone service had just been connected. While speaking with him, she suddenly heard the line go dead. Not long after, a Syrian government officer arrived at the door, dressed in a white dinner jacket with a red carnation, informing her that he would personally escort them to the border. Holding back her tears, she responded sarcastically, “You’re too kind.” Looking back, Ahme remarked, “I loved Syria, we just got unpacked, got the last picture hung on the wall and we had to leave…in a hurry!” Stone was identified by the Syrian government as the coup operation’s leader. Since he was protected by diplomatic immunity, he was given 24 hours to leave the country along with his wife and three children. He saw Syrian troops line on both sides of the street between his home and his office at the U.S. Embassy. On their way out of the country, the Stones stayed briefly at a hotel and were instructed to keep a low profile. Wanting to comfort the children, Ahme allowed them to bring along their pet rabbit. However, the bunny slipped loose in the hotel lobby, effectively ending any hope of remaining unnoticed.

U.S. Embassy official Curtis F. Jones recalled that the “officers with whom Stone was dealing took his money and then went on television and announced that they had received this money from the ‘corrupt and sinister Americans’ in an attempt to overthrow the legitimate government in Syria.” The U.S. press coverage of the events pleased Stone to no end. Stone was portrayed as a hapless fellow with a hearing aid who had no clue why he was being expelled from Syria. Stone happened to be “severely deaf,” in his words, throughout his CIA career, having lost his hearing at age 19 as a result of explosions during U.S. Army basic training exercises in 1944.

“We believe that what has so far been disclosed is only the beginning of something far bigger,” Reuters quoted the Information Minister Salih Akil as saying. “The conspiracy is one of a series of conspiracies hatched by imperialism to overthrow the Syrian regime which adheres to neutralism. The Syrian Government will stop with an iron hand such conspiracies aimed at breaking the unity of the Syrian people and army.” On August 14, three suspected coup plotters were reported by the press as being expelled from the country, including Stone, undercover in the Embassy as second secretary for political affairs, Stone’s deputy Jeton, undercover as Vice Consul, as well as Colonel Robert W. Molloy, the U.S. Army Attaché. Jones thought that Molloy “was not involved, but they threw him out because they didn’t like him. They thought that he was too inquisitive.” Eveland noted that Close and others in the CIA Station had used cut-outs to protect themselves, but that Stone and Jeton had dealt directly with Syrian officials and had been “caught red-handed.” He described Molloy as someone “who’d always wanted some intrigue and had finally found it.” Eveland got to watch as Molloy met with a journalist and was greatly entertained by the Army Attaché’s account of being escorted to Lebanon by a Syrian on a motorcycle, who he ran off the road as they approached the border. According to his retelling, Molloy then got out, stood beside his car, and shouted at the man in pain on the ground that “Colonel Sarraj and his commie friends” needed to be given the warning that he would “beat the shit out of them with one hand behind his back if they ever crossed his path again.”

In a statement issued to reporters, the U.S. Embassy’s press attaché Robert A. Lincoln first referred to the coup attempt as follows: “The U.S. Embassy has noted the broadcast of the Syrian broadcasting system and press reports describing an alleged plot against the Syrian government. The statement is obviously a complete fabrication.” He later added: “The American Embassy can accept the Syrian request only under protest since the allegations against the three gentlemen are fabrications.” Stone claimed the Syrian government tortured individuals to get more details on the plot.

As alleged by the Syrian government, the “American plot to overthrow Syria’s present regime,” involved a promise of $300-$400 million in aid if the new government were to make peace with Israel. Stone was referenced in the Syrian government’s statement as “the United States’ number one expert on coups d’état,” who had “organized similar plots in Sudan and Iran and was behind the American coup d’état in Guatemala in 1955 [sic].”

Later that month, Time magazine criticized the “big lie” that such a coup would be attempted by the United States, calling it a “yarn” and a “gratuitous insult.” The CIA was pleased with the magazine mentioning that “Washington, denouncing the whole fantastic plot as a ‘fabrication,’ promptly retaliated.” Initially behind the scenes, Assistant Secretary William M. Rountree recommended formally protesting by expelling two Syrian diplomats from the United States and issuing a public statement explaining U.S. countermeasures. His memorandum also advised continuing to present the coup allegations as false, preventing the U.S. Ambassador from returning to Syria to avoid further escalation, and suspending cultural exchange visits. Rountree also suggested limiting escalation to avoid provoking Syria into fully shutting down diplomatic relations.

The retaliation ultimately included expelling the Syrian Ambassador and a diplomat from the United States, while also recalling the U.S. Ambassador, marking the first expulsion by the U.S. of a foreign chief of mission since 1915. Major coverage in the New York Times dismissed the possibility that the allegations may have been true: “There are numerous theories about why the Syrians struck at the United States. One is that they acted at the instigation of the Soviet Union. Another is that the Government manufactured an anti-U.S. spy story to distract public attention from the significance of Syria’s negotiations with Moscow.”

As a U.S. Embassy political reporting officer joining in 1958 in the aftermath of the Stone affair in Damascus, Jones found it difficult to interact with Syrians on a professional or social level, as they did not want to be seen with Americans after the publicized coup attempt. There were other sore spots: “we had financed arms purchases by Armenians who buried them in Syria. The Syrian G-2 had discovered these. This was another source of awkwardness.” Jones discovered there was “not really” much work to do in his State Department job “because what happened in Syria did not seem to have any immediate, direct relevance to American interests in the Middle East. Syria had no known oil resources at that time.”

Nepal

In August 1962, Stone once again became a Chief of Station in Kathmandu, Nepal. He became concerned with the stability of the monarchy in Nepal and received information that a group led by a former government minister was seemingly plotting a coup against King Mahendra. The CIA wanted to break into the former minister’s current office to install a microphone to determine how real the coup plot was, but this action was viewed as risky. Stone came up with an alternative method: since air service was planned to be opened between Dacca (now Dhaka, Bangladesh) and Kathmandu in October 1963 by Pakistan International Airlines (PIA), Stone requested that CIA operatives obtain airline stationery for him from PIA. He wrote a complimentary message to the former official explaining how the airline looked to foster positive relationships with key Nepalese citizens. As a token of PIA’s goodwill, the fake letter continued, the organization hoped he would accept a modest gift that would arrive at his doorstep soon. The gift happened to be a small replica of a cannon, featuring a hidden microphone and battery-operated transmitter found in the cannon’s base. “I just knew that he would put it right on his desk,” Stone stated and it turned out to be a correct assumption. For months, the CIA was able to monitor meetings of the dissidents linked to the former official and found that their desire to overthrow the king were a vain fantasy and Stone left the group alone.

While stationed in Nepal, Stone became friends with Willi Unsoeld, one of the first Americans to summit Mount Everest in May 1963. After the expedition, Unsoeld lay in a hospital suffering from severe frostbite, which ultimately led to the amputation of most of his toes. “I’ll trade you my toes for your freckles,” Unsoeld joked, teasing Stone’s son Ted. He soon turned to the CIA Station Chief, saying, “You know it’s funny, Rocky. You know what got me in trouble up there?” Stone replied: “What, Willi?” Unsoeld shook his head and referenced his fellow mountaineer Tom Hornbein: “Tom knew he was hurting. But when I was helping poor Tom I was so darn proud my feet weren’t hurting. I thought I was in better shape. I didn’t even realize I was feeling no pain because my feet were too far gone for that.” Unsoeld attempted to work for the Peace Corps and AID while in Nepal, but found himself ill-suited to the work and struggled with authority, relationships, and meeting administrative responsibilities. Stone concluded of his friend’s nature: “Since he was so physical, he had only one response to any problem: go climb a mountain. The trouble is that in trying to struggle with the difficulties of life, you don’t have the same exhilaration as climbing mountains. Physical courage is almost a response whereas intellectual courage is far deeper. Intellectual courage takes more of a commitment.”

Vietnam

In June 1966, Stone was medically evacuated back to Washington, DC, having contracted malaria. He volunteered to go to Vietnam without telling Ahme, later referring to this as the lowest point in their marriage. She had followed him around the world up to this point with minimal complaints, but for this assignment she stayed home in Washington, DC.

Stone had a 1966 meeting with Secretary of Defense Robert S. McNamara, who initially seated him in a chair positioned well across the room from his desk. Realizing almost immediately that meaningful conversation would be impossible at that distance, Stone got up, walked over, and sat on top of McNamara’s desk. “He looked at me with surprise but didn’t say anything,” Mr. Stone told Modern Maturity magazine in 1983. “We talked for over an hour, and when I wanted to make a point, I’d lean over and kick him in the knee or poke him in the shoulder.” Among the messages delivered, according to Ahme, was that the war could not be won.

If Stone did believe that the war was lost at this point, this did not prevent him from implementing the CIA’s initiatives in Vietnam. As head of Foreign Intelligence, he pushed for centralized, unilateral espionage operations targeting high-level Vietcong infrastructure (VCI), often taking control of local intelligence efforts. The work ultimately provided the institutional foundation for the Phoenix Program, which sought to kill, capture or make defect those suspected of supporting the Vietcong.

Stone later portrayed CIA operations against the VCI as “strategic intelligence…We were more interested in talking than in killing,” underscoring his belief that intelligence work should focus on gathering information and cultivating sources rather than eliminating targets. To advance this approach, Stone created an intelligence division in 1967 that worked with Vietnamese and U.S. military intelligence organizations. Within it, he established “a separate unit to select targets—to recruit people with something to tell us. This is the precursor to Phoenix,” framing the early concept of Phoenix as an intelligence-based targeting and recruitment system. However, Stone claimed that when he presented the plan, “[CIA Director Richard Helms] said, ‘Give it to the military,’ and the military broadened it into something else,” suggesting that the program later evolved into a more aggressive, militarized operation beyond his original vision. A CIA officer from the Czechoslovakian desk at headquarters sent to Bien Hoa Province remarked about his time working on the Phoenix Program: “The reports I sent in from my province on the number of Communists that were neutralized reminded me of the reports Hitler’s concentration camp commanders sent in on how many inmates they had exterminated, each commander lying that he had killed more than the others to please Himmler.” The total number of VCI neutralizations (captured, killed, or rallied) was 15,776 in 1968 and 19,534 in 1969, including a total of 7,061 killed.

Stone became confident that he could assist in negotiating a settlement to the war: “there were potential avenues for political negotiations in late 1967.” He stated that CIA officers believed that by establishing covert contacts and providing secure communications, “we could initiate a dialogue toward a settlement…We began negotiating with powerful people.” After receiving approval from senior officials in Washington, the CIA sent an agent on a bicycle to Vietcong headquarters, delivering a code that permitted the Vietcong to communicate secretly with the CIA and evade detection by the Soviets or Chinese. Before long, however, the U.S. administration lost interest in this pursuit and the Vietcong leaders were left frustrated and in Stone’s view “felt they had been betrayed.”

By the end of 1967, Stone returned to Langley, Virginia, to become the operations chief of the Agency’s Soviet/Russia Division. He was now focused on gathering intelligence from afar on Soviet operations across the globe. He described his career to the press once he was retired, speaking from the basement of his home in Washington. He sat at a poker table and reminisced about his CIA days while smoking cigars and drinking beer. His main goal was to promote the organization he had founded, Self-Help for the Hard of Hearing (SHHH). He used his CIA contacts to work on ideas for new hearing aids, given the Agency’s interest and work in surveillance equipment. He was disappointed that the press seemed to mostly write about his time with the CIA. His work for the Soviet/Russia Division was portrayed in a Wall Street Journal article featuring Stone in 1979 as his final international assignment, but this turned out to not have been the case. There were some operations that he never talked about.

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Over the course of several meals at his Lisbon hotel, Dušan “Duško” Popov became aware of a strikingly dressed young woman who moved through the dining room with confidence and ease. Though she arrived with an older companion, she quickly moved on to another table with a young man. “She probably noticed that I was intrigued by her, but although she cast many smiles and glances my way I wasn’t sure they were for me,” he recalled. He thought the attention could have been meant for someone sitting close to him, who happened to be Simón Iturri Patiño, a famously wealthy Bolivian industrialist.

One evening, a brief elevator ride with the woman seemed to settle the question: her eyes were focused on him alone. He thought quickly and told the lift operator “Room 25,” rather than provide his floor number. He left his door unlocked and when he exited the shower, she was already in his room, laying on the bed. She was wearing a sheer silk negligee that “both covered and revealed her completely.”

“Good evening,” Popov said in a husky voice; she invited him to join her. He went in for an embrace but she rebuffed him: “Let us talk for a while. You don’t even know my name.” Popov smiled: “Ilena Fodor. Desk clerks are very helpful.” She replied: “Yes, they are, Duško Popov. But your name doesn’t tell me much about you and I like to know a man first.” She proceeded to kiss him on the cheek, he recalled, “like it was a favor, pretending not to notice her breasts rubbing against my arm.”

Popov played along, letting her guide the exchange while offering false answers about his background and motives. Rather than rely on his official cover, he improvised an absurd story about his work involving stolen paintings, noting her visible loss of interest once her questions were answered. Her demeanor shifted from playful curiosity to detached expectation, as she indicated how much the night would cost. He remembered her lying back “in the bed with an empty, yawning, bored, you may-take-me now expression on her face.” Popov dismissed her coolly, handing her a near-empty bottle of scotch: “Take this with you if you can’t fall asleep. You’ve had your bedtime story.” She accepted the dismissal, and his remaining bottle of scotch, without objection.

Later, Popov’s station chief Major Ludovico von Karsthoff (whose real name was Albrecht von Auenrode) alluded dryly to the fictional art hunt, advising Popov to abandon this sideline work. Popov laughed it off, acknowledging the story for what it was: bait for “a not‑too‑nice young lady.” Von Karsthoff clarified that the test had not been his doing, but the work of overzealous German counterintelligence. The incident confirmed what Popov already understood: every encounter, no matter how personal it appeared, was potentially just another move in the espionage game.

Casino

Ostensibly, Popov was a Serbian spy working for the Abwehr, Germany’s military intelligence service. He was in fact a double agent for the British Secret Intelligence Service, commonly known as MI6. British Naval intelligence officer Ian Fleming watched Popov with intense interest while he gambled one day in 1941. In wartime Portugal, Popov had completed a risky exchange with the Germans and was temporarily carrying a substantial sum of cash intended for British intelligence. Fleming, acting on personal curiosity, tailed Popov through the Hotel Palacio, nearby cafés, and on to the Estoril Casino. Popov suspected that Fleming’s surveillance was meant to safeguard the British funds.

With Fleming as his target audience, Popov orchestrated a deliberate stunt at the baccarat table. When a boastful gambler from Liechtenstein named Bloch announced “Banque ouverte” (“the bank is open”), a public display of his apparent wealth in taking unlimited bets, Popov calmly declared an audacious wager: “Fifty thousand dollars” ($1.1 million today). The room fell silent and Fleming was visibly ill at ease. The Liechtensteiner gambler clearly did not have the money to match this bet given his own anxious reaction. “I suppose,” Popov said, turning to the chief croupier, “that the Casino is backing this man’s bet, since you didn’t object to his ‘Banque ouverte.” Popov was merely making a point, knowing full well that the casino would refuse to do so. “The Casino never backs any player’s stake, sir,” the croupier replied. Popov theatrically swept the money off the table and pocketed the cash, expressing his feigned disappointment: “I trust you’ll call this to the attention of the management and that in the future such irresponsible play will be prohibited. It is a disgrace and an annoyance to the serious players.” Fleming was amused by the performance and the Lithuanian was permanently chastened, never again daring to proclaim “Banque ouverte” at Estoril. When Fleming became an author and invented the fictional MI6 agent James Bond in the 1953 novel Casino Royale, Popov wondered if Bond was partly based on him: “Could be,” he mused. Fleming himself stated that Bond “was a compound of all the secret agents and commando types I met during the war.”

Jebsen

Popov was initiated into the world of espionage through a friend who saved his life. He first met Johann “Johnny” Jebsen in 1936, after completing his law studies in Belgrade and enrolling at Freiburg University to pursue a doctorate. Germany’s growing cultural and economic dominance in southeastern Europe, and Popov’s need to master German, made the choice practical, while Freiburg itself appealed as a vibrant university town offering “study, sports, and pleasure” in equal measure. At the time, Popov considered himself politically unformed: repelled by Nazism yet naïve enough to believe that its dangers were outweighed by academic and personal opportunity.

That illusion quickly dissolved when Popov realized how much Nazi influence pervaded university life. German students learned that conformity was the price of any future, while foreign students were courted with privileges and propaganda. The Ausländer (Foreign Student) Club became the center of Popov’s social life and the place where he met Jebsen. The two bonded over shared intellect, wealth, recklessness, and taste for fast cars and attractive women: “we were addicted to sports cars and sporting girls and had enough money to keep them both running.” Though their backgrounds differed in scale, their outlooks aligned, and Jebsen soon treated Popov as an equal.

Jebsen, admired and feared on campus, was a study in contrasts: aristocratic yet democratic, aloof yet magnetic, permanently ironic. Alongside another close friend, Alfred “Freddy” Graf von Kageneck, the trio treated Nazism at first as a farce. They openly defied party intimidation, most memorably by patronizing a café that refused to display the sign “Jews and Dogs Not Allowed,” coolly giving their names to SS men. “You wouldn’t know how to spell it,”von Kageneck taunted them about his prominent family name, to their apoplexy. The three friends took a table in full view of the street and at the time, the gesture felt like a prank rather than an act of courage.

Shortly after earning his doctorate, Popov was arrested by the Gestapo and interrogated for eight days and nights. Accused by turns of Communism, subversion, and spreading “propaganda,” he was subjected to relentless questioning designed to exhaust and break him rather than extract facts. Friends and acquaintances were interrogated en masse; most distanced themselves or denounced him. Only two men stood firm in his defense: Freddy von Kageneck and Johnny Jebsen.

“You’ll be listed as missing,” a friend informed Popov one day in Freiburg prison. Jebsen raced to Switzerland to alert Popov’s father that Popov was to be vanished into a concentration camp. Political pressure reached Hermann Göring himself, and Popov was released, with an order to leave Germany within twenty-four hours.

As Popov departed, few dared say farewell. Jebsen, barred from the platform, drove his Mercedes through the night and intercepted the train in Basel. Deeply moved, Popov gave him a solemn pledge: “If you ever need anything…you only have to say the word.”

Joining Intelligence

Popov encountered Jebsen again in Belgrade after three years and immediately sensed how deeply the war had altered him. Though Jebsen’s intelligence and elegance remained intact, they had hardened into cynicism, apprehension, and a dark humor. “Hitler is making fools out of the Germans,” he blurted out soon after greeting Popov, “and with their help he may take over the world.” World War II had been going on for five months and over whiskey in the Serbian King Hotel, Jebsen revealed his urgent problem: several German ships, including his own, were trapped in Trieste, and he needed Popov’s help to sell them, quickly and deceptively, to a neutral buyer before the German authorities understood the implications.

Using his financial, legal, and diplomatic connections in Yugoslavia and Britain, Popov devised a scheme to acquire the ships through a Yugoslav front company and quietly pass them to British interests. The transaction was executed before suspicion arose: London approved, funds were provided, and the British Admiralty expressed its gratitude for a valuable addition to merchant shipping. Afterward, in a private conversation, Jebsen disclosed the true scope of his activities. To avoid conventional military service and preserve his freedom of movement, he had joined the Abwehr’s Brandenburg Division, placing himself within German intelligence while remaining ideologically opposed to Hitler. He spoke of Admiral Wilhelm Canaris and a web of resistance-minded figures operating inside the Nazi system. Jebsen then asked Popov for assistance with an intelligence report identifying French politicians likely to collaborate after defeat, a request Popov accepted reluctantly, quietly forming a counter-plan of his own.

Popov compiled the report with ease, relying on his extensive social and diplomatic contacts. The findings were strikingly consistent: Pierre Laval emerged as the most likely collaborator. While providing the report to Jebsen, Popov also ensured that British intelligence received a copy, turning a Nazi assignment into a double-edged instrument. The accuracy of the report enhanced Popov’s standing with the German Embassy, which suddenly treated him with warmth and attention. When France soon capitulated, Jebsen grimly acknowledged: “Every hope we had of getting rid of Hitler by internal action vanished.” Jebsen became a constant presence in Popov’s home and Popov was invited to join the Abwehr as an intelligence agent. Jebsen admitted had been preparing the ground for some time and had personally recommended Popov as the kind of man the Abwehr desperately wanted; a “superspy” in the making. Popov understood that refusal or acceptance could each be fatal in different ways. Jebsen offered his own justification: “If you want to destroy a team, the best way is to become part of it.”

Sleep eluded Popov, disturbed by thoughts of whether the British would accept him as a double agent. If they refused, he would have had to decline the Germans, and Popov knew that their offers were not safely rejected. At dawn, he went directly to the British Embassy, where an official listened and warned him that what he was proposing allowed “only one mistake.” Popov was sent to a passport official, who in reality was the head of MI6 for the Balkans. After exhaustive questioning, the MI6 official confirmed London’s interest and, within days, instructed Popov to accept the German offer outright. He was to appear cooperative, buy time, and construct a solid business pretext for travel to London. Popov would pose as a lawyer expanding legitimate Anglo‑Yugoslav trade, supported by Navy Certificates arranged through British channels. He was also told, pointedly, to say nothing to Jebsen about his work for MI6.

Popov informed Jebsen only of his planned trip and a vague diplomatic intermediary. When Colonel Ernst Munzinger met Popov, the German was triumphant, congratulating him on his “right conclusion” and supplied him with secret ink to communicate with them secretly. Jebsen was assigned to train Popov in codes, contacts, and procedures. The Abwehr made it clear that Popov was being groomed seriously and would be kept generously funded. He was provided with a German questionnaire that revealed far more than it demanded. By the breadth of its questions on coastal defenses, unit locations, weapons, and industries, it exposed German priorities and anxieties, particularly surrounding a potential invasion of England. Popov passed everything to the MI6 official, who dryly noted that British intelligence had better ink but found the questions themselves invaluable, which included: “the locations of divisions, brigades, and commands, the names of officers. They were specifically interested in antitank guns but also wanted to know about other weapons, the armament industry in particular, and industry in general. And then there were many political questions similar to those they had asked me about France. Who were Churchill’s enemies? Who in Britain thought the war should be ended quickly? Who was in favor of starting to negotiate peace with Germany?”

While Popov was constructing his commercial cover, building an import organization and canvassing banks and clients, his BMW mysteriously broke down. Relying on his father’s chauffeur, Bozidar, he soon learned that Bozidar had sabotaged the car and was reporting on Popov’s movements to Munzinger. When Jebsen obtained a surveillance report, it revealed frequent visits to Milosa Velikog Street, British Intelligence headquarters, placing Popov and his family in danger. “I’ll take care of Bozidar,” Popov told Jebsen.

Popov ran this information by his brother Ivo, who replied, “Let’s look at this practically. Bozidar is corrupt. I know we can both remember when he rode us around on his shoulders. That makes what he did all the more horrible, Bozidar is a cancer now. There is nothing we can do that will alter him. As long as he lives, he always remains a threat to you. No matter where, as long as he lives.” Popov crept up to Bozidar’s room that night; he could hear the radio and peered through the keyhole to see Bozidar sitting in an armchair, listening to Yugoslav folk songs on the radio. Popov arranged for Bozidar’s disposal through criminals he had once assisted by securing for them suspended sentences on assault charges. Popov sent Bozidar out on an errand that ended in a staged robbery and death. “I hadn’t asked my two clients for the details of their execution plan,” he later remembered, “only stipulating that I wanted his body found. Disappearances cause more investigation than deaths.” The police accepted the situation as it appeared, telling him the next morning that Bozidar “had been shot to death at the scene of an apparent pillaging at the railroad yards.” Popov paid for the funeral, privately judging Bozidar as “Yugoslavia’s first collaborator.” Jebsen forwarded a forged report to Munzinger and the matter vanished. “You’re a determined man, Duško,” Jebsen told him. “Tell me, would you kill me, too, if you discovered I was playing dirty?” Popov did not want to think of such a thing: “You’d never play dirty, Johnny.”

Before leaving Great Britain, Popov was formally briefed by British intelligence and was instructed to behave like a genuine German agent. He had infiltrated the Abwehr at a level that normally took years. He was given the codename Tricycle and was told to listen for any word of “Operation Sea Lion” and remember everything, writing nothing. On the German side, Munzinger, now calling Popov by his code name “Ivan,” was elated to see him go. In his boastful send‑off, Munzinger confirmed details of invasion preparations: “We have assembled over twenty-five hundred barges, nearly as many motorized boats, and over a hundred and fifty ships.” Popov whistled softly in appreciation, absorbing this information for his dual role. Probing Munzinger for more, he did not reveal much else of substance, only boasting of the superiority of the German military. Jebsen seemed amused by the conversation, understanding exactly what Popov was doing.

Popov parted from his family under false pretenses, bound for Dubrovnik and then Lisbon, while London burned nightly under the Blitz. Only his grandfather saw through the fiction, winking at him and remarking, “It’s the war. You can’t wait for it to come to you.”

Cork

Popov’s first open clash with German counter‑espionage unfolded on a return visit to Lisbon, when he became aware of a man following him. A tall, thin man with floppy, rabbit‑like ears appeared wherever Popov went. Testing him with a simple maneuver exiting and then re-entering a train from Estoril to Lisbon confirmed Popov’s suspicion: the man, whom Popov nicknamed “Uncle Oscar,” was unmistakably shadowing him. Though Popov was not yet alarmed since he had had no recent British contact, he was determined to learn who was directing this surveillance.

The following evening, en route to a meeting with von Karsthoff, Popov used a diversion to slip free, only to encounter Uncle Oscar again on the dark Lisbon road. Concluding that the shadow must belong to Abwehr counter‑intelligence rather than the British, Popov executed an elaborate approach to von Karsthoff’s villa, entering over walls and through a rear gate. Von Karsthoff denied recognizing the man and promised to make discreet inquiries, while pressing on with business: Berlin wanted more detail from their agent, but Popov was praised for work they “thought very highly of.”

Uncle Oscar vanished for several days, only to reappear conspicuously at the Casino nightclub. Popov was occupied at the club with his French girlfriend, whom he nicknamed Margo Broche. Broche was clinging to him continually, which made him “confident about how the evening would finish.” Onstage was a drunk young woman, caterwauling with the band and annoying Popov tremendously since she was “under the illusion that she could sing.” Popov sent a nearby waiter to deliver a cork to her on a tray “with my compliments,” which greatly upset her. The woman charged at Popov’s girlfriend, mistakenly believing she had sent the insult. She grabbed Broche’s drink, intending to toss its contents until Popov grabbed her arm and the glass fell to the ground. Popov spun the stunned woman around, patted her on the behind and said, “Be a good girl now.” A Daily Mail correspondent rose up from his table, revealing he had an arm in a cast. “You have been insulting my guest,” the reporter complained. “I’m sorry, it was a stupid joke,” Popov responded. “Please ask the young lady to forgive me.” Instead, the reporter swung his unrestrained arm at Popov, who ducked and landed a punch on the reporter’s jaw, sending him sliding on the well-polished dance floor. The entire Daily Mail table stood up and anticipating a brawl, Popov took out the German questionnaire and other notes he had intended to share with British intelligence and placed them in his girlfriend’s purse. “Run for it,” he instructed her. “There’s a lot of cash and checks in there. Meet me in the hotel lobby.” Broche was frightened enough to leave and Popov, now alone, stared down the Daily Mail entourage.

“Are you a Nazi or something?” one of them asked. “Why?” Popov replied. The man explained: “’Cause you’re a fucking coward, hitting a man with a broken arm.” Popov responded with what he thought was a logical argument: “If you have a broken arm, you don’t start fights.” Popov noticed that Uncle Oscar was following his girlfriend out the door. He must have seen me put the envelope in her bag, he thought. A man began to attack Popov and shoved a table into his stomach. The singer jumped on Popov’s back, attempting to “gouge out my eyes.” He tossed her into the man, which temporarily distracted him such that Popov was able to hit him twice more. He ran from the premises to a chorus of boos; others yelled, “coward, stay and fight.”

Outside, Popov could hear Broche screaming from somewhere in a park that led to their hotel. He ran towards the hotel and saw two people in the midst of a struggle on the ground. As he got closer, he could identify Uncle Oscar attempting to snatch Broche’s purse from her grasp. The contents of the purse spilled onto the ground and Oscar grabbed an envelope. He then got up and was trying to run away when Popov approached and swiftly kicked him in the face, knocking him “unconscious, spurting blood and teeth but still clutching the envelope.” Popov recovered the envelope moments before the arrival of the hotel manager, who arranged cover stories for the incident and ordered Popov back to his room. By morning, Uncle Oscar lay hospitalized, badly injured, and the police believed he had been attacked by unknown ruffians. Popov felt satisfaction at having “drawn my first Nazi blood.”

At a subsequent meeting, von Karsthoff offered a bland explanation: Uncle Oscar had been assigned “purely for Popov’s protection,” ostensibly to ensure that the British were not following him. Popov challenged the logic, pointing out the attempted theft of the envelope. Von Karsthoff, embarrassed, blamed German clumsiness and contrasted it with his own “Phoenician” finesse. Before Popov’s renewed departure for England, von Karsthoff tested Popov’s mastery of codes, addresses, and questionnaires, advising him to concentrate on essentials and hinting that Popov might recruit additional agents among his British contacts. Popov readily agreed, precisely the outcome British intelligence desired.

Despite his demanding espionage work, Popov lived extravagantly in London, frequenting luxury hotels, restaurants, and social clubs. His personal life intertwined with his intelligence work, particularly his intense relationship with Friedl Gaertner, a woman who became Popov’s sub-agent through MI5. Their relationship quickly became passionate, illustrating how Popov mixed business with pleasure. “Never before in my life had I had such a dominating passion for a woman,” he later wrote. “I made up my mind to have it out with her; the situation was verging on the dangerous. I could understand, if not approve, how a man could drive himself to ruin, sell out, do anything to rid himself of such a consuming craving. This wasn’t sex or love. This was an addiction.” He continued to see a coterie of girlfriends in each city.

Pearl Harbor

The Germans considered Popov’s appointment as Delegate of the Yugoslav Ministry of Information perfectly suited to their needs. The post provided him with a legitimate reason to travel anywhere in the United States where Yugoslav communities existed, effectively everywhere of strategic value, from factories to dockyards, while also granting him automatic access to political circles in Washington. To Popov’s surprise, when he asked von Karsthoff how he was expected to build a spy network in America, he was told to build none at all. The Abwehr had learned that formal organizations collapsed under their own weight. Popov was instructed instead to operate independently, recruit sparingly, handle each agent separately, and value reliability over numbers. Above all, he was warned not to risk either his life or his official position.

The unavoidable delay in securing passage on a Pan‑American Clipper turned out to be providential. During the wait, von Karsthoff summoned Popov in high spirits and presented him with what seemed at first just another questionnaire. Under a microscope, however, Popov was shown something revolutionary: microdots. These tiny fragments of film could contain enormous amounts of information and be concealed anywhere: on paper, in luggage, even on the skin. Von Karsthoff treated the innovation with near‑childlike pride, toasting its potential with champagne: “This little dot will revolutionize our espionage system. Do you realize the immense possibilities it offers?”

While studying the questionnaire in detail, Popov noticed a section that alarmed him. Among naval and troop‑movement questions was a specific focus on Hawaii, particularly Oʻahu, Pearl Harbor, ammunition dumps, and mine depots. The text read, in part:

HAWAII.—AMMUNITION DUMPS AND MINE DEPOTS.

1. Details about naval ammunition and mine depot on the Isle of Kushua (Pearl Harbor). If possible sketch.

2. Naval ammunition depot Lualuelei. Exact position? Is there a railway line (junction)?

3. The total ammunition reserve of the army is supposed to be in the rock of the Crater Aliamanu. Position?

4. Is the Crater Punchbowl (Honolulu) being used as ammunition dump? If not, are there other military works?

[…]

NAVAL STRONG POINT PEARL HARBOR.

1. Exact details and sketch about the situation of the state wharf, of the pier installations, workshops, petrol installations, situations of dry dock No. 1 and of the new dry dock which is being built.

2. Details about the submarine station (plan of situation). What land installations are in existence?

3. Where is the station for mine search formations [Minensuchverbaende]?

How far has the dredger work progressed at the entrance and in the east and southeast lock? Depths of water?

4. Number of anchorages [Liegeplaetze]?

5. Is there a floating dock in Pearl Harbor or is the transfer of such a dock to this place intended?

The implications were unmistakable for him. When von Karsthoff confirmed that Popov himself was to travel to Hawaii “as soon as possible,” Popov understood that the Germans, and by extension their Japanese allies, were preparing for decisive action. “At that time,” Popov later recalled, “most people thought that Japan was likely to attack Dutch East India. It was only when I saw the questionnaire that I realized they were going to attack the United States.”

Popov quickly transmitted this intelligence to British MI6 in Lisbon. London ordered him to carry the information personally to the United States, anticipating that the Americans would want to question him at length. A German “expert” on America arrived to brief Popov on manners, dress, aliases, and shortcuts to identity papers, many of which Popov privately dismissed as naïve or unnecessary. “Take your hat off in an elevator if a woman enters but don’t do so if in a business elevator” was useless counsel for Popov since he did not wear a hat. As an obvious foreigner, he needed no elaborate preparation and ultimately ignored most of the advice.

On August 10, 1941, Popov departed Lisbon aboard a Pan American Boeing 314 flying boat bound for New York, carrying with him a substantial sum of money, German funds intended to support his American mission, supplemented by his own cash. Upon arrival at Port Washington, New York, Popov was quietly extracted from Immigration and Customs and placed under the supervision of FBI special agent Charles Lanman. Escorted into Manhattan with minimal ceremony, Popov was instructed to await further contact and to meet later with the regional FBI Assistant Director, Percy “Sam” Foxworth. Settled at the Waldorf Astoria, Popov briefly tasted American abundance and efficiency, opening a bank account in minutes and purchasing a new automobile with astonishing ease, before encountering a reminder of the trade: his luggage had been searched. He consoled himself with the knowledge that nothing was missing.

The following day, Popov was led through an elaborate security routine at Rockefeller Center and ushered into a meeting with Foxworth. He learned that the intelligence he had sent ahead, particularly warnings regarding Pearl Harbor, had not yet been forwarded to Washington. Suppressing his frustration, Popov put forward his case, explaining the reliability of his sources, especially Johann Jebsen, and arguing that the German questionnaire itself made no sense as a trap: “I can be categorical about Jebsen. He would have warned me of a trap, no matter what.” His credibility, he asserted, lay in the Abwehr’s belief that he was among their most valued agents. “You can expect an attack on Pearl Harbor before the end of this year,” Popov warned, “unless the negotiations with the Japanese produce a definite result.”

To demonstrate the seriousness of German preparations, Popov revealed the Abwehr’s microdots. With a microscope, he showed the Americans how entire documents could be hidden in specks invisible to the naked eye. The discovery impressed Foxworth deeply: “Fascinating,” he remarked. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll take this to Washington myself. I’m sure Mr. Hoover will be very amused.” He left Popov temporarily idle and instructed him simply to “get settled” in New York.

Taking the advice at face value, Popov made New York his base, leasing a penthouse apartment and arranging its furnishing with efficiency he was not accustomed to in Europe. The ease and efficiency of American life buoyed his spirits; he recognized that beneath the comfort and apparent calm, momentous decisions were being delayed. As he settled into life in the United States, he began rebuilding his social circle, including renewing contact with Simone Simon, the French film star with whom he had shared a prewar romance in Paris. Their renewed association, sporadic though it was while she worked in Hollywood, later became a source of irritation for J. Edgar Hoover. Meanwhile, Popov waited for permission to begin his intelligence work. A planned visit to Washington to see the Yugoslav ambassador led only to further frustration: he was expressly forbidden from approaching FBI headquarters and told that instructions would come, eventually, in New York.

Installed in a Park Avenue penthouse, Popov was visited by his FBI handler Lehman, who immediately fixated on the money Popov had brought from Lisbon. Lehman requisitioned most of the cash for tracing and warned that Hoover would disapprove of Popov’s “plush layout.” Popov brushed the criticism aside, asking for invisible ink and assistance drafting a cover letter so he could report to von Karsthoff. He explained that he intended to tell the Germans he was preparing to travel to Hawaii, exactly what they expected, using a girlfriend as cover. Lehman hesitated but offered no objection, pending approval.

That approval never came. At a discreet hotel meeting, Lehman bluntly informed Popov that the Hawaii trip was canceled. Popov immediately grasped the danger: failing to go would destroy his credibility with the Abwehr. He argued urgently that the Germans had to be “led down the garden path,” but it became clear that the FBI had no intention of forwarding Pearl Harbor-related intelligence at all. Hoover would see Popov in two weeks, Lehman said weakly. Until then, Popov was advised to “take it easy.”

Popov diverted to Florida with another girlfriend, Terry Richardson, only to be confronted on a Miami beach by FBI agents invoking the Mann Act. They explained he could be put in prison for transporting a woman across state lines for immoral purposes. Although he had already been warned by Lanman of the Mann Act when he had first mentioned the trip with Richardson, he had ignored his threat. Under orders from Washington, they forced him to send Richardson home immediately. The clumsy intervention ended the relationship and convinced Popov that Hoover was actively undermining him. The FBI, in turn, was equally frustrated with Popov: “Confidential Informant ND 63 is inclined,” Lanman wrote, “to be rather temperamental.” Back in New York, after further delays, Popov was finally summoned for an interview and this time he faced Hoover himself.

The encounter with the FBI Director was openly hostile. “Sit down, Popov,” Hoover barked, his contempt obvious on his face. “I’m running the cleanest police organization in the world. You come here from nowhere and within six weeks install yourself in a Park Avenue penthouse, chase film stars, break a serious law, and try to corrupt my officers. I’m telling you right now I won’t stand for it.” Popov responded with controlled bluntness, listing what he had actually delivered: advance warning of an attack, exposure of microdot technology, and the opportunity to dismantle German espionage from within. Hoover dismissed it all, sneering at Popov: “You’re like all double agents. You’re begging for information to sell to your German friends so you can make a lot of money and be a playboy.” Recognizing that argument was futile, Popov walked out, convinced he had just witnessed “a victory of incalculable proportions” handed to the Germans.

British intelligence urged Popov to be patient. He remained in New York, restless and continuously watched by the FBI. The Bureau soon asked for his help in probing a suspected German agent, Stefan Otto Feldmann. Popov met with Lanman, who explained that the FBI was wary of his relationship with Richardson, suspecting that she had been planted by Feldmann to spy on him for the Germans. Popov thought this notion was ridiculous, telling Lanman he would kill her if she was provably a German spy. Lanman countered that with any such action, he would be tried for murder like any other resident.

Popov allowed his apartment to be wired by FBI, only to discover the supposed on‑off switch was a sham and that multiple rooms in his apartment were bugged permanently. Outraged but calculating, Popov muffled the microphones with cotton and waited. When agents were caught covertly entering his flat, Popov confronted Lehman and escalated the matter to Foxworth. In a final, forceful appeal, he argued that Hoover’s personal distaste was obstructing a historic opportunity: the chance to take control of Germany’s espionage network rather than merely arrest its agents one by one. Popov proposed replicating Britain’s coordinated “double‑cross” system, stressing that if he failed, Berlin would simply send a replacement, one not secretly aligned with the Allies. Foxworth listened and showed cautious openness. The first tentative step agreed upon was to explore establishing a short‑wave transmitter: “We put the last transmitter the Nazis had out of action,” Foxworth explained. “It’s quite likely they’re itching to have a new one. I think the scheme will appeal to the big boss.” Popov recognized this move as a Hoover fishing expedition rather than an Abwehr priority.

Playing along, Popov proposed instead traveling to Rio de Janeiro under Yugoslav government cover, where he could plausibly consult Albrecht Gustav Engels, codenamed “Alfredo,” the Abwehr’s chief agent in Latin America. The plan suited all sides: Popov’s Yugoslav cover involved recruiting émigrés in Brazil for the government‑in‑exile’s army, while the Germans would accept Rio as a natural communications hub. Still needing material to justify his months in America, Popov was dismayed when the FBI supplied intelligence no better than newspaper clippings. Undeterred, he went to the New York Times morgue, assembled superior data himself, and reshaped it into a credible intelligence package.

Popov traveled from New York to Rio de Janeiro by Pan American Airways, a journey that carried the grim shock of visiting Belém, where seeing a slave market disturbed him deeply: “Men, girls, and young boys, penned in wooden cages, for sale at a few dollars a head, a reminder of the concentration camps on the other side of the Atlantic that I hadn’t expected to see here.” In Brazil, Engels, the Abwehr’s chief agent for South America, received him warmly, confirming that Popov still stood in good favor with Berlin. Popov handed over the intelligence he had brought, disguising its modest value with plausible explanations and stressing how much time his Yugoslav cover work consumed. Engels reassured him, citing Popov’s reputation after his “wonderful job” in England, and launched into confident Nazi rhetoric about Germany’s impending victories. Recognizing Engels’ type, Popov played along, reinforcing his confidence with stories of American isolationism and discontent. The calculated flattery worked, and Engels soon trusted him enough to ask for Popov’s exclusive help on a separate set of information requests. Among them were for Popov to find out what the United States was doing with regard to processing and stockpiling uranium: “I hadn’t the faintest clue what use that obscure ore was to be put to,” Popov later wrote. “If Alfredo knew, he gave no indication of it. Nothing in his attitude even hinted at the race for the atomic bomb.”

During his three weeks in Brazil, Popov maintained his cover authentically, meeting officials, organizing recruitment for the Yugoslav government‑in‑exile, giving speeches, and enjoying Rio’s nightlife. Engels obligingly provided Popov with a ready‑made mail drop through a Brazilian gem dealer, turning Popov’s casual inquiry about semiprecious stones into an intelligence conduit. Behind the scenes, Popov reported everything to the FBI contact in Rio.

While en route back to New York, on December 7, 1941, the ship’s captain solemnly announced that the Japanese navy had struck Pearl Harbor: “We have no details,” the captain added. As lifeboat drills were ordered and fear rippled among the passengers that they may be attacked by German submarines, Popov felt elated. He had delivered the warning months earlier and surely the Americans had been prepared to counterattack and secure victory. “I was very, very proud that I had been able to give the warning to the Americans four months in advance. What a reception the Japanese must have had!” He felt like he was floating above the deck. “It was nasty for the Americans to be involved in the war,” he thought at the time,“but it was the saving of the world. Now there was no doubt that we would win.”

As details emerged, his exultant state gave way to horror. Battleships lay sunk at their moorings; the USS Arizona was destroyed; American naval power in the Pacific had been shattered in hours. He struggled to comprehend how such an assault could have succeeded when its outline had been known in advance. When Popov returned to New York after the attack on Pearl Harbor, Lehman met him at the dock: “Charlie, what happened?” Popov asked bluntly. Lehman appeared to be confused, so Popov followed up with: “Pearl Harbor, Charlie. Why?” Lehman responded: “Oh, I guess we were had. Those double-faced Japs, negotiating in Washington right up to the last minute while their fleet was sailing to attack.” Lehman retreated into vague generalities about bureaucracy, presidential authority, and interdepartmental processes. “Charlie, what the hell are you saying? You’re talking to me, Charlie, not the New York Times. To me. Tricycle, Duško Popov, the guy who came here in August and told you the Japanese were going to attack Pearl Harbor before the end of the year.” Lanman had no interest in discussing this matter further: “Take it easy, Duško, don’t get so excited...Things can go wrong. I do my job. Mine is not to question why.” Popov handed over his microdots and notes, hearing with disbelief that the FBI now intended to “start working seriously.”

FBI Assistant Director Foxworth informed Popov that a radio transmitter would be ready in January. Told to go enjoy Christmas, Popov instead pressed for an explanation of Pearl Harbor. reminding Foxworth that he had provided specific warnings months in advance. Foxworth refused to engage substantively: “It shouldn’t be on your mind, Popov. You are a soldier. You don’t ask questions. Do your job and let others do theirs.”

Over the years, Popov revisited the mystery without finding answers. He rejected the theory that Roosevelt had knowingly allowed the attack, arguing that logic, morality, and political reality made such a decision implausible. He cited a book by John Cecil Masterman, chairman of the Double-Cross System, who later admitted that British intelligence had underemphasized the questionnaire’s importance:

Obviously it was for the Americans to make their appreciation and to draw their deductions from the questionnaire rather than for us to do so. Nonetheless, with our fuller knowledge of the case and of the man, we ought to have stressed its importance more than we did. With the greater experience of a few more years’ work, we should certainly have risked a snub and pointed out to our friends in the United States what the significance of the document might be; but in 1941 we were still a little chary of expressing opinions and a little mistrustful of our own judgement. The lesson is, no doubt, that once an agent is firmly established, any questionnaire given to him has a much greater and more immediate intelligence value than that usually attributed to it.

Popov acknowledged the criticism but rejected it as insufficient. He concluded that the most troubling possibility was also the simplest: the information never reached the Army, Navy, or the President. It remained trapped within Hoover’s insular domain. Hoover’s paranoia, territorialism, and contempt for external collaboration may have led him to pigeonhole, or effectively suppress, the warning. Popov could not prove this, but his direct encounters with Hoover convinced him of the man’s irrational authoritarianism.

The release of declassified documents later revealed that in early September 1941 after receiving an FBI lab report, Hoover sent a letter to the White House highlighting the German use of microdots hidden in a telegram. However, he presented the material as a technical curiosity rather than an urgent intelligence warning. He failed to disclose critical context: that the telegram belonged to Popov, how it was obtained, and that the microdots were part of a German espionage questionnaire.

Most significantly, Hoover withheld the most sensitive content. The full questionnaire included detailed questions about Pearl Harbor’s defenses, airfields, ammunition depots, and naval infrastructure, clear indicators of Japanese and German intelligence interest in Hawaii. Instead, Hoover only forwarded less sensitive sections dealing with aircraft production and training, omitting all references to Pearl Harbor. As a result, the information reaching Roosevelt was incomplete and framed as a general example of espionage methods, not a warning of a potential attack.

Deception

During a weekend stay in England, Popov received what he regarded as an advanced lesson in high‑level political intrigue from “C,” Stewart Menzies, head of MI6. In private discussions at Tadley Court, Menzies explained his belief that, despite the Allies’ official commitment to unconditional surrender, “One should assure the proper-thinking Germans—and I think they will understand—that we do not mean to blot Germany from the map. That would be contrary to the ideal of freedom for which we are fighting.” Through Popov’s renewed access to Jebsen in Lisbon, Menzies hoped to signal to anti‑Hitler elements within Germany that the door to a different future was not entirely closed. For this purpose, Popov was instructed to report relevant intelligence directly to Cecil Gledhill, MI6’s station chief in Lisbon.

When Popov revisited the idea of an internal coup with Jebsen, he encountered blunt skepticism. Jebsen argued that Hitler’s interference in military strategy had already doomed Germany and that the German high command, though furious, had neither the cohesion nor the leverage to act. Any so‑called resistance consisted largely of retired or dismissed generals who quarreled endlessly, sought to preserve territorial gains, and hoped even to restore a monarchy. Jebsen concluded that only external pressure could end the war sooner. Popov dutifully forwarded Jebsen’s assessment to Gledhill and Menzies, who reluctantly accepted it but still chose to probe for any remaining opportunity.

By 1943, Popov’s work centered on elaborate deception operations designed to pin German forces in Western Europe while easing pressure on the Soviet front. He assisted in false‑flag operations such as Operation Starkey and played a minor but useful role in Commander Montagu’s celebrated Operation Mincemeat, confirming through Abwehr channels that Germany swallowed the planted documents whole. Reinforcements were diverted to Greece and Sardinia, Sicily’s defenses were weakened, and even where they did prepare, the Germans prepared in the wrong places.

Popov also stumbled upon a major German espionage success through an indiscreet remark by von Karsthoff, who boasted of an extraordinarily lucrative Abwehr agent supplying top‑level Allied documents, including the minutes of the Tehran Conference. From that clue, British counterintelligence quickly identified the culprit as Cicero (Elyesa Bazna), the codename for the Albanian valet at the British Embassy in Ankara. Although Cicero escaped, his information proved largely useless: German leaders distrusted it, partly because of their fear of Allied deception after Mincemeat, and the fortune paid to Cicero consisted mostly of counterfeit currency.

Internal leaks by this time threatened to expose multiple double agents, including himself. He was warned by London about possible betrayal: “You may be walking into a trap in Lisbon,” an official informed him.“You’re probably burned. As a personal friend, I advise you not to go.” Popov responded that the Germans would likely not kill him right away. “You might wish they had,” was the reply. In preparation for violence, Popov returned to Lisbon armed with a Luger pistol, not to survive capture, but to avoid torture should the worst occur.

Meeting a car to take him to the Abwehr, Popov was relieved to see a woman as the driver. This likely meant that it was not an assassination team or “garbage-disposal unit” coming to pick him up. “Herr Ivan?” she greeted him. “I am Friedl, a new secretary.” They followed the typical entry through a garage and then walking upstairs. She left him in a large room. “I shall tell Herr von Karsthoff you are here,” she stated. He examined the room layout, paying particular attention to the exits, if they would be needed. He walked toward a large French door to see where it would lead, taking the safety off his Luger. Von Karsthoff made his presence known in a firm voice: “Turn around slowly, Popov, and don’t make any sudden moves.”

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June 25, 1968: The Houston FBI field office reported to headquarters on a young woman from Houston who they learned was seeking a teaching position in Los Angeles. She was reportedly “active in SDS [Students for a Democratic Society] circles” at the University of Houston and therefore the FBI sought to deny this opportunity for her. Also of concern to the Bureau was that she had “appeared for class wearing a mini-mini skirt.” She had been reprimanded by the school for this act but “she thereafter appeared in dresses well below the knee which were as outlandish as the mini-mini skirts.” The FBI concluded that “she obviously was showing her rebellion against the authorities” and had to be stopped. They drafted a fake letter to the Los Angeles Board of Education, warning them that this woman had appeared at demonstrations and was “extremely promiscuous in her personal life besides being a user of marijuana. She has had numerous beatnik type persons spend the night in her apartment. Also during the time she was taking practice teaching I understand that she got the officials at the school upset by her wearing mini-mini skirts. She was told she would have to wear more appropriate clothes and she thereafter came to school wearing ankle length dresses. Obviously she merely wanted to cause trouble rather than become educated. As you can see this girl certainly is not the proper person to be in charge of and teaching youngsters in yours or any other school system.” The FBI chose to sign the letter with the fictitious name “Ann Hill” and chose an address in Houston that they knew to be a vacant house. FBI headquarters approved the letter on July 8, giving specific instructions that the “letter should be prepared on locally purchased stationery, not traceable to the Bureau or Government, and a copy forwarded to the Bureau after mailing.”

Marriage Ops

December 18, 1968: The FBI evaluated a proposal to undermine activist Stokely Carmichael by sabotaging his marriage to South African singer Miriam Makeba. The Los Angeles office had suggested sending an anonymous letter claiming Carmichael was exploiting his wife and using his political work as a cover for “illicit romantic activities.” However, the Washington field office rejected this tactic, arguing it would likely fail and could even backfire. The memo noted that Makeba had already been aware of and frustrated by the demands of Carmichael’s activism, complaining about constant calls from “people in the ‘movement,’” yet still understood his activities as legitimate. Because she had frequently accompanied him on speaking engagements, she would “undoubtedly be aware of or reasonably suspect any current illicit affairs,” making such accusations “highly suspect.” The memo concluded that the marriage itself had already limited Carmichael’s political effectiveness. It observed that the relationship “had served to divide his time between the ‘movement’ and his personal life,” reducing his ability to organize and contributing to “a moderating of [his] more violent attitude” and a “more cautious approach.” The memo also warned that interfering in the marriage could produce the opposite outcome: a separation might provide “an excuse for his re-dedication to the black extremist movement.” The Washington field office concluded that Carmichael had been “neutralized more by his marriage…than he would be by attempts to disrupt this marriage,” and it recommended against pursuing the proposed scheme.

February 14, 1969: The field office in St. Louis sought to sow marital discord by sending a fake letter to Clydia Koen, the wife of the activist Charles Koen, founder of a group called the Black Liberators. She lived with their two daughters in their hometown of Cairo, Illinois while her husband worked in the city. Mrs. Koen was recorded in FBI files as a “faithful, loving wife, who is apparently convinced that her husband is performing a vital service to the Black world…She is to all indications an intelligent, respectable young mother, who is active in the AME [African Methodist Episcopal] Methodist Church.” A handwritten letter was “prepared from a penmanship, spelling style to imitate that of the average Black Liberator member,” the FBI wrote in a memo to HQ. The note was designed to contain “several accusations which should cause Koen’s wife great concern.” The Bureau noted the goal was to create “ill feeling and possibly a lasting distrust” between Koen and his wife, that the ”concern over what to do about it” would “detract from his time spent in the plots and plans of his organization.” The letter led with an introductory “Sister Clydia,” followed by: “Us Black Liberators are trained to respect Black Women and special are [sic] wifes [sic] and girls. Brother Charles keeps tellin’ the Brothers this but he don’t treat you that way. I only been in the organization 2 months but Charles been makin’ it here with Sister Marva Bass and Sister Tony and than [sic] he gives us this jive ‘bout their [sic] better in bed then [sic] you are and how he keeps you off his back by sendin’ you a little dough ever [sic] now an’ then. He says he gotta send you money. The draft board gonna chuck him in the army [or] somethin’. This ain’t rite [sic] and we’re sayin’ that Charles is treatin’ you wrong. -A Black Liberator.” The Koens remained married for 54 years until Charles Koen’s death in 2018.

January 30, 1970: The FBI’s St. Louis field office hoped to kill two birds with one stone. They learned that a husband had recently been inquiring about his wife having an affair and the Bureau seized upon the opportunity. She happened to work for two groups: the Women’s International League for Peace and Freedom (WILPF) and a biracial group that had splintered off from the Congress of Racial Equality called ACTION. The FBI hoped that in causing friction in their marriage, the “resulting marital tempest,” would “result in ACTION losing their [officer] and the WILPF losing a valuable leader, thus striking a major blow against both organizations.” The FBI sent a handwritten letter in black ink to the husband: “Dear Mr. B—Look man I guess your old lady doesn’t get enough at home or she wouldn’t be shucking and jiving with our Black Men in ACTION, you dig? Like all she wants to integrate is the bed room and us Black Sisters ain’t gonna take no second best from our men. So lay it on her, man—or get her the hell off Newstead. -A Soul Sister.” In reporting on “tangible results” four months later, the FBI noted that the woman and her husband had recently separated: “This matrimonial stress and strain should cause her to function much less effectively in ACTION. While the letter sent by the [field office] was probably not the sole cause of this separation, it certainly contributed very strongly.” Five years later when she learned of the FBI’s psychological operation against her, the woman confirmed that the FBI’s letter had led to her divorce and as a result she had to “curtail her political activities and seek full-time work.” She told the St. Louis Post-Dispatch that she wanted “to see some legislation coming out of this that would prevent this from happening to somebody else, or to me again.”

Violent Ops

April 10, 1969: The San Diego FBI field office on this day took credit for instigating violence in three of four instances logged as “tangible results.” Two of the attacks involved women. In one, members of a rival Black organization known as US forcibly entered a Black Panther Party meeting and “roughed up” a female participant. Another assault followed the Bureau’s decision to forward a critical Panther newspaper article to the competing group’s leader, with officials acknowledging that “the possibility exists” of retaliation. That warning materialized when members of US assaulted a Panther newspaper vendor. In a third incident, police raided Panther headquarters based on a Bureau tip alleging “sex orgies.” Although entry was ultimately justified through unrelated warrants, the aftermath included internal violence: the woman who let the police in was later “severely beaten up” by fellow members, an outcome the field office labeled a “direct result” of the raid. Another case involved an informant who intentionally escalated an internal dispute by siding with one faction “in order to increase the tension.” When the argument turned physical with members hitting each other, the informant withdrew, reporting success in transforming a “flammable situation” into an outright fight.

Diary Op

August 12, 1970: On this day, FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover approved an operation initiated by the FBI’s Los Angeles field office after it obtained the personal diary of a local Progressive Labor Party (PLP) leader and Security Index subject. Viewing the diary as an opening for an initiative, the field office proposed placing a “snitch jacket” on the individual, to falsely label him as a government informant to destroy his standing within the organization. To carry this out, Los Angeles requested assistance from the FBI Laboratory’s Documents Section, asking technicians to make discreet “additions and revisions” to the diary. These changes were meant to fabricate evidence of collaboration with authorities, including inserted references to contacts in the Secret Service and Army Intelligence. Additional entries were designed to imply that the diary’s owner had been routinely providing information to government agencies. In approving the plan, Hoover noted that because the diary might face “close scrutiny,” the alterations required “painstaking practice” and had to be “done perfectly on the first attempt.” Once altered, the diary was anonymously mailed along with a cover letter “written in the vernacular of the New Left,” explicitly framing the individual as “quite obviously a government informant” who had played that role for some time. The stated objective was to “seriously impugn the reputation” of the PLP executive committee member and thereby “neutralize him.” The operation soon prompted internal backlash within the PLP. Months later, the party’s newspaper, Challenge, accused police of fabricating materials, referring to “an old memo book of one of our leading members.” Despite this public suspicion, the Los Angeles office pressed forward. A subsequent memo to Hoover explained that agents were preparing another anonymous letter, this time criticizing a different PLP member for failing to recognize that the accused individual was a “police tool.” A second letter escalated the deception further, alleging the existence of an “unofficial committee” formed to uncover “traitors in the PLP ranks,” which purportedly had uncovered the incriminating diary.

Laxative Op

November 6, 1970: An FBI telegram sent from the Newark field office to headquarters recommended transmitting a fabricated warning, purportedly from the “Ministry of Information,” to Black Panther Party activists organizing the Revolutionary People’s Constitutional Convention. The draft message claimed that food donated by “anti‑liberation white pigs” was poisoned and allegedly caused “cramps, diarrhea, [and] severe stomach pains,” urging recipients to “destroy all food donated” while paradoxically insisting they still “meet quota.” Newark further suggested that the Bureau covertly tamper with the donated fruit, specifically by injecting oranges with a “mild laxative‑type drug” and then sending the produce under the guise of a charitable contribution from a fictitious donor in Miami. The intent was to reinforce the deception with physical effects, thereby validating the false poisoning claim. FBI headquarters ultimately declined to authorize the plan to modify the food, citing “lack of control over the treated fruit in transit.” Nevertheless, officials indicated that the deceptive telegram itself “has merit,” revealing that the underlying logic of the proposal was seriously entertained. U.S. Senator Walter Mondale later asked FBI Associate Director James B. Adams in Senate hearing: “How did we ever get to the point that this kind of insane suggestion was considered, a suggestion which violated everyone’s civil liberties and was based on Government-sponsored fraud? How does anyone ever consider something like that?” Adams replied: “I don’t know.”

Loop

COINTELPRO, which stood for Counter Intelligence Program, was a series of covert and often illegal operations conducted under this designation by the FBI between 1956 and 1971. Its stated goal was to monitor, infiltrate, disrupt, and neutralize American organizations or individuals the FBI considered “subversive” or a threat to national security. The program relied on a range of covert tactics designed to undermine targeted groups from both outside and within. FBI agents conducted extensive surveillance and wiretapping to monitor conversations and activities, while informants were placed inside organizations to gather intelligence and influence internal dynamics. Psychological warfare was also a key method employed: the FBI spread false information, forged letters, and planted rumors to damage reputations and erode trust. These efforts were reinforced through harassment, intimidation, and legal pressure, including frequent arrests or investigations meant to disrupt normal operations. These actions were intended to provoke suspicion, weaken leadership, and encourage internal conflict that could fracture organizations and render them ineffective.

One of the many targets included a prominent female singer who had publicly supported the Black Panther Party by signing petitions criticizing police conduct. Earlier in her career, when performances were scarce and work was difficult to find, she had appeared in a short pornographic film. Shot in a San Francisco motel, it was a brief “loop” of roughly ten minutes in which she performed a sexual act with an actor dressed as a sailor. She had long assumed the film no longer existed. The FBI had managed to obtain a copy and it was reportedly among Hoover’s preferred films. It was occasionally shown in a special screening room to special agents in charge returning to HQ for retraining. At some point, a print was mailed to the singer along with an anonymous note. The message implied that if she sought attention, as suggested by an enclosed newspaper clipping referencing her support for the Panthers, her audience might be interested in seeing her earliest screen appearance. She did not publicly back another controversial issue after receiving this communique.

Seberg

The FBI took more time in their neutralization efforts against actress Jean Seberg. Born in 1938 in Marshalltown, Iowa, she rose to prominence in the late 1950s after being cast by director Otto Preminger in the films Saint Joan (1957) and Bonjour Tristesse (1958). Although her early Hollywood career faced mixed critical reception, Seberg found lasting fame in Europe, especially through her iconic role in Jean‑Luc Godard’s Breathless (1960), which made her a symbol of the French New Wave. By the 1960s, Seberg had become increasingly active in political causes, publicly supporting the civil rights movement and donating to organizations such as the NAACP and the Black Panther Party. To the latter group, she provided substantial financial support, organized fundraisers, and offered practical help, describing her role as giving “bed, food, and psychological peace to a besieged people.” In 1968, Seberg mentioned that “Everybody talks about gaps—communication gaps, generation gaps, believability gaps. There is really only one gap, and that is a compassion gap. It exists between all of us.” Her generosity was constant and often impulsive for anyone who asked; she gave large sums of money, funded projects, and was described by a friend as “a pushover for any hard-luck story…constantly extending her purse.”

The FBI, under Director J. Edgar Hoover, monitored her closely at first as a result of her connections to Black activists. In February 1969, the Bureau considered planting a story to discredit her. By using “a reliable press contact,” they sought to publicize “Seberg’s relationship with [Hakim] Abdullah Jamal.” They drafted a narrative intended for gossip columns: “It was a cold day in January when American actress Jean Seberg met her tall, dark friend at Orly airport outside Paris. The warmth of the greeting suggested something more than a business relationship. He is Hakim Jamal, a black activist from Los Angeles. A few days later, they turned up in London, where Jamal appeared on television. Now she is back in the USA, but he lingers on in London. What is going on?” Headquarters this time decided not to pull the trigger. “Did Mr. Hoover approve doing this?” someone wrote on the memo. Hoover responded, referencing his Associate Director: “I did not. Such matters should always be approved by [Clyde] Tolson or me.” Rather than proceed with the proposal, the field office waited for another opportunity. As a next step, the Bureau opened “an active discreet investigation” into her activities, with FBI official G.C. Moore circulating her photograph and personal data to Bureau field offices. The Immigration and Naturalization Service was instructed to search her luggage any time she re-entered the United States.

Around this time, Seberg began to receive threatening phone calls and saw signs of intrusion into her home. On one occasion, she found a gun laying on a table inside of her residence. In another instance, she returned home to find her cats poisoned. She did not know who was doing this to her and later described this period as “a long nightmare where you don’t really know, and probably never will, where the truth is.” She later reflected on causes taking advantage of her, saying: “I was a sucker. I would run to people with my arms open and my purse in my hand. They always took the purse. Never the arms.”

Price

“They shot at me!” On the night of June 6, 1969, Seberg rushed to the door of her acting coach Paton Price. Out of breath, eyes wide with terror, and rambling, Seberg claimed to have been fired upon and asked to stay at their place for the night. She handed a package wrapped in brown paper to Price’s wife: “Please, Tilly, throw this away right now.” Tilly did as instructed while Paton hid Seberg’s car in a neighbor’s garage as she also requested. Tilly found Seberg a nightgown and she soon went to bed. “I never pried into the lives of my students,” Price later stated. “Both Tilly and I respected Jean a great deal. We figured she’d tell us what she wanted us to know. One thing was apparent that night. Jean fit badly into the world of intrigue and back-alley rendezvous. She was in a terrible mess.” Two days later, the Prices found a note on their table from Seberg, thanking them for their hospitality and telling them she had left for Rome to work on a new film. Curious to learn what was in the package, Tilly retrieved the item from the trash. Inside she found a man’s shirt covered in blood, describing it as follows: “It was pink and it had great bloodstains on the collar and the cuffs.”

Throughout this period, Seberg remained committed to the Black Panther Party, referring to herself as “the Panthers’ honky representative in Europe.” When she returned to her hometown of Marshalltown, Iowa to visit her parents for Christmas in 1969, the FBI recorded her phone call to the Panthers’ headquarters in California. The Bureau reached out to the Marshalltown Police Department for more information on Seberg; an officer there shared gossip from his newspaper contacts, which the FBI reported to HQ: “Miss SEBERG is a sex pervert who has been seeing a good deal of SAMMY DAVIS, JR., in recent weeks and reportedly has been romantically linked with LEE MARVIN, a movie co-star, in recent months...He said her parents are quiet and conservative people who are well regarded in the community.”

The FBI saw Seberg’s pregnancy in 1970 as an opportunity to provoke drama regarding her unborn child’s paternity. Though still legally married to the French novelist Romain Gary, Seberg later stated that the father was a Mexican activist she had met while filming Macho Callahan, explaining, “I didn’t want to abort…Romain said he would assume fatherhood.” This private affair soon became the basis for another attempt to “neutralize” her. On April 21, 1970, Elaine Brown of the Panthers placed a call to Seberg in which they discussed Brown’s pregnancy and the father, Raymond “Masai” Hewitt, also a member of the Panthers. Seberg jokingly referred to Hewitt as “Johnny Appleseed,” due to him having recently impregnated multiple Panther members. The FBI took this commentand Seberg talking to him about “planting your little seeds around” to mean that Hewitt was in fact the father of Seberg’s child. Seberg went on to discuss her pregnancy: “After not knowing and not knowing what to do about it, I’m going to go ahead, too…I’m like in the fourth month so I have a nice long wait ahead.” Being four months pregnant would have meant that the baby was conceived during her filming schedule in Mexico, during which time Hewitt did not visit. The Bureau would have been able to verify this as per their monitoring of Panther travel. Seberg added: “I’m happy about this, really…I was afraid I was going to lose custody, you know, if my former husband got wind of it and got upset about it. And I talked to him about it and he wasreally very civilized and very nice about it. So it’s really good, you know. So everybody you know sooner or later I guess is going to have a big tummy.” Hewitt responded, “I’m going to try not to have anything to do with it.” Brown then asked if Seberg had talked to “the other one,” referring to the actual father of Seberg’s child, Carlos Navarra: “I’ve had mail, you know,” Seberg replied, “but it’s almost impossible, phone communications with him and everything. The last time he wrote he thought he was going to be put in prison, you know, in jail. But he wasn’t sure. And that’s the last thing that I’ve heard. So we have to be as, you know, very kind of cool about it, kind of relaxed.”

A few days after FBI Special Agent M. Wesley Swearingen arrived on an assignment in the Los Angeles office, he overheard another agent speaking on the Seberg case: “I wonder how she’d like to gobble my dick while I shove my .38 up that black bastard’s ass?” Swearingen commented that he was “shocked at the licentious talk in the squad room area about the Panthers, Seberg, and Jane Fonda. I was used to foul language after nearly twenty years in the FBI, but the conversation of these agents was grossly offensive.” Six days after the recorded phone call between Brown, Seberg, and Hewitt, LA’s Special Agent in Charge Richard Wallace Held cabled HQ and proposed leaking false information to the press to “cause her embarrassment and serve to cheapen her image.”

A fabricated tip was prepared by the Bureau for use by gossip columnists: “I was just thinking about you and remembered I still owe you a favor. So—I was in Paris last week and ran into Jean Seberg, who was heavy with baby. I thought she and Romaine [sic] had gotten together again, but she confided that the child belonged to the Minister of the Black Panthers, one Masai Hewitt. The dear girl is getting around!Anyway, I thought you might get a scoop on the others. Be good and I’ll see you soon. Love, Sol.” The smear campaign first reached the media through Bill Thomas, city editor of the Los Angeles Times, who passed the fake tip on to columnist Joyce Haber: “Informant sez [sic] Jean Seberg is four months pregnant by Ray Hewitt, known as ‘Masai,’ and identified as present Black Panther Minister of Education. Informant sez [sic] she has sed [sic] she plans to have the baby.” Thomas added: “Joyce, I don’t know if you care, but this comes from a pretty good source.” Haber wrote it up in disguised form and the piece was published on May 19, referring to Seberg as “Miss A,” hinting that a “beautiful… blonde” actress involved with “the black revolution” was expecting a child by “a rather prominent Black Panther.” Haber later denied knowing the tip had come from the FBI, explaining, “That plant was given me by someone who is very reliable—a journalist. Good God, I never would have run it even blind! I think it is horrible. I liked Jean very much. She was a real human being, as so many people out here are not.”

The rumor spread rapidly, further making its way into print through other newspapers and magazines. The same day that Haber’s column appeared, high-level officials such as senior White House aide John Ehrlichman and Attorney General John Mitchell were informed by the FBI of her activities, a briefing later summarized as containing “information concerning her pregnancy by an official of the BPP.”

The situation escalated with the publication of a Newsweek article, released on newsstands on August 17, that went beyond insinuation and stated outright that Seberg’s child was “by another man—a black activist.” Seberg was “stunned” and outraged, immediately preparing a lawsuit and remarking, “They do not even say there are rumors…They say it as a fact.” Already in fragile health, she described herself as “really just a mess,” fearing both for her life and for the survival of her child: “If I get through the end of this month…he can possibly live.” Her mental state deteriorated under the strain: “This is like getting hit over the head with a hammer,” she commented. Increasingly paranoid, she became convinced of conspiracies around her, fearing betrayal even from those close to her.

In early August, overwhelmed by isolation and despair, she attempted suicide by overdosing on sleeping pills and collapsing on a beach. Though she survived, the incident further endangered her pregnancy. Soon after, she went into premature labor. Writing from the hospital, she declared, “I am fighting like a lioness to save the child…who…is a cause célèbre for racist America before even being born.” Despite medical efforts, she gave birth to a premature daughter, Nina Hart Gary, who weighed less than four pounds and was given little chance of survival. After two days, the child died. The FBI transcribed her thoughts at the time in a recorded phone conversation: “it’s a very cold world.”

Seberg, heavily sedated and emotionally shattered in the hospital, was visited by friends in the Black Panther Party. “Here, Jean, look. This is the best gun in Europe,” one of them said to her. Holding the firearm in her hand, she soon became terrified that she could be framed for a crime: “I took it and turned it over in my hands,” she later recalled. “Stupidly. Without thinking. My fingerprints were on it. He could kill anyone with that gun and furnish proof against me.” This experience marked the beginning of the end of her association with the Panthers.

Gary responded to the death of Seberg’s child publicly with a fierce denunciation of the press, accusing them of effectively causing the tragedy. He wrote in an article, “There was a time when the mother and child were sacred…No more. This is the time of the cutthroats,” and directly blamed the media frenzy for forcing her into premature labor. He described the baby as “this little spark of life… struggling against death,” adding a final update when he learned the news: “The child is dead.”

Though she blamed external forces, Seberg also privately was haunted about the role the sleeping pills had played in her child’s death. Increasingly withdrawn, she relied on a bodyguard for protection and lived in near seclusion, convinced that danger lurked everywhere. Newsweek stood by its reporting, while some in the French press rallied to Seberg’s side, a headline proclaiming, “JEAN SEBERG WEEPS FOR HER BABY, KILLED BY HATRED.” On the opposing side, the weekly French paper Minute dismissively wondered why Seberg, having supported Black militants, would be “floored by the deductions” drawn about her life. For those who knew her, the answer was more straightforward: “It was simply because it wasn’t true…she was traumatized by the falsehood,” a friend explained. Raised to believe that goodness would be met with goodness, she found herself unable to cope with what another friend described as the shattering realization that the world did not work that way.

Seberg formally distanced herself from the Black Panther Party, in a letter citing mistrust, internal divisions, and the threat of violence. She shifted her support to the Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC) and she pledged half of any potential libel settlement to causes ranging from civil rights to the poor, explaining that the funds should support “the orphaned and oppressed.”

At the same time, grief and anger consumed her. Late one night, Seberg confronted the person she believed was most responsible for the death of her child.

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In 1975, journalist Daniel Schorr had a brief moment, over coffee, to question CIA Director William Colby about assassinations. Following discussions of Watergate and the domestic espionage project MHCHAOS, Schorr tried to casually raise the subject of state-sponsored killings. “Are you people involved in assassinations?” he asked. “Not anymore,” Colby replied; planning for such activities had been stopped following a CIA Inspector General report in 1973. Who had the targets been prior to 1973, Schorr wondered. “I can’t talk about it,” Colby insisted. Schorr tried anyway, first suggesting the Secretary-General of the United Nations who died in a 1961 plane crash: “Hammarskjöld?” Colby decided to address this one: “Of course not.” Schorr then hit a nerve with another guess: “Lumumba?” Colby quickly became reticent again: “I can’t go down a list with you. Sorry.”

Mad Dogs

Richard M. Bissell Jr., a former Yale economics assistant professor, by 1960 had the job of killing foreign leaders as Deputy Director for Plans at the CIA. To him, these leaders were “mad dogs” that needed to be executed; among them were the heads of state of the Congo, Indonesia, and Cuba: “Lumumba and Sukarno were two of the worst people in public life I’ve ever heard of,” he later stated in 1992. “They were mad dogs. Castro I saw not as a mad dog but as a purposeful antagonist. I believed that they were dangerous to the United States. There was a widespread belief that societies in the noncommunist world were exceedingly fragile, susceptible to being destroyed by these demagogues.”

Being a leader in the Third World in the 1960s was precarious: one moment it could mean being showered with cash by the West; the next, it could mean having poisoned toothpaste being prepared for your demise. The Congo, which was to become independent of Belgium in June 1960, was of particular interest to the U.S. government; the White House’s National Security Council noted the importance of the Congo’s mineral production, which included “copper (7% of world production), cobalt (60% world production), manganese, zinc, cadmium, germanium and uranium.” In March 1960, CIA Headquarters sought views of their Station in Leopoldville of the Congo’s leaders before the first parliamentary elections scheduled for June. It was important, HQ indicated, to “get as many lines as possible into present and prospective leaders so that we [are] not left on [the] outside looking in,” letting opposition groups get a foothold without the CIA attempting to “establish covert counter influences.” The Chief of Station replied that he agreed with the notion of keeping the door open to covert influence, but cited supporting the Lumumba wing of Congolese National Movement as a bad idea in terms of eventually benefiting the United States.

On April 1, Bronson Tweedy, the CIA’s Africa Division Chief wrote to Bissell urging that covert “money and influence get in there quick!” A U.S. official speculated that Belgian financial interests not investing in influencing the upcoming elections was an example of their “thrift in getting the other fellow to do it.” Later that month, Tweedy made the CIA’s position clear: “We are opposed to any ‘stop Lumumba’ campaign.” Tweedy argued that Lumumba was one of the few Congolese leaders with genuine nationwide appeal and was likely to remain an important political figure for at least the next two years. He warned that an anti‑Lumumba effort “could backfire,” adding that, “Although we consider him unscrupulous and willing to accept aid from anyone if it would help him, we suggest the possibility of limited funding to Lumumba along with other selected leaders. This would provide relatively more help to other leaders but would also keep the door open for future Lumumba contacts and perhaps avoid alienating him if he learns of our support to other leaders.” Tweedy noted that internal opposition had been growing against Lumumba since mid-March, having set the “machinery in motion to stop Lumumba, and they themselves may be able to accomplish this.” A CIA paper similarly warned against making enemies of anticipated leaders “whose views may not coincide with ours” given that most had shown “themselves willing to take help from any quarter” regardless of ideology. “Rather than consider these groups as targets for attack, we should prefer to attack, where possible, the [Communist] bloc sources which are attempting to subvert them.” None of this advice was ultimately followed.

The 5412 Committee, which oversaw covert action under the NSC, met on June 30 and were satisfied with Joseph Ileo being elected President of the Congolese Senate. The Deputy Director of the CIA commented: “we in no way intend to claim full credit for this election but, particularly in view of the very close contest, we might have had some effect.” The next day, the CIA Station Chief reported that Lumumba “had gained a 74 to 58 majority in the election for President of the Chamber of Representatives,” which meant that “Lumumba had not been able to put his own man in as Chief of State.” Prime Minister Lumumba remained in their view the “major negative factor in [the] present Congo situation,” calling him “mercurial,” “crazy,” and “paranoic.”

On August 11, the CIA Station in Leopoldville wrote to HQ with an action plan that involved counseling the forces opposing Lumumba who were “considering coup d’etat or assassination” to remove him by legal means: “Urging them to coordinate efforts and obtain sufficient votes [to] topple govt in senate.” The Station still saw value in recruiting members in Lumumba’s camp: “Although believe would be better oust him, do not want become tied irrevocably to opposition, if it [is] not able [to] achieve goals. Also would use such assets to try moderate Lumumba govt and obtain political intel.” The next day, Headquarters replied, agreeing in consultation with the State Department that Lumumba’s “removal might breed more problems than would solve,” urging the Station to continue to counsel the opposition regarding “constitutional means available to Lumumba opponents but in such [a] way [that it] does not appear this [is the] main [U.S. government] objective in life.” Only a week later, the tone shifted and the Station now reported there was a “classic Communist effort take over [the Congolese] government… there may be little time left in which [to] take action to avoid another Cuba or Guinea.” The Station then proposed to organize the opposition to change the government to be more pro-Western.

On August 18, the NSC met with President Eisenhower in attendance and the Congo situation was discussed. Prime Minister Lumumba was threatening to force the United Nations out of the Congo, with Eisenhower calling this “inconceivable” and saying that European troops may need to become involved. CIA Director Allen Dulles referred to Lumumba as being in the pay of the Soviets, not mentioning that the U.S. had rejected his aid proposal. Then came a moment that NSC staff member Robert H. Johnson would never forget: Eisenhower turned to Dulles “in the full hearing of all those in attendance and saying something to the effect that Lumumba should be eliminated.” Following this statement, “there was a stunned silence for about 15 seconds and the meeting continued.”

Delegation

Justin O’Donnell was the wrong person to ask to assassinate Lumumba, but Bissell did not know that at the time. A senior officer with experience in U.S. intelligence dating back to World War II, O’Donnell had earned a reputation for speaking his mind regardless of the situation. He had joined the CIA through its predecessor organizations, the Office of the Strategic Services and the Central Intelligence Group. The Agency characterized his record as reflecting “an uncooperative and rebellious attitude” with “instances of refusing to obey NCOs, exhibiting a sarcastic attitude toward them.” In his CIA career, he worked as Chief of Station in Bolivia, the Netherlands, Turkey and Thailand. In the latter posting, he was removed after 14 months for forthrightly criticizing Phao Siyanon, the head of the Royal Thai Police, in terms of his corruption and drug trafficking.

Bissell asked O’Donnell to “investigate the possibility” of assassinating Lumumba and explore with Sidney Gottlieb, a CIA chemist, the type of poisons needed to carry out the task. “Later he told me that he didn’t want to do it,” Bissell later testified. “But he also said that he thought it was an inappropriate action, and that the desired object could be accomplished better in other ways.” O’Donnell took his objections to Richard Helms, then chief of operations, who replied that he was “absolutely right” in refusing the assassination job, but in characteristic fashion, Helms refused to get further involved in the matter himself. Once O’Donnell arrived in the Congo, the CIA Chief of Station in Leopoldville, Lawrence “Larry” Devlin, was not impressed with what little he saw of O’Donnell’s work, recalling that the senior officer “did not seem to do anything most of the time, and I didn’t take him seriously. He spent a lot of time drinking.” Gottlieb brought Devlin “toxic biological materials” to kill Lumumba, substances to be inserted in his “food or toothpaste.” Two CIA agents, codenamed WIROGUE (David Tzitzichvili, a resident of France born in the U.S.S.R.) and QJWIN (Jose Marie Andre Mankel, an agent from Luxembourg), were sent to the Congo to assist in the assassination effort. WIROGUE lived up to his codename by trying to recruit the other agent to help with the assassination, not knowing that they both were already working for the CIA. He promised QJWIN “three hundred dollars per month to participate in [an] intel net and [to] be [a] member [of an] ‘execution squad.’” Tzitzichvili had signed a beneficiary designation with the CIA to pay $5,000 ($55,800 today) upon his death to a friend in France if he died “during the performance of my mission or as a direct result thereof.” He took on work for the Agency in his quest to “satisfy his yearning for an exciting and unusual life.”

In 1961, the world learned of Lumumba’s capture on February 10 and his death on February 13, announced by Katanga Minister of the Interior. The actual assassination had taken place almost a month earlier on January 17. Belgian police officer Gerard Soete described the events that followed in the 2001 documentary Death Colonial Style:

Soete: For me, the Lumumba story began the morning after the execution. The man in charge of it, the Belgian, called me into his office and said: ‘You’re going to take care of all this.’ I said, ‘All right, but what needs to be done?’ That man explaining it to me had himself taken part in everything during the night. He had offered Lumumba the chance to say his prayers before dying—Lumumba refused—so that man was completely, uh…And we went back the next morning to the same place.

Q: And you could see the massacre that had taken place?

Soete: Obviously you could see it. One of the hands of one of the dead was even sticking out of the ground.

Soete: We cut the bodies into pieces. They were buried twice. Then we cut them into pieces, we burned them, and we also had a huge quantity of acid—the kind used in car batteries. And so most of the bodies were…

Q: Dissolved…

Soete: Yes. And then we stayed there, we burned them. It had to be done without the Blacks seeing it, deep in the forest—that’s also a problem. There were just two of us—we were two—and we had to do it all ourselves: dig up the three bodies, cut them into pieces, destroy them. And none of it was supposed to be known, and no one knew.

In an interview with AFP from 2000 shortly before his death, Soete revealed that in the cover-up effort he was accompanied by “another white man” and several Congolese equipped with “a hacksaw, two large demijohns, and a barrel of sulfuric acid.” It took them the entire night, from January 22-23, 1961 to complete their task. “In the middle of the African night, we started by getting drunk to have courage. We laid out the bodies. The hardest part was cutting them up” before pouring the acid, the 80-year-old man explained in his home in Bruges, Belgium. “Almost nothing remained, just a few teeth. And the smell! I washed myself three times and still felt filthy like a barbarian.”

Dismissal

Tracy Barnes led a staff meeting following the failed Bay of Pigs invasion, in which he had a leading role as Assistant Deputy Director for Plans under Bissell. During the meeting, O’Donnell raised his hand and suggested bluntly to his face that the Agency clean house: “Tracy, there is one thing that would make things better around here, and that is if the ‘Three Bs’ went over the side,” he stated, referring to Barnes, Bissell, and John Bross, a senior planning officer. The other CIA employees in attendance remained silent. “Justin!” Barnes exclaimed in response. “How the hell are you? Long time no see!” Bissell was infuriated by the slight when he heard about it and ensured that O’Donnell was dismissed from the CIA in due course. O’Donnell went to work for the Department of Defense, appearing as a panel member in January 1963 on “National Overseas Internal Defense Policy” at a training session that included his former Agency.

In 1965, a new CIA recruit named John Stockwell was listening to a guest speaker during a session at the Farm, the Agency’s training camp in Camp Peary, Virginia. Stockwell recalled that after the talk, the CIA officer opened up in “a surprisingly long way,” explaining how he had driven in Elisabethville “after curfew with Patrice Lumumba’s body in the trunk of his car, trying to decide what to do with it.”

This CIA officer has never been identified, although Stockwell in his memoir In Search of Enemies left a few breadcrumbs, including how he twice encountered the man later, when the officer had been promoted to Chief of Station posts in Asia and Europe. Stockwell also gave a visual clue, describing how the man was “glisteningly bald,” who stared with “half-closed, puffy eyes” as Stockwell tried to brief him in Asia. The Chief of Station also exhibited odd behavior: “Twice during dinner he went to the tiled lavatory where he spent fifteen minutes scrubbing and drying his hands, cleaning his fingernails, and staring at himself in the mirror.” Susan Williams in White Malice suggested two potential candidates, Devlin and CIA officer David Doyle, though she noted that neither fit the profile. Regarding Devlin, there is enough photographic evidence to demonstrate that he was not bald during the time in question. For Doyle, “photographs show he had a full head of hair late into his life.” Another candidate, Eugene Jeffers, Devlin’s deputy in the Congo, also was not bald, as shown in his author portrait; he wrote two novels about Africa, A Rumor of Distant Tribes and Beyond Darkness. Jeffers later claimed that Devlin kept the assassination plot from him in order “to protect him.” Discovering the identity of the CIA officer in question requires a more in-depth search.

Spook Directory

“I know what you’re up to and I don’t want to contribute. Thank you very much!” Arthur Hummel, Acting Assistant Secretary of State, slammed down the phone on John Marks, who was working on an article entitled “How to Spot a Spook.” In the piece published in the November 1974 issue of The Washington Monthly, Marks, a former State Department employee himself, explained that most CIA operatives overseas were housed within U.S. embassies under State Department cover, often posing as “political officers,” administrative staff, or military personnel. By presidential directive, the State Department was responsible for concealing the CIA, giving its operatives diplomatic titles, offices, and immunity. In many countries, particularly in the Third World, CIA personnel equaled or outnumbered diplomats.

Marks detailed multiple ways CIA operatives could be identified: they were typically Foreign Service Reserve (FSR) or Staff (FSS) officers rather than career Foreign Service Officers (FSOs); they disproportionately held political jobs despite lacking normal diplomatic career paths; and their biographies often showed vague employment histories or prior work as “analysts” for military departments. By cross-referencing publicly available government documents such as the Foreign Service List and the Biographic Register, Marks showed how many “secret” operatives could be readily exposed. He suggested that such assignments were often known to and tacitly accepted by host nations, reinforcing the idea that secrecy was largely illusory.

Using the Foreign Service Lists against the career criteria outlined by Stockwell yields no precise matches. Employing a more in-depth search using these same catalogs, a strange, glisteningly bald man appears.

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Sometimes in the course of implementing projects at work, it can appear as if all is lost and that a project is likely to fail. There was such a feeling in 1953 at the CIA Station in Tehran until a particular set of news came in that lifted their spirits: people were getting beat up on the street, the people they wanted to see beaten. It made them feel that they had a chance at succeeding in their objective of overthrowing the government of Iran.

The British government had been on board with the idea for years, but it took significant work to convince the United States. Beyond oil interests, the British sweetened the pot by claiming that a communist takeover was imminent. What the CIA actually thought did not matter, according to Norman Darbyshire, who also worked on the plot with MI6. He explained, “Give the CIA action for anything and they’ll take it.” They were pitched on the idea by the British in late 1952; while not officially on their meeting agenda, British intelligence (MI6) brought up the prospect of a joint project to overthrow the government of Mohammad Mosaddegh in Iran. The CIA’s Near East and Africa (NEA) Division was caught off guard and was not ready to have this conversation, saying more study of the British proposal was required. A few months later, an Iranian General reached out Loy W. Henderson, the U.S. Ambassador to Iran, to ask if the U.S. was interested in covertly supporting a military overthrow of Mossadegh. The State Department’s reply to him was “mildly encouraging,” but when Undersecretary of State Walter Bedell Smith found out about the overture, he thought that it was time to change U.S. policy. The State Department told Ambassador Henderson and Roger Goiran, the CIA Chief of Station in Tehran, of the change, which was accompanied by a budget of $1 million ($12.24 million today). By April 1953, a study was completed on the factors involved in overthrowing Mossadegh, indicating that a combination of the Shah and General Fazlollah Zahedi, along with CIA assets and funding could ensure success of the project, which was given the CIA cryptonym TPAJAX. Zahedi appeared to be “the only major personality in undisguised opposition” to the current government, making him a natural choice to lead the military side of the coup. The CIA re-initiated covert contact with him through his son, Ardeshir.

In May, Dr. Donald N. Wilber, then a “covert consultant” for the CIA known for his knowledge of Iran, was instructed to work with Darbyshire, his MI6 counterpart, on drafting the plan for the coup. Darbyshire noted with chagrin that the head of SIS “knew about as much of the Middle East as a 10-year-old” and that he was “far more interested in cricket anyway.” Wilber was happy to be working with Darbyshire, who saw eye-to-eye with him on Iran and had worked there for years and was fluent in Persian. In just over two weeks, they had a working draft of a coup plan completed. Wilber believed that the British were content to sit back and watch the U.S. take the lead: “It seemed obvious…that the British were very pleased at having obtained the active cooperation of the Agency and were determined to do nothing which might jeopardize U.S. participation.” Wilber added “there was a faint note of envy” over the fact that the CIA was “better equipped in the ways of funds, personnel, and facilities” compared to MI6.

The CIA and MI6 then put their assets on the table in terms of what they had to work with during the coup, with the Agency being more guarded in terms of sharing with the British. The main assets of MI6, the Rashidian brothers, were described by Darbyshire as “an extraordinary bunch…none of them really spoke English, except Saifollah did a bit…therefore, [he] was the relations man. His older brother…was a merchant and a commercially minded chap—he owned and ran cinemas and bought films—his name was Ghodratollah and the third was Assadollah—he was the political end of the trio—it was he who knew and dealt with the Shah. They were [in their] late 30s or early 40s. They were fascinated by the idea of politics together and intrigued by being in contact with the British and delighted to take our money for something which they believed in themselves.” The CIA learned that the brothers had contacts in “the armed forces, the Majlis (Iranian Parliament), religious leaders, the press, street gangs, politicians, and other influential figures.” The CIA decided to hide the identities of their two principal agents, Ali Jalili and Farouk Keyvani, from the British, but since they had already informed them that they had two agents, they picked another two names to substitute in their place. The Agency thought this trick worked for the entire operation; Darbyshire knew that the British “were more forthcoming than CIA were with us” but added that MI6 “could read between the lines and could see who the CIA were using.”

The framework they landed on had several premises: among them, that Zahedi was the only person who had the “vigor and courage” to be their replacement for Mossadegh; that the support of the Shah, the Iranian monarch Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, was essential and that he would have “great reluctance” supporting the coup and would need to be “forced to do so”; that the armed forces of Iran would support the Shah over Mossadegh; that the overthrow needed to “appear legal or quasi-legal instead of an outright coup”; and that public opinion would need to be inflamed against Mossadegh to a “fever pitch” ahead of the coup. In reviewing these assumptions, the CIA’s Tehran Station doubted that the Shah would act against Mossadegh in a decisive manner and wondered whether another leader or “the Persians themselves” might take the lead in overthrowing Mossadegh. The Station agreed, however, with the idea of beginning to turn the public against Mossadegh through grey propaganda, which was to involve CIA material developed purposefully to be of uncertain origin or accuracy, designed to influence public opinion while concealing its true source. The Agency’s Art Group was tasked with preparing “a considerable number” of anti-Mossadegh cartoons.

The operational plan was consolidated in Beirut starting on June 10 and discussions lasted for four days. Kermit “Kim” Roosevelt, chief of the CIA’s NEA Division was project chief on the U.S. side. The final phase of planning took place in London on June 15 in a conference room at the headquarters of MI6 at 54 Broadway. The outside of the room was notable for its large sign outside that contained “Curb Your Guests” in red text. Commander Maurice W. Firth and Norman Darbyshire were always present at the meetings on behalf of MI6, whereas Montague Woodhouse, one of their most “highly esteemed officers” who had made the coup pitch in 1952 to the U.S. administration following Eisenhower’s election, only attended one meeting and “had little to contribute.” Again the British did not have many criticisms of the plan and seemed content to let the Americans “run things as they pleased” with “abundant confidence” that the plan would have a “successful outcome.” MI6’s key assets, Rashidian brothers, would be directed to “follow completely the orders of CIA’s Tehran Station.”

London Draft

The final version of the “London Draft” of the TPAJAX operational plan was structured as a phased operation that was to begin with covert support for opposition elements, culminating in a military coup. In its initial stage, American and British operatives were to provide financial and organizational assistance to strengthen Zahedi’s network of political and military allies while coordinating closely through field stations and local intermediaries. At the same time, efforts were made to align overt Western policy with the covert objective of undermining Mossadegh. A central feature of the strategy was the use of the Shah as the symbolic focal point of opposition. Recognizing the Shah’s reluctance and indecision, the plan proposes to pressure and persuade him, particularly through the intervention of his “forceful and scheming twin sister,” Princess Ashraf, to endorse the operation. His role required him to sign decrees to legitimize Zahedi’s authority and provide a veneer of constitutional legality to the coup.

The operation was then to shift toward an intensive campaign to weaken Mossadegh’s position through propaganda and political manipulation. This included the dissemination of anti-government narratives portraying him as aligned with communists, hostile to Islam, and responsible for the country’s economic deterioration. Religious leaders, politicians, and bazaar merchants were to be mobilized to amplify public dissatisfaction, while newspapers, pamphlets, and radio broadcasts were to be employed to shape opinion. The plan also called for covert actions such as fabricating evidence of collaboration between Mossadegh and communist groups, staging demonstrations, and provoking incidents that could be blamed on the government in order to inflame opposition sentiment.

The final phase envisioned a decisive coup carried out under conditions of heightened unrest. A military organization loyal to Zahedi was tasked with seizing key installations in Tehran, including communications centers, government offices, and financial institutions, while arresting senior officials and neutralizing potential resistance, particularly from the communist Tudeh Party. Simultaneously, political measures were to be taken to secure legitimacy, such as convening the parliament to vote against Mossadegh and endorse the new government. The plan emphasized that even if legal formalities were incomplete, control on the ground would ensure eventual recognition of the new regime, after which the Shah would return to publicly endorse the outcome.

In assessing the prospects of the plan, the document acknowledged significant risks, including the possibility of operational failure, security breaches, and strong counteraction by Mossadegh’s supporters. Nevertheless, it concluded that if the Shah cooperated and Zahedi effectively coordinated the various political, military, and social elements involved, “the authors of this plan believe that the coup will succeed.” The planners clearly had contempt for the Iranians, pointing to the “weakness inherent in the Persian character” that would inevitably lead to security breaches among the local assets the team would use. Their assets would need a lot of time to have their roles explained to them since they were “rather long-winded and often illogical Persians.” The Iranians could have never pulled off such an operation themselves, the planners wrote, given their “recognized incapacity…to plan or act in a thoroughly logical manner.”

Princess Ashraf

Approvals of the plan from the highest levels of both governments were obtained in July 1953, including CIA Director Allen Dulles, President Dwight D. Eisenhower, MI6 Director John Sinclair, and Prime Minister Winston Churchill. One of the first orders of business was to begin buying off members of the national legislative assembly, the Iranian Majlis, with the CIA Tehran Station authorized to spend up to 1 million rials a week ($388,000 USD today). The CIA Art Group prepared its anti-Mossadegh cartoons and broadsheets, as well as a “wall poster showing Zahedi being presented to the Iranian people by the Shah.” By July 19, a courier took the materials to Tehran and three days later, the documents were handed out to Iranian agents for distribution.

The planners believed they needed the help of Princess Ashraf Pahlavi, the Shah’s “energetic” twin sister, because of the Shah’s “pathological fear of the ‘hidden UK hand’” (presumably foreign operatives telling him what to do in person would be viewed as less concerning). Lieutenant Colonel Stephen J. Meade, on loan to the CIA from the U.S. military, was called out on a “special mission” with Darbyshire to find and persuade Princess Ashraf to convince her brother to support the coup. Darbyshire, who called her “quite a flighty woman,” recalled that Meade found her attractive, but also concluded that his CIA counterpart’s standards were not high; Meade “fancied anything.” The two met up in Paris on July 10 with MI6’s agent Asadollah Rashidian, who was an acquaintance of Ashraf. The agent failed to impress Meade as “he was not too bright and was pretty much overfed.” The three stayed at separate hotels, meeting at new locations every day at different times. Meade did not speak the same language as Rashidian, so Darbyshire would ask him in Farsi each day if he had found Ashraf, and the answer was always no. Meade found it “a matter of almost desperation” for him to be “locked up in a hotel room waiting for a phone call” and hearing the same negative news continuously. Meade had written a “character study” on Ashraf, which was placed in the TPAJAX project files. Banking on her “proclivity for fun and games and gambling,” he suggested that the agent try finding her at a spa in Deauville, a coastal town in northwestern France. Darbyshire wondered, “Why Deauville?” and Meade replied, “It’s only a hunch.” It took a day or two before the suggestion was accepted and Darbyshire communicated the order in Farsi. Rashidian found her on the 15th and reported she had “no enthusiasm” for her role in the plot. Darbyshire then accused Meade of withholding information from MI6, since he seemed to have known where she was located. Meade denied that this was the case: “Simply a hunch.”

The CIA-MI6 team met with Princess Ashraf in a MI6 safehouse in a Paris suburb. The meeting was scheduled for 10:00 am and the Princess kept them waiting for 40 minutes. She appeared to be “very suspicious” and in French the group discussed their desire to have her convince her brother to dismiss Mossadegh as Prime Minister of Iran. Darbyshire explained to her that the Shah could accept any “proposals made by the Rashidians” since they “carry our approval.” Ashraf was at first uninterested: “There’s just no way I can do this,” she stated, “because if I go back Mossadegh has threatened to put me in jail.” Darbyshire produced a “great wad” of money and could see that “her eyes alighted,” that there was interest now. The negotiations with her took two meetings; she was particularly concerned about her brother and whether the U.S.-U.K. governments, if the effort failed, would get him out of the country safely and take care of him “in the manner to which he has become accustomed.” Meade had no briefing on this topic, but agreed to the terms anyway. “Do you have the authority to speak for the United States government in such a matter?” He replied, “I do have the authority, if I hadn’t I wouldn’t be here.” This was a lie but Meade was only interested in sealing the deal. Darbyshire “jumped a bit” at the overpromise, but said nothing in the moment. With Princess Ashraf on board, he instructed her: “Here is your first class ticket…you are booked for the day after tomorrow.” At this point, Darbyshire recalled that he “did let her get her hands on the money.”

Darbyshire told Meade later, referring to his promise of funding the Shah’s lifestyle in perpetuity, “Now look old buddy, you haven’t committed Her Majesty’s Government to this…do you really have the authority to do this?” Meade responded, “I have no idea.” Darbyshire was surprised: “Well, if I did that I’d probably be sacked.” Meade thought there was a chance: “Well, Norman, I just might be…” Meade traveled to London and in the U.S. Embassy told Roosevelt and wrote a detailed cable to the Dulles brothers. Secretary of State John Foster Dulles cabled back only two words: “Well done.” He was relieved: “It took the heat off me. I was glad.” According to Wilber’s account, Meade returned to Paris and “stayed close to Ashraf” until she left for Iran.

Arriving in Tehran on July 25, Princess Ashraf caused “a real storm” with her unauthorized presence. The Shah refused to see her, but accepted a letter from her delivered by Soleiman Behboudi, an MI6 agent in the palace. The letter contained a reference to Major General Norman Schwarzkopf Sr. being sent on a similar mission and the Shah changed his mind. Meeting his sister on July 29, the encounter “opened stormily but ended on a note of reconciliation.” The next day, Ashraf left the country to the CIA’s relief, given the hostile reaction in the pro-Mossadegh press. Elsewhere, Goiran, the Agency’s Chief of Station, reported that their replacement candidate Zahedi appeared to be “lacking in drive, energy, and concrete plans.” He would need to be “closely guided” with plans designed for him to execute. MI6 officials passed on helpful suggestions to the CIA, including “detailed plans for putting the central telephone exchange out of operation.” The U.S. press was requested to reflect the anti-Mossadegh Iranian coverage the CIA had fabricated and that “inspired articles” be inserted in American newspapers. The CIA provided a statement to U.S. Secretary of State Dulles, which he read at a press conference on July 28: “The growing activities of the illegal Communist Party in Iran and the toleration of them by the Iranian Government has caused our government concern. These developments make it more difficult to grant aid to Iran.”

The plan called for using Persian language broadcasts of the BBC to convey the authority of the representatives approaching the Shah; if the broadcasts contained a key phrase that he selected, this would prove that the reps were speaking on behalf of the U.K. government. First up was MI6’s main agent, Asadollah Rashidian, who sought to convince the Shah similar to Ashraf’s attempt. Darbyshire called the radio method an “old wartime habit of using the BBC…something they don’t like doing at all in peacetime,” but after some cajoling, MI6 was able to persuade them and Darbyshire sent them the phrases to use. The Shah confirmed to Rashidian that he had heard the broadcasts in late July containing the keywords, but that he needed more time to think. Rashidian informed him that Schwarzkopf would visit next, which would prove the close collaboration on the effort between the two Western countries. Schwarzkopf was self-assured of his ability to convince the Shah, having worked to organize the Iranian national police from 1942 to 1948, claiming to have “a reputation with the Shah for telling him unpleasant truths that others withheld from him.” He was given a short itinerary involving Lebanon, Pakistan, and Egypt in advance of his visit to Iran to disguise his true purpose. His first meeting with the Shah took place on August 1; fearing that hidden microphones were recording them, the Shah led him into a grand ballroom. He moved a small table in the center of the room and the two sat on top of it. Schwarzkopf asked him to sign three firmans or royal decrees from the CIA, which continued to evolve in terms of asks: first, a decree naming Zahedi Chief of Staff; second, a letter indicating the Shah’s faith in Zahedi to be used for recruitment for the coup; and third, a decree calling on all ranks of the army to support Zahedi. The CIA believed the Shah would find these documents easier to sign given that they did not formally dismiss Mossadegh as Prime Minister. The Shah refused to sign them regardless; he stated that he was “not fully confident of the loyalty of the army” and that he decided more time to decide. Further meetings led by Rashidian and others by Roosevelt attempted to place additional pressure on the Shah, but the CIA representative and agent were frustrated in their attempts “to overcome an entrenched attitude of vacillation and indecision.”

The CIA’s Tehran Station reported in early August that 20 local newspapers were now “in violent opposition” to Mossadegh and around 15 of the Agency’s cartoons had appeared in the press. On August 3, Roosevelt met the Shah and found it difficult to convince him to dismiss Mossadegh and appoint Zahedi: he reported that the Shah “was not an adventurer and, hence, could not take the chances of one.”The next day, the Station indicated that Mossadegh was already “aware of the true purpose of the visit of Ashraf” and as a result that “action must be mounted very soon.” The Shah requested words of support from President Eisenhower, which came in the form of public statements that the U.S. did not want Iran to fall behind the Iron Curtain. Here the CIA deviated from the London plan, which contained provisions to proceed without the Shah; Roosevelt believed that doing so would be “hopeless.” Over the next several days, Roosevelt “struggled against a mood of stubborn irresolution” with the Shah and got Rashidian to communicate that the CIA official would depart “in complete disgust” unless the Shah acted within days.The Shah agreed to sign the documents and said he would leave for Ramsar, an Iranian city on the Caspian Sea coast. but it turned out they were not ready for signature, and he promised instead to sign them in Ramsar. The CIA reverted to the original London plan in terms of the two firmans they asked a U.K. agent to prepare: one dismissing Mossadegh and the other appointing Zahedi as Prime Minister.

At the same time, the psychological campaign against Mossadegh was reaching fever pitch, led by the “controllable press.” CIA officer Richard Cottam explained that “what we did from Washington was to write some of the articles that would appear in the Persian press and these articles would appear thanks again to the Rashidians, who had contacts I believe with probably four-fifths of the Iranian press. And any article that I would write, it gave you something of a sense of power, it would appear almost instantly the next day in the Iranian press. And they were designed to show Mossadegh as a Communist collaborator and as a fanatic, as a person who didn’t understand that you could be both nationalistic and positive.” In addition, CIA agents spread “black propaganda,” fake material attributed to the Tudeh Party to alarm religious leaders. This included threatening them with “savage punishment” if they opposed Mossadegh through “threatening phone calls” made to appear as if they had been made from the Tudeh Party and carrying out several “sham bombings of the houses of these leaders.” CIA officer George Carroll, in charge of the military side of the plan, met with members of the Iranian “Colonels’ conspiracy” to go over details of “carrying out the operational staff plan.” Their final meeting was on August 13 and the Iranian military was now on their own without direct CIA oversight. Later that evening, the signed firmans from the Shah were delivered to Zahedi. The CIA Station cabled headquarters that after the coup, given the empty Iranian treasury, the new government would be in desperate need of funds, and an amount of $5 million ($61.2 million today) was suggested. The Station then waited for events they had set in motion to unfold.

Depression and Despair

In his retrospective account, Wilber recounted that the Iranian Army did not act as expected on August 14 and the CIA Station was informed that this had been delayed to the next evening. Mossadegh’s Chief of Staff learned of the coup attempt on the afternoon of August 15 from an Iranian Army officer. Soldiers began making several arrests, including Mossadegh’s Foreign Minister, who was taken away “before he had a chance to put on his shoes.” The “meager haul of prisoners” were taken to the guard house of the Imperial Palace. Just before midnight, a “limited attack” was made against the telephone system; wires were cut in key areas and a telephone exchange was occupied by Army officers. On August 16, Colonel Nematollah Nassiri delivered the firman to Mossadegh regarding his dismissal, but rather than accept the decree, Mossadegh had him arrested. The CIA initially provided that two delayed “truckloads of soldiers” destined for Mossadegh’s home at 1 a.m. to accompany Nassiri may have caused the plan to fail. Zahedi’s Chief of Staff went into hiding following receipt of this news. Another general approached the Iranian armed forces’ General Headquarters with the intention of taking it over, but fled when he saw hostile tanks and troops. He approached Zahedi and told him to flee, but “Zahedi only laughed at him,” according to the CIA’s account. The prisoners that had been taken were released at dawn and those still carrying out the operation “were convinced that the cause was lost” with more troops working against them making their way into the city. CIA Station personnel nervously awaited news on the status of the coup for hours, but heard nothing: “The army radio-equipped jeep called for in the plan failed to arrive at the compound, and there was no way of knowing what was happening in the city.”

By the morning of August 16, Radio Tehran was broadcasting news of the aborted coup attempt. Mossadegh met with his cabinet and bolstered security at key buildings. CIA officers had spent a sleepless night at the office, anxiously awaiting the outcome. They knew that since the jeep with a radio had not arrived and the telephone system was still working that “something—or everything—had gone wrong.” Carroll traveled around the city to explore the situation and reported that “there was a concentration of tanks and troops” surrounding the home of Mossadegh. The scared general told the CIA that “things had gone badly” and rushed to the U.S. Embassy for protection, which sent him into hiding. Roosevelt went to see Zahedi and his son, who convinced him “that there was still hope in the situation.” The CIA decided to continue to push the line that Zahedi was the rightful leader and that it was actually Mossadegh “who had staged a coup.” The Station communicated with the Associated Press to pass along this message and General Robert A. McClure, the head of the U.S. Military Mission in Iran, to visit the Shah and confirm with him that the firmans he signed were legitimate. He was unable to do so as the CIA learned later in the day that the Shah had fled the country for Baghdad.

The newspapers in Iran were reporting that the coup plot had been formed during a meeting between the Shah and General Schwarzkopf on August 9 and that Mossadegh had been tipped off five days later. The CIA could not determine how details of the plan had been leaked, but its agents “working on their own and with singular shrewdness,” decided to twist the news and put out a story that the coup had been attempted to force out the Shah, which was picked up by a local paper. The Agency arranged to have two reporters from the New York Times see Zahedi and copies of the two signed firmans. The CIA Station took an original firman and kept it locked in a safe, pending “final victory.” CIA officers drafted a public statement for Zahedi but were unable to find a press locally that was not being watched by government forces. They handed it over to the Rashidians who typed out ten copies on a typewriter. General Zahedi then signed the documents but the CIA was too late in terms of the newspaper deadlines to make it into the next morning’s editions. CIA agents again decided to act on their own and fabricated an interview with Zahedi, adding a copy of a firman. The CIA was pleased of learning of their efforts, Wilber highlighting their ability “to go ahead on their own and do just the right thing.”

CIA personnel spent most of the day hiding key individuals in the homes of Embassy personnel and CIA staff members located outside of the compound, including Zahedi, Zahedi’s son Ardeshir, and the Rashidian brothers. CIA officer Rocky Stone recalled the young wife of Zahedi sitting in a rocking chair with a gun positioned under her knitting to protect the life of Ardeshir. Roosevelt felt there remained a “slight remaining chance of success” if they could mobilize the Shah and Zahedi. CIA officers quickly wrote up statements that the Shah could read over Baghdad radio. After a “second sleepless night,” Agency personnel awoke to “some real encouragement” with the news that soldiers had beaten “Tudeh groups late the night before…with rifle butts,” forcing them to shout, “Long live the Shah!” The coup project for them “was not quite dead” and their agents were still willing to continue taking action. The Shah’s radio message followed mostly what the CIA had in mind, “if less strong than desired.” He explained that “What has taken place in Iran cannot be considered a coup d’etat in the real sense.” The Agency suggested that Middle Eastern religious leaders be engaged to “give the Shah moral backing.”

At 10:30 am, Radio Tehran began broadcasting names of suspected coup participants and rumors circulated that those arrested were scheduled to be hanged on August 20. The CIA Station spent most of the days distributing copies of the firman, particularly in the army. That afternoon, U.S. Embassy personnel passed by a bronze statue of the Shah that had been taken down by protestors; only the boots of the statue were still on the pedestal. They could see a nearby truck dragging a statue that included a horse. The evening amounted to a “trying time” for the CIA officers at Tehran Station. Agents were given further instructions and Roosevelt and Carroll formed a “council of war,” meeting with the main coup participants such as Zahedi and the Rashidians, who were smuggled into the compound in the bottom of cars and jeeps. Roosevelt lied to Ambassador Henderson and General McClure that “no Persians were hidden out in the compound” so that they could answer honestly if the question were raised by Mossadegh.

After meeting for four hours, the war council decided on several courses of action for August 19. One involved sending a Tehran cleric to persuade the Ayatollah Hossein Borujerdi to issue a fatwa calling for “a holy war against Communism.” Another included a plan to hold a demonstration featuring army officers and soldiers loyal to the Shah to rally people in “support of religion and the throne.” The plan also involved seeking military support from Iranian officers outside of Tehran. A wire was received by the Station from CIA Headquarters in the afternoon of August 17 that strongly suggested that Roosevelt leave the country for his safety, adding their “distress over the bad luck.” Propaganda guidance was delivered to CIA Stations in Pakistan, India, Egypt, Syria, Turkey, and Lebanon for them to communicate the message Zahedi’s government was the only legitimate one in Iran. A CIA officer in Paris was asked to get the religious leader Aga Khan III to send a message of support to the Shah but he declined, stating that “a ruler who left his throne and country would never return.” MI6 continued to work on the coup operation, with Darbyshire attempting to secure permission to travel to Baghdad. The CIA viewed their persistence in support as “admirable” though the consequences of failure for them the Agency viewed as nonexistent: “it should be remembered,” Wilber wrote, “that they had nothing to lose if the cause had been pressed to ultimate failure and disclosure.”

August 18^th was “the most trying day” for the coup operation. The Shah left Baghdad for Rome early that morning and small bands of protestors in the streets. Certain local newspapers reported the apparent end of the Shah’s reign: “Down with the monarchy! Long live the democratic republic!” wrote the Central Committee of the Tudeh Party. The CIA Station prepared a contingency plan for evacuating 15 people from Iran and asked Headquarters “whether the station should continue with TPAJAX or withdraw.” Violence followed that evening on the streets of Tehran from pro-Shah demonstrators, with the CIA unable to determine its exact motivating force, but suspected that the Tudeh Party had overplayed its hand in attempting to reject the monarchy. The CIA did send agent provocateurs into the streets “with orders to loot and smash shops” while making themselves appear to be Tudeh members. Serious fights ensued as security forces were mobilized to clear the demonstrators. The police department “exceeded instructions” from the CIA in terms of how they approached “preventing Tudeh vandalism by beating up Tudehites and shouting for the Shah.” The Agency noticed that the Tudeh Party appeared to realize that a covert action was taking place and received reports of them sending out representatives to “argue demonstrators into going home.” CIA Headquarters found the day to feature “depression and despair,” escalating the project to the highest levels of the organization. A handful of Agency officials worked on a draft message to call off TPAJAX, explaining that evening to the frontline that “the operation has been tried and failed.” The U.K. government agreed, communicating: “We must regret that we cannot consider going on fighting.” The U.S. government left a small window for further action, if Roosevelt and Henderson would provide recommendations to that effect.

Back in the United States, Meade heard on the radio that “there had been an attempted coup in Iran and it had failed miserably.” He turned to his wife and said, “How would you like to have the Shah as a permanent houseguest?” His question made no sense to her;she had no idea about the promise he had made unilaterally on behalf of the U.S. government.

Jubilation

The CIA-generated firman signed by the Shah featured prominently in newspapers on the morning of August 19, Wilber’s insider account continued. Six papers ran the fake interview written by a CIA agent purporting to contain Zahedi’s words, proclaiming his government as the only legal one. Before 9:00 a.m. pro-Shah groups assembled in Tehran. CIA agents traveling in a jeep along with trucks ready to create further broadsheets saw the crowds and incited them to set fire to the offices of a newspaper owned by the Minister of Foreign Affairs and “thoroughly” ransack the offices of Tudeh newspapers. By 10:00 a.m., the CIA Station had made contact with the Rashidians, who “seemed full of glee.” Their new orders were to change the allegiance of the security forces to the pro-Shah side and encourage the capture of Radio Tehran. Army officials involved in the coup plot began appearing in the city square with a tank and trucks seized from the Second Armored Brigade. Large groups armed with sticks and stones from south Tehran and marched northward to the city center, where troops fired hundreds of shots over their heads. A theater sponsored by the Tudeh Party was burned and the crowds shouted pro-Shah slogans. By noon, five tanks and 20 truckloads of soldiers joined them in their protest. Mossadegh was losing control of the military, with only one battalion able to be commandeered to protect his home. CIA-aligned army officers began taking matters into their own hands, seizing a telegraph office, police headquarters, and the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building.

Roosevelt visited with Zahedi in a secret location, telling him to wait for further instructions. Carroll reported on the military situation in the early afternoon, explaining how press and propaganda offices in the city center had been taken over by royalists. With key assets now seized, telegrams were now being sent urging Iranian provinces to “rise in support of the Shah.” A CIA agent on the streets urged a crowd to march towards military police headquarters to demand the release of Army officials part of the coup plot, which was done. “The soldiers on guard put up no resistance,” Wilber later reported. A CIA agent who was a General in the Iranian army sought to round up Imperial Guard members to take part in an attack on Mossadegh’s house. Radio Tehran early in the day was broadcasting “dull discussions of cotton prices,” followed by music. By the early afternoon, the radio station was overwhelmed by buses and trucks full of civilians, army officers, and policemen. Three deaths were reported following the fighting. CIA officers listened to Radio Tehran and were “elated” at 2:20 p.m. when coup participants began broadcasting messages in support of the Shah, in addition to reading the text of the main firman. Some of the speakers were familiar to TPAJAX planners, while others were unknown to the CIA. The Agency took this to mean that their estimate had been correct “that the army would rally to the Shah under just such circumstances.” Roosevelt again approached Zahedi, telling him to get ready to “play an active role.” Too nervous to get dressed by himself, Stone helped Zahedi button his uniform for the occasion. Zahedi then addressed the nation through Radio Tehran at 5:25 p.m., a speech that was replayed that evening.

By 7:00 p.m., pockets of rebellion had been subdued and Mossadegh’s home had been “turned into a shambles.” His belongings were removed from the house and “sold to passersby.” Carroll closed the military operation. Army officers loyal to the TPAJAX cause “seized key military targets, and executed the arrest lists.” Two to three hundred people had died during the project; Wilber was unable to provide an exact estimate, stating only that it was “not nearly as many as stated in the white heat of the actual events.” Wilber noted that Darbyshire upon hearing the news of the success of the coup “became so excited that he drove his friend right to his office outside of the town, something he and his associates had always avoided doing in earlier weeks.”

The CIA Station held a victory party at the office that night. Zahedi, along with his son, approached Stone in a celebratory mood: “We’re in…We’re in,” Zahedi repeated, “What do we do now?” CIA Headquarters learned that Mossadegh’s government had been overthrown the next morning just before 9:00 a.m., which at first seemed like “a bad joke” given the events of the previous day. Throughout the day “people hurried down the corridors with fresh slips of ticker tape” given their “sense of excitement, of satisfaction, and of jubilation.” Wilber called it “a day that should never have ended…it is doubtful whether any other can come up to it. Our trump card had prevailed and the Shah was victorious.” Left out of Wilber’s account of the coup was an assassination that took place in the months leading up to the event.

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He documented everything for his own protection. Some group was after him, he thought, and he wrote to the CIA and the FBI in the 1990s to ask them if they had a campaign against him. The FBI responded that “they were not investigating or harassing me and that I should direct my enquiries to another government agency,” he recounted. He was sure his house in Herndon, Virginia was bugged. He would shout that he was going to Kmart, only to go to another store to throw them off the trail. He stopped going to Kmart, McDonald’s, and 7/11 because of harassment he perceived to be going on there. He claimed the harassment stemmed from his 1993 publication of CIABASE, a database of CIA actions based on public sources. Everywhere he went, there seemed to be police cars, men with radios relaying coordinates, or store personnel harassing him. Unlike most people claiming CIA harassment, Ralph McGehee had worked for the Agency for 25 years. His paranoia may have originated earlier, in his attempts to get a book published on the CIA. Meeting with Bob, a supervisor whom he had known peripherally, to go over the Agency’s proposed redactions for the book, McGehee was shocked at the tone he set early on: “It’s too bad you didn’t work for the Israeli intelligence service,” Bob told him. “They know how to deal with people like you. They’d take you out and shoot you.”

Notre Dame 1948

McGehee was an All-American player of the University of Notre Dame Fighting Irish football team during the 1940s, widely regarded as the greatest decade-long run in college football history. Under head coach Frank Leahy, Notre Dame compiled a record of 82-9-6 from 1940–49, never losing more than two games in a season and winning four national championships (1943, 1946, 1947, 1949), along with multiple unbeaten seasons. McGehee was part of the last three championships, including the 1949 team, which finished 10-0 and served as the pinnacle of this era, the final season for many players who had returned from World War II. “McGehee quietly put together a stellar football career,” Lou Somogyi wrote in a 2014 retrospective, “as a two-way starter on the undefeated 1948-49 units.”

Later on in his CIA career, McGehee would sometimes think back to his days playing football at Notre Dame: “Then I had been able to try my best, put my entire being into the game, feel the satisfaction of striving, working, and winning.” In his new job in intelligence, by contrast, “it was impossible to win. If you tried, you were beaten down by any one of many bureaucratic devices, and all you could do was swallow and pretend.”

Washington, DC 1952

More than one hundred newly processed young employees attended a training course in a building near the Lincoln Memorial in Washington, DC. During the orientation, an instructor “with a flourish” removed a cloth from a large organizational chart and revealed that the attendees would be working for the CIA. He explained that of the three main directorates, they would be assigned to the Directorate for Plans (DDP), responsible for gathering intelligence and conducting operations directed by the President and the National Security Council. McGehee imagined himself directing spies and playing a frontline role in the United States’ struggle against international communism. Although the instructor continued explaining the complex organizational details, most of the recruits paid little attention, assuming that practical experience would eventually teach them what they needed to know.

Jimmy Moe

In a heavily secured 10,000-acre compound, the young recruits received paramilitary training camp at Camp Peary, the CIA’s covert training facility in Virginia known internally as “the Farm.” Many of them were former college football players or military veterans, well-suited for “burn and bang” operations tied to Cold War missions in Korea, China, and Eastern Europe. “I have an unusual psychological profile for an ops officer,” McGehee later wrote. “CIA’s Psychological Assessment System rated me as having an extremely flexible mentality whereas most ops officers have a regulated; e.g., rigid mentality. Such rigidity does not favor analysis. I survived the selection process, in spite of my ‘F+’ rating because, in my opinion, I had played college football when the Agency was looking for ex-football players for its paramilitary programs.”

The three-month course immersed roughly thirty trainees in intensive physical conditioning and combat preparation. They were trained in parachuting, clandestine radio work, map reading, survival, explosives, small-unit tactics, escape and evasion, and silent killing. “Our instructor for this segment…taught the arcane skill of dirty fighting,” McGehee recalled, “how to kill, disable, or disarm an opponent with a knife, a wire, a silenced gun, or a variety of other devices.” The regimen was physically punishing and psychologically demanding, reinforcing discipline and a stark, black-and-white view of the world. Recruits lived under military-style conditions, rarely leaving the base due to security restrictions.

A central figure in McGehee’s memory was a classmate he calls “Jimmy Moe,” a Hungarian refugee and former Marine wounded at Iwo Jima. Physically powerful, aggressive, and untroubled by moral nuance, Jimmy embodied the qualities the CIA sought in paramilitary officers: stamina, fearlessness, technical skill with weapons and explosives, and unquestioning obedience. His exuberance after a few beers, shouting “Geronimo!” during parachute jumps, and his extreme intensity in training exercises made him both admired and unsettling to his peers.

The course culminated in a comprehensive field exercise involving simulated border crossings, jail escapes, reconnaissance, and mock attacks. By the end, the trainees were hardened and eager for assignment. While some, like Jimmy, were perfectly suited to the paramilitary mold, McGehee himself felt ambivalent, still drawn to the image of a traditional intelligence officer rather than a lifelong covert warrior.

McGehee felt excited to begin his overseas assignment as a CIA case officer in Taipei, Taiwan, following earlier assignments in Japan and the Philippines. His primary responsibility was liaison work with Chinese Nationalist intelligence services, helping to send agents into mainland China to gather intelligence on Communist developments. Other officers coordinated efforts to train and insert Nationalist teams into China to build resistance networks.

Among his colleagues was Jimmy Moe, his former paramilitary training classmate. Ill-suited to routine office work, Jimmy soon transferred to Southeast Asia to work with Thai forces and the Hmong in the early stages of the CIA’s secret war in Laos. The Hmong were recruited to fight against the communist Pathet Lao, a conflict that became a brutal proxy war. Jimmy integrated deeply into Hmong tribal society, marrying a chieftain’s daughter and earning the tribe’s loyalty through acts of bravery, such as carrying a wounded man for miles to safety. Regarded by the Hmong as nearly invincible, he also developed a reputation for aggressive combat reports. When a CIA officer in Vientiane questioned the accuracy of his battlefield claims, Jimmy dramatically responded by dumping a sack of human ears on the officer’s desk as proof of the enemies he had killed.

Years later, McGehee encountered Jimmy in Thailand and was struck by the dramatic change in him. Once the embodiment of aggressive confidence and stamina, Jimmy now appeared broken and defeated, sitting alone in the U.S. Embassy cafeteria in Bangkok. McGehee believed Jimmy had come to see himself as a “Judas goat,” having led the Hmong into devastating losses as the war decimated their young men and ultimately failed. The brief, silent exchange between the two men conveyed shared regret and unspoken recognition of the human cost of their covert operations. Rather than rekindling their friendship, they parted quietly: “To try to renew our friendship would be nothing but painful,” McGehee thought. “He turned away as I got up to leave.”

Taipei 1961

While working in Taiwan, McGehee found that CIA officers lived in a socially isolated environment. They resided in compounds, interacted mainly with one another and with Nationalist officials, and had little meaningful contact with ordinary Taiwanese people. Their lives were dominated by frequent parties, banquets, and social gatherings, which reinforced their detachment.

The Chief of Station in Taipei, Ray Cline, in McGehee’s view, was friendly and informal, treating employees of all ranks with equal courtesy. He had an unusual tradition of welcoming Agency wives by pinching their behinds as a sign of acceptance into the station’s social circle. “This was such a tradition that many women felt left out until he delivered his own version of social acceptance,” he claimed. “It was all in rather good fun and no one seemed to object.”

A detailed example of this lifestyle was the CIA’s March 1961 “hail and farewell” costume party. A group of CIA couples organized an “Indian tribe” theme, commissioning custom-made costumes from a local tailor at a cost equal to about a month’s wages for a Taiwanese worker. They called themselves the “Sit Tribe” and adopted names, with McGehee calling himself “Big Chief Bull Sit.” They held a separate gathering to create an elaborate feathered headdress; while it was “heavy and awkward” to wear, they were willing to do “anything for the cause.”

The party itself was extravagant, with abundant food, alcohol, and entertainment, and an atmosphere of indulgence. McGehee’s group won an award for best costume, and Cline presided over the event, jokingly introducing each member by their tribal name. The evening reflected the insular and privileged lifestyle of the CIA community. According to McGehee’s recollection, Cline handed “an award for the best female costume to the statuesque, beautiful wife of one of the case officers; her costume was a revealing bathing suit. After Ray gave her the award, she put her arms around him, turned his back to the audience and bestowed a most obvious pinch, to the delight of the crowd.”

Driving home from the party in costume while drinking champagne, McGehee passed poor Taiwanese neighborhoods and made eye contact with a young man living in a crude shack. This encounter highlighted for him the vast divide between the comfortable, insulated lives of the Americans and the poverty of the local population. Reflecting on this, McGehee questioned how the CIA could have understood Taiwan or produced accurate intelligence while remaining so disconnected from the people they were meant to observe and assist.

Bangkok 1967

A turning point in McGehee’s career came in 1967 while working on counterinsurgency surveys in Thailand. After being invited by his superiors and Thai officials to extend his tour and expand his successful survey program nationwide, McGehee enthusiastically accepted, believing his work was both effective and valued.

During a visit from William Colby, Chief of the Far East Division, McGehee presented detailed findings from his surveys, challenging the CIA’s prevailing view that Communist insurgents lacked popular support and relied mainly on coercion. Instead, he explained that Communist organizers patiently built grassroots support by integrating into villages, identifying grievances, recruiting locals, and gradually constructing a broad revolutionary infrastructure. He described how this process expanded from small cells into village-wide movements, militias, and eventually larger guerrilla forces. McGehee also emphasized that harsh government repression often strengthened the insurgency, while his intelligence-driven approach had successfully disrupted it.

Colby was at a loss for words and responded only with a subdued remark: “We always seem to be losing.” This left McGehee confused and disappointed. Soon afterward, instead of approving the expansion of the survey program, CIA headquarters reassigned McGehee to a post in Taiwan and ordered the survey program shut down. Although the new assignment offered career advancement, McGehee did not want it and was shocked by the decision.

Efforts by local supporters to reverse the decision failed. The program, which McGehee believed was producing highly valuable intelligence and effectively countering the insurgency, was abruptly terminated. Peer De Silva, then Chief of Station, called him to the office and read cable informing him of Colby’s decision to reassign him to Taiwan. McGehee left Thailand frustrated and unable to understand why a successful initiative had been dismantled.

Only years later did McGehee conclude that his findings may have been unwelcome because they revealed broader truths about Communist movements in Southeast Asia. While his methods appeared to work in Thailand, similar analysis in places like Vietnam might have shown that such insurgencies could not be defeated, an implication that the CIA leadership may have preferred to avoid.

Langley 1967

McGehee unexpectedly returned to CIA headquarters in late 1967. He discovered that the promised assignment in Taiwan had been canceled and realized he had been deliberately misled by his superiors to remove him from Thailand. This deception deepened his growing cynicism about the Agency, and he reluctantly accepted a low-level desk job in China operations.

His new role was bureaucratic, slow, and largely meaningless. Much of the work involved processing trivial information, engaging in repetitive discussions, and drafting speculative plans with little real impact. He endured a culture of inertia, where officers spent long hours in idle conversation, routine paperwork, and drawn-out decision-making processes that rarely lead to action. He and his coworkers found several ways to kill time: “Frequent office bull sessions reminded me of my sophomore days at Notre Dame. Sometimes a few of us would continue the discussions on a coffee break in the cafeteria. This was good for killing about an hour. Lunch entailed a trip to the cafeteria or to nearby McLean, culminating with a long stroll around the Headquarters building that used up at least another hour and a half.” Efforts to recruit Chinese officials were especially futile, with elaborate plans repeatedly proposed, debated, delayed, and ultimately abandoned.

McGehee thought his criticism of the overall lack of success in penetrating Communist China was not as severe as the assessment of Peer De Silva, that intelligence efforts against China produced minimal results despite significant resources: “Much was attempted and much failed,” De Silva wrote. “It was small solace later to learn that this high-expectation, low-yield experience was not mine alone.” McGehee emphasized the repetitive nature of these failures, with new strategies constantly recycling old, unsuccessful ideas. He recounted instances where valuable intelligence suggesting that China’s policies were more moderate or aligned with U.S. interests was ignored or suppressed because it conflicted with entrenched assumptions.

McGehee also highlighted how operational motives, such as career advancement, travel opportunities, and maintaining relevance, encouraged officers to continue portraying China as a major threat. In one example, a desk chief undertook a largely unproductive overseas assignment under the guise of attempting to recruit a Chinese official, illustrating how such operations could become more about personal benefit than meaningful intelligence work: “She went on an extended temporary duty assignment to that resort area, where she spent her time relaxing by the hotel’s pool, dining in its best restaurants, and appearing at other swish spots where the Chinese official might surface and be prompted to speak to her.”

McGehee attempted to share his successful district survey program from Thailand with the Far East Division, now led by William E. Nelson, hoping they could apply its lessons more broadly. Despite submitting a detailed memorandum and later a formal suggestion through the Agency’s suggestion and achievement awards committee, the division rejected his proposals, claiming he lacked jurisdiction over Thailand.

McGehee was stunned when the Chief of the Thai desk informed him that his efforts had caused problems and upset the division’s leadership: “Mr. Nelson wants me to tell you,” an employee explained, “that you have jeopardized all future promotions by your actions.” McGehee realized that the Agency was not genuinely interested in understanding Communist movements in Thailand.

Observing developments in Vietnam, McGehee noted that reporting there ignored the mass-based civilian support for Communist guerrillas, which he suspected mirrored the patterns he had documented in Thailand. Convinced that similar survey operations were needed in Vietnam, he sought a field assignment, despite the personal sacrifices for his family. His survey methods were recognized in one area of the CIA: in the counterinsurgency training at Camp Peary, where the “McGehee method” was taught to students and instructors.

Ultimately, McGehee was cleared for assignment to Vietnam, relieved to leave his unproductive desk role. However, he remained wary that the same institutional resistance and unwillingness to face reality that had frustrated him in Thailand and at Headquarters might persist; he would soon discover that resistance in Vietnam was even greater.

Saigon 1968

Months into his assignment, when McGehee arrived at the U.S. Army officers’ quarters to brief William Colby, he distinctly remembered that “Vietnamese girls in tight leather mini-skirts were being rushed out.” Colby had since been appoint as the Director of CORDS (Civil Operations and Revolutionary Development Support) in Vietnam. In their briefing, Colby focused heavily on body counts and statistical discrepancies, appearing more concerned with numbers than with the broader reality on the ground. When asked for his own assessment, McGehee admitted he lacked sufficient information, having been inundated with meaningless reports.

During a subsequent cocktail reception, McGehee privately seethed at what he saw as Colby’s blindness to the war’s underlying truth. McGehee felt trapped in what he described as an “insane war,” driven by misleading intelligence and bureaucratic ritual. He tried to have a pleasant conversation with Colby: “How is your wife and family?” Colby asked. “Okay,” McGehee responded. “Norma has gone to work. The two boys are in school in Herndon and my two girls are both in college.” You dumb, blind son of a bitch, McGehee thought, do you believe all the garbage in your book of statistics? Don’t you know that the Agency’s intelligence is misleading everyone? Why can’t you recognize this?

Colby continued: “What sort of office setup do you have here? Do you have any good operations with the special police?” McGehee gave a standard answer while in his mind he pondered, We all are running around shouting statistics that disprove the reality. Am I, is he, an inmate in this asylum or a keeper? Or is there any difference? He wondered whether to confront Colby with his views, but he decided against it—if the reports he had provided to Colby in Thailand had not convinced him, then this attempt would be futile. It was a cocktail party they were attending, after all; it would be impolite to argue in this setting. McGehee returned to the CIA compound and made himself a martini. His mind kept racing. Why do we insist on killing people instead of talking to them? How long will this insanity go on? Angry with himself at not confronting Colby with the truth, he threw his drink against the wall, shattering the glass into pieces.

McGehee reached a further breaking point in December 1968 while stationed in Gia Dinh province near Saigon. Alone in a sparsely furnished CIA villa, as helicopter gunships circled overhead and B-52s bombed in the distance, he fell into deep despair over his role in the war. Reflecting on his earlier idealism and commitment to fighting communism, McGehee questioned how that mission had devolved into widespread destruction. He was haunted by images of Vietnamese civilians, especially children, burned by napalm, and felt complicit in what he saw as a “charade of murder and horror.” He was particularly anguished that the CIA, which he had served for 16 years, was, in his view, reporting false or distorted intelligence rather than truth.

He recalled his prior work in Thailand, where he believed he had uncovered a more accurate understanding of communist influence and had proposed a more humane strategy to counter it. The Agency’s rejection of those findings deepened his sense that it preferred policies that led to continued killing rather than meaningful reform. Overwhelmed, McGehee turned his thoughts to the loaded pistol in his nightstand.

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He thought that this was no day to die. As Angelo Crapanzano clung to a raft in the freezing cold water, he could not stop thinking about how he had never been with a woman and how he could not leave the world without rectifying that. In the pitch-black night floating in Lyme Bay, he had no sense of direction. He did not know who had attacked their ships or whether further danger lurked nearby. He wondered if rescue would come or if capture awaited them. Around him echoed the cries of pain and despair of his fellow officers. As time dragged on, the voices gradually faded. One by one, the men succumbed to exhaustion and cold, slipping into unconsciousness and releasing their grip. Three soldiers chose to swim away in a desperate attempt to find land, despite Crapanzano’s warning that they had no idea which way to go. They vanished into the darkness. Nearby, an Army captain gripping the raft lost his mind, screaming as he let go and disappeared into the sea.

LST

Steven Sadlon enlisted in the U.S. Navy on January 12, 1943. He eventually boarded LST-507 at Evansville on the Mississippi River. LSTs, or Landing Ship Tanks, were used for transporting troops, vehicles, and equipment directly onto beaches during amphibious assaults. Since they were large, slow ships, this made them easy targets for enemy attack and crew members would sarcastically refer to the vessels as “Large Slow Targets.”

In April 1944, while stationed in England, Sadlon participated in Exercise Tiger, a rehearsal for the Normandy invasion. On April 28, LST-507 entered the English Channel as part of the exercise, along with seven other LSTs destined for Slapton Sands, England.After midnight, Sadlon, serving as a Radioman on the ship, heard a torpedo pass beneath the vessel before another struck the auxiliary engine room. The explosion knocked him unconscious and set the ship ablaze. “I was in my chair when the explosion occurred,” he recalled, “and my head hit the overhead and the transformer went down and it was a good thing I wasn’t in back of it, since transformers were as big as a refrigerator.” After regaining consciousness, he reported to his station, destroyed the ship’s secret codes as required by procedure, and retrieved his gun from the crew’s quarters in case he encountered the attackers. “I wasn’t supposed to have a revolver,” he admitted, “but I kept one to carry ashore on liberty in London for protection.”

As fires spread, Sadlon peered into the tank deck below and observed trapped soldiers and sailors amid the flames. “I heard the screams—just a horrible, horrible sight. They couldn’t help themselves. They had been in the tank deck waiting for the landing and ready to unload.” He rushed to the rear of the ship and saw that his friends were there among the gathered soldiers and sailors. A signalman was refusing to leave: “I’m not going into that water,” he stated. “It’s too cold.” Sadlon responded: “You have two choices. Either you burn to death or you freeze to death. I’m going to take my chances of freezing to death because I don’t want to burn to death because those flames are real close.”

Sadlon and several others jumped into the freezing, oil-covered water to avoid burning aboard the ship. They struggled to move away from the flames sustained by the diesel oil in the water: “We scattered the flames with our hands and we got away from the ship.” Sadlon heard a low, mechanical humming sound and thought that a small boat may be approaching. “Help!” he screamed, but an assistant navigator in the water with him talked him out of it: “Save your breath, it won’t do you any good.” Sadlon kept quiet and within moments he lost consciousness and was now one of many bodies floating in the frigid water.

Crappy

Crapanzano, a Petty Officer First Class of the LST-507, had begun to feel the onset of illness. He was scheduled with another officer to lead the engine room watch from midnight until 4:00 a.m. As he stretched out in his bunk before the shift, he immediately sensed something was wrong. His heart was pounding rapidly, and he recognized the unmistakable signs of a high fever. Despite his condition, he reported to the engine room at midnight with three other sailors, feeling weak and uncertain how long he could remain on duty.

Not long after, the engineering officer arrived. Crapanzano admitted he was unwell and was promptly instructed to report to the sick bay. There, the pharmacist’s mate checked his temperature and found it had climbed to 104 degrees. He told Crapanzano firmly that he should be resting, not standing watch. Crapanzano suspected the fever was a reaction to a recent tetanus booster, recalling that he had experienced a similar response during basic training. Though still burning with fever, he returned briefly to inform the engineering officer of the diagnosis. The officer told him to go back to his quarters and assured him that he would take over the watch. By then, it was around 1:00 a.m.

As he made his way back to his bunk, Crapanzano experienced an odd sensation:it felt almost like a warning, urging him to locate his life jacket and keep it close. Life jackets were often left scattered carelessly throughout the berthing area, and many crewmen neglected to carry them properly. After searching, he found his resting atop a locker, marked with his nickname, “Crappy,” scrawled across the front. He placed it beside his pillow and soon drifted into sleep.

He was jolted awake by the blare of the action stations alarm. Reacting instantly, he slipped on his life vest, hurried to the ladder, and descended into the engine room. His watch read 1:55. Gunfire from the 40mm mounts echoed overhead. When he asked an officer what was happening, the man shrugged and replied, “I guess they’re trying to make it as real as possible.”

Crapanzano resumed his duties, adjusting engine speeds as commands came down from the bridge and logging each change. His final entry was made at 2:30. Moments later, an enormous explosion tore through the ship. The roar was overwhelming and darkness swallowed the compartment. He was thrown violently, striking his head as he fell. After briefly losing consciousness, he came to with freezing seawater pouring around his legs. He scrambled up the ladder to escape.

A torpedo had struck the auxiliary engine room, just in front of the compartment where he had been working. The six men stationed there likely died instantly, unaware of what had hit them. The blast had knocked out power and lighting. With the pumps disabled, there was no way to combat the spreading fire. Once on deck, Crapanzano encountered chaos: “The ship was burning furiously from the bow almost right down to the stern. Even the water was burning around the ship. There was fuel oil burning in the water because some of the storage tanks had ruptured from the force of the explosion.” Army DUKW trucks stored on the tank deck, loaded with gasoline, were also ablaze.

The ship’s captain ordered the crew to jettison ammunition. The men formed lines and began passing cans of 40mm shells overboard. After roughly ten minutes, the captain realized the ship could not be saved and gave the command to abandon it. At that very instant, another torpedo streaked past the stern, missing by mere feet, as the men watched in horror: “It was a terrifying moment,”Crapanzano recounted.

About half an hour after the initial strike, the soldiers and sailors left the ship. Disorder and fear reigned. Many of the Army personnel lacked experience in maritime emergencies. While most Navy sailors had properly secured their life jackets, several soldiers wore their inflatable belts incorrectly around their waists rather than under their arms. There was no time to correct them. Men leapt into the sea in desperation, sometimes landing on others already struggling in the water. What do we do now? was their prevailing thought. Crapanzano swam toward the stern, one of the few areas not engulfed in burning fuel. Others clung to the ship’s exposed screws as it tilted steadily. The ocean was bitterly cold.

Soon, a large oval life raft drifted near them. Though its interior had been scorched away after passing through flames, its outer ring remained afloat. Eleven men seized it, wrapping their arms tightly around the rim. They kicked hard to move clear of the burning wreckage and to keep circulation in their numbing limbs. Crapanzano was now left to wonder: Will they send help?

Nightmare

Medical personnel were assigned to every LST, but their ability to treat the wounded during combat was modest at best. Among those serving aboard LST-507 was Lieutenant Eugene Eckstam, Medical Officer. When the alarm rang out, he hurried to the wardroom, which functioned as the ship’s makeshift first-aid station. The space was spare: two tables bolted to the deck, a bench along the outer bulkhead, and a metal cabinet secured to the wall containing the ship’s medical supplies. While LSTs could later be converted into temporary hospital vessels, in transit they carried only the bare essentials.

On reaching the wardroom, Eckstam learned that shots had been fired, though no one knew from where. The prevailing assumption was that a gunner on a nearby vessel had been firing at imagined targets in the dark. Since the noise had subsided, Eckstam decided to go above deck to assess the situation himself.

While Eckstam was passing the captain’s cabin, a violent explosion erupted: an overwhelming blast followed by the wrenching grind of twisting steel. The force hurled him to his knees. Dust and rust cascaded down as the lights failed, plunging the passageway into blackness. In the stunned silence that followed, his knees throbbed. What just happened? The thought echoed in his head.

Though the ship had lost power, Eckstam had memorized the locations of the emergency battle lanterns. One was within arm’s reach, mounted across from the captain’s door. He seized it and quickly located the others, restoring patches of light to the darkened corridor. The explosion had torn the first-aid cabinet partly from the wall; it hung askew, its doors flung open and its contents scattered across the deck.

The wounded began arriving gradually. Some managed to walk in on their own; others were carried or supported by shipmates. There were fewer casualties than he had feared. One man had suffered a fractured femur, which Eckstam stabilized with a splint. As reports filtered in, however, the broader picture grew grim. The ship’s midsection was ablaze, an impassable furnace cutting off movement between bow and stern on both the main deck and below.

Eckstam inspected every accessible compartment, searching for injured men and preparing to secure the vessel. The goal was to seal the hatches between compartments to maintain buoyancy and slow the sinking of the ship. With other officers preoccupied and confident in his understanding of shipboard procedures, he undertook the task himself.

One decision in the process would haunt him for years. He approached the hatches leading to the tank deck, attempting to call out and look inside. What he saw was an inferno, an overwhelming blast of heat and flame that made entry impossible. From within came the desperate cries of trapped Army personnel. The screams were searing but he knew no one could survive that fire, nor could anyone reach them. Smoke would soon overcome them. In an excruciating decision, he shut the hatches, which were designed to be sealed from either side. The choice would revisit him in nightmares long after the war: “Worst of all were the agonizing screams for help from the Army men trapped in there. I can still hear them.”

Eckstam returned to the wardroom, where a few additional wounded had been treated. An officer soon informed him that the captain had ordered the ship abandoned. The command was almost redundant, since the fire had grown so intense that the steel decks were becoming unbearably hot beneath their boots.

Reluctant to plunge into the frigid sea, Eckstam knew the shock that such sudden immersion could inflict on the human body. Yet the lifeboats in his sector were useless without electrical power and the smaller rafts were stuck; their retaining pins were now corroded. With no other option, he climbed down a cargo net that had been lowered over the side and dropped into the water. Swimming hard to escape the suction of the sinking vessel, he pushed himself away from the doomed ship.

Sharks

For Ralph Bartholomay, a Naval Gunner aboard LST-507, there was an almost dreamlike quality to the ordeal, as though events were unfolding at a distance from reality. He had gone to his bunk convinced the exercise was merely another rehearsal for the coming invasion. The blare of an electric horn shattered that illusion. What followed next felt like a blur: He recalled pulling on a clean pair of dungarees; his pockets were empty, with no time to put on socks. He kept to the essentials based on his training: he put on a life jacket and a steel helmet.

One torpedo streaked beneath them, then another. Because the LST rode relatively high in the water and the torpedoes ran deep, the ship narrowly escaped being hit. The next one came without warning and when it struck, the blast came with a blinding flash and a violent cascade of seawater and debris. For an instant, the ship and the men upon it were etched in white light, like the frozen image of a camera’s flash. Even at his distance from the impact, wreckage and spray rained down over them.

Flames spread rapidly, quickly overwhelming the available firefighting gear. They were ordered to abandon the ship, but the lifeboats assigned to his section would not launch. As he made his way down toward the main deck, preparing to leave, a sailor pleaded for help starting a “Handy Billy,” a gasoline-powered emergency portable pump. The man was desperate to reach the auxiliary engine room, where he said trapped crewmen were screaming. Smoke billowed from the hatch, making entry impossible. The only alternate escape led to a main-deck hatch blocked by burning vehicles. Realizing there was no way to reach those below, Bartholomay turned and prepared to jump.

Training instructions echoed in his mind: remove the helmet, cross the arms tightly over the chest, check below, leap clear, and swim away from the hull. They had practiced countless times, but never in fifty-degree water slicked with fuel oil. In training, there were no enemy vessels, and rescue was always immediate in the safety of a swimming pool. Reality bore little resemblance to rehearsal.

When he surfaced, he began to choke on the salt water, which was mixed with oil. The water was relatively calm, but each time he opened his eyes, they burned from the fuel. After swimming what he judged a safe distance from the suction of the sinking ship, he paused to conserve his strength. Roughly four hundred men had sailed aboard. Now the darkness around him was eerily quiet.

Fragments of survival advice ran through his mind, but the shock had dulled his thinking. He remembered hearing that shedding clothing could increase buoyancy but would also hasten heat loss. The choice seemed cruelly absurd. A fellow sailor without a life jacket swam up, already exhausted. They stayed together for a time, speaking little; conversation required energy neither possessed. Eventually the man claimed he saw a friend clinging to wreckage nearby and decided to swim toward him. Bartholomay saw nothing and tried to dissuade him, but the sailor went anyway and vanished into the night.

Someone shouted about sharks, but that fear barely registered for Bartholomay. The water was too cold for there to be sharks, he thought. A faint breeze and the current began drawing wreckage into a tighter cluster. “It was dark again and I had trouble seeing,” he remembered, “but I could make out shapes close by, nothing of any size but a lot of them.” Something brushed against him: a coarse, large object. His first thought was that there may indeed be sharks in the water. Reaching out cautiously, he touched what felt like fabric. Gradually, he figured out that the shapes around him were all bodies.

Victor

Arthur Victor, a Hospital Apprentice Second Class aboard the LST-507, had been fast asleep in an upper bunk, crammed into a compartment with seven other sailors, when violent banging jolted him awake. At first, the noise sounded like heavy tools striking the deck overhead. Around him, men were scrambling in confusion, shouting into the darkness. When he called out, “What the hell’s going on?” a voice answered bluntly: “We’re under attack!”

He leapt from his bunk onto the cold steel floor and dressed in haste. In the rush, he forgot his life belt. Pushing through the crowd, he climbed the ladder topside. Yet when he emerged onto the deck, he was startled by the stillness. There was no gunfire, no visible enemy. Instead, there was a calm bay under a bright moon and a scatter of stars. The air was sharp and clean, almost peaceful. It hardly felt like a battlefield.

He made his way to his station at the stern, where his colleagues were staring silently out to sea. In hushed tones, they told him that what he had heard were tracer rounds striking near the gun turrets. Victor assumed a submarine or German E-boat had fired upon them, but the sudden quiet gave him hope that the threat had retreated.

After several tense minutes, he wandered to the port railing near a raft and paused, absorbed again by the strange beauty of the night. A friend named Rutherford joined him and the two began reminiscing about women back home. The explosion came without warning.

The blast hurled Victor across the deck. His head smashed against a steel bulkhead with such force that he nearly blacked out, saved only by his helmet. Dazed, he staggered upright and saw flames and thick smoke pouring from a massive hole amidships. A torpedo had torn through the starboard side, ripping into the tank deck and engine room.

Panic swept the deck. Some men ran wildly, shouting, “We’re all gonna die!” Others rushed toward the fire only to recoil in terror. Victor and Rutherford tried to steady them, but hysteria ruled. When cries of “Men overboard!” rang out, they turned to see sailors thrashing in the water. Life preservers were tossed down, but several men slipped beneath the surface before help could reach them.

Efforts to fight the fire failed. The heat and smoke were unbearable. Attempts to free a lifeboat proved futile; the explosion had jammed it in place. Even hacking at its steel cables with axes made no difference. The boat that could have saved dozens would sink with the ship.

The gunnery officer struggled to impose order. He ordered that ammunition be thrown overboard to prevent further catastrophe. Then the life raft was cut loose, but it splashed into the sea upside down. A sailor volunteered to go overboard and right it. Victor and Rutherford offered to join him, but gunnery officer insisted one man was enough.

When the order to abandon ship came, men poured over the side. Victor removed his helmet and was about to jump when he heard frantic pleas behind him. Another corpsman, paralyzed with fear and unable to swim, clung to him. The man’s life belt was inflated; Victor promised not to leave him. Together they climbed over the rail and leapt.

The icy water swallowed them. When they surfaced, the terrified man grabbed Victor in a chokehold, nearly dragging them both under. In desperation, Victor fought him off, striking him repeatedly until the man calmed enough to float in his belt. Victor maneuvered them to the stern rail, where the corpsman clung to it tightly. Victor urged him to swim the short distance to the raft, but the man refused, frozen by fear. “He was crying hysterically,” Victor recalled, “moaning that he couldn’t swim and was terrified of water.” Knowing the ship was sinking and lacking a life belt himself, Victor finally made the decision to swim away alone. The man’s screams followed him, but he never looked back.

At the raft, only a handful of survivors clung to its sides. Many had already perished before reaching it. Soon more men crowded around, until it was dangerously overloaded. The freezing water sapped their strength. Some gave up and slipped silently beneath the surface. Victor could not comprehend how young, strong men could die so quickly.

Another raft was spotted in the distance and Victor briefly removed his waterlogged jacket to swim toward it, but it filled before he could reach it. Now exposed from the waist up, he felt the cold bite deeper. Suddenly, flames spread across the water nearby. Victor believed they were finished. Just as he prepared to push away from the raft, the fire mysteriously died out only yards from them. The reprieve left him trembling with relief. In that moment, he resolved not to surrender to panic.

Throughout the night, men died in steady succession. A nineteen-year-old corpsman slipped away despite desperate attempts to save him. Another young man followed soon after. Victor’s close friend Scott, overwhelmed by fear, went limp in his life belt. After checking for a pulse and breath, they let him drift away, though Victor was uncertain if he had truly been dead. “How could he be, when he was so vibrant and full of life?” Victor wondered. “How could he die like that? The doubt would live in me all the rest of my days.”

They watched in horror as LST-531 exploded in the distance, erupting in fire and flinging bodies into the air before vanishing beneath the sea. The sight drove some survivors into renewed panic. At one point, soldiers attempted to force their way onto the raft, arguing that sailors were better suited to the water. Victor, though half-naked and without a belt himself, stood firm, warning that any attempt to board would be resisted. The confrontation ended in tense silence. At one point, Victor encountered an expert swimmer who had little issue being in the water and acted as if nothing were out of the ordinary. When asked where he came from, the man replied, “Out there, where the other raft and boat were drifting around.” After a brief rest, he said goodbye and swam back into the darkness.

The cold gnawed at them relentlessly. Victor vomited from swallowing oily seawater and urinated in his trousers for warmth. Beside him, a Black mess steward clung quietly. When someone shouted a racial slur and demanded the man be pushed off, Victor wrapped an arm around him and declared that anyone who tried would have to answer to him. No one challenged him further.

Hours passed in fog and darkness. The raft slowly rose higher as fewer men remained. Around dawn, perhaps twenty survivors were left. Victor felt numb, exhausted, tempted to surrender to sleep. Yet thoughts of home and sheer stubbornness stiffened his resolve. If anyone survived, he told himself, it would be him. To hell with it! he thought. Stay cool and not cold and you’ll be OK.

At first light, a ship emerged from the mist like an apparition. They shouted and waved as a small rescue boat approached. In the confusion, one of the men near Victor slipped away and vanished. When Victor tried to climb aboard, he fell between the raft and the boat, his legs battered by the bow until someone hauled him in. Wrapped in a jacket and covered with a tarp, he lay trembling.

They were taken aboard LST-515. Victor refused a stretcher and dragged his unfeeling legs up the ladder himself, considering it a gesture of gratitude. Stripped, given brandy, and put to bed, he later saw the corpsman he had left behind, alive. Though the man would not speak to him, Victor felt relief knowing he had survived. Victor was surprised to learn that the expert swimmer, named Lewis, had also survived, found still swimming by himself when he was rescued. After resting, he watched as bodies were pulled from the sea. Corpses lay everywhere. For him, no sight in the war would ever be more dreadful.

Survivors

Bartholomay survived by clinging onto a piece of debris with several others. The sight of living men had lifted his spirits. They grasped a small, unstable piece of wreckage. One man repeatedly tried to climb onto it, only to flip it and spill them back into the water. The effort had an absurd quality to it, but no one had the energy for anger. He heard the faint putter of an engine and a distant voice calling out. He could not imagine a more welcome sound. As the boat drew closer, he recognized it as LST-515 returning to search for survivors. Summoning the last of his strength, he swam toward it. The distance could not have been more than ten yards, but it felt like the longest swim he had ever made.

By dawn, when the LST-511 returned to search for survivors, only Crapanzano and one other man out of the original eleven remained clinging to the raft. Crapanzano had endured roughly four and a half hours in the freezing water. After three hours, he could no longer feel his legs; the cold had rendered them useless. He feared permanent damage, possibly even amputation. Still, he believed the high fever he had earlier may have helped him withstand the frigid conditions.

When Crapanzano spotted a rescue boat from the LST-511 approaching, relief overtook him. Certain he was saved, he finally let himself lose consciousness. He awoke later in a bunk aboard the rescue ship. The first words he spoke were to ask whether his legs would survive. The medical orderly assured him that, despite the ordeal, there appeared to be no lasting harm.

Eckstam remembered little of being in the water for hours. The following morning, he and several others were rescued. He later wondered “if many ‘dead’ victims were really in a state of hibernation, and what would have happened had we been able to immerse them in warm tubs. But who ever heard of a tub on an LST in wartime? We couldn't even do a reliable physical exam under the circumstances.”

Since he was unconscious nearly the entire time in the water, Sadlon remembered the least of his ordeal. He regained consciousness aboard another LST, where he had been placed on a mess table and covered with blankets while suffering from shock. He asked: “Where the heck am I?” He learned from a rescuer how he had nearly not made it: “You know, you are lucky,” the man told him. “We picked you up and piled you with the dead.” The man had seen Sadlon frothing at the mouth and picked him out of the pile. Sadlon never saw the man again: “I don’t even know who saved me.”

Blame

The bodies of the fallen were brought to a beach in the Lyme Bay area, initially buried in a mass grave. The daughter of a baker who supplied the U.S. troops recalled seeing “bodies, in American battle dress, laid flat and stacked, one on top of the other—there must have been dozens, all wet.” The convoy had been attacked by German S-Boot torpedo boats (known to the Allies as E-boats) that had sailed from Cherbourg. Several vessels had been hit: LST-507 and LST-531 were sunk, LST-289 was heavily damaged, and LST-511 had been accidentally hit by friendly fire. Official documents state that 248 recovered bodies were sent to Brookwood Cemetery in Surrey. Later, most were either repatriated to the United States or reinterred at Cambridge American Cemetery. Detailed breakdowns of Army and Navy records account for approximately 270 recovered bodies. The overall death toll was reported as 639, including 442 from the Army and 197 from the Navy, according to the Supreme Headquarters Allied Expeditionary Force in August 1944. An earlier Army-based estimate from April 1944, later cited in historical works, put the toll at 749 dead.

Sadlon remained bitter that survivors were denied leave because Allied commanders feared that revealing the disaster in Lyme Bay might jeopardize the upcoming Normandy invasion. He also believed mistakes contributed to the tragedy, claiming that Rear Admiral Donald P. Moon had failed to provide the promised naval escort for the LST convoy departing Plymouth. In reality, the situation predominantly involved communication failures in terms of the missing escort. The convoy was supposed to have been protected by two Royal Navy ships: HMS Azalea at the rear and HMS Scimitar at the front. However, the Scimitar never arrived because it had been accidentally rammed by an American landing craft (LCI-324) on its way to Slapton Sands on April 27, 1944, causing significant damage. The destroyer had to return to Plymouth for repairs, a decision the captain disliked but had to follow. Critically, no one informed the commander of Exercise Tiger, Admiral Moon, that the Scimitar would be absent, leaving the convoy with only one escort. The Commander aboard HMS Azalea knew that HMS Scimitar had left the convoy but had no way to relay this to the American LSTs. The exercise planners had never anticipated the need for direct communication between the Royal Navy and the U.S. Navy, so the two forces were operating on separate radio frequencies.

When the German E-boats attacked, ships were ordered not to stop for survivors. However, Lieutenant John Doyle, commanding LST-515, disobeyed orders to rescue those in the water, an action Sadlon believed saved his life. After recovering in hospital, Sadlon and other survivors were isolated at a British base and later assigned to dangerous ammunition-unloading duties. He eventually received the Purple Heart quietly, without ceremony, which he viewed as another effort to suppress details of the disaster. Sadlon later participated in the invasion itself, anchoring off Utah Beach, where he witnessed another tragedy when a destroyer struck a mine and its dead sailors were brought aboard his ship. Radioman Second Class Sadlon left the Navy on March 15, 1946, later serving in the Naval Reserve and being recalled during the Korean War.

Two Moons

After the attack in Lyme Bay, the surviving LSTs followed their standing orders to head for the nearest coastline and took refuge near Chesil Beach and Portland Isle. Wounded American soldiers were ferried ashore by small landing craft and carried up the beach on stretchers while local civilians looked on in shock. British personnel who witnessed the scene were immediately ordered to forget what they had seen and never discuss it. Fred Moon, a U.S. Navy Hospital Corpsman, was assigned to Netley Hospital, a large military hospital near Southampton that treated wounded soldiers. While stationed there in 1944, Moon helped care for casualties from Exercise Tiger. Moon recalled that the medical staff were ordered to keep the incident secret and warned that revealing it could lead to being “tried for treason and shot,” according to his paraphrased account.

The survivors were treated in hospitals or taken to bases across southern England, often under strict security. Many were isolated, guarded, or warned under threat of court-martial not to speak about the disaster. Although naval survivors normally received “survivor’s leave,” the men involved were kept in Britain so that news of the heavy losses would not spread before the upcoming invasion of France. The secrecy was intended to protect morale and conceal the scale of the disaster during preparations for Operation Overlord, the codename for the Battle of Normandy.

At higher command levels, information about the disaster emerged slowly. Early reports suggested several hundred casualties and the loss of valuable landing ships. Supreme Commander Dwight D. Eisenhower wrote on April 29 that the disaster “was not a restful thought to take home with me….apparently we lost a considerable number of men…we are stretched to the limit in the LST category, while the implications of the attack and the possibility of both raiders and bombers concentrating on some of our major ports make one scratch his head.”

Admiral Moon had overseen the rehearsal from his flagship and was responsible for the naval component of the operation. Following the attack, his initial reaction was captured in a handwritten note in which he stated: “This was a costly egg in our omelet.” He was soon summoned to meet senior officers aboard another ship, where he was confronted by a superior officer, Rear Admiral Arthur Struble. According to attendee Commander John Moreno, inside Struble’s stateroom, Moon waited by the door while Struble looked out toward Plymouth Harbor. Struble noticed a newly arrived British submarine displaying a broom on its periscope, a traditional sign meaning it had “swept the seas” of the enemy. Seeing this, Struble commented that at least someone had fulfilled their duty. Struble then turned to Moon “brutally snarled” the question: “All right, Moon, what happened?” Moreno later pinpointed this as the moment when Moon’s “mind snapped.”

Following the meeting, Moon spent hours interviewing officers and escort commanders to understand the failures that had allowed the German attack to succeed. Their discussions revealed serious operational problems: escort ships had poor communication arrangements with the convoy, warning signals about German E-boats had not been acted on in time, and there was confusion over who had overall authority. Moon learned from the escort’s Lieutenant Commander George Geddes that he “didn’t pick up the survivors…[W]e have had instructions not to pick up survivors until the actual attack is considered to be over. Being the only escort present, I considered my correct action to remain with the convoy while I radioed for assistance.”

Witnesses later recalled that Moon appeared exhausted and distressed in the aftermath of these revelations. Several officers who saw him that evening described him as deeply troubled by the disaster and the loss of life. Moreno later attended a dinner in which “poor Moon was out of his mind.”

At the same time, Allied intelligence worried that German forces might have captured officers who possessed sensitive knowledge about the invasion plans. This concern triggered an urgent search for bodies in the water to ensure that none of the missing officers with knowledge of D-Day preparations had been taken prisoner. While the officers who possessed highly classified information were eventually accounted for, many bodies were never recovered.

On May 6, Admiral Moon submitted his report on the disaster. He concluded that the tragedy had yielded valuable but needlessly costly lessons, many of which, such as proper use of life belts and procedures for launching landing craft, should have been obvious beforehand. He also noted a less intuitive lesson: vehicles should not be overloaded with fuel, carrying only what is necessary for safety. Moon recommended increasing escort ships to protect all sides of a convoy, though he acknowledged that Britain in 1944 lacked the resources to meet such demands. He further urged expanding air operations to target German E‑boats and their bases.

Admiral Moon, serving aboard his flagship Bayfield in Naples, took his own life on August 5 after a sleepless night. He became the only high‑ranking American officer to die by suicide during World War II. Some survivors, such as George Geddes and Moses Hallett, believed Moon viewed himself as responsible and ended his life out of remorse. In this sense, Moon came to be seen as another delayed casualty of the Tiger disaster. Geddes himself nearly became a scapegoat during the Royal Navy’s investigation, but ultimately no individual was blamed. Rear Admiral Brind, reviewing the case months after the event and just after Moon’s death, concluded that responsibilities were too unclear at multiple levels of command to assign fault, and he recommended that no action be taken against any officer involved. Moon had made himself the scapegoat before any official decisions had been taken. Lieutenant Moses Hallett recalled “being told by someone that I could forget about being court-martialed because Moon ‘had blown his brains out.’”

Missing this context at the time, Time magazine was at a loss trying to explain his death in 1944: “An impeccable Navy career had come to a tragic end…Though war has always had its combat suicides, Army and Navy annals record no precedent among officers of comparable rank.” In contrast to the official explanation of “battle fatigue,” Moreno offered his view that Moon’s “reaction to the attack…was to be greatly disturbed. He never got over it and it was the direct cause of his subsequent suicide.”

Remembrance

Survivors often avoided speaking about their experiences for decades. The lack of official acknowledgment compounded this; while there were scattered press reports and brief mentions in postwar books, the disaster received little attention. Exercise Tiger largely failed to enter America’s collective memory, overshadowed by better-known battles.

For decades, formal commemoration remained sparse. One of the most poignant individual acts of remembrance was that of Manny Rubin, a survivor who settled in Plymouth and, every April 28, cast flowers into the sea at Slapton Sands in honor of the dead. For more than forty years until official memorials were erected, his private ritual stood as one of the only tributes to the forgotten victims of Exercise Tiger.

Steven Sadlon was disappointed with the lack of attention the incident received: “It burns me up that this was kept secret so long and the way we were treated.” He praised the action of Captain Doyle, without whom his story would have remained untold: “Doyle went on against orders…All of the other LSTs just left. They didn’t stop to pick us up. That’s what hurts, you know.” Doyle never received a medal for his efforts. At his gravesite in Missoula, Montana, the following tribute is enscribed: “This monument is a tribute to Captain Doyle with the deepest respect from his crew of the LST 515 and the 100 men plus, as survivors of the sunken LSTs 507 and 531.”

Angelo Crapanzano kept his Bronze Star hidden in a drawer. “I wanted to forget,” he admitted. “I just couldn’t talk about what happened. The words wouldn’t come out without me filling up. I just kept the memory of the nightmare bottled up inside—and it smoldered.” After watching a segment featuring Exercise Tiger on the TV program 20/20 in 1984, Crapanzano wrote to Joseph McCann, asking whether McCann had been the man who rescued him from the water. Crapanzano recalled clinging to a burned-out raft and believed the odds were strong that McCann had been his savior. Soon afterward, McCann called him and confirmed that he had indeed picked him up. He explained that during his first pass, he thought the three men on the raft were dead. On returning, however, he saw movement and pulled them aboard his landing craft. One of the rescued men, whom he now knew to be Crapanzano, had been muttering about his legs.

After the call ended, Crapanzano was overwhelmed: “I sobbed uncontrollably for about ten minutes. My wife was startled and couldn’t understand why I was so upset. When I told her, she sighed, ‘My God, that was close!’ Fate had given me a second chance and made me wait forty years to hear the unbelievable truth.” Crapanzano recently passed away on January 31, 2025 at the age of 97, survived by his four children. His obituary noted he was “a proud veteran serving in the US Army during WWII.”

Shortly before 4 a.m. on the morning of the disaster, Captain Doyle’s voice came over the loudspeaker of the LST-515: “Now hear this! Hear this! We’re having a disagreement on what to do. Some want to go back to our base to save the ship and our lives. But my navy men and I agree that you don’t win wars by running. I have no authority over army soldiers and I won’t risk your lives without voluntary consent from you. The E-boats might return and we could still be sunk.” Corporal Eugene Carney recounted that many aboard the ship shouted “Let’s stay and fight!” in unison, as if they had rehearsed that moment. “We were so angry,” Carney remembered, “that we would have fought the Germans with pocket knives.” For Carney and other survivors, telling their stories was a relief. “I’ve had to keep this locked in my mind and heart all these years,” he wrote, “because no one seemed to remember or care to talk about this.”

There were things he should never have seen; some deeply disturbing on a personal level, others tied to sensitive national security secrets. For Celerino Castillo III, the battle against the prime enemy in his career began in the Vietnam War. While he initially experienced Viet Cong attacks at Cam Ranh Bay in 1971, soldiers in the war also contended with another persistent enemy: the pervasive presence of drugs.

A captain walked by with a clipboard handing out roles and Castillo became a sergeant of the base’s security forces, which was a thankless job. He patrolled for 12 hours a night starting at 7 p.m. and looked to keep the guards on their toes, seeking to surprise them and hoping they would challenge his presence. There were good guards who performed as he hoped, but there were also those who would pass the time by sleeping, smoking marijuana, or taking heroin. Some of the marijuana joints would be soaked in opium and the heroin would occasionally be hidden in gelatin capsules. Castillo found soldiers shooting heroin in the latrines, their faces showing the full effect of the drug. Illegal drug use was foreign to Castillo, as he had never tried anything more serious than whiskey and beer. Once a soldier was caught three times for these infractions, he would be court-martialed. This made Castillo severely unpopular and subject to threats. A friend approached his tent one night, warning him of an overheard conversation: “They said they were going to zap you between towers 4 and 5 and blame it on the VC.” Castillo held his M16 tight as he tried to fall asleep each night, watching the shadows cast against his tent and waiting for an intruder to make good on the threat, but the shadows never budged.

Castillo grew up in Pharr, Texas, a city connected by bridge to the Mexico border. His father, a decorated World War II veteran, instilled in him a deep sense of duty and patriotism. When Castillo received his draft notice in 1970, he felt fear mixed with pride; despite his mother’s desperate attempt to intervene, his father insisted he serve, continuing the family’s military tradition. While he started in Cam Ranh Bay, he soon transferred to an infantry unit near Bien Hoa, entering the jungle war. It was an exhausting cycle of patrols and ambushes under harsh conditions.

Heroin, widely available, devastated many troops, sometimes killing more effectively than enemy fire. “Men were shooting up in the open,” he recalled. “Soldiers would pop open the capsule, tap the powder into a spoon, and add a splash of water or liquor. With a candle or a can of sterno from their C-rations, they would heat up the spoon until the heroin dissolved and bubbled, then let it cool for a moment and draw it into a syringe. Pumping a fist to coax an artery, they would plunge the needle through the skin and surrender.” Castillo viewed the zombies walking around on heroin as the weak ones who could not cope with the war: “They were 19 and going mad.”

Just before going on patrol one day, a private had received a “Dear John” letter, informing him that his young wife in the United States had found someone else. “It don’t mean nothin’,” he claimed, stuffing the piece of paper into his rucksack. The soldier had recently turned to heroin to cope with the stress and had quickly become dependent. That night, overwhelmed, he injected a dangerously large amount and died: “He started foaming at the mouth…His buddy called for a medic, but he was dead before they could pull him from the hole.” Castillo reflected coldly on the death as inevitable, viewing it as a form of “natural selection,” and noted that it was the first soldier’s death he witnessed during the Vietnam War. Marijuana was a minor escape, while heroin proved far more destructive, leading some soldiers to wander off and die from overdoses beyond the camp perimeter. The unit sometimes staged their deaths as combat fatalities, shooting “a bullet in the body,” to spare certain soldiers’ families the embarrassment, while others were sent home with their addiction evident.

Heroin was also a tool of the enemy sappers in Vietnam, fighters who used it to carry out suicidal attacks with explosives. During one patrol, Castillo’s squad was warned of approaching Viet Cong and a young sapper charged toward them. Castillo shot him and another soldier finished the wounded attacker. Although shaken to his core, Castillo felt a grim sense of satisfaction, seeing the killing as revenge for fallen comrades, especially a squad member killed earlier by a sniper: “I looked into this boy’s dead eyes and felt my muscles relax. My anger finally had its sacrifice.”

Watching overdose deaths and bodies being shipped home in green bags every week deepened Castillo’s anger toward drugs and shaped his resolve to fighting drug abuse if he managed to make it out of the war alive. After returning from a month in the jungle, Castillo collapsed from exhaustion and was haunted by recurring nightmares, especially of the young sapper he killed and one involving his own death in battle. Sleep offered little relief, as many soldiers suffered similar trauma, sometimes waking up screaming. On the rare occasions he dreamed of home, the vision would be shattered by his current reality: “Shit, I’m still in Vietnam,” he muttered to no one after being awakened by a nearby mortar attack. Overwhelmed by fear, exhaustion, and the emotional strain, he broke down and cried for the first time since childhood.

Convinced he would die in Vietnam, Castillo wrote home urging his parents to prepare for the worst. During a mission to reinforce the Rangers who were “getting thumped in a firefight,” his overcrowded helicopter suffered a catastrophic accident when a grenade was accidentally triggered, killing many and sending the aircraft crashing into a river. Castillo narrowly escaped before the helicopter exploded; he was one of only two survivors. As he searched the wreckage for signs of life, he discovered a sergeant floating in the water who appeared unharmed. Maybe he’s just gone into shock, he thought. Pulling the man out of the water, a feeling of nausea overwhelmed Castillo once he realized the truth: “His face was just a mask—the back of his head was missing.”

Castillo and his company, exhausted after a long jungle patrol during the 1972 monsoon season, were unexpectedly called together and asked to volunteer for covert missions in Cambodia. The captain recruiting volunteers offered the following caveat: “If you get caught out there, as far as the Army is concerned, you were never there.” Castillo volunteered, having already come to terms with the possibility of death after surviving the helicopter crash. He became part of a six-man sniper team tasked with secretly crossing the border to eliminate village organizers and enemy leaders supporting opposing forces.

Operating mostly at night, the team infiltrated villages, observed daily life to identify leaders, and carried out precise killings before slipping back into the jungle. Their missions were tense and dangerous, including a close encounter with enemy troops that forced Castillo to remain perfectly still to avoid detection: “I did my best to become one with a thick bush, ignoring the ants crawling inside my fatigues for a free meal.” These covert operations, which officially never occurred, continued repeatedly through early 1972. Over time, Castillo learned to trust his instincts for survival, relying on subtle warnings of danger as he carried out the remainder of his tour in special operations.

As U.S. troop levels declined in Vietnam, Castillo’s tour was cut short. He left behind the bayonet he had taken from the fallen sapper and his memories of the names of the men he served with; only his photos remained. In April 1972, he departed on a “freedom flight,” cheered by some comrades and watched somberly by others; for them, the long conflict was still continuing.

DEA

Back in his old room Pharr, Texas, life outwardly resumed its familiar rhythm, but Castillo felt permanently changed. He kept his war experiences largely to himself, unable to share them with family. He received the Bronze Star and enrolled in criminology at Pan American University. While studying, he worked nights as a police dispatcher and gradually committed himself to a career in law enforcement, driven partly by what he witnessed in Vietnam.

By 1975, Castillo became a police officer in Edinburgh, Texas. His work began with routine small-town crime, but he soon grew interested in narcotics enforcement, seeing drugs increasingly flow through the Rio Grande Valley. Collaborating with Drug Enforcement Administration (DEA) agents, he developed informants and participated in cross-border investigations, gaining firsthand exposure to corruption and brutality among Mexican federal police, where torture was routinely used to extract confessions. “The unlucky and the uncooperative were hung from a beam,” he remembered, “doused with water and jolted with a battery powered cattle prod, which buzzed menacingly before biting into their damp skin. The police called it chicharra. The cicada.”

His dedication to narcotics work led him to apply to the DEA and after years of waiting, he was accepted in 1979. Almost immediately, however, his commitment was tested when he discovered his girlfriend’s stepfather was a drug trafficker. Despite the personal conflict, Castillo helped build the case that led to the man’s arrest. He became disillusioned with internal conflicts and questionable practices within the local DEA office, including poor handling of informants and rivalry among agents. Assigned unexpectedly to New York City, he left Texas and his girlfriend Noe behind, determined to prove himself in what he saw as his true calling, the escalating war on drugs.

NYC

Arriving in Manhattan in 1980, Castillo felt isolated and overwhelmed by the city’s intensity, which was far more disorienting to him than even Vietnam. He was assigned to the DEA’s largest division, he struggled to adapt to an unfamiliar environment, a tiny apartment in Queens, and loneliness far from home. He felt like quitting soon after meeting his supervisor Jeff Hall, who told him: “The first thing you have to do is get rid of that hat. The only people who wear cowboy hats here are queers.” Encouraged by his father, Castillo gradually decided to stay and learn the trade.

Over time, Castillo adjusted to New York life, building friendships within law enforcement, developing a love-hate relationship with the city, and gaining mentorship from experienced agents. Hall, his supervisor, made the news for testifying during a 1982 court case involving a cocaine trafficking investigation and tennis star Vitas Gerulaitis. As part of “Jeff’s Raiders,” a notoriously aggressive enforcement group, Castillo participated in frequent raids and street-level operations that sometimes included illegal searches and seizures. “We did away with reading their rights…We simply tossed them in jail for a night and took another ounce or kilo off the streets.” Putting aside their DEA training, Hall would lead the charge of agents with their .357 revolvers drawn, kicking down doors and yelling, “Hit the floor!” They once scared a pet dog “so badly it jumped through a window and dropped six stories to its death.” Although troubled by these practices, he suppressed his doubts, driven by his vow to fight narcotics and by the excitement of meaningful action. Hall himself had grown cynical: “The system doesn’t work,” he once explained to Castillo. “You’ll arrest those bastards and they’ll be out the next day, back on the streets.”

The expanding drug crisis of early-1980s New York, including the rise of cocaine and crack and the persistence of heroin networks, led to Castillo witnessing harrowing scenes of addiction and exploitation. One bust he conducted while undercover disturbed him for decades. “Is this good stuff?” Castillo asked while posing as a buyer. The drug dealer, “decked out in gold and silk,” brought out two underage girls who looked no older than 14. “These are the girls who test my stuff,” he said as he passed syringes to them. Castillo recalled what happened next: “The girls stripped from the waist do smiling in anticipation. My jaw went slack as they plunked do in chairs and spread their legs, expertly guiding needles to the large vein in their groins. Their heads lolled dramatically as they testified to the heroin’s quality with thick tongues.” Shocked and horrified, Castillo completed the buy and reported the situation to fellow agents. The dealer was violently arrested; the exploited girls were removed and taken to a shelter. As he continued to witness disturbing scenes and illegal actions on the part of the DEA, Hall took him aside, saying “Look, Cele, this is the way we do things. We’re a real close-knit group; we keep to ourselves.”

Castillo began proving himself through increasingly complex undercover work, including his first major solo case against a neighborhood cocaine dealer and pioneering use of the DEA’s “reverse” sting technique, posing as a seller to catch higher-level traffickers. His career advanced further during a long investigation into a major heroin trafficking network linked to organized crime families. Working with his partner Gerald Franciosa, Castillo helped infiltrate the operation through wiretaps, informants, and undercover work. After months of surveillance, the investigation culminated in a large, coordinated bust in 1982 that dismantled a major heroin ring and resulted in multiple high-profile convictions. Francis M. Mullen, the DEA Administrator, testifying before the President’s Commission on Organized Crime in 1983, indicated that the “18-month investigation culminated in the indictment of 28 narcotic traffickers…Convictions and significant sentences were given to the majority of the violators. Spin off investigations resulted in the disruption of three additional major international heroin smuggling organizations operating between Italy and the United States.”

Peru

Following the operation, his longtime partner Noe visited New York; Castillo proposed marriage and the pair were wed. After the birth of their first child, Castillo and his family moved to Lima, Peru, in 1984, where they initially experienced a brief sense of peace and stability in a guarded diplomatic enclave. Peru stood at the center of the global cocaine trade, its vast coca-growing regions feeding the rising demand for cocaine in the United States. Castillo arrived determined to confront what he saw as the heart of the drug supply.

Assigned to a small DEA office in Lima, Castillo was soon deployed into the Huallaga Valley, the core of Peru’s coca economy, where he worked alongside the Guardia Civil and their anti-narcotics unit (UMOPAR). In the dense jungle around Tingo María, Castillo hunted small coca-processing labs, burning crude facilities and disrupting local operations. He realized these actions barely affected the larger cocaine system: poor peasants grew coca to survive, while powerful Colombian cartels controlled production, airstrips, and profits. Corruption permeated the region, with military officers, police, and the guerrillas benefiting from cocaine money. Castillo was frustrated as low-level farmers suffered punishment while major traffickers remained untouched.

Castillo joined a group of Guardia officers on a mission to locate a suspected drug lab in the hills. Along the way, they discovered an abandoned camp marked with symbols of a guerrilla group and soon encountered the mutilated bodies of six men hidden in the brush. The horrified informant recognized the victims: “That’s my uncle,” he commented, pointing to a body. He then identified another corpse: “That’s my cousin.” They apparently had murdered as a warning. Fearing for their lives, the team abandoned the mission and retreated. The event deeply affected Castillo, intensifying his fears about the danger surrounding him and stirring guilt over the toll his work was taking on his family, his wife now pregnant with their second child.

The fear intensified when DEA agent Enrique “Kiki” Camarena was tortured and murdered in Mexico in 1985, forcing Castillo to question whether the mission was worth the risk. Investigators found an audio tape of his final moments, with Camarena heard begging his captors: “Don’t hit me anymore!” Concerned for his family’s safety, Castillo eventually sent Noe and their daughter back to the United States.

Working with the CIA, and Peruvian and Colombian police, Castillo helped plan a raid on a remote jungle airstrip and drug compound in the Callaru region. As he looked at the eager officers around him in his helicopter, Castillo realized “none of these men had participated in an air assault.” He hoped they could “keep their heads” if they happened to be attacked by the drug traffickers. The journey flying over the treetops reminded him of Vietnam, except here there were thousands of macaws blanketing the sky as the helicopters flew nearby. “They were so close I was tempted to reach through the open hatch to touch one,” he recalled.

As the helicopters approached the airstrip, the traffickers opened fire from a distance, and Colombian and Peruvian forces returned fire while closing in. From the air, Castillo’s team spotted two boats fleeing along the river; one escaped into the trees while the other was damaged by gunfire before disappearing toward the riverbank. Castillo and the others landed, advanced along the runway, and secured the area, but the traffickers had already fled into the jungle. Castillo conducted a headcount that confirmed that none of his team had been wounded. The team discovered a vast cocaine operation that included laboratories, aircraft, weapons, and large quantities of coca paste.

Castillo organized the perimeter through a tense night that featured sporadic gunfire from his team. Castillo questioned the men as to why they were firing into the darkness. “I saw them,” an officer explained, pointing to the jungle. “They’re out there,” a fellow officer confirmed. “Did they return fire?” Castillo asked. “No,” they replied. “Then don’t fire unless you’re fired upon,” Castillo insisted. The next morning, Castillo took the men to the area where they had fired, finding the bodies of four monkeys, after which “their buddies burst into fits of laughter.” Castillo summarized the value of the operation: “The Peruvian government estimated the compound’s value at $500 million. It was the biggest cocaine lab capture in South American history.” According to the Los Angeles Times, the operation uncovered six cocaine laboratories, including a large, sophisticated “super-lab” capable of producing about 300 kilograms of cocaine per day. “If the narco traffickers are smart, and nobody said they are dumb,” a Colombian air force general told the press, “they will not put another big lab that close to the Colombian border again.”

Guatemala

A new assignment for Castillo involved a transfer to Guatemala City in October 1985. As his plane crossed into Central America, Castillo anticipated there would be suspicion and hostility from the Guatemalans, where resentment toward past U.S. policies still lingered. He recalled the 1954 CIA-backed coup that overthrew Guatemalan President Jacobo Árbenz after his land reforms threatened U.S. corporate interests. In the decades that followed, Washington supported a succession of right-wing regimes that brought brutal repression. By 1985, a newly elected civilian president, Vinicio Cerezo, promised democracy, but real power still rested with the military establishment. Castillo quickly recognized that U.S. operations, including his own, ultimately depended on the goodwill of Guatemala’s armed forces.

Upon arrival, Castillo met his superiors in the small DEA office, including country attaché Bob Stia and agent Russell Reina, whose flamboyant appearance contrasted with his cautious approach to fieldwork: “Everything about Reina cried out for attention. Gold everywhere—pinky rings, bracelets, and a 50-peso gold medallion hanging around his neck. At first I thought Reina had just come from an undercover assignment and left his doper clothes on, but I soon realized it wasn’t an act—he really dressed that way.” The office was severely understaffed and responsible for four countries amid rising instability following the murder of DEA agent Camarena in Mexico. Castillo was assigned to oversee aerial eradication missions targeting marijuana and opium poppy crops in the Guatemalan highlands, a program with limited impact but symbolic value. Early experiences in Guatemala exposed him to the informal intelligence networks used by U.S. personnel, including reliance on local informants and brothels as sources of information.

Stia and Reina took Castillo to one such brothel in an upscale neighborhood in Guatemala City. After passing through heavy security, they entered an establishment run by a woman named Maruja that catered to wealthy clients. Castillo observed the lavish décor and noted that the girls looked no older than 18 and “sat up expectantly, waiting for a signal to do business.” Castillo chose as his companion a “Chinese girl with long black hair…Her black silk dress cut into a low V in front, showing her bare breasts when she leaned forward.” She appeared to be around 16 years old and described how she had come to Guatemala from Taiwan and used the money she earned to support her parents and family back home. Reina told him that for $25, he could bring her back to his room for the night. Castillo left instead, “too tired for anything but sleep.”

A Dark Secret

Through receiving briefings at the U.S. Embassy, Castillo learned more about the political landscape in Central America. In Guatemala, the military dominated despite the façade of democracy; in El Salvador, a brutal civil war persisted accompanied by massive U.S. aid. Violence, kidnappings, and repression were routine, and U.S. policy focused as much on geopolitical strategy as on narcotics enforcement. Castillo observed that the DEA’s role in the region was limited and more focused on gathering intelligence and avoiding political complications than on making arrests. It was in El Salvador that Castillo uncovered a secret the U.S. government tried to conceal, one that shattered his view of the drug war.

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Colonel Ioannis Ladas, Secretary-General of Greece’s Ministry of Public Order, summoned Panayiotis Lambrias, editor of the magazine Eikones, into his office on July 29, 1968. Ladas wanted to discuss the publication of an article noting that homosexuality had been regarded as normal in ancient Greece. As Lambrias entered, Ladas addressed him without looking up from the papers on his desk, sneering: “So you too are working in this anal periodical?” The insult stunned Lambrias into silence. He had no time to respond; Ladas suddenly rose from his desk and struck him “with his fist between my nose and my eye,” Lambrias recalled, then launched into what he described as “the insults of the lowest guttersnipe.” Between blows, the Greek government official shouted threats and abuse: “You are a pansy, a Bulgar. You shall die. I shall kill you with my own hands.” The attack escalated into a frenzy. “You have excrement in your very soul. You sell Greece for money,” Ladas roared, before turning to Lambrias’ family: “Your daughters are prostitutes.” Lambrias had two daughters, aged eight and ten at the time.

The beating continued with what Lambrias called “unheard-of mania.” He estimated that he was struck “ten to twelve times,” all while remaining upright and unable to speak. Throughout the assault, Ladas fixated on accusations of national betrayal, repeatedly branding him a Bulgarian and declaring that he had no place in Greece. “You must leave Greece. Go and join your friend Helen (Vlachos), that arch-prostitute,” he bellowed, referencing the Greek publishing heiress who had closed her newspaper in protest of the dictatorship. “If you don’t clear out I’ll kill you with my own hands.”

Even then, the humiliation was not over. Still striking him, Ladas summoned two subordinates and ordered, “Take him away along with the others and let him die. Don’t bring him out unless I tell you to.” For the new regime in Greece, this was not an isolated act. This was not the coup the powerful had planned.

Deane

I am not going to scream. I am not going to scream. I am not. I am not. Philip Deane was tied to a chair, being kept awake by his captors in North Korea in 1950. He could smell the breath of the man screaming before him, recoiling at “the stench of fermented soya bean paste.” The screaming was unending, a repetitious mantra meant to break his spirit: “You will never get out of here if you do not co-operate. You will never get out of here. Your wife will sleep with men. She will find one she will like better than you. You will never get out of here. Your wife will find one man she will like better than you. You will never get…”

Deane was captured in July 1950, only days after arriving in Korea as a war correspondent. He was wounded during a North Korean advance, taken prisoner, and marched barefoot to North Korea. Brought to a stark interrogation room, Deane was subjected to harsh treatment from a Russian officer he nicknamed Lavrenti, followed by two Koreans, Kim and Pak, who sought to force him to confess that he was an American spy. They demanded he make radio broadcasts accusing the United States of bombing civilians and argued that his journalistic work, including exposing sensitive information and infiltrating Albania, proved he was engaged in espionage rather than reporting. Deane refused to assist them, believing that any concession would strip him of control and endanger others.

The interrogations relied on relentless repetition, philosophical argument, sleep deprivation, intimidation, and psychological degradation. He was threatened with execution, told that his death would go unnoticed, and warned that his wife would forget him. His worsening gunshot wounds were used as leverage, with interrogators implying he would be denied medical care because spies were executed, not treated.

During an air raid, locked alone in the room and determined not to display fear, Deane cauterized his own infected wounds by burning twigs. Under sustained interrogation and physical abuse, he experienced a profound psychological split, separating into two selves. While his body remained strapped to a chair, absorbing pain and humiliation, his mind retreated into vivid childhood memories, particularly of his father and uncle, men who he believed embodied courage and defiance under repression in Greece. Deane would not be released from North Korean custody until April 9, 1953, only a few months before the end of the Korean War.

Washington

“Watch how she jiggles as she struts,” Senator Lyndon Johnson directed Deane as they sat in a U.S. Senate office, leering at his secretary, “a spectacular blonde,” in Deane’s words. Johnson continued: “You don’t see such high spirited strutting nor jiggling every day.” After she had walked several steps on the carpet in one direction, Johnson demanded that she turn around and walk back. He enjoined Deane in a voice loud enough that she could hear him: “Now watch the back view and refresh yourself before we get down to business.”

Born in Greece, Deane’s real name was Gerassimos Gigantes; the London Observer had given him the pen name Philip Deane. After his imprisonment in Korea, the moniker had “exposure and commercial value. So Philip Deane I remained.” He was granted an interview with LBJ in the late 1950s, which he found “depressing.” He criticized Johnson’s “comic strip vision of the world, with American supermen fighting Communist evil everywhere, while lesser nations, like Greece, expressed their gratitude for U.S. generosity.” Johnson was adamant that other nations had much for which to be thankful, given the United States’ interest in their affairs.

When LBJ became President, Deane joined the Greek government as a Secretary General to the King. Deane reported on Johnson’s interaction with Alecos Matsas, the Greek Ambassador to the U.S. who had been summoned to the White House to discuss an ongoing dispute regarding the island of Cyprus. A U.S. plan was being floated that would have given possession to Cyprus to Greece, with some self-governing Turkish areas and a Turkish military base on the island, in exchange for Greece giving Turkey the island of Castellorizo. “As Prime Minister [Georgios] Papandreou told you,” Matsas countered, “no Greek Parliament could accept such a plan. At any rate, the Greek constitution does not allow a Greek government to give away a Greek island.” LBJ was incensed: “Then listen to me, Mr. Ambassador. Fuck your Parliament and your Constitution. America is an elephant. Cyprus is a flea. Greece is a flea. If those two fleas continue itching the elephant, they may just get whacked by the elephant’s trunk, whacked good.”

Matsas emphasized that “Greece is a democracy; the Prime Minister cannot act against the wishes of Parliament.” Johnson had no use for this rationale: “We pay a lot of good American dollars to the Greeks, Mr. Ambassador. If your Prime Minister gives me talk about democracy, parliament, and constitutions, he, his parliament and his constitution may not last very long.” A memo summarizing a meeting between LBJ and Matsas on June 11, 1964 quoted Johnson as urging the Greeks and Turks to make proposals to one another: “Get together and work something out. If not, all NATO will become involved.” A CIA paper from August 1964 opined on the overall value of the proposed island transfer: “An offer of Castellorizo to Turkey by Greece could not be considered very generous. The island is generally barren, has no significant agriculture or industry, and supports a dwindling population.”

Deane learned more about the U.S. administration’s views of his government through U.S. reporter Marguerite Higgins. Johnson’s view was that the Greek Prime Minister Papandreou had “betrayed America.” When Higgins asked LBJ to explain, he ranted: “We gave the son of a bitch American citizenship, didn’t we? He was an American, with all the rights and privileges. And he had sworn allegiance to the flag. And then he gave up his American citizenship. He went back to just being a Greek. You can’t trust a man who breaks his oath of allegiance to the flag of these United States.”

Papandreou’s son Andreas, elected to the Greek Parliament in 1964, was rising through the ranks quickly. Deane brought his concerns about U.S. perspectives to Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy: “All kinds of unsubstantiated information is reaching Washington,” Deane stated. “Greeks like Andreas Papandreou are being represented as Communists by your people in Greece. The U.S. might be badly misled by wrong information coming from Greece.” Kennedy replied: “There’s nothing I can do about it. Lyndon won’t listen to me.”

The King’s Coup

While working for the King, Constantine II of Greece, Deane became aware early on of a plot to overthrow the government. General Konstantinos Dovas, head of the military household for the King, confided hints of what was in the works: “If we must have a Parliament, and I suppose we must, let us reduce its capacity for mischief. We should have something like the American system; only ours would be better because we would not have to elect a president.” Deane learned that under this proposal, the King would possess powers similar to the U.S. president, except he would be unelected. Parliament, in Dovas’ words, “would approve or disapprove the legislation proposed by the King’s ministers. There should be limits, of course, to how much disapproving our indescribable representatives of the rabble could do.” Deane went to the King himself with this information and found that he was in favor of the idea, Deane later writing: “The fact that he would not be elected but would be chief executive by divine right and heredity, did not seem to strike His Majesty as odd.”

Deane took up the matter again with Dovas: “I don’t believe in coups,” Deane stated. “I hope measures have been taken to make sure no coup takes place.” Dovas smiled: “We’ve taken measures. We have seen to it that loyal officers hold key positions.” Given his role, Deane was able to piece together a list of coup plotters by pretending to need their names for other reasons: “That officer who entered General Dovas’ office,” he would say, “my father showed him to me once and told me he was remarkable, I’ve forgotten his name…” He assembled his list, which included figures such as Georgios Papadopoulos, Ioannis Ladas, and five other senior participants. Deane asked his father, who had previously worked in Greek intelligence, to weigh in: “These names you gave me, of the officers who are visiting the palace, they are all part of a plot. There will be a coup. The leaders will be generals. The junior ones…are doing the dirty work. They will strike one night and overthrow the government.” Deane’s father explained that his sources were former associates from the KYP, the Greek CIA: “I got drunk and gave my anti-Papandreou speech. By the small hours, we were all drunk and many of them talked. The coup is no longer a contingency plan. It is a reality. Only the date has not been fixed.”

Deane checked out the rumor at the U.S. Embassy, where he encountered the CIA Chief of Station John M. “Jack” Maury. The CIA Chief openly boasted of his power and staff: “I have 60 full-time members of my staff which makes me more important than the ambassador, I guess, as anyone can see: my official car is bigger and more expensive than his,” he laughed. He called Papandreou “‘a real chameleon: a Trotskyist, then an American citizen who actually served in our Navy, and now he gives up American citizenship and becomes an anti-American.” When Deane probed whether Greece had any hope of good governance through its politicians, a U.S. colonel in the conversation responded: “Not by your politicians, but there are other men.” The colonel pointedly made an endorsement: “Remember Colonel Papadopoulos, then. He will govern you well.”

Deane again called his father, who explained how Andreas Papandreou was courting disaster by quoting the U.S. declaration of independence and making it “sound subversive.” Deane chastised him: “Be serious father.” His father was upset at the accusation: “I am being serious, goddammit. To the Americans we are a base they have bought. They want no headaches, no lectures, no interviews to U.S. journalists who then criticize the American government for not supporting democracy in the cradle of democracy. The Americans are businessmen. They have had a right wing caretaker in this property of theirs and were prepared to try a Liberal caretaker, but they will keep the Liberal only so long as he acts submissively like the old one.” Deane was surprised at his father’s view: “You make us sound like a colony.” His father was nonplussed: “What did you think we were?”

On March 8, 1967, a meeting in Washington, DC of the 303 Committee, a group tasked with overseeing the CIA, was convened. The White House committee was given an intentionally “drab and innocuous” name to not draw attention to its purpose. Topic number 4 on the agenda was Greece; U.S. National Security Advisor Walt Rostow had reservations on conducting covert political action in the upcoming Greek elections but wanted to hear the arguments. The committee heard that “U.S. participation could not guarantee the winner it certainly would have an impact…Andreas Papandreou had been observed for a sufficient period to realistically place him in a camp definitely hostile to U.S. interests.” Papandreou as a candidate was deemed to be difficult to stop, since he was “driving very hard while other candidates were, at best, lethargic.”

Rostow wanted to know if the approach to interfering in the election was following “momentum started in the fifties.” The U.S. had “assets, techniques and money” in place in Greek and “could perform almost by rote.” He wondered if the threat was “that great?” Foy D. Kohler, the former U.S. Ambassador to the Soviet Union, thought that the papers prepared “had not made the election issues entirely clear” and asked if they were “attributing more potential to Andreas than he deserved.” Rostow was then called away to another meeting and they agreed to finish the discussion on March 13. On March 9, the CIA sent a cable with the subject line “Increased Activity of Group Advocating Dictatorship,” outlining the pending plans for a coup in Greece. According to their source, Lieutenant General Grigorios Spandidakis, the plan for “the military take-over of Greece [is] contingent upon the occurrence of another political crisis. In the event such a crisis occurs, the plan outlines the role of key military units which would be involved in the take-over.” The units were in a “fairly high state of readiness,” Spandidakis reported.

The 303 Committee reconvened on March 13 to conclude the discussion on potential covert action involving the Greek elections. The CIA noted Papandreou’s appeal to “discontented youth”; Rostow countered that “there were other examples of leftists settling down after an election,” citing Rómulo Betancourt, the former President of Venezuela, as an example. The CIA believed that Papandreou represented a “distinct threat” due to “his percolating animosity to the United States which was unlikely to change,” adding that as Papandreou moved “closer to victory,” the potential increased that the monarchy and military would “suspend the constitution and take over.” Divided over how to proceed, they decided to take the matter up with Secretary of State Dean Rusk, who was reported the next day as coming down “negative. In the Greek case, he believes the possible political gain is outweighed by the security risks.” Rusk revealed that there was a group of “dual-national Greek-Americans” seeking the government’s overthrow and stated that if they needed the CIA’s $200,000-$300,000 ($1.9-$2.9 million today) to sway the election, “they should have no trouble raising that sum themselves without involving the United States Government.”

Stones

As part of their 1967 concert tour, the Rolling Stones played in Athens on April 17, 1967. Playing to 10,000 young Greeks at Panathinaikos Stadium, the band sparked excitement as the first major rock act to perform in Greece. A heavy police presence overshadowed the performance, which was cut short. When Mick Jagger attempted have the band’s fixer Tom Keylock throw carnations into the crowd, police responded with water cannons, prompting the band to abandon the stage and flee. Officers stormed the stage, the show was halted, and clashes erupted as police attacked the crowd and made arrests. U.S. Foreign Service Officer Robert V. Keeley was in attendance with his wife and teenager daughter. As he watched the police “viciously beat the kids with sticks,” a journalist friend commented to them, “They’re practicing for the coup. That’s the way it will be when it comes.”

By this point, Keeley had became convinced that Greece was on the brink of a military-backed dictatorship and that such an outcome would be disastrous for U.S. interests. With the elections 38 days away, Keeley sat down to draft a detailed memorandum warning the Embassy of the danger and urging immediate action. Keeley argued that a coup was increasingly likely because powerful forces, including the Palace, conservative political elites, and the military, were determined to prevent a likely electoral victory by Papandreou. He reasoned that postponing elections, engaging in massive fraud, or provoking unrest would all lead inexorably to dictatorship, most likely imposed before the elections rather than after them. He stressed that timing was critical: the decisive window was the weeks leading up to the vote, and the coup-makers would probably act without warning to present the United States with a fait accompli.

Keeley warned that, regardless of U.S. intentions, most Greeks would hold Washington responsible for any dictatorship, believing the United States either condoned or engineered it. Keeley urged clear, unequivocal U.S. opposition in advance, arguing that American leverage, through NATO, military aid, and security guarantees, gave Washington a real chance to deter a coup. Ambiguous signals, he cautioned, could encourage the King or military leaders to miscalculate disastrously.

In assessing consequences, Keeley rejected the idea that dictatorship would stabilize Greece or contain communism. Drawing lessons from the Metaxas regime that ruled the Kingdom of Greece from 1936 to 1941, he argued that repression would likely strengthen the left underground, alienate the political center, and ultimately produce a far broader resistance movement, potentially leaving Greece vulnerable to communist dominance once the dictatorship collapsed. He believed this outcome could be even more dangerous than tolerating an Andreas Papandreou government, whose reformist agenda he saw as partly necessary and whose foreign-policy independence he viewed as comparable to trends elsewhere in Europe. “The only way out of this dilemma that I can see,” he wrote, “is that we must at all cost prevent the establishment of a dictatorship.”

In retrospect, Keeley noted that he correctly foresaw a coup but misidentified its form. He finished the memo on the evening of April 20 and stored it in a safe at the U.S. Embassy, intending to have a secretary type it up the next morning, unaware of how imminent the crisis truly was.

The Colonels’ Coup

“Oh my God!” Keeley exclaimed the next morning when he learned of the takeover from his son, who reported that schools and buses were shut down and tanks were moving toward Athens. Driving to the U.S. Embassy, Keeley was stopped at a major roadblock where Greek soldiers barred all civilian diplomats, even ambassadors, while allowing foreign military officers to pass, an arrangement that struck him as politically telling. As one of the few diplomats who spoke Greek, Keeley took a leading role in arguing with the captain in charge and organizing fellow diplomats to press their case. The confrontation grew tense: “At one point,” Keeley remembered, “the soldiers pushed us back from the intersection toward the nearest apartment building, and a few colleagues decided they should perhaps go home and wait things out after they observed some bloodstains on the sidewalk nearby.” Among those turned back was CIA station chief Jack Maury, who later returned wearing his old Marine colonel’s uniform and successfully passed through the checkpoint. Eventually, the captain temporarily lifted the restriction, allowing the diplomats through.

Once the diplomats made their way to the office, the U.S. Embassy in Greece that day reported to Washington that a military coup had taken place, led by a “small army group” which did not include “High Command, [the] King or civilian political leaders.” Andreas Papandreou was reported to have been arrested and taken to a “local military prison.” That evening, U.S. Ambassador Phillips Talbot revealed that King Constantine was “blazingly angry” that he and his Generals were no longer in control of Greece; his planned coup had been usurped by another coup. He now bitterly complained that “incredibly stupid ultra-right-wing bastards, having gained control of tanks, have brought disaster to Greece.” He considered “shooting [the] perpetrators” when they arrived at the Palace but thought this would be “worthless” given that the Palace was “surrounded by tanks loyal to them.” It was “important to hold [the] King’s comments closely at this time,” Talbot noted. The State Department expressed that the U.S. government was “deeply distressed” at “the use of American-furnished equipment to overthrow the constitutional government of Greece.”

In contrast to Deane’s experience with the CIA Station Chief, Keeley portrayed Maury as a polished, old-school Virginia gentleman who possessed a courteous, easygoing manner. A former Marine colonel, he avoided discussing his postwar career but had spent several years in Greece running a large CIA operation with apparent ease and firm control. Although he occasionally entertained colleagues with hints of covert intrigues, he seemed to reserve his most sensitive knowledge for trusted confidants. “There were rumors that he had a mistress: no one cared,” Keeley recalled. “If he didn’t have one, he should have. It went with his role.”

The leader of the coup, Georgios Papadopoulos, had been a CIA agent for many years, and acted as liaison to the CIA from the KYP, the Greek intelligence agency. “These colonels had been plotting for years and years,” Keeley explained. “They were fascists. They fitted the classic definition of fascism, as represented by Mussolini in the 1920s: a corporate state, uniting industry and unions, no parliament, trains running on time, heavy discipline and censorship…almost a classic fascist ideal.” Despite the ties between Papadopoulos and the CIA, the coup took the Agency by surprise. As CIA officer Richard Lehman recalled: “The only time I saw [CIA Director Richard] Helms really angry was when the Greek colonels’ coup took place in 1967. The Greek generals had been planning a coup against the elected government, a plan we knew all about and was not yet ripe. But a group of colonels had trumped their ace and acted without warning. Helms had been expecting to be warned of the generals’ coup, and when a coup occurred, he naturally assumed it was this one, and he was furious.”

The U.S. Embassy urgently sought biographic and political information on the officers who had seized power in order to assess the new regime’s orientation. Washington pressed for insight into whether the coup leaders were aligned with familiar, pro-American senior generals or represented a more opaque faction. However, U.S. military attachés and JUSMAGG proved largely unhelpful: their files focused on career details and personal trivia, avoided political assessments, and reflected an ingrained belief, despite historical evidence, that the Greek army was apolitical. Moreover, few coup leaders had received U.S. training, suggesting they were mid-level, less distinguished officers, often lacking English proficiency.

In desperation, Embassy officials turned to the CIA station, at which “the number two CIA officer proudly showed us a report from January 1967” identifying a conspiratorial group led by Colonel Papadopoulos. Crucially, there were no subsequent CIA reports on this group after January, even though coup rumors were rife in Athens. Instead, intelligence attention had shifted almost entirely to a different, senior-officer plot associated with General Spandidakis.

Later inquiries at the State Department’s Intelligence and Research confirmed this gap. Analyst Charilaos Lagoudakis recalled extensive CIA reporting on the Papadopoulos group between 1965 and January 1967, including warnings that it was prepared to stage a right-wing coup and would seek U.S. support afterward. Lagoudakis had explicitly requested further intelligence in February 1967, but none arrived before the coup. Keeley speculated that either the conspirators severed their intelligence links once they moved into operational mode, or that later intelligence existed but was withheld or not disseminated, leaving U.S. officials strikingly unprepared for the April 21 takeover.

Breakdown

In the immediate aftermath of the April 21 coup, Greek employees of the U.S. Embassy were sent home, and although the Embassy was officially closed the following Saturday, work continued amid intense pressure. The Political Section resumed its routine with a briefing by Aleko Tzinieris, their press analyst, who noted the strict censorship now imposed: Union of the Democratic Left newspapers were shut down, conservative publisher Helen Vlachos halted her papers rather than submit to censorship, and Eleftheria ceased publication after its editor, Panos Kokkas, fled the country during the coup. Then Tzinieris did something completely out of character that they did not expect.

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While working undercover for the CIA in the late 1950s, Wilbur “Bill” Eveland learned important lessons in how corruption could threaten to create an international crisis. He heard that members of the U.S. Navy would visit Lebanon for shore leave, but that they were officially barred from the red-light district, given the risk and prevalence of venereal disease. Handing sailors from the Sixth Fleet a map highlighting the forbidden zones was, in Eveland’s view, like waving a red flag near a bull. During a raid on a brothel by shore patrol units in conjunction with Lebanese gendarmes, a U.S. sailor fled through a window and collided into a Lebanese man on the street, knocking him over and breaking his leg. The sailor fled and was never identified. The injured man happened to belong to a politically influential group and the Lebanese foreign ministry demanded that the U.S. compensate him for his injuries and lost wages.

Eveland’s associate had already paid his medical bills but now he needed to calculate an additional amount for six weeks of lost income for a pimp who managed five young prostitutes. Eveland gave him the going rate for cabaret girls but this was of no use; they instead had to calculate the rate of “‘tricks’ per hour, not per night.” They eventually settled on an exchange: a 1954 Ford car to be imported to Lebanon. As the transaction was being processed, Eveland cursed his CIA colleagues for not allowing him to keep his State Department diplomatic passport, which would have made him immune from local laws, including the import duties he now had to pay on the car. His lack of diplomatic immunity would have much more serious consequences for him professionally and personally later.

Grammar

Eveland had a front row seat to the forming of U.S. Middle East policy during his career in the U.S. government. Originally from Spokane, Washington, Eveland joined the U.S. Army in 1940 and was recruited in 1941 into the Corps of Intelligence Police, later the Counter Intelligence Corps, where he held senior field and intelligence posts, including leadership of CIC offices in Panama, until 1948. Preparing for a diplomatic intelligence role, Eveland studied Arabic for a year at the Army Language School and served at the U.S. Embassy in Baghdad from 1950 to 1952. He later became the Army’s Near East intelligence specialist. Despite his years of experience, once he started working with the CIA in the early 1950s, he realized he still had much to learn.

Being privy to discussions at high levels of U.S. government decision making was eye-opening for Eveland. When Ambassador Jefferson Caffery reported that Egypt had declined U.S. military aid in favor of increased economic assistance, the CIA challenged this account, arguing that true negotiations were being conducted directly with Gamal Abdel Nasser through CIA channels. The Agency proposed a covert scheme to funnel military assistance to Egypt through unattributed funds disguised as economic aid, bypassing both legal and diplomatic constraints. Tasked with advising the Secretary of Defense, Eveland opposed the CIA plan: “I recommended that we oppose it as contrary to law,” he remembered. He warned that the small, covert sums proposed would likely anger rather than satisfy Nasser once Egypt’s larger arms needs became clear. His recommendation was overruled and the CIA prevailed in the Operations Coordinating Board (OCB), a committee set up by President Eisenhower to oversee covert operations. The Pentagon was ordered to send two officers, secretly and under CIA arrangements, to meet Nasser, Eveland among them. Eveland expressed deep unease at the CIA’s growing role in conducting what amounted to U.S. diplomacy, which he raised with Assistant Secretary Henry Byroade: “When I asked Byroade if the Dulles brothers might not between them be making and implementing some aspects of American foreign policy, I was not reassured when he only laughed.”

Unexpectedly appointed from the Army General Staff to a senior policy role in the Office of the Secretary of Defense, Eveland became chief of Middle East policy planning within the Office of Foreign Military Affairs. In this role, Eveland familiarized himself with two key National Security Council (NSC) documents. After reviewing the first, NSC 5428 on U.S. policy in the Middle East, he dismissed it as largely being rhetorical; it endorsed Arab-Israeli peace efforts, support for the “northern tier” states, and the protection of Western interests, but it lacked concrete plans. The second, NSC 5401 on denial of petroleum resources, troubled him deeply and the document remains classified to this day. It had been approved by the President on January 2, 1954 and outlined active plans for the military and CIA to destroy Middle Eastern oil fields to prevent their use by a Soviet invasion. Eveland believed that Western oil companies were almost certainly aware of this policy, given their necessary cooperation, but doubted that the oil-producing states themselves knew their resources might be deliberately destroyed. He feared the potential consequences of this policy: if U.S. acted and the anticipated Soviet attack never came, the destruction of Arab oil resources could drive regional governments to welcome the Soviets and leave the United States unable to justify or recover from the damage it had caused.

Expanding military aid to Iran, Eveland believed, was an entirely different matter. In preparation for an impending NSC decision, he spent weeks immersed in reports from American officials in Tehran. At the time, Iran hosted two U.S. military missions: one responsible for maintaining internal security, the other theoretically tasked with enabling Iran’s armed forces to resist a Soviet invasion long enough for Western reinforcements to arrive. In parallel, after assisting the Shah’s return to power, the CIA was channeling covert funds into a massive expansion of Iran’s intelligence service and secret police, SAVAK, designed to secure the Shah’s rule. The CIA Station Chief in Beirut, Ghosn Zogby, later informed Eveland that the coup in Iran that brought the Shah back to power had been engineered by the Agency’s Kim Roosevelt at a cost of “a mere $10,000 and six or seven career CIA agents.”

Despite Iran’s economic fragility and internal instability, the State Department recommended substantial increases in deliveries of tanks, artillery, aircraft, and other heavy weapons to the country. Eveland, representing the Department of Defense, was looking to articulate a contrary position grounded in Joint Chiefs of Staff assessments: that U.S. funding should prioritize internal security rather than sophisticated military hardware.

Eveland apprehensively sat next to General Charles Bonesteel, Defense’s representative on the Planning Board. Chairing the meeting was Robert Cutler, President Eisenhower’s national security advisor. Eveland studied the faces around the room and spotted CIA Deputy Director for Intelligence Robert Amory, his assistant William Bundy, as well as Richard Bissell, an assistant deputy director from the Agency’s clandestine services. They were there, Eveland presumed, to ensure that the intelligence community’s formal assessment of Iran did not undermine their case for directly financing the Shah and SAVAK.

Position papers from each department and agency were circulated. Cutler reviewed them one by one, invited discussion where disagreements arose, or simply selected the paper most consistent with the President’s views and declared it official policy. Eveland was disappointed that the paper he had drafted was on the bottom of the stack. When Cutler reached Eveland’s paper, he picked up a red pencil, shook his head, and circled a passage. Cutler demanded: “Who wrote this thing?” Bonesteel replied: “Major Eveland, sir; he’s sitting here with me.” Holding the red pencil and peering over his glasses, the President’s national security adviser turned directly to Eveland. “Major,” he said, “what in hell do you mean by ‘the Iranian army’s inability to intelligently and effectively absorb and employ sophisticated military equipment’? That’s wrong, doubly wrong! Don’t you know that?”

Reaching into his briefcase, Eveland took out a report from the U.S. Army mission in Iran, signed by the commanding major general. He began reading aloud, describing how a shipment of olive-drab paint, delivered in drums months earlier, had been mistaken for lubricating oil by Iranian tank crews responsible for maintaining one hundred new Sherman tanks. They had poured the paint into the engines’ crankcases, disabling them completely. Henry Byroade burst out laughing at the anecdote, despite the fact that his own paper had cited the U.S. ambassador’s assurances of Iran’s readiness against a Soviet attack. “And, sir,” Eveland added, “I’ve many more examples here to cite.” Cutler had another, much less substantive, aspect in mind with his criticism. “You miss the point, Eveland,” Cutler snapped. “Your paper not only splits an infinitive; it does so twice! Clean up your grammar and send the paper back to me. I agree entirely that the Iranians are far from ready for more heavy equipment, and I’ll send your corrected work to the President and the NSC for final approval as U.S. policy.” Cutler smiled at Eveland and brought the meeting to a close.

Overthrowing the Middle East

In meetings with Evelyn Shuckburgh, the British Assistant Under-Secretary in charge of Middle East affairs, and his team, Eveland took careful notes for CIA Director Allen Dulles. Shuckburgh wanted to discuss Saudi Arabia and what could be done to “bring about a fundamental change in the government of Saudi Arabia.” To Eveland, “that sounded as if the British wanted a coup to eliminate the Saudi monarchy and planned to try this with or without the help of the CIA.” Shuckburgh’s stance was euphemistically referenced in a State Department memo in January 1956: “His solution is a tough policy against Saudi Arabia in which the British hope very much we will join.”

A flight with Shuckburgh proved largely unproductive in Eveland’s view. When Eveland voiced his concern that Iraq might attempt to take over Syria, either through a coup or by military force, Shuckburgh responded angrily: “Perhaps you’d prefer to have the CIA’s Nasser in control of Syria instead.” Eveland suggested that it might be better to allow the Syrians to determine their own course instead of having the Egyptian leader take them over, but Shuckburgh dismissed this as impossible. In Shuckburgh’s view, Nasser sought to dominate Syria and was acting as a Russian proxy in the region. Becoming increasingly drunk via the cocktails on the plane, Shuckburgh claimed that U.S. funds sent to King Saud were indirectly supporting Nasser’s ambitions in Syria. Shuckburgh added a final observation, as Eveland paraphrased: “someday America might wake up and realize that Iraq represented the salvation of the West in the Middle East.”

Eveland became familiar with some of the CIA’s operations in the Middle East, including how they referenced them internally. Cryptonyms that began with “WA” were for projects related to Syria, “CU” for Iraq, “SI” referred to Egypt, “PE” for Lebanon, and “NO” was reserved for Jordan. Eveland did not realize at the time how significant the project to strengthen King Hussein of Jordan would become. King Hussein was designated “NORMAN” and the program providing him with direct financial support was code-named “NOBEEF” by Kim Roosevelt. This cryptonym concealed multimillion-dollar payments to the king for years until it was exposed by the press in 1977, by which point the payments had been occurring for 20 years: “They were usually delivered in cash to the king by the CIA station chief in Amman,” the Washington Post reported.

In late March 1956 while in Beirut, Eveland received a cable directing him to proceed to London. CIA officer Jim Eichelberger flew from Cairo to meet him there for what Eveland expected would be difficult discussions with the British government about Middle Eastern affairs. Eveland learned through reading press reports on the flight over that the Egyptians and Saudis were seeking to drive Britain from the Middle East entirely. When Eichelberger explained that their meetings would be with Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service (MI6), Eveland joked that perhaps they were being invited to assist in eliminating Nasser. Eichelberger replied in a serious tone: “If our British cousins had their way, that would be just the plan.” These were to be exploratory talks with MI6 from the CIA’s perspective; any decisions were to be delayed until Allen Dulles and Kim Roosevelt arrived there early the next week.

Eveland then asked whether this meant he would be openly identified as a CIA specialist, abandoning his OCB cover. “Of course,” Jim replied, “the British already know your true status.” Eveland was displeased, although there was nothing he could about it. Eichelberger reassured him that liaison between the CIA and SIS was “completely frank and quite secure.” Eveland was interested in gaining firsthand insight into how the much-praised British intelligence service functioned.

Taking the London Underground, they got off at St. James Park Station to approach a block of unremarkable offices known as the Broadway Buildings, headquarters of MI6. After passing through the lobby of the main building, they crossed an alley to a second entrance, where an antiquated elevator took them to the top floor. Eveland and Eichelberger entered a small room with water-damaged walls to find six men seated around a long conference table. The men were wearing rumpled English suits and none of them looked like a typical movie spy: “There wasn’t a James Bond type in the bunch.” To Eveland, they most closely resembled ordinary clerks, rather than the elite Oxbridge graduates as they were known to be by reputation.

The meeting was led by George Kennedy Young, deputy director under Major General Sir John Sinclair, the MI6 chief. Young, a large and formidable figure, stated bluntly that the gathering reflected a shift in British Middle East policy. According to him, the new approach had been communicated and approved by both U.K. Foreign Secretary Selwyn Lloyd to Secretary of State John Foster Dulles. Recalling earlier discussions in Washington and British hints that regime change might be necessary in Egypt and Saudi Arabia, Eveland wondered whether the Foreign Office had abandoned hope of a diplomatic solution and given Young and his colleagues carte blanche. Eichelberger clarified to Young that their role was limited to gathering facts and that they were not authorized to commit to any plans on behalf of the U.S. government. Young brushed this aside impatiently, suggesting that the Americans were simply unaware of agreements already reached between Lloyd and Dulles.

Young then laid out the British view: Egypt, Saudi Arabia, and Syria posed a threat to Britain’s survival and their governments would have to be undermined or removed. Iraq was the linchpin of British influence and regional stability, he explained, making it essential to bolster Prime Minister Nuri al-Said’s position swiftly and decisively. Turkey and Iran were regarded as allies who might assist British actions. Since Egypt’s Nasser could not be confronted immediately, priority had to be given to Syria, which Young stated was on the brink of becoming a Soviet satellite. British planners assumed that action in Syria would provoke Saudi hostility, necessitating the overthrow of King Saud next. After that, before Nasser could deploy Soviet bombers against Israel, he would have to be eliminated. Young warned that Jordan and Lebanon’s futures depended on rapid action in Syria and insisted that no more than a month could elapse before Syria’s government was overthrown.

Eveland listened in disbelief to all of this news as Young asserted that the initial Syrian operation could be carried out using British resources alone, with or without American approval. The United States could assist, Young suggested, by containing Saudi and Egyptian reactions until phases two and three removed King Saud and Nasser. For the moment, however, Britain would not disclose operational details regarding Syria. What it wanted immediately was Washington’s position on the entire British scheme, by cable and before Allen Dulles arrived. With that, the first meeting was over.

Returning to their hotel, Eveland and Eichelberger both agreed that the MI6 discussion had been “sheer lunacy.” They speculated it may have been an attempt by Young to provoke them into offering alternative CIA proposals. They decided to send no messages back to headquarters until they could obtain more concrete details of Britain’s plans.

The British became more hostile over the next three meetings. George Young was irritated that Eveland and Eichelberger were not sending daily cables back to Washington. Young denigrated Kim Roosevelt’s previous boasts of restoring the Shah of Iran to power: this had poisoned U.S.–Iranian relations, according to Young. Britain’s standing in Iran, Young insisted, was stronger than it had been in fifty years. Turning to Egypt, he declared that the United States had “created a monster” in Nasser, dismissed the intelligence the CIA shared on Egypt as “pure rubbish,” and demanded that the Americans either accept the MI6 assessment of the Egyptian leader or explicitly call out Britain’s reports as “phony.”

Eveland, having recently visited Damascus, pressed Young until he revealed details of the proposed Syrian coup. Turkey, Young said, would start by provoking border incidents. Iraq would then incite unrest among desert tribes and the Partie Populaire Syrienne in Lebanon would infiltrate across the frontier, until widespread disorder justified an Iraqi military intervention. These arrangements, Young claimed, had already been discussed with the parties expected to take part.

At the final meeting, Young asked Eveland to give his views of Britain’s plans. Eveland restrained himself from expressing his opinion that “total insanity had set in” and instead observed that Britain seemed to be relying almost entirely on Iraq to achieve its objectives in Syria and Saudi Arabia. With respect to Egypt, he expressed doubt that Iraq possessed any greater capability there than Britain itself and suggested that talk of unseating Nasser amounted to little more than wishful thinking. Young shook his head and replied that Eveland had overlooked one element: “the snipcocks.”

Eveland was completely confused by this remark until Eichelberger quietly explained that the term was Young’s slang for the Israelis, a slur dating back to Britain’s conflict with Zionist militants during the Palestine mandate. Young then smiled and handed them a summary of their discussions he wanted them to cable back to Allen Dulles, adding that he would stop by the next morning to examine what they planned to send. His reference to joint planning with Israel finally pushed Eveland and Eichelberger to send an urgent operational cable. Whether deliberate or not, if Young’s statement reflected actual British government thinking, it was something both of the Dulles brothers needed to know, as it suggested that prospects for a regional peace settlement were in serious jeopardy.

Eveland and Eichelberger went back to their hotel and drafted what they thought was an alarmist cable. The following morning, Young reviewed the draft and found it acceptable, but requested several additions, including: “Britain is now prepared to fight its last battle”; “no matter what the cost we will win”; the “situation in Syria has been discussed with Israel, but not in terms of getting their positive support”; and “we have to face the possibility that Nasser might close the canal, and would like to know how the U.S. would react to that.” Young indicated that their discussions would be taken up by the British cabinet; Eveland added this point before finally sending the cable.

Later over a bottle of White Label, Eveland and Eichelberger assessed what they had heard. Eichelberger was part of Kim Roosevelt’s CIA group that had attempted to create a “pro-Western Nasser.” Eveland was therefore not surprised when Eichelberger argued that there was “absolutely no evidence” that Nasser was a Soviet puppet. Eveland nonetheless found merit in Eichelberger’s view that the United States had not openly opposed Nasser’s policies and might be better served by countering them in ways that preserved the possibility of future negotiations, once Nasser realized the constraints attached to Soviet support.

After Eichelberger returned to Washington to be available for questioning, Eveland met after the weekend with Kim Roosevelt, who appeared irritated that the urgent cable had interrupted a tennis game at Allen Dulles’ home. There had been panic back in Washington given the contents of the memo; Kim Roosevelt explained that he was not angry but that he and Allen Dulles would now deal with the British government instead of Eveland, who he instructed to return to Syria. Eveland was in fact angry at this demotion, but kept his composure and was confident he would be vindicated in the end. He doubted that George Young and the British had merely been bluffing to get their attention.

Eveland observed through reading British press coverage and statements by Secretary of State Dulles that there were hints of unilateral military action, claims Eisenhower quickly denied. Having no access to the President himself, these developments led Eveland to suspect that a Dulles–Lloyd policy agreement existed and that the Dulles brothers might be shaping policy independently. Skeptical of plans to destabilize Syria or support a coup using Iraq, Eveland interpreted reports of tribal clashes along the Syrian–Iraqi border as manufactured “instability” meant to justify regime change. Reluctant to raise these concerns directly through CIA channels, he instead used an indirect method by subtly alerting journalist Sam Brewer, knowing that coverage in the New York Times would reach senior policymakers. Eveland had no idea at the time that he would soon be asked to lead a coup effort on his own.

Premonitions

“The Secretary of State has gone mad!” Miles Copeland, a CIA officer and colleague of Jim Eichelberger, was aghast at John Foster Dulles’ decision to withdraw U.S. financing for Egypt’s Aswan High Dam. Back in Washington, Eveland listened as Copeland relayed that Egyptian Ambassador Ahmed Hussein believed Dulles had gravely insulted President Nasser, Arab nationalism, and Egypt itself. Eveland challenged Copeland’s defense of Nasser, questioning both the economic wisdom of the dam and Egypt’s broader expectations that the United States would resolve its regional problems, particularly with Sudan. Copeland insisted the dam was politically essential to Nasser’s prestige and argued that Dulles’ hostility stemmed from Egypt’s recognition of Communist China and its arms purchases from the Soviet bloc.

Copeland asserted that Dulles intended to go further, which would involve aligning the U.S. with British efforts to remove Nasser and changing the leadership on U.S. Middle Eastern policy. Eveland came to understand that a series of personnel changes, which included replacing Ambassador Byroade, sidelining Assistant Secretary George Allen, and installing William Rountree, signaled Dulles’s move to eliminate dissenting voices and assume direct personal control of Middle Eastern policy. “None of this encouraged me,” Eveland recalled.

Upon returning to the Connaught Hotel in London, Eveland found a message from the local CIA station informing him that George Young, the deputy director of MI6, was already on his way to see him. Exhausted, yet determined to report Young’s remarks with complete precision, Eveland suddenly remembered that he was carrying a pocket-sized Grundig wire recorder. Eveland quickly set about discreetly preparing the device to secretly record his conversation with Young. When Young arrived, he sat down in a small armchair in the corner of the room. Eveland positioned himself only a few feet away, sitting on the edge of the bed beneath which his flight bag rested, concealing the activated recorder, which emitted no audible sound. Young began by asserting that Secretary Dulles’ refusal to fund the Aswan Dam had enraged Nasser, making it imperative to bring about a change of government in Syria now, whether or not the United States chose to cooperate. Young explained that the Americans should understand that Britain and Iraq were already mobilizing their Syrian contacts and that a coup would proceed even if it required the full deployment of the Iraqi army. Accusing the Americans of stalling and claiming that Secretary Dulles had approved the plan months earlier, Young berated Eveland for nearly half an hour, apparently intent on ensuring that every word left a lasting impression.

Eveland responded by explaining that he was not a career CIA officer and that his role was limited to evaluating conditions in Syria to ensure that any action there did not alienate the West’s remaining Arab allies. Young burst out laughing. “You’re the key man and you know it,” Young insisted. “Let’s stop playing games and get the job done now!” Eveland took the tape with him to Beirut, where he met with Kim Roosevelt and CIA officer Vern Cassin in Station Chief Ghosn Zogby’s home. Once Eveland described the tape he had of his conversation with Young, Roosevelt reacted with shock, calling it a breach of spycraft and “perfidious.” Unperturbed at the admonishment, Eveland offered to play the recording, but Roosevelt declined: “That won’t be necessary. I’ll inform Allen and Foster of what was discussed in London. Now let’s get on with your work.”

Frustrated at being treated like a messenger, Eveland tried to alert Roosevelt to a developing situation: Iraqi King Faisal II and Prime Minister Nuri al-Said were traveling to London, potentially creating an opportunity for an Anglo-Iraqi coup in Syria. Roosevelt said nothing in reply and Eveland left just as other CIA chiefs of station arrived.

Eveland happened to listen to Radio Cairo on July 26, 1956 as Egypt’s President Gamal Abdel Nasser spoke of what was to become known as the Suez Crisis. The Suez Canal Company had been largely controlled by British and French shareholders until July 1956; Nasser had now nationalized it. Since Nasser was speaking Egyptian Arabic, Eveland could barely make out a word he was saying to listeners. He had Nasser’s message translated and summarized for him: “One hundred twenty thousand Egyptians, Nasser said, had died building the canal. It belonged to Egypt. Now the canal’s profits would be used to finance the Aswan Dam and the West could choke on its fury.”

First-Time Coup

Arriving in London amid intense political and media hysteria surrounding the Suez Crisis, Eveland watched as U.S. and European officials prepared for international talks while the British press and Parliament framed Egypt’s nationalization of the canal company as an act demanding force. He likened the atmosphere to pre-World War II panic, noting Prime Minister Anthony Eden’s inflammatory rhetoric against Nasser, and felt relief returning to the calmer environment of the Middle East.

Back in Beirut, Eveland learned that similar hysteria was gripping the American press. Journalist Sam Brewer told him that the New York Times was sensationalizing Nasser as a Hitler-like figure and sidelining balanced reporting from correspondents in the region, allegedly due to political and advertiser pressure. Eveland contrasted this with more independent coverage by the Chicago Daily News and observed that U.S. officials and some presidential candidates appeared less alarmist. He concluded that fears of an imminent Arab–Israeli war were exaggerated, although he remained genuinely worried that Britain and France would possibly overreact and provoke conflict with Egypt.

Eveland became involved in a coup d’état plot after failing to secure a Syrian refinery contract for the American firm Procon during a meeting with a minister named Majd ud-Din Jabiri in Damascus. Despite proposing several bidding strategies and even suggesting the refinery be provided free of charge, Eveland was firmly rebuffed. Jabiri explained that Syria has already decided to turn to the Soviet Union, influenced by the U.S. refusal to fund the Aswan Dam and Western pressure on Egypt, which convinced Syrian leaders that American aid carried unacceptable political risks.

Jabiri outlined plans for a low-cost Soviet-supplied refinery to be installed in Homs with free technical support and dismissed Eveland’s warnings about inferior technology. He argued that reliance on the United States would leave Syria vulnerable to economic coercion, especially if it ever nationalized its oil pipelines, and angrily condemned U.S. aid to Israel. The meeting ended with Jabiri’s heated rejection of all American assistance.

Upon returning to Beirut, Eveland cabled a summary of the entire episode to Washington. A week later, he received word that the CIA had decided to back plans for a coup in Syria developed by Michail Bey Ilyan, a prominent Syrian conservative politician and former foreign minister. This plot had been previously outlined by Ilyan to CIA officer Archie Roosevelt, who happened to be Kim’s cousin. Eveland was instructed to obtain the requested funds and deliver them to Ilyan immediately, with orders that the program be put into effect by October 25, 1956. “This message from the CIA’s headquarters was not a request,” Eveland remembered, “it was an order.”

Ilyan had discussed plans for the coup with Eveland and Archie Roosevelt back in July on what happened to be Eveland’s 38th birthday. The plot called for Syrian military forces to seize major cities, secure border crossings, and control radio stations while Colonel Kabbani led armored units in Damascus. Once control was established, a preselected civilian government would be announced. Eveland recalled with embarrassment at how much Ilyan treated the United States’ communiqués and pronouncements with respectful awe: “For these men, America was endowed with power and wisdom. Each word and phrase, they believed, had been carefully thought out, with long-range objectives subtly hidden inside. If they’d only known how many off-the-cuff statements came out of Washington, how many of our officials had to consult maps before discussing the area, their confidence in the West would have been badly shaken.”

Eveland had been on the edge of his seat when he had realized he was listening to coup planning. Ilyan had been asked by Archie if the overthrow of the Syrian government could be accomplished through U.S. funds and assets alone and Ilyan replied: “Ma’aloom.” Both Eveland and Archie knew without the need for translation that this meant “without question.” When Archie had left the meeting, according to Eveland, Ilyan was “smiling like the cat who’d just swallowed the canary.” Now the time had come for Eveland to put the plan into action.

There was first the matter of obtaining half a million Syrian pounds (worth $1.6 million U.S. dollars today) for Michail Ilyan to effectuate the coup. Harvey Armado, head of the Beirut CIA station’s regional finance office, had unrestricted access to Lebanese banks and money changers. He could move vast sums of money without a trace, buying currency at favorable rates and shipping them piecemeal if needed in order to hide the existence of multimillion-dollar transactions, for example. When Eveland requested the funds, Armado asked if he preferred old or new bills and since Eveland was unsure, he suggested a mix of notes from various Syrian banks to avoid leaving a traceable pattern. “Give me two days,” Armado promised, “and I’ll have it for you in a nice suitcase purchased in Damascus. Do you need a receipt when you turn over the money?” Eveland was shocked at the offer: “Hell, no,” he replied. “I’ll pass the damn stuff, but I don’t want a piece of paper with an amount and a name on it. What if I get in trouble?”

There was no CIA manual available to teach Eveland how to transfer money surreptitiously to an agent to overthrow a foreign government. Zogby, the Beirut CIA Chief of Station, simply suggested that he drive the funds to Damascus in the truck of his car. Eveland asked Zogby about how to physically deliver the money to Ilyan in person: “How in hell do I get a heavy suitcase full of money up to my room? The hotel lobby is usually crowded, and the doorman and bellboys fight over my bags the minute I drive up.” Zogby was not of any assistance: “You’ll find a way,” he responded. “After all, didn’t you start out in intelligence work fifteen years ago?” Eveland could not figure out if he meant this remark complimentarily or insultingly.

With the suitcase secured in the trunk of his Ford convertible, Eveland prepared for the border crossing. He opened the suitcase to stare at the stacks of money “with awe” but he decided to not spend the hours it would take to make sure the half a million pounds were all there. He possessed a Syrian identity card tying him to the U.S. Embassy that was supposed to allowed him to bypass full inspections and avoid the need to have his passport stamped. The white card, however, did not carry with it any diplomatic immunity or protection. He decided to cross the Lebanese border into Syria during the daytime and as he traveled through Beqaa Valley on the way to the customs office, he started to become nervous. He could be subject to a full inspection of the contents of his vehicle, which happened on occasion. He would be unable to explain away the vast amount of funds in his truck as being intended for a shopping excursion. Frustrated with his predicament, he cursed “the whole CIA system for depriving me of the protection of a diplomatic passport and the license plates that would immunize my car against inspection—so much for security when I really needed it!” Eveland was now alone in the endeavor to preserve plausible deniability. The personal risk was real; two CIA officers had already been sent to Chinese prisons and would remain there for almost 20 years after they were captured during the Korean War and the U.S. government denied involvement with their work. The best idea Eveland could come up with was to abandon the plan immediately if he was stopped for inspection by Syrian officials and pretend that he forgot his passport in Lebanon, if they allowed him to escape. Distrust of Westerners was stronger at the time in Syria; he would feel relatively safer in Lebanon and he could even call upon their President, Camille Chamoun, to assist him if needed, as they had spoken on several occasions.

As he got closer to the border, his nervousness only increased: he wondered “why in the hell” he was risking his personal freedom to give funds to a man who had no idea they were being delivered to him. He was now in lineup of cars in front of the first border checkpoint; he decided to press on with his mission. As he slowed down, he braced for what may happen to him as he looked up towards the customs inspector. Almost as soon as he braked, the inspector waved him through. He must have stood out, he thought, as he usually had the top rolled down of his convertible in all kinds of weather. Eveland was not out of the woods yet; there was one immigration checkpoint three miles inland in the foothills of the long mountain range bordering Lebanon and Syria. A search of his car could still be made there. He drove up to the checkpoint with bated breath, desperately hoping to avoid arousing any suspicions. He waived his identity card and hoped to avoid the worst as he glanced at the officer with intense trepidation.

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“Get me my .38!” Senator Robert S. Kerr shouted. “I’m gonna kill every damn one of you. I can’t believe that my three best friends would betray me!” Kerr had just learned that Lyndon Johnson was going to be John F. Kennedy’s running mate in the 1960 presidential election. He directed his fury at Senate staffer Bobby Baker, as well as LBJ and his wife Lady Bird, who were sitting in their hotel room. To Baker, Kerr seemed extremely serious; he was about to find out just how much he meant it. Baker tried to calm him down, but this only made Kerr get louder, accusing them of conspiring to destroy the Senate, themselves, and him personally. LBJ gestured for Baker to usher Kerr into the bathroom and muttered that Baker should try to explain matters to him.

Kerr was a large man, around six foot four and 250 pounds. Once inside the bathroom, he turned on Baker and struck him across the face with an open hand. The blow landed with a crack that Baker likened to a dynamite cap exploding inside his head. His vision filled with stars, his ears rang, and Kerr, tears pouring down his cheeks, screamed, “Bobby, you betrayed me! You betrayed me! I can’t believe it!” Baker was stunned, both by the force of the blow and by the fact that the senator had nearly knocked him senseless; no one in his entire life had ever hit him harder. When Baker regained his ability to speak, he pleaded, “I’m entitled to a hearing. If you’ll calm down I’ll give you my reasoning.” He reminded Kerr that JFK had been underestimated at every stage: dismissed as unelectable because he was Catholic, yet victorious in the primaries; expected to fail in West Virginia, but he did not; predicted to deadlock the convention, which never happened. Baker argued that Kennedy could defeat Nixon, but only with the right ticket, and that any real hope of carrying the South and Southwest depended on LBJ being on it. “But we need Lyndon in the Senate!” Kerr protested.

Baker explained in detail how Johnson had little to lose and much to gain, calling it an opportunity full of advantages with no real drawbacks. Kerr finally relented after several arguments from Baker were presented. Slipping an arm around Baker, he changed his tone: “Son, you are right and I was wrong. I’m sorry I mistreated you.” The two shook hands. Kerr then spun around, strode back into the bedroom, and embraced both Lady Bird and LBJ in turn. “I’m sorry I lost my head,” he said. “I love you dearly and if you decide to accept Kennedy’s offer I’ll be with you all the way.”

Baker had already delivered to LBJ his advice on Senator Kennedy’s offer, while he and Lady Bird were laying in their hotel room bed: “He knows that Vice President Nixon is running ahead in the polls,” Baker explained of Kennedy’s thinking. “Unless he can carry Texas, he can’t be President, and you’re the only hope in the world for him to do that…I think it would be the smartest move you could make. You’ve had a massive heart attack. You would be a third-rater if he’s President and you’re the Majority Leader, because he calls the program…The best job in America is Vice President. You get to go to every fancy funeral in the world. About twice a year you get to cast a tie-breaking vote. But you get to be a human being.” Lady Bird replied, “Lyndon, that is the best advice you ever got in your life.”

Baker reported that JFK’s brother Robert F. Kennedy was also “full of hate” at not being consulted on the LBJ selection as VP. Their father, Joseph P. Kennedy Sr., insisted that RFK be named Attorney General. JFK disagreed with this selection and sent an intermediary, Clark Clifford, the head of his presidential transition team, to try to convince his father to change his mind. “Bobby’s going to be the Attorney General,” Joe Kennedy responded to Clifford. “Get out of here.” Baker explained that “his father demanded it and he’d given so much money that [JFK] had to agree to naming Bobby Kennedy to be Attorney General.”

LBJ impressed upon Baker the importance of winning the uphill battle getting RFK confirmed by the Senate: “Bobby, this will be the most humiliating defeat I, as Vice President, could suffer if I don’t have enough influence in the Senate to confirm the President’s nominee, even though it’s his brother.” In particular, Baker was required to “pour the whiskey in Senator Richard Russell because he had the votes to kill it,” as he recalled. In his Secretary of the Senate office, Baker gave it his best effort: “Your best friend and my best friend is pleading with me to talk to you to see if you’ll let us have a voice vote.” Russell agreed to this approach given the “persuasion and the booze,” and most of Kennedy’s cabinet was approved by voice vote on January 21, 1961. One Republican Senator, Gordon Allott, objected that RFK lacked “legal experience” for the position and demanded a standing vote, but Allott was ultimately alone in voting against the Attorney General’s nomination. Baker predicted RFK “would have been defeated” and “would have been lucky to get 40 votes” if a roll-call vote had been the procedure. “The Republicans and Southern Democrats had enough votes to defeat Bobby Kennedy to be Attorney General,” according to Baker.

It was not the first time that RFK had secured a position as a result of his father’s money, with Baker reporting that Joe Kennedy had bribed Senator John L. McClellan to the tune of $50,000 ($600,000 today) to have RFK appointed as chief counsel for the Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations in 1955. Baker explained that bribes were often delivered through the senators’ private law practices: “You just channel it to their law firm or give them envelopes with cash.”

Monopoly

It was hardly an accident, Baker thought, that Austin, Texas, remained for years the only city of its size served by just one television station. Lyndon Johnson had cultivated allies at the highest levels of the broadcast establishment. George Smathers acted as his reliable representative in the Senate, while Bob Bartley, a commissioner on the Federal Communications Commission, happened to be the nephew of Johnson’s longtime benefactor, House Speaker Sam Rayburn. Baker believed it was a safe assumption that others within the regulatory bureaucracy, including those responsible for issuing broadcast licenses, were well aware of these friendly ties and of Johnson’s formidable influence.

Johnson obtained the right to select and reject programming for his Austin monopoly station from the offerings of all three major networks. Baker noted that no other television station in America operated under such an extraordinary and favorable arrangement. Baker recalled a revealing incident at the Roosevelt Hotel in New York, where they had traveled to attend a Bonds for Israel rally. There, he watched LBJ aggressively pressure an NBC network executive in a bid to increase his own profits. Johnson told the executive that he expected his station to be compensated at national advertising rates for the network commercials it carried. “But senator,” the executive replied, “your market isn’t big enough down there. The local affiliate is paid according to its share of the audience. Yours just isn’t large enough to qualify.” Johnson snapped back, “I say it is. I know how you fellows work—you can do anything you want to. Well, want to!” After some deliberation, the network officials concluded that they did want to increase their ad rates for LBJ’s station.

From Baker’s standpoint, it was common in that era for senators to be engaged in private business ventures alongside their public duties. He pointed to Senator Robert A. Taft as one example, noting that his family operated a highly profitable television enterprise, Taft Broadcasting. Baker himself managed to obtain direct contributions to his family’s coffers as a result of his Senate work. He later revealed that the Belgian-American businessman and diamond magnate, Maurice Tempelsman, had once offered Baker a reward for his efforts in securing a “wheat for uranium” swap with the U.S. Department of Agriculture worth $3 billion. “I can’t take anything,” Baker told Tempelsman, who instead gave him “a six carat diamond for me to give my wife.”

Baker recalled traveling with Senator Johnson to New York and sitting in conversations with the presidents of NBC, ABC, and CBS. In those meetings, it was clear to him that the network executives understood exactly where real power lay. Johnson would routinely press them, telling them, “You’re not doing enough advertising,” and lecturing them on what they should be doing. Once LBJ ascended to the presidency, the Johnson Company was merged with the Chandler family’s media interests in Los Angeles, creating a large publicly traded corporation. In Baker’s estimation, Lady Bird Johnson received roughly $50 million in stock from that transaction. He bore her no ill will: “She is revered by the American people and especially by me.”

Champions

With LBJ out of the Senate, Baker went from working 16 to 18-hour days to completing his tasks in 10 hours a day or less. Baker later referred to the new Senate Majority Leader Mike Mansfield as “a champion of doing nothing.” When a bill came up, Mansfield typically left it to the committee chairman to determine whether it could pass. Legislation itself seemed to hold little personal interest for him. Baker described Mansfield as a solitary figure who preferred to read and smoke his pipe rather than engage actively with the Senate’s legislative agenda. “He’d just go in his office and smoke his pipe and read foreign affairs papers and he basically let the Senate do its will,” Baker recalled. “He never tried to ask anybody for a vote.” After the demanding leadership of Lyndon Johnson, Senators welcomed Mansfield’s more relaxed style, which required far less effort and allowed them to “earn” their pay in a much easier fashion.

Senator Kerr of Oklahoma emerged as one of the most effective figures in Baker’s view given the power vacuum created by Mansfield’s leadership. Baker remained on friendly terms with the Senator despite Kerr’s penchant for violence and disdain for Catholics: “God, when I married a Catholic,” Baker remembered, “he didn’t talk to me for five years…He thought everyone who wasn’t a Baptist was going to die and go to hell.” One of President Kennedy’s top priorities after taking office was passing a tax bill to stimulate business during the recession of 1960-61. Kerr, however, controlled enough votes on the Finance Committee to block it. Kennedy personally summoned Baker to the White House. “Bobby,” the President remarked, “everyone knows Senator Kerr is your dearest friend,” apparently unaware that Kerr had smashed Baker in the face. JFK continued: “I’ll be a one-termer if I can’t get this tax bill through. Will you see if you can get him to support me?” Baker approached Kerr, explaining the President’s request and Kerr replied bluntly that the tax bill was dead unless the Attorney General put forward the judicial nomination of Luther L. Bohanon for the U.S. District Court for the Eastern District of Oklahoma.

Baker then contacted JFK’s secretary, Evelyn Lincoln, who put the President on the phone. JFK, who was unfamiliar with the situation, immediately got the Attorney General on the phone, with Baker listening in. RFK pushed back on the idea: “Mr. President, Luther Bohanon, based upon what the American Bar Association says, is the most unqualified man in America to be a judge…I am not sending it down.” JFK was unmoved: “I have just made a deal. Senator Kerr is going to have that nomination and once I sign it, he will report the tax bill. I am the President. You are the Attorney General. Do that.” The legislation ultimately passed thanks to these efforts. “Those are things that you have to do...It is a quid pro quo,” Baker acknowledged. A more direct method was employed by Kerr on a Medicare vote sought by President Kennedy in 1962. Baker was uncertain how Senator Jennings Randolph from West Virginia would vote on the Medicare proposal: “He would never tell me how he was going to vote.” Senator Kerr provided him with $200,000 ($2.15 million today) to secure his support. “It shows you that money can talk,” Baker concluded, confirming that there was an audible gasp when he voted for the bill on the U.S. Senate floor. The Medicare bill was narrowly defeated in July 1962 by a 52-48 Senate vote and later signed into law in 1965.

Baker later reflected on his relationship with Kerr: “I never had a better friend in my life than Senator Kerr. Everything he did was to try and help me, but he also used me to help him. It was a mutual admiration society.” According to Baker, Senator Kerr once told him that he had arranged for friends and relatives of a powerful member of the House Ways and Means Committee to buy into proven oil wells at deeply discounted prices, and that he had extended the same favor to an influential senator on the Senate Finance Committee. During the Eisenhower administration, Kerr influenced Lewis Strauss, chairman of the Atomic Energy Commission, to ensure that Kerr‑McGee, the conglomerate in which he was a partner, sold all the uranium it could produce directly to the federal government. Later, as chairman of the Senate Space Committee, Kerr worked through a mutual friend, Fred Black, the chief lobbyist for North American Aviation, to establish manufacturing plants in Oklahoma that would employ some 20,000 of Kerr’s constituents if North American secured the Apollo missile contract. Kerr then leaned on James E. Webb, head of NASA, who was also conveniently a Kerr‑McGee executive on loan to government, to look favorably on North American’s bid. Webb did nothing to obstruct the effort and the company won the contract. Executives told Kerr they could indeed provide 20,000 Oklahoma jobs, but warned that some equipment would be so massive it could only be transported by water. Kerr offered to change the landlocked terrain at the taxpayers’ expense: “Tell me how wide and deep you want the ditch and the government will dig it.”

In 1962, Baker discovered that Kerr was willing to sell himself if the price was sufficient. President Kennedy had proposed a tax bill that would raise the tax rate on savings and loan associations to match that imposed on commercial banks, a roughly five‑percent increase, amounting to some $43 million ($460 million today). The savings and loan industry reacted with outrage and lobbyists swarmed Washington, DC, but the bill passed and moved to a conference committee, where Kerr sat as a key member to decide what would be included in the final version. Baker was approached by Glenn Troop, chief lobbyist for the United States Savings and Loan League and a longtime friend. Troop was frantic. “Bobby, that fucking bill will ruin us,” he said. “We figure it will cost us a minimum of $43 million annually…Help me.” Troop asked Baker to intervene with Senator Kerr, but Baker was skeptical Kerr would do anything to undermine a bill he had sponsored. Troop was adamant: “Bobby, we’ll do anything to kill that bill. Anything!” At Troop’s insistence, Baker attended lunches with some of the nation’s most powerful savings and loan executives, first at the Statler‑Hilton and later in his Capitol Hill office. He found their arguments unconvincing, but out of loyalty to Troop he eventually agreed to raise the matter with Kerr.

Kerr cut Baker off mid‑sentence as he started his pitch, with Kerr stating bluntly that he had no sympathy for the savings and loan executives. Still, he added, if Baker trusted these people, Kerr would intervene for a price: “Tell them it will cost them $400,000 ($4.3 million today) if I’m successful in their behalf.” He insisted the money be delivered in cash and warned that he would be fighting the combined power of the White House and Wilbur Mills, Chairman of the House Ways and Means Committee. Troop was aghast when informed of the amount requested by Kerr, but within hours the lobbyist called back: “Tell your man he’s got a deal.”

As Baker and Kerr walked together near the Capitol, the staffer informed the senator that the deal was on. Kerr wondered if Troop drank too much or talked too freely, but Baker vouched for him. Troop soon confessed to Baker that his clients could not raise the full amount; only $200,000 was possible, to be split into two instalments. Kerr erupted into a fit of rage when he heard this: “I told you those bastards were no fucking good!” he yelled while he slammed his fist on a desk. “Those pricks have always tried to do everything on the cheap and they always will. They’ll be sorry for this, those cocksuckers! I’m gonna fuck ‘em at every turn from now on.” Once he ran out of steam, he instructed to Baker: “Alright. If that’s it, then that’s it. But they’re gonna regret it. Get me my money.” Over the following weeks, Baker acted as courier, receiving envelopes of cash in hotel suites, counting money in restrooms and airplanes, and personally delivering partial payments to Kerr, who deposited them in his lockbox. “You’re $33,700 short,” Baker said of their payments against the initial payment of $100,000. Their continued inability to pay in full provoked further anger from the senator. “Goddammit, Bobby, this has gone far enough,” Kerr complained. “Tell those pricks to quit dribbling this in.” The pair then walked to the senator’s bank where Kerr deposited the latest instalment of cash in a safe deposit box.

Baker pressed Troop for the balance, flying to California to collect additional funds from savings and loan executives. Even then, the final payment came up short, this time by only $400. Kerr remarked, “I’m not a damn bit surprised,” when told of the insufficient funds. Senator Kerr died on January 1, 1963 before any further payments could be made. Kerr’s secretary Marjorie Banner, whom Baker considered to be a personal friend, told him that Kerr had stashed “$2 million cash in his safe when he died and she was the only one that had the key to it,” Baker explained in 2009. “So she told me that to get [Congressman Michael J.] Kirwan to go along with his canal in Oklahoma, that Senator Kerr gave [trucking industry leader] Neil Curry a $100,000 in hundred dollar bills, that went to Mike Kirwan, and Mike Kirwan withdrew his objection. And so that’s one of the ways that big money talks. I don’t think it’s changed in my lifetime.”

Baker, who came from modest means and had a Senate salary of $19,600 annually, saw his own net worth balloon to over $2 million ($21 million today) by 1963 through private business involving livestock, vending machines, insurance, and gambling licenses. While working on a hotel venture, Baker ran into trouble when his business partner committed suicide and he was left to pay for the enterprise on his own. Baker approached LBJ, who referred him to Senator Kerr. Kerr arranged a loan to save the company. “I will love him until the day I die,” Baker remarked of the senator. After Kerr’s death, Baker attempted to convince the President of Kerr-McGee, the energy company the Senator had co-founded, to offer the Governor of Oklahoma $1 million over 10 years to appoint Senator Kerr’s son to the now vacant Senate position. “He didn’t understand about politics and that never happened,” Baker explained. Baker later had a chance to meet the Governor, J. Howard Edmondson, once he was elected to the Senate in 1963. Baker described the rejected bribery plot he had advanced and Edmondson replied, “I’d have taken it in a New York minute.”

Crisis

Baker resigned as Secretary to the Senate Majority Leader on October 7, 1963, a month after the Senate Rules Committee began an investigation into whether Baker’s private business deals violated conflict of interest rules or involved other wrongdoing. Baker declined to answer the Committee’s questions when testifying, taking the Fifth Amendment. Republicans sought to broaden the inquiry to include senators themselves, campaign finances, and additional witnesses, while the Democratic majority narrowly interpreted its mandate and resisted these efforts. This produced repeated party-line votes, accusations of “whitewash,” and widespread press criticism that the Senate was shielding its own. “Baker grew up in the Senate and is in large measure its creature,” David Kraslow wrote in the Los Angeles Times. “He is in effect, not cause; symptom, not condition…it seems hardly fair for Baker to take it all, for the committee to zero in on the pupil without bothering to inquire what he may have learned from his eminent teachers and sponsors.”

Baker believed that press attention was intensified because he took the Fifth Amendment, later reflecting on his fleeting notoriety: “You cannot believe the amount of ill press I received for about 10 years. But time is a great healer. So when you walk down the street and meet 100 people and you say, ‘Do you know who Bobby Baker is?’—they don’t have a clue.”

Baker’s mistress Carole Tyler resigned her Senate position not long after Baker left his, and like him she invoked the Fifth Amendment when testifying before the Senate Rules Committee. She returned temporarily to her home in Tennessee, but once press attention subsided, she came back to Washington to work for Baker, a move that sparked renewed publicity. Their romantic relationship continued but Baker refused to abandon his family for her, a decision that produced volatile confrontations in which she sometimes wept or threatened suicide. Even so, Baker was completely unprepared for the events of a Sunday in early May 1965.

At the time, Tyler was staying at Baker’s Carousel Motel in Ocean City, Maryland, where she handled the bookkeeping. On the morning of May 9, she and her roommate, a young woman named Dee McCartney, began drinking with Robert Davis, a fellow Carousel guest. Tyler had planned to take an aerial sightseeing trip over the resort island, flying in Davis’ private plane, but the weather that morning was considered too dangerous to fly safely. The drinking continued, and later observers reported that the pilot appeared to be heavily intoxicated. Around 2 p.m., after the skies cleared and turned sunny, Davis and Tyler drove to the Ocean City airport and took off. Witnesses later recounted that the small plane flew back toward the Carousel, swooping low over it several times, before turning sharply toward the Atlantic Ocean. The aircraft never recovered from this maneuver and plunged into the water at high speed near the Carousel Motel.

In Washington when the call came, Baker, his wife, and his physician, Dr. Joseph Bailey, immediately chartered a small plane to visit the crash site. By the time they arrived that evening, Baker boarded a Coast Guard vessel engaged in the search. He was present when the wreckage was finally raised from the depths shortly after 1 p.m. the next day. Seeing Tyler’s body, wearing a green pantsuit he had given her, overwhelmed him: “I broke down and cried like a baby.” Dr. Bailey later told him that both Tyler and the pilot had died instantly from their head injuries. Baker still had to notify the next of kin: “The hardest thing I ever had to do was call Carole’s mother and tell her that her daughter was dead.”

At Tyler’s funeral, Baker felt utterly spent, convinced that he had reached the lowest point of his life and that happiness might never return. She was only twenty-six, he thought. She had only started to live. God, what a waste of beauty and goodness. Sitting in a small red-brick church adorned with flowers, surrounded by her family and friends, he found himself wondering whether he was somehow cursed. Whatever strains Baker had endured in his marriage, or would later endure, he never forgot the strength his wife displayed during that ordeal. The pair ultimately divorced in 1977 after a long separation. Reflecting on his personal situation in 1978, Baker called Tyler’s death “the greatest emotional crisis I’ve ever had in my life.”

Future President Sex Tape

The Senate investigation into Baker unfolded in two phases (1963–64 and 1964–65). The Democratic majority’s first report in 1964 found Baker guilty of “gross improprieties” tied to the use of his office for personal gain but rejected claims of criminal conduct; Republicans denounced the report as a “whitewash.” New allegations raised in late 1964, particularly involving the District of Columbia Stadium contract and an alleged illegal campaign contribution, prompted the Senate to reopen the inquiry.

In June 1965, the Committee issued a supplemental report. The Democratic majority again concluded there was no evidence of criminal wrongdoing in the stadium contract or related insurance transactions, rejecting key testimony from insurance broker Don B. Reynolds as unreliable. Baker later recalled a phone call with Walter Jenkins, a top aide to LBJ, in which they discussed a letter Lady Bird had given Reynolds expressing her gratitude for a stereo Reynolds had sent them for Christmas. “Bobby, this Don Reynolds is a nut,” Jenkins stated. “There’s a lady standing on Connecticut Avenue to take the bus and he pulled out this letter and almost tries to rape her.” Baker concluded that Reynolds was skilled in the insurance field but was “a lying, thieving son of a bitch...Don Reynolds was a genius nut, I guess. You know, he had loose screws in his head.”

While the the Senate majority acknowledged numerous ethical lapses by Baker, especially his exploitation of influence for financial benefit, it largely reaffirmed the conclusions of the first report. The Republican minority sharply disagreed, arguing that evidence of illegality had been ignored, witnesses discredited, and lines of inquiry improperly curtailed.

Baker was indicted by a federal grand jury in January 1966 on nine felony counts, including income tax evasion, fraud involving the Kerr cash, aiding in the filing of false tax returns, and conspiracy. After years of investigations, surveillance, and public scrutiny, the indictment did not surprise him. Prosecutors offered a plea deal requiring him to plead guilty to a single count. While he later admitted to having committed illegal acts, he felt that he was indicted for the wrong crimes.

His trial began in early 1967 and the central issue was the Kerr cash, money Baker claimed he had lawfully handled on behalf of Senator Kerr, who was deceased by the time of trial. Prosecutors depicted Baker as a corrupt political operator driven by greed, while savings-and-loan executives testified that Baker had coerced them into providing funds allegedly meant for lawmakers.

Baker was warned bluntly by his lawyer that accepting a plea would amount to admitting to something he insisted was untrue. His counsel laid out the stakes as they drove home one evening: “I want you to fully realize the consequences of what can happen if you are convicted. You could get a ton of years. I got the impression from talking to [prosecutor William O.] Bittman that if you’ll plead to a single count, you’ll get no more than ninety days to six months. I can’t guarantee it, but that’s my gut feeling.”

Baker pushed back: “But if I plead guilty to one count then the assumption’s gonna be made that I’m guilty of every goddamned one of ‘em. It will appear that I stole money from my friend and benefactor, Bob Kerr. I didn’t do that, and I’ve got too much pride for people to go on thinking that I did.”

His lawyer tried to narrow the issue. “I believe we’re in good shape on the tax questions,” Williams replied, “but it’s tough to say whether a jury will believe you about the Kerr money. He’s dead and he’s not here to speak for himself. That could backfire on you.” Baker would not yield. “Hell, I don’t have to prove I didn’t take it. The government’s gotta prove that I did.”

Williams cautioned him again: “Bobby, you can never figure what a jury will do. It’s a roll of the dice. Think about it. Bill Bittman’s tough. Bobby Kennedy put him on the Jimmy Hoffa case because he’s like a bulldog, and he put Hoffa in jail. There’s a lot of press hysteria connected with your case and the political implications are grave.”

Williams drove in silence while Baker weighed the consequences. Finally, Baker put his foot down: “Ed, absolutely under no circumstances do you have authority to tell Bittman I’ll plead guilty to one damn thing. If I do, the press will play it that I got my wrists slapped, that I copped out, that a fix was in. The assumption of total guilt will be with me the rest of my life.” Williams answered quietly, “Well, it will be with you if a jury finds you guilty, too.”

From what Baker had learned about Bittman’s tactics, which included wiretaps, electronic surveillance, and intense pressure on potential witnesses, he expected an all-out assault. He was aware, for example, that the FBI had bugged the Sheraton-Carlton hotel suite of the aerospace lobbyist Fred Black for six months. When recounting the story in 1978, Baker lied about one of the recurring visitors to the suite, a politician who happened to still be alive at the time. He later revealed the reason behind the deception: the episode involved secretly recorded sexual encounters and the blackmailing of a future President of the United States.

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Soon after bursting into the Democratic Cloakroom of the U.S. Senate, Senator J. William Fulbright angrily grabbed staffer Bobby Baker by the throat. “I ought to kill you,” Fulbright growled. Fulbright had been in Baltimore delivering a paid speech when Baker had summoned him back to the Senate. To ensure his return in time, Baker contacted the mayor and arranged for a police car to bring Fulbright back. “That guy was going 90 miles an hour and the wheels were going up and down off the road,” Fulbright complained. “You could vote without me.” Baker meekly responded: “I needed you.”

Most of the time U.S. senators needed Baker, sometimes in disturbing ways. He was once relentlessly pressed to supply a woman for a long-time Southern senator’s personal pleasure. The senator sounded as though he had been drinking heavily for days when he called one afternoon and demanded that Baker locate a woman to satisfy him. Baker refused, replying, “Senator, I just wouldn’t know how to go about that.” Minutes later the phone rang again; this time, the senator ordered Baker to bring a woman to his house in the suburbs, explaining, “My wife’s away and my dick’s so hard a cat couldn’t scratch it. I’ll pay real good.” Baker declined once more. As the calls continued, the senator escalated the threat, warning, “Bobby, I’m gonna keep on callin’ you ’til pussy shows up on my doorstep. And if you don’t bring me pussy, I ain’t bringing you no more votes.” At that point, Baker replied that he would see what he could do.

Baker walked to a hotel bar near the Senate, a place he knew well, where a young cocktail waitress worked; she was rumored to supplement her income with small-time hustling. He was accompanied by Wayne Bromley, a lobbyist and friend. Baker made his position clear to the waitress: “I don’t want to know anything about the arrangements, but I know where there’s a horny senator with money in his pocket.” She asked for a few minutes to arrange coverage for her shift. Soon after, Baker, Bromley, and the woman drove roughly twenty minutes from Capitol Hill to a comfortable suburban abode.

Inside, they could see the senior senator waiting in the dining room, bracing himself upright with both of his hands on the table. He swayed unsteadily, as if being moved by unseen winds. Baker made a formal introduction: “Senator, this is Miss Smith and she’s your date for the afternoon.” The senator barely acknowledged Baker, instead peering at the woman and commanding in his Southern drawl, “Honey, le’s me and you fuck.” Later, according to Baker, the woman told a mutual acquaintance that she left with $100 ($1,000 today) and cab fare. After sobering up, the senator kept his distance from Baker for a time. Even so, Baker observed that securing the man’s vote afterward proved easier than it had been before.

All of My Enemies Are Dead

Memories came flooding back to Baker when he revisited the U.S. Senate in 2009, walking through his old haunts. He found it easier to speak his mind at age 80, now that “all the people who disliked me are dead and I’m still alive.” Every room triggered some kind of recollection from his time spent as a Page and later, as Secretary to the Majority Leader. Seen by many as essential to the workings of the Senate, John F. Kennedy once called him the 101st senator (this compliment pleased Baker “to no end”). Returning to his former workplace for an oral history project in 2009, he revisited the Lyndon Baines Johnson (LBJ) Room, in which Baker’s wedding reception had been held in 1949. When told that LBJ’s bathroom had recently been removed, Baker recalled that Johnson “could vent the loudest farts. It didn’t bother him one bit who was in there. Gosh, he was always letting gas off.”

There was also the Marble Room, where Baker had once watched JFK stare into a large mirror and ask, “God, why did you make me so beautiful?” Outside of the Senate Conference Room, Baker pointed to where a water fountain had once been. “This is where Senator Hoey—” he stopped himself short, leaving out the details of the crime. He continued with the memory etched in his mind of the phone calls he would receive in the cloakroom on a regular basis. Secretaries would have a treacherous route to complete in order to receive their pay and were eager to avoid the man who wore a swallow-tail coat. “So the secretaries would call me and say, ‘Is that old son of a bitch out there by the water fountain?’” In 1950, Senator Clyde R. Hoey chaired a subcommittee investigation, known as the Hoey Report. Its final conclusions included that intelligence agencies “were in complete agreement that sex perverts in government constitute security risks.” Hoey’s personal contributions to the subject were left out the report, which drove the secretaries’ ire and their reconnaissance request: “What he would do,” Baker revealed of Senator Hoey, “when a pretty girl would come by, he’d call her over and then he would try to play with her breasts.”

“When I ran the Democratic cloakroom, it was right inside here,” Baker said; the room where Senator Fulbright once choked him happened to still be there. Stepping inside, Baker commented on the technology now available to a current staff member: “You’ve gotten fancy. When I was here as the Chief Telephone Page in 1944, I didn’t have a machine like you have there. But I knew every staff member on our side.” The staffer replied: “Wow. I’d be happy to give you a tour, if you’d like.” Baker declined: “No, we’ll just wander.” He already knew the inner sanctums of the Senate like the back of his hand, having worked there for 20 years. He pointed towards the cloakroom’s couches: “So if a Senator had a hangover or something, they’d come in and take a nap.” Baker had many more secrets to share.

Bodies

Though content with his life and imagining a future rooted in Pickens, South Carolina, Baker was abruptly sent to Washington at age fourteen to serve as a U.S. Senate page after another boy declined the position. Baker dreaded the move, viewing the job as menial and fearing the loss of his social standing, but his father recognized it as a rare opportunity: “Son, it’s a chance for a start.” After a surprise party held in his honor, Baker left reluctantly, sensing even then that the departure would permanently sever his ties to the life he loved. Only 14 years old at the time, he was fearful at the sight of soldiers guarding the Capitol, brandishing their bayonets. “For a hillbilly from South Carolina, I could not believe the grandeur of the Capitol and Washington,” he recalled. When he was served potatoes for breakfast for the first time in his life, he thought, I’m really in Yankee country.

Baker was overwhelmed by homesickness and the shock of leaving his small Southern town. He initially believed tales of Japanese spies in the Capitol as he watched guards move about the unfamiliar city. Physically smaller and socially inexperienced, he endured hazing rituals at the hands of other pages. He also despised the page-boy uniform: “Years later, when I had the power, I ordered that page-boy knickers be replaced by long trousers.”

Over time, Baker adapted and began to excel. He learned the routines of the Senate, took pride in anticipating senators’ needs, and earned a positive reputation for hard work. His curiosity drew him to Senate debates, parliamentary rules, and the personalities of individual senators, sharpening his political instincts and ambition. The most important skill he learned was how to count votes. What first started as a hobby on the job turned into political acumen that both senators and the press could use: “I knew how, I would say, 98 percent of the Senators were going to vote before an issue came up, because I knew their geographical location, whether they were conservative, liberal, or a middle-of-the-roader.” When reports would ask him which way a vote would go, after he explained “what I thought the vote was going to be, they just said, ‘That’s the gospel.’” By the time he returned home from Washington, DC, Baker felt transformed by his experience of being a Senate Page. Publicly recognized at a local political gathering and unexpectedly asked to speak, he delivered his first brief speech to roaring applause. He was now hooked.

“Mr. Baker, I understand you know where the bodies are buried in the Senate. I’d appreciate it if you’d come to my office and talk with me.” At just twenty years old, Baker received a call from Senator LBJ that signaled his reputation as someone who understood the Senate’s inner workings. Though officially given the title of Chief Telephone Page, a role created specifically to keep him on the payroll, Baker had become deeply embedded in Senate operations, often knowing more about its daily business than many senators.

Baker immersed himself in Senate culture, studied personalities, and learned how power actually functioned; who mattered, why some senators rose while others faded, and how personal traits, egos, and relationships shaped outcomes. As a Southerner, he benefited from regional solidarity and seniority, gaining mentorship and access from powerful Southern senators who treated him like a protégé. Baker tailored his approach to each senator’s personality and mastered the art of selling legislation by simplifying complex bills so senators could grasp their costs, benefits, and political implications quickly. “If there were tricks to rising quickly, I did not perform them with mirrors but with the usual tools of the political trade: hustle, service, hard work, public relations, gathering intelligence and then acting on it,” he later wrote in his memoir. “To me this has always been the most natural and simplest of formulas, and I just don’t understand those who don’t understand it.” Central to his intelligence-gathering was the Senate Democratic cloakroom, a private space where senators spoke candidly, made deals, as well as revealed their vulnerabilities.

Risqué

Baker initially believed that the Senate was “a collection of nature’s noblemen come together to form a more perfect union.” He would eventually learn that this was far from the truth. Early on in his Senate career, Baker understood that when he was sent to locate one of these discreet offices and knock softly to summon a senator back to the chamber, he could not assume the occupant was alone. The likes of Alben Barkley, Estes Kefauver, JFK, George Smathers, LBJ, or Bob Kerr, might be entertaining female company. For years, Kerr maintained an affair with one secretary, who later told Baker she had been paid $50,000 ($500,000 today) to keep her memoirs unwritten. While he primarily dealt with Democrats, Baker also came to learn of Republican Senator Charles McNary of Oregon, that while “he treated the Page boys with great dignity,” he also “could not see a skirt pass by without compulsively chasing it.” In his 2009 oral history interview, Baker added more names to the list, including Republican Senator Thomas Kuchel, who “was having a relationship with his secretary, so he’d come over to me and ask me if I could send a Page to buy him some rubbers—true story!” There was also Republican Senator Jacob Javits, who like JFK, was a “sex maniac”: “One of the postmen went in and caught him on his couch having a sexual affair with a Negro lady. He couldn’t wait to come and tell me. He said, ‘Can you believe that son of a bitch?’”

Baker socialized with some senators and occasionally made casual introductions to young women who made no secret of their appetite for having a good time with the powerful. Baker came to appreciate that one of the most effective maneuvers in politics was identifying another person’s pleasures or fixations and then catering to them. He quickly concluded that Senator Barkley from Kentucky, despite his frequent biblical quotations, was “a randy old goat” with an intense preoccupation with sex. In particular, Barkley harbored a pronounced fascination with “breastworks.” One secretary’s figure in the Senate occupied an inordinate share of his attention; when he was not attempting to touch her, he was speaking about her in a longing fashion. “I saw to it,” Baker explained, “that Senator Barkley and I talked a great deal about mammary glands and exchanged risqué jokes.”

Cowboys

From Baker’s historical account, Senator Kefauver from Tennessee “had a bad alcohol problem and he also had a very bad record with wanting to go to bed with every woman he ever met. He got some of these young kids testifying, you know, before his juvenile Committee or something and then he couldn’t wait to go to bed with them.” According to Baker, Kefauver was always up for sale; he could be paid in either “coin or women.” He courted trouble by constantly trying to seduce new targets, including an attractive newswoman, using “tactics bordering on the strong-armed.” After Kefauver was nominated for Vice President in 1956, Baker remembered widespread anxiety within Democratic circles that one of these episodes might become public.

Baker himself once served as courier for an illegal $25,000 ($275,000 today) cash payment to Kefauver. He delivered the money to a member of the senator’s staff in a committee office in the old Senate Office Building. Legitimate campaign contributions were prohibited on government property, let alone outright bribes. The payment was meant to influence a Kefauver subcommittee finding that George Preston Marshall, owner of the Washington Redskins football team, operated an illegal monopoly through his Redskins Television Network, which broadcast games profitably throughout the South.

The money originated with Texas interests and was passed to Baker through an intermediary. Baker, in turn, handed it off to Kefauver’s aide. As with many such exchanges, little was said explicitly. Baker recalled receiving the briefcase from the courier, delivering it with the remark, “I hope you’ll get this to the senator with the compliments of some Texas friends.” The staffer accepted the case without comment and immediately shifted the conversation to Democratic politics.

Additionally, a group of Texans were desperate to secure a lucrative National Football League franchise, but they faced fierce resistance from Marshall, a founding figure in the league who wielded outsized influence. Marshall was determined to block a Texas team that would fracture Southern loyalties and cut into his profits; the NFL at the time had no team based in the South. Businessman Clint Murchison, Jr. was in the process of attempting to bring the Dallas Cowboys to the league, but was also encountering resistance from Senator Kefauver: he publicly declared that “Over my dead body” would Dallas be able to get a team over Memphis.

Marshall regarded the South as his personal domain and with millions of dollars at stake, the Texans approached Baker through an operative, a man he knew socially as a heavy drinker and gambler. Over drinks in Baker’s office, the man confided, “Bobby, my job and my ass are on the line. I’ve got to lock up that damn football franchise for Texas, and I’ve been told to leave no stone unturned.” It was after hours, the building was quiet. Baker’s voice broke the silence: “Have you got any money to spend?”

When the operative asked how much was required to get the job done, Baker admitted he did not know. Baker advised him to meet with Senator Kefauver and lay out the problem. “If I know Estes Kefauver,” Baker said, “he’ll play the ball once you put it in his court.” Baker arranged a meeting with the senator and the operative returned with a briefcase, handed it to Baker, and indicated, “There’s $25,000 cash in there.” Baker delivered the funds as instructed.

Pressure on Marshall came from other directions as well. At the suggestion of Murchison, Baker and his law partner in the private sector, Ernest Tucker, purchased the rights to the Redskins’ fight song, “Hail to the Redskins,” from composer Barnee Breeskin. Strapped for cash at the time, Breeskin eagerly accepted $2,500 ($27,000 today), unaware of the song’s strategic value. Marshall, ordinarily a shrewd businessman, had inexplicably failed to secure ownership of it himself.

The terms were straightforward: Marshall could continue using the song only if he withdrew his opposition to the Dallas franchise. Faced with the prospect of relying on “Dixie” as a substitute anthem, he relented. The Murchisons, who had supplied the $2,500, thereby secured a franchise that Baker estimated would later be worth at least $20 million. When Kefauver died in 1963, after cultivating a national reputation as a fearless crusader against organized crime and corporate profiteers, the public was surprised to discover that he had held roughly $300,000 ($3.2 million today) in stock in pharmaceutical companies subject to his regulatory authority. Baker, in contrast, given all of his experience was “not the least bit shocked.”

Baker later filled in more details in 2009, explaining how the Cowboys plot had worked and that a further bribe had been delivered to a U.S. House representative: “Kefauver…was always broke. And he was like Senator George Smathers and President Kennedy, he’d never seen a girl he didn’t want to go to bed with. You know, he had a Senate investigation of [juvenile delinquency, including “obscene and pornographic materials”], many of the young ladies would come in and he’d try to date them. I was very close to one of his secretaries…she would tell me how broke he was…I asked Murchison to have [lobbyist] Tommy Webb give him $25,000 and he quieted down. And I had the Murchisons hire Congressman Manny Celler, who was Chairman of the [House] Judiciary Committee. He was saying that the NFL was a monopoly and they were wrecking the country, and so the Murchisons paid his law firm $50,000…So he eased his criticism. That’s the way Dallas received their franchise.”

Quorum

From all that he had witnessed, Baker knew better than most the dangers inherent in becoming romantically involved with a woman from one’s own office. He nonetheless began an affair with Carole Tyler, his personal secretary in her early twenties. She was, in his telling, a former beauty queen with a sharp intellect and a natural instinct for politics. “Though I knew the guilt of a longtime family man with a loyal wife and five children,” he wrote, “I did nothing to discourage our romance once it began. I was proud of Carole and the things we shared, and did little to conceal it.”

Baker was in part copying the behavior of his superiors. Now that Baker was the Senate’s Secretary to the Majority Leader, Baker was able to observe firsthand LBJ’s affair: “one of the great, great love affairs in the history of the Senate was Senator Lyndon Johnson and Mary Margaret Valenti, his personal secretary. She is still one of my great friends.” LBJ, in Baker’s estimation, did not possess the relentless appetite for women that defined JFK. Johnson, however, delighted in hearing rumors about Kennedy’s sexual adventures and Baker was often well placed to supply fresh anecdotes.

During JFK’s Senate years, Baker had once sought Kennedy out in the Senate restaurant and found him seated with a mutual friend and railroad lobbyist, Bill Thompson, alongside one of the most striking women Baker had ever seen. Baker approached the table and Thompson exclaimed, “Bobby, look at this fine chick. She gives the best head in the United States.” Baker was stunned and embarrassed on her behalf. He tried to deliver his message to Kennedy while stealing glances at the smiling woman being so enthusiastically promoted. Kennedy noticed Baker’s discomfort and laughed: “Relax, Bobby. She’s from Paris and she doesn’t understand a word of English. But what Bill’s saying is absolutely right!”

Kennedy knew that Baker had caroused with Senator Smathers in the company of women who were not their wives; Baker had even smoothed the way for Kennedy to meet a couple of women who had clearly caught his attention. As a result, when President Kennedy occasionally summoned Baker to the White House to talk through pending legislation or political difficulties, those meetings frequently concluded with extremely candid accounts of Kennedy’s latest sexual exploits, to his shock and amusement.

On one occasion, after leaving such a meeting at the White House, Baker returned to his Capitol Hill office only to learn that Vice President Johnson, then presiding over the Senate, had called three times, insisting on seeing him the instant he arrived. Baker hurried to the chamber; Johnson spotted him immediately and motioned him forward. Baker felt the eyes of reporters, senators, and tourists on him as he approached the rostrum. Leaning in, Johnson whispered with studied intensity, “Is ol’ Jack gettin’ much pussy?” Baker relayed the latest JFK escapade and Johnson’s eyes danced with amusement, though his face remained carefully subdued, as if the two were conferring about nuclear strategy.

Within Washington’s inner circles, it was widely understood that LBJ had conducted affairs for years. Baker heard that Johnson had been involved with at least one attractive journalist and the wife of a congressman. Shortly after Johnson became Vice President, he reportedly urged President Kennedy to appoint that congressman to a federal position far from Washington, because rumors of Johnson’s involvement with the man’s wife had become too widespread to ignore. That reassignment was duly arranged. Johnson never confided such matters directly to Baker; the information came instead through the Hill’s grapevine. Johnson was far more guarded about his extramarital life than Kennedy. Kennedy seemed to relish recounting his experiences, offering up the details with a boyish bravado. Johnson, who was prone to toilet humor and was “extraordinarily proud of being well endowed,” joked broadly about sex without volunteering particulars. Baker made a point of not asking LBJ for more details, partly because he did not want to answer those same questions himself.

Baker helped found the Quorum Club, a private establishment in the Carroll Arms Hotel on Capitol Hill that became the focal point of a scandal involving JFK. Its members included senators, representatives, lobbyists, staffers, and other well-connected figures who wanted a discreet place to drink, eat, play cards, and talk. Baker regarded it as no more sinister than a neighborhood drugstore; while intimate affairs sometimes began there or political schemes were occasionally discussed, the same could have been said of numerous other Washington haunts favored by the powerful. The press later fixated on a nude painting and red draperies inside the club, treating them as evidence of moral depravity, much to Baker’s chagrin.

Baker recounted one memorable evening at the club with Ellen Rometsch, whom he called “as pretty as Elizabeth Taylor,” at his table. Married to a German Army sergeant stationed in Washington, she was ambitious and had come from West Germany with little money. Baker noted that “she really loved oral sex,” describing how she would often meet visiting benefactors—“90 percent of the people who give you money want to know if you can get them a date.” He remembered a $5,000 gift from a Dallas Cowboys board member and how Carole Tyler would coordinate Rometsch’s meetings with visitors: “They’re away from mama and their wives and they have a tremendous desire to party.”

Matters escalated when Republican Senator John J. Williams, ever eager for scandal and a devoted reader of Jack Anderson’s column, learned that Baker was an officer of the Quorum Club. The press soon picked up that Ellen Rometsch, who had once had an affair with a Soviet embassy attaché, had been seen there. Almost overnight, Rometsch was portrayed as a threat worthy of a Senate investigation. In addition, there were other political considerations: Attorney General Robert F. Kennedy discovered a secret about her so damaging that he decided to have her kidnapped.

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She overdosed on sleeping pills after discovering that her marriage was an elaborate con. She was a lonely woman who had met her husband while stationed in Paris, working for the foreign office of West Germany in the middle of the 1970s. At an Embassy garden party, she met an attractive man through her friends who also happened to be German. Having no ride home, the two shared a car and they hit it off immediately. The man courted her for weeks and the two were wed by priest in an Austrian manor with the groom’s parents in attendance. The castle turned out to be owned by an agent tied to the East German intelligence service; the priest was a fake dressed up for his role under their employ. The husband and parents were also actors, all East German agents. The wife had been deeply entrenched in her husband’s spying demands and committed suicide once the operation was exposed.

By the mid-1980s, the CIA wanted to warn the public of the threat of gigolo spies. The Agency’s Bonn Station Chief, George Carver, then retired, went to the press with the story of the lonely woman who was tricked into marrying a spy. This occurred after a slate of similar cases hit the papers, such as Astrid Willner, who had worked as a secretary for West German Chancellor Helmut Kohl. “Let’s say that there is a woman in a sensitive ministry who loses a boyfriend,” Carver explained, “or her husband is killed or she has a spat. The odds are very high that within a very short span she will meet someone—a male, if that is her preference—who is very charming, who happens to share her preferences, who plays chess if she loves chess, or enjoys art or music. One thing, as it often does, leads to another. Her new boyfriend asks her for a few small favors. She performs them. He asks for a few more. She is in love. Soon, she is snared, and she can’t get out.” Carver believed this script had been written by one Markus Wolf of the East German security agency, who above all had the advantage of time. Since 1957, the East Germans had kept in place their director of the Stasi, Erich Mielke, to whom Wolf reported. From 1947-1987, the CIA had appointed 12 directors. Wolf himself had been working for the Stasi since 1951. “[Wolf] can plan for the long term,” Carver thought. “He can do things that have no immediate payoff. He doesn’t have to come up with something by the next election.”

Mischa

There was no one more respected in the honeytrap business than Markus “Mischa” Wolf, the head of the Main Directorate for Reconnaissance, the foreign intelligence arm of the East German intelligence service, known as the Stasi. “Wolf has a lot of brains, experience and patience,” a West German intelligence official was quoted as saying. “But most of all, he’s got the cards stacked in his favor in dealing with an open society [in West Germany] in the same language.”

Wolf knew that espionage was a deadly enterprise and although it was a secret seldom discussed, he was aware that the Soviets still maintained a unit tasked with killing their enemies. There was the murder of Stepan Bandera, leader of the Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists, in 1959. Wearing a gas mask, KGB agent Bohdan Stashynsky shot two cyanide-filled pellets into Bandera’s face using a specialized air pistol. The pellets released poison gas on impact, knocking Bandera unconscious; he died en route to the hospital without ever waking. Wolf also recalled the KGB assassination of defector Alexander Truchnovich, head of the Russian emigrant organization known as the National Workers Union, in Berlin while attempting to kidnap him. Known only to U.S. intelligence as a kidnapping at the time, a U.S. official criticized the action publicly as “uncivilized.”

Wolf was also aware of a KGB operative dispatched to buyers throughout the Eastern bloc carrying wares such as untraceable nerve toxins and skin-contact poisons intended for smearing on doorknobs. The only item Wolf took from this man was an array of “truth drugs,” which the operative excitedly pitched as “unbeatable.” The drugs remained in Wolf’s personal safe for years and eventually, out of curiosity, he asked a doctor to analyze their contents. The doctor returned in a horrified state, saying, “Use these without constant medical supervision and there is every chance that the fellow from whom you want the truth will be dead as a dodo in seconds.” Wolf claimed to have never used the drugs in his operations.

Death was always a possible outcome, regardless of which side one served. The price for being uncovered as a traitor in the early Cold War was very often execution following trial by one’s own government. The first such victim Wolf heard about was a woman named Elli Barczatis, secretary to East German prime minister Otto Grotewohl. Grotewohl, originally a Social Democrat prior to the post-war merger of the Social Democratic Party of Germany (SPD) and Communist Party in the East in 1948, remained someone his former SPD colleagues in the West hoped could be persuaded to distance himself from Soviet influence and split the ruling party. Because Grotewohl himself was a gloomy soul incapable of being turned, Western intelligence instead targeted his secretary. Barczatis was seduced by a Western agent and, as later discovered through interrogation, was assigned the codename “Daisy.” To Wolf’s knowledge, this represented the first post-war use of a “Romeo” strategy by any intelligence service—East or West—to lure a person close to a political figure into collaborating with the enemy. Wolf’s targets were women more than men, as George Carver of the CIA observed, given the fact “that there are an awful lot more lonely females in Bonn than there are lonely males.”

Learning the Craft

After the East German uprising of 1953, Wolf’s biggest priority was the upcoming meeting of the Allied foreign ministers to be hosted in Berlin. It was the first time such a summit was happening so close to home and Wolf did not know what kind of intelligence gathering was expected of him. Moscow wanted a detailed operational plan and Wolf tried to devise something that would flood them with top-tier reports from his officers.

A specialist from Moscow arrived and inspected the giant planning chart sitting on Wolf’s desk. “Naturally you’ll need a malina throughout the operation,” he remarked. Malina in Russian literally translates to “raspberry,” but Wolf thought it was unlikely that the adviser was proposing dessert. Eventually, it became clear that he was using the term as slang for a brothel, a place where Wolf’s agents could entice wandering delegates into loosening their tongues after some indulgence.

At that early point in his career, Wolf had no standard operating procedures for using sex in espionage but he was not about to let his Russian colleague see how green he was. Wolf quickly converted a small safehouse in southern East Berlin into a combined bordello and trap site, complete with listening devices in the sitting room and a camera with an infrared flash hidden inside the bedroom light fixture. The equipment was crude in those days, which meant the photographer had to hide inside a tiny linen closet until the targets departed.

Next came the challenge of recruiting women. Wolf’s team contacted a senior police official who had once headed the Berlin vice squad. The man’s appearance was shabby, but he knew every corner where prostitution had gone to ground in the new puritanical state. He directed them toward the Mulackstrasse district, historically home to the lowest tier of Berlin’s sex trade. Wolf’s superior officer, utterly immune to shock after a lifetime in clandestine work, phoned him with the bleak assessment: “You wouldn’t consider getting your leg over any of these for even a mark.”

Wolf had better luck at a milk bar on Karl-Marx-Allee, a prominent boulevard in Berlin, where he found appealing young women who lived respectable lives during daylight hours, yet were willing to take on disreputable evening duties in service of the homeland. The scheme was simple: send dozens of agents into West Berlin press venues, bars, and restaurants near the conference, where they would befriend delegates, invite them for drinks, and if things looked promising, escort them back to a “small party” at the malina, where female companionship was assured. Everything seemed ready in terms of the implementation, but Wolf’s telephone rang in the middle of the night with an important update. The madam had insisted on medical checks and discovered that one of the girls was infested with pubic lice. “I ordered her withdrawn from the operation,” Wolf recalled.

When the conference began, the intelligence team waited on edge for something to happen. Not a single visitor appeared; apparently the ministers’ entourages were unusually virtuous that year, Wolf thought. Only on the final night did they receive one guest: a West German journalist. Drinks and snacks were served, the women took their places, and then yet another calamity struck: the officer running the evening accidentally drank the liqueur laced with the aphrodisiac meant for the target. As a finale, pornographic films were to be shown. They were deemed to be contraband in the East but were made available through their former vice-squad chief when needed. Wolf’s operative sat in a trance, intently watching the film, while the journalist showed no interest whatsoever and retreated to the kitchen for polite chatter with the maid. By the next morning, the journalist was the only person from the party who was entirely sober and to their pleasant surprise, he signaled that he was willing to cooperate. Technically this counted as a success, though hardly worth the cost or embarrassment, and the recruited women had to be paid and were sternly instructed to keep quiet.

The successful recruitment of an agent resulted in an unexpected twist. Instead of the journalist, one of his colleagues, Heinz Losecaat van Nouhuys, claiming to be from Der Spiegel, appeared for the arranged follow-up meeting. Wolf never learned whether they planned the substitution themselves or whether Western counterintelligence engineered it. In any case, van Nouhuys proved eager and, although Wolf doubted some of his claims, his information lined up with other sources. His career later led him to edit Quick, a large conservative magazine hostile to the East, yet he continued feeding them material from within. He was outed in 1973 by a rival magazine, Stern, as a Stasi double agent, his work from 1954 to 1960 earning him a reported 200,000 Deutsche Marks (roughly $500,000 USD today). Nouhuys later became editor of the German edition of a Playboy knock-off, Lui, which sought to become Germany’s largest lifestyle magazine by adopting a new formula of: “Chest out, brains in.”

Felix

Wolf was far from the originator in terms of using sex in espionage, which had been present since ancient times. He later remarked, however, that if he went down in espionage history, it might well be for perfecting the use of sex in spying, particularly when it came to using men to entrap women. These men were called ravens in the KGB (the women used in honeytraps were referred to as swallows), but Wolf preferred the term Romeo. His Romeo spies became globally notorious by winning the hearts of women—known as Juliets—in order to gain access to state and political secrets. Once he began the practice, he “had no idea of the harvest it would bring for us,” Wolf remarked. As far as he was concerned, it was merely one instrument among many available to a cash-strapped and inexperienced intelligence service. Wolf claimed that they never used blackmail, as it risked driving women to confess to West German authorities and create propaganda disasters.

Women in the twentieth century, for Wolf’s purposes, were becoming useful in roles beyond kind-hearted prostitutes and seductresses. They were increasingly working as secretaries to powerful figures and, with some in positions as senior officials, advisers, and academics, they were now keepers of state secrets themselves and prime targets for seduction. Wolf’s first Romeo began work in the early 1950s. His codename was Felix and as a student he had impressed senior officers during their recruitment trips, which Wolf compared to East German talent searches for elite gymnasts. For every hundred candidates drawn from the Party, universities, or youth organizations, only ten were interviewed after background checks, and of those, only one might ultimately work for them.

In the spring of 1952, Wolf traveled with a senior colleague to the southeast German town where Felix was studying engineering. Felix was clever and earnest, but less than impressed when they revealed their identity and intentions, since he feared interrupting his studies. They urgently needed operatives to work in the West and persuaded him that espionage life was more enticing, certainly better paid than a pedestrian state job.

Felix was assigned a practice mission in Hamburg. They led him to believe it was a genuine emergency so they could evaluate his judgment under pressure. After meeting a contact near the main train station, he was to collect material from a man on a small pier. Felix had been taught surveillance-avoidance methods and carefully studied their diagrams of visual angles and crowd-positioning. Upon arrival, Felix became convinced that a man in a gray overcoat was following him and soon believed that an entire legion was not far behind. Gray coats were simply fashionable at the time, but Felix interpreted every one as an enemy agent. He signaled for his mission to be aborted by shifting his newspaper and the transfer never happened. Wolf and Felix later laughed at this failure once the junior operative had developed into an expert agent in Bonn.

Felix established his presence in the West using false papers and worked as a sales representative for beauty supplies. The original objective was to penetrate West German counterintelligence (the BfV), headquartered in Cologne, but his business trips to nearby Bonn shifted their attention to the Chancellery, run by former Nazi Hans Globke, a close confidant of Chancellor Konrad Adenauer. Wolf’s team lacked reliable intelligence from Adenauer’s inner circle, lacking even a phone directory of his workers, and decided to redirect Felix toward the Chancellery. There was the problem of how a supposed sales agent who dealt with hair products could infiltrate this high-level organization. Felix suggested he strike up conversations with employees at a bus stop after work. After several attempts, he met a dark-haired Chancellery secretary, whom they gave the codename of Norma. Their growing friendship soon turned into romance, allowing Felix to gather operational knowledge.

Once accepted socially as Norma’s boyfriend, Felix was able to attend outings, boat excursions, and bowling with her colleagues. His charm, humor, dancing, and drinking made him popular. Norma, not considered particularly attractive, was happy to have a partner, and although she was a means to an end for the service, Felix developed a real affection for her. They moved in together, but marriage was impossible for agents using false identities, as West German authorities thoroughly checked marital applicants, especially connected to the Chancellery. As a result, agents were instructed typically to claim prior marriages or disinterest in matrimony.

The affair continued successfully for years and Felix never revealed his real intentions. However, internal intelligence reported that a security group had begun investigating Norma’s partner, so Wolf’s Romeo was recalled immediately. Norma returned home one day and Felix was gone without a trace, never to return. “The unfortunate woman must have been devastated to discover that her lover had disappeared,” Wolf surmised, “but in a choice between saving an agent and saving a romance, I had to be ruthless.”

Wolf’s job now involved acting as an emotional counselor. Felix was heartbroken upon returning to East Berlin, and Wolf sat with him as they downed two bottles of vodka and Felix laid his emotions bare. Fortunately for Wolf, Felix still had the intelligence service’s operational goals in mind and he suggested another possible candidate: a middle-aged, lively secretary in Globke’s department.

Astor

Although there was no obvious reason to assume she would cooperate, Felix believed this secretary might be influenced by another handsome, self-assured man with a convincing story. The postwar shortage of men among middle-aged women provided an exploitable opportunity. After evaluating candidates, they selected Herbert Söhler, code-named Astor, an amateur pilot and former staff officer to the German Field Marshal Albert Kesselring. Captured by the Soviets and converted to communist cause in captivity, Söhler found his career in East Germany blocked by his Nazi Party past and he accepted the assignment of infiltrating the West enthusiastically.

Relocating to Bonn, Söhler worked as a real estate agent and joined the Hangelar flying club, a place frequented by government employees. He soon met the secretary, codenamed Gudrun, who saw him as a valuable partner, while he discovered that key memos about Adenauer’s contacts with Reinhard Gehlen passed across her desk. They became romantically involved, with Söhler posing as a Soviet officer; an unusual method, but in this case, it proved effective. Gudrun viewed the Soviet Union as a global power, while rejecting the GDR as a legitimate state. Söhler’s wartime tales and his claimed experience with a humane Soviet cultural officer who taught him about the inextricable ties between the Germans and the Russians resonated with her.

They staged the formal recruitment meeting in a secluded Swiss mountain location to allow for rapid escape if necessary and to avoid counterintelligence traps. Their elaborate preparations ultimately proved unnecessary, as Söhler had already persuaded her. Wolf concluded from this that many women, the Juliets, recruited romantically by men, the Romeos, instinctively sensed the true occupation of their partner but suppressed the realization. He learned never to underestimate a potential recruit’s awareness and always to ensure a Romeo had a swift escape route if rejected.

Unfortunately for Wolf, Söhler developed a lung disease and was withdrawn, later succumbing to his illness in East Germany. Attempts to interest Gudrun in another romantic partner all failed; she was let go given her unbreakable loyalty to Söhler. She was unlike other Juliet targets who became attached to the thrill of espionage and could be reassigned to another Romeo. However, the intelligence she provided allowed them to finally begin their campaign against Globke. Wolf credited this initiative with leading “to his resignation in 1963, a net gain for us in the removal of an obsessive opponent of East Germany while simultaneously bringing to the West’s attention the extent to which ex-Nazis served the West German government.” Left out of his account was the fact that Globke’s retirement was due to his reaching the mandatory retirement age of 65.

Discovery

Wolf knew that success in the Romeo operations could not go on forever, that at some point an operative would be exposed. To his astonishment, this did not occur until 1979. When Ingrid Garbe, a West German NATO secretary, was arrested by West German authorities for spying for the East, the media pitched it as a major case of treason and hyped up the “spy for love” angle. To Wolf, Garbe was but one of many agents at their disposal.

More exposures followed: that March, newspapers reported another West German NATO secretary, Ursel Lorenzen, had defected to the East. Lorenzen had worked as a NATO aide for 12 years, most recently in the Operations Directorate, where she had access to war plans and other sensitive materials. Another secretary in NATO from Belgium, Imelda Verrept, also requested asylum in East Germany soon thereafter. While the government leadership in East Berlin was pleased that defections were headed eastward instead of westward for a change, Wolf was in a foul mood. Seeing these women on TV, while it was a useful piece of propaganda, meant a loss of intelligence sources for his work. They would have been much more operationally valuable to Wolf had they stayed active inside NATO.

A short time later in the spring, on a skiing trip, Wolf received yet another report of the arrest of a secretary: this time Ursula Höfs, who worked in the West German Christian Democratic Party headquarters. Wolf initially failed to recognize her name, since knowledge of the real names of agents was restricted for security purposes. Not wanting to risk a call to East Berlin, he rushed home, listening to West German radio and trying to deduce which agent of his Höfs represented.

A week later, two additional secretaries from Bonn were splashed across the headlines: Inge Goliath and Christel Broszey. Goliath had been employed by Werner Marx, head of a think tank, and Broszey had been an assistant to Kurt Biedenkopf, chairman of the Christian Democrats. Wolf noted with glee that Broszey had followed orders flawlessly; showing no fear, she left work with a cheerful wave, saying, “I’m off to the hairdresser’s. See you tomorrow,” but she never returned. She was portrayed in the press as a “supersecretary,” who ranked consistently in the top of her profession in typing competitions. Since she had worked under three consecutive Christian Democratic Union chairmen, it was a challenge for West German authorities to determine what she knew and the damage her defection inflicted. A week afterwards, Helga Rödiger, secretary to Manfred Lahnstein, a top finance ministry official, also casually departed and made her way to East Berlin. “She even took her canary,” an agent remarked from the West German equivalent of the FBI. Methods of escape were always carefully considered: agents were instructed to take plane routes through countries such as Belgium or Switzerland and to arrive in East Germany carrying an empty West German passport. Upon seeing this, border officials knew what to do and would seek out a superior officer who would contact the Stasi through a secret telephone.

Wolf was distraught and confused by the sudden exposure of his agents. He wrote in his diary: “This is a real life-or-death struggle and the opposition is breathing down our necks. On the outside it does not seem dramatic at all, but it causes inner tension and insecurity. One must have strong nerves to survive, but still not allow one’s skin to grow too thick.” The only shared factor he could identify was that most of the secretaries had husbands or partners who were agents living under aliases in West Germany. These men had probably registered as doppelgängers, using identities of West German emigres. Perhaps each woman had sensed that her cover was in danger, Wolf thought. It became clear to him that West German intelligence had cracked part of their infiltration system. Wolf decided that they needed a full reset and made the painful decision to recall female agents along with their Romeos. Ursula Höfs and her husband did not benefit from this and were sentenced to two years in prison. It turned out that the BfV had caught on to the scheme, totalling approximately 40 agents in total, through a process of beginning in 1979 to vet the partners of single women in sensitive jobs. One case involving Gabriella Kliem, a secretary who worked in the Bonn U.S. Embassy beginning in 1974, was only found through an examination of files in 1991.

Eventually, Wolf received vague hints that a legion of mostly retired bureaucrats in West Germany was sifting through residency registrations searching for specific patterns. Wolf formed a special working group to determine what traits were being targeted. The service already knew that solitary male travelers between the ages of 25 and 45 carrying minimal luggage or displaying mismatches between appearance and identity documents could be questioned. West German intelligence had gone further, identifying more subtle traits, such as long hair being common among young West Germans in the 1970s, whereas East German recruits, who were often teachers, had short haircuts that differed somewhat from the Western styles. Undercover surveillance teams also observed post-arrival behavior: Easterners almost always browsed nearby shop windows, unable to resist the allure of goods unavailable in the East.

Hansjoachim Tiedge, a senior West German counterintelligence official who defected in 1985, later told East Germany that authorities had detected approximately two hundred suspected false identities over ten years. Between 1972 and 1982, Wolf estimated that thirty agents had been arrested and approximately ninety withdrawn, costing around one hundred operatives. What had started as one exposure was now a major loss.

Another example involved Helga Rödiger, code-named Hannelore. Her original handler had to be withdrawn due to security worries. Determined not to lose such a valuable source, the service identified a new Romeo candidate, a young agent code-named Gert, operating in West Germany under the identity of Robert Kresse, who had emigrated to New Zealand. Wolf decided to oversee the pairing personally, both because he was curious to meet Helga and because she had a crucial career decision to make: whether to move with her boss to the Finance Ministry or remain in the Chancellery. She sent a coded message requesting guidance.

The Winter Olympics in Innsbruck in 1976 served as effective cover for a meeting. Helga rented a holiday bungalow nearby. At their first meeting, she agreed to accept a West-based intermediary. Gert was introduced, and Wolf observed them at dinner, seeing no immediate romantic connection. The service concluded that the Finance Ministry was the safer placement, and she continued to provide secrets. In time, Helga and Gert developed a genuine and lasting relationship. After Helga was withdrawn in 1979, Gert was also recalled, and the two were finally free to marry. The ceremony took place in Wernigerode, and Wolf attended as guest of honor.

Wolf’s Romeo agents became the subject of intense scrutiny within the Western intelligence community and quickly captured public attention as well. The German tabloid Bild-Zeitung assembled a photo montage featuring twelve women on East German payroll under the headline “THE SECRETARIES WHO SPIED FOR LOVE.” A weekly magazine ran a cover story displaying a naked bosom adorned with East German medals. Wolf sensed that Western services were troubled by the operation’s success rate and investing money into shaping a media narrative: “The secretaries were relentlessly portrayed as pitiful, misused victims, all of a certain age, single and hungry for love, delivered helpless into the arms of misfortune.”

Super Romeos

“All we need are those coordinates, and we can drop a bomb on them and slice right through the West.” The Soviets wanted NATO’s plans for a nuclear strike against the East and they believed Markus Wolf could be the man who could get them. Soviet commander Marshal Koshevoi would cheeriily flatter Wolf with, “You [East] Germans are so good. Can’t you get us some more of the coordinates?” The Soviets were hoping that they could neutralize NATO bases in the event of nuclear war.

Some of the more exotic operations used for this purpose involved two super-Romeos, each with a unique personal style. The first, Roland G., was a master of melodrama. He had served as director of a small but well-regarded East German theater in Annaberg in the Erzgebirge mountains. He was admired for his celebrated performance of Faust in Goethe’s drama about a man hungry for every human experience who seduces and disgraces a naïve girl named Margarete. Highly intelligent, fine-featured, and gifted with an actor’s instinct for disguise, he embodied the perfect Romeo candidate. Wolf had a regional branch office in Karl-Marx-Stadt that was known for devising wild schemes and officers there recognized Roland G.’s talent. In 1961, he was dispatched to Bonn to target a woman named Margarete, who worked as an interpreter for the Supreme Headquarters Allied Powers Europe (SHAPE), the military HQ of NATO.

Roland G. was handed a false identity and became Kai Petersen, a Danish journalist whose fluent German was touched with a Scandinavian inflection. Margarete, attractive, single, and devoutly Catholic, lived a quiet existence. Three earlier agents had already attempted, and failed, to seduce her. Roland G., however, was more determined than his predecessors. He arranged a romantic trip with her to Vienna, introducing her to the Italian nudes in the Kunsthistorisches Museum, then taking her to the Spanish Riding School, and closed off with an excursion to the lavish Dehmel café for Viennese coffee and rich pastries. All financed by East German intelligence, his expenses raised eyebrows at the service, but his case officers allowed them given their view of the importance of the target.

Following a show at the Burgtheater, Margarete kissed the agent and declared, “I have never had such a lovely time with anyone before.” After a night spent together, he lied and told her he was a Danish military intelligence officer. As a smaller member of NATO, Denmark felt excluded and required access to the organization’s secrets. Margarete agreed to provide the information he was looking for and they would meet in small hotels, where he learned about NATO preparations, military plans, and insights into their internal assessments of strengths and weaknesses.

The Soviets, with whom this material was shared, demanded more. Wolf resented this, believing his service provided far more valuable analytical insight than mere map references of where to attack. East Germany continued to search for nuclear deployment coordinates in Europe, but never succeeded in completing the full picture, which Wolf suspected because the Pentagon wisely kept such essential material far from its West German allies, whom it considered far from leak-proof.

Meanwhile, Margarete began experiencing an intense moral conflict, as if she were following the storyline of her namesake in Goethe’s tragedy. She had supplied documents to the man she loved, whom she believed served a harmless Scandinavian service, but that had required significant persuasion. Her strict Roman Catholic beliefs also weighed heavily on her mind, making her uneasy about not only the espionage but also the sexual relationship outside of marriage. The couple spent Christmas and New Year’s 1962-63 in the picturesque resort town of Arosa, Switzerland. There, Margarete informed him that she could not continue spying on his behalf or the relationship unless they were to marry and in addition, she needed to fully confess her sins to a priest. Roland G. came up with a quick answer: marriage was impossible because his work for Copenhagen’s secret service meant that he could never live in any place for an extended period of time. He asked Margarete to wait until a trustworthy Danish priest could be located. This request was passed to the branch headquarters in Karl-Marx-Stadt, where it caused considerable agitation. The East German service had many resources, but a Catholic priest who could speak Danish was not readily available in their roster.

East German intelligence eventually settled on staging a fake wedding, using one of their agents posing as a military chaplain. He was trained in the art of taking confession and taught basic Danish words such as “hello” and “goodbye.” His German accent had to be suppressed in favor of something more Nordic. A small, seldom-used church in a Jutland village was secured, and once the coast was clear, the fake priest entered the confessional and Margarete was ushered in to confess. The priest proved remarkably understanding of her plight and encouraged her to continue her espionage work “with the blessing of the Lord.”

Wolf feared the operation would devolve into farce, but to his astonishment, it worked. He observed that in espionage, often the most bizarre schemes succeeded, while the simplest ones failed. Regarding the moral implications, Wolf never felt guilt or shame over such methods. Some operations had spiraled beyond their intended limits, “but at the time we believed that the end justified the means,” he later wrote.

Margarete was ultimately lost as a source when Roland G. was taken out of West Germany due to suspicions that he was being investigated. She continued briefly with a replacement Romeo, but the partnership proved ineffective. Her commitment had always been rooted in her love for Roland G., and after his departure, her motivation evaporated.

Wolf’s other top agent who worked as a Romeo was a surprising success story, given his attractiveness was not immediately obvious like Roland G. He was Herbert Schröter, a man with a rough name and an appearance to match: a broad frame “with a square head” and a brutish voice. Wolf could not understand his appeal to women, but the results were undeniable: Schröter was able to recruit two secretaries in sensitive and useful positions of the enemy. While both women were ultimately arrested, Schröter managed to escape capture on both occasions. “Sometimes the tactic can lead to true and lasting romantic relationships,” Wolf opined, “sometimes to tragedy.”

Schröter was assigned to the Alliance Française in Paris under cover as a commercial agent in the early 1960s. This location was an established recruiting ground for the intelligence service, nicknamed the “secretaries’ sandpit” because civil servants were sent there for French language training. Gerda Osterrieder, a clever and slim 19-year-old was his first target. Their romance developed and eventually he revealed his true identity. She agreed to seek a transfer to the Foreign Office and became a remarkably enthusiastic and efficient informant. In 1966, she was able to secure a job at the Bonn Foreign Office decoding center, known as Telco.

Telco’s operational security was lax. Telegrams arrived on ticker tape, allowing Osterrieder to slip bundles of material into her handbag without ever being searched. In 1968, she temporarily worked in Washington, DC for three months. She also worked as a decoder at the West German Embassy, where she excelled further by passing information on relations between Bonn and Washington, as well as the ambassador’s assessments of U.S. domestic and foreign policy. Later that year, she reunited with Schröter in Bonn and continued reporting. After another five years, Osterrieder was transferred to Warsaw and Schröter was kept in West Germany for security reasons. The separation from her boyfriend caused the relationship to deteriorate and she began to develop a drinking problem. Osterrieder found companionship in a journalist from West German who happened to be working as a secret Bonn intelligence operative. She eventually confided in him about her espionage work and he convinced her that confession was the best course of action. Yet her loyalty to Schröter held long enough for her to warn him using their prearranged message: “Go to our friends. It is very important.” This allowed him to escape to East Berlin and narrowly escape arrest.

Wolf could feel his agent slipping away as he received word that she was being confined in the West German ambassador’s Warsaw residence to prevent contact with her former handlers. When two West German intelligence officers arrived to question her, Wolf’s emergency lines “were burning up” as he desperately hoped to win her back. He contacted Polish intelligence, who agreed that every effort be made to maintain her as a source. Wolf suspected that failure would earn a stern reprimand from his counterpart, Miroslav Milevski, then chief of Polish foreign intelligence and later interior minister.

A final rescue attempt was staged. As West German officials escorted her through airport customs, an undercover Polish operative approached and offered her asylum. Osterrieder hesitated, causing the diplomat from West Germany to freeze in terror at the possibility that he might be remembered as the official who lost a confessed spy at the airport steps. Osterrieder saved the man’s reputation by shaking her head and proceeding to board the Lufthansa aircraft.

Once returned to Düsseldorf, she received a prison sentence of three years for her espionage activities, reduced due to her cooperation with authorities. Wolf was left embittered by the failure, believing that his service had been too casual in managing the relationship. Worse still, they were now responsible for Schröter, an awkward man who no longer had operational utility and had been fully compromised through Osterrieder’s exposure. To buy time, Wolf sent him on holiday to the Black Sea. After a few weeks, Schröter returned in a jubilant mood: “I think I’ve got you another useful girlfriend.” She was Dagmar Kahlig-Scheffler, a stunning brunette he had encountered on a beach. Inventing another false identity—Herr Herbert Richter—he claimed to be divorced, mirroring her own recent separation. During their romance that followed, he was horrified to find a newspaper report on Osterrieder’s trial complete with a photograph exposing his identity. He decided to come clean with Kahlig-Scheffler and she was impressed with his honesty; their relationship continued.

Kahlig-Scheffler worked as an assistant to a Munich journalist, a position of limited intelligence value. However, East German intelligence hoped that she would work her way into more sensitive positions and financed her studies in French and stenography, as well as her daughter’s education at a boarding school in Switzerland. She later took a job assisting a university professor, whose recommendation in the fall of 1975 enabled her to secure employment in Chancellor Helmut Schmidt’s office. The secretary agent cleared all of her security background checks with ease and meetings with Schröter were arranged in Vienna, Geneva, and Innsbruck.

Given the codename Inge, she served East Germany for several years, providing insight into internal dynamics within Schmidt’s leadership team and on European security discussions with President Jimmy Carter. She was hardworking and well-liked by colleagues, known for staying late and covering holiday shifts. During those quiet times, she photocopied documents continuously, creating extra copies for East Berlin or microfilming documents for their use without her bosses’ knowledge.

Despite the long-distance nature of Inge’s relationship with Schröter, their connection remained strong. She longed for marriage, and although Wolf’s organization discouraged it, they feared losing her cooperation and arranged another fake wedding. She received an East German identity card in her maiden name and was flown from Bonn to East Berlin, where she was taken to a registry office in Lichtenberg near the Ministry of State Security. The full ceremony was performed, rings exchanged, and the register signed, but the relevant page was later removed and destroyed without their knowledge.

Her espionage career ended in 1977; suspicion fell on her West German control officer, Peter Goslar, who had been infiltrated into Düsseldorf with his wife under false identities, passing through London with British cover papers as Mr. and Mrs. Antony Roge. A computerized sweep targeting unusual resettlements revealed them and surveillance followed. When their apartment was searched, documents were found hidden in the vegetable basket and bathroom, including Schmidt’s confidential notes quoting British Prime Minister James Callaghan criticizing U.S. attitudes with words such as “arrogance” and “stupidity.”

Authorities soon identified Inge as the source. The Goslars’ meetings with her were filmed. A second search found briefing papers for the West German delegation to the 1978 London economic summit. Inge was arrested, tried, and sentenced to four years and three months. Wolf later met an elderly Düsseldorf courtroom guard who had seen multiple secretary-spies and told him, “She was the most fantastic-looking woman I have ever seen.” After her arrest, she discovered that her marriage had never been legally registered and reacted with fury. With the collapse of this operation, Schröter’s spying days were over and he lived quietly in East Germany, “with no more exotic holiday romances.”

Targeting the U.S.

Wolf directed East German espionage on American soil primarily toward obtaining scientific and technological information. Progress was minimal given the FBI’s monitoring of suspicious foreign nationals. The absence of an East German Embassy or official representation in the U.S. meant that any agents Wolf sent would be “illegal” and lack diplomatic protection. The FBI already scrutinized any East German attempting to settle there. Wolf believed that any of his operations in the U.S. had to be especially innovative and flawlessly implemented to avoid sending agents only to become bargaining chips in spy exchanges.

Despite these obstacles, Wolf’s service managed to settle a small number of illegal agents, with backgrounds and names based on real people, some of them deceased. To make the false identities credible, candidates first had to be legalized in a third country with less stringent vetting procedures, such as Australia, South Africa, or countries in Latin America. It would take years of establishing residency in the third countries before they would attempt to enter the United States. They were also instructed to not recruit any informants until they had also spent some time in the U.S. An inside joke within Wolf’s team was that by the time such agents finally became active, “we had forgotten who they were or why we had sent them.”

One of Wolf’s most promising agents was Eberhard Lüttich, who was provided with the codename Brest. Given his sterling reputation within the service, was moved to New York and tasked with overseeing U.S.-based intelligence sources, particularly those close to being exposed, as well as reporting on military troop movements and armaments through his cover working for a multinational transportation company. Lüttich disclosed everything he knew following his 1979 arrest in exchange for a reduced sentence; this included the identity of his West German intermediary and how East Germany was sending radio one-way radio message to their U.S. agents through a transmitter stationed in Cuba, an initiative that had taken decades to develop. Several U.S.-based illegals were compromised through local authorities looking for single, middle-aged men who frequently changed jobs. Wolf believed that Lüttich had been captured using this methodology; however, it was actually a Stasi defector, First Lieutenant Werner Stiller, who gave his name to the West Germans and East Germany never bothered to recall him from the U.S. to mitigate the security risk.

Wolf never mentioned in his account a female CIA employee the Stasi targeted in 1983. She was codenamed Fee (or “Fairy” in English) and it was discovered through Eastern Bloc intelligence databases that she had been the subject of Hungarian surveillance. Hungarian counterintelligence, led by Colonel Laszlo Csordas, had extensively monitored her in Vienna, bugging her apartment and gaining valuable information from her casual conversations, including details that helped expose a Yugoslav Defense Ministry colonel who was secretly a CIA source. The CIA officer and a secretary would often meet after work for a drink; the Hungarians would listen as she revealed the upcoming movements of CIA operatives. “These women would bitch and moan over their drinks and let out their frustration by gossiping about the human frailties of their fellow workers,” Hungarian Colonel Rainer Wiegand recalled. “It was a gold mine not only for the Hungarians but also for the KGB who got copies of everything…”

When Fee was later posted to East Berlin, the Stasi prepared to recruit her by wiring her new apartment for audio and video surveillance. However, the KGB insisted on taking over the operation, claiming priority over the recruitment of Americans. A KGB specialist who could speak English was sent from Moscow for this effort. The other intelligence services waited to see what this “big man,” in Wiegand’s words, would handle the CIA employee. The specialist visited her apartment one evening in the summer of 1984. The audio and video recorders were running as the man entered, claiming to be an American who needed help. Once inside, he quickly changed tactics, becoming severely aggressive, confronting her with the transcripts from her private conversations with the secretary and saying that she needed to join the KGB if she wanted to save herself. Her reaction shocked them all.

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It did not take long for everyone to recognize the glaring incompetence of Ed Marelius, the CIA Chief of Station in Stockholm, Sweden in the 1960s. Within a short amount of time employees also noticed that his wife, Mary, though pleasant and intelligent, was an obvious alcoholic. Fortunately for James Everett, he was under deep cover with a colleague named Jack Kindschi. Since they operated outside the usual chain of command of the local CIA field office in Stockholm, they were spared much of Marelius’ absurd attempts at leadership.

With two deep-cover officers now working out of the station and an increase in intelligence activity, Marelius proposed that they hire a secretary who would be aware of their Agency affiliation. Everett and Kindschi agreed there might be some benefits, though they saw no pressing need; they were managing their overt and covert operations effectively without any strain. Marelius, however, had other ideas for his own purposes. Without consulting his subordinates, he made a special trip to Washington to pursue what he considered an important matter. Upon his return, he proudly announced that he had already selected and hired what he called the perfect secretary; a woman he claimed was highly skilled and would be an enormous asset.

A few weeks later, their new recruit arrived. She turned out to be a tall, shapely blonde; an American divorcee of a Scandinavian Airlines pilot, from whom she had picked up a bit of Swedish. She arrived driving a bright red Ford Thunderbird convertible, an enormous car by Swedish standards and, as far as they knew, the only one of its kind in all of Northern Europe. This, apparently, was their new “quiet and efficient” secretary. Without wanting to insult blondes generally, Everett noted she fit the stereotype to perfection: he doubted she could type a single page properly. Her only real redeeming quality was that she was pleasant to look at.

When Marelius asked for their input on her salary, they suggested what would have been a top rate for a highly competent secretary in Sweden. He ignored their advice entirely and doubled her pay. They later learned from contacts within the CIA office that Marelius had processed all the hiring paperwork in a way that made it appear as though Everett and Kindschi had initiated and recommended her appointment.

Everett had known what competence looked like in a secretary. One of his first priorities after landing in Sweden had been to hire an exceptionally capable private secretary named Maire. She was fluent in Finnish, Swedish, German, French, and English, able to read, write, and take shorthand in all five languages. Her typing and spelling were virtually perfect, so he rarely had to revise her work. Her efficiency proved invaluable to Everett’s deep-cover job working for a company engaged in international import and export operations. She served as his secretary for seven years, completely unaware of his true affiliation with the CIA until her passing in 2008.

The new buxom secretary had no housing in Stockholm, but with help from Marelius, that problem was quickly solved. He arranged to have her apartment officially designated as one of the CIA’s safehouses and even gave her the title of safehouse keeper. That maneuver allowed him to justify charging both her inflated salary and her rent to the U.S. Government.

The deep-cover employees suspected she had some kind of leverage over Marelius, but in a bureaucracy and especially when working in an immensely secret operation, Everett felt there was little that could be done. Like most in similar positions, he and his colleague kept their mouths shut. Speaking up would have done nothing but end their careers.

Everett and Kindschi used their blonde bombshell’s so-called safehouse as little as possible. Nonetheless, there came a time when Everett had to hold a highly confidential meeting with one of his foreign assets and her apartment happened to be the most convenient location. Following standard procedure, he confirmed that the apartment would be unoccupied at the appointed hour. Out of simple prudence, the secret contact and Everett spoke in low tones, not wanting to attract attention from neighbors who might wonder why two men were inside the apartment of a single woman while she was away at work.

Just as they were wrapping up the meeting and preparing to leave, the doorbell suddenly rang. Startled, they froze where they stood. For several long minutes, the bell rang and the knocking continued; a visitor seemed desperate to see the secretary. Though Everett and his contact were both seasoned professionals, they stood there in tense silence, weighing how they could possibly explain to anyone, perhaps the concierge or local police, why two strange men were inside a woman’s apartment without her being there.

Finally, the knocking stopped, and after waiting a cautious few minutes, they quietly opened the door to leave. Hanging on the outside doorknob was a bouquet of a dozen long-stemmed roses, along with an envelope containing a handwritten note. Ordinarily, Everett might have ignored the note, but given the operational sensitivity of the location, he felt compelled to look. To his astonishment, the note was from one of the most prominent figures in the local Swedish Communist Party. The tone made it clear that he and their secretary were romantically involved. It was now obvious to Everett that the secretary had more love to share than their Chief alone could handle.

Recognizing the serious security implications, Everett documented the incident in a formal contact report to his handler at the Stockholm office. Later, he learned from others in the office that this portion of his report had been deleted, presumably by the Chief, before being sent to headquarters. From that day forward, Everett refused to use her apartment as a safehouse under any circumstances.

Several months later, Everett was reassigned to the United States, where he spent a year before returning to Europe. Eventually, Kindschi was transferred as well, and their cover company was shut down. Everett never learned what became of the blonde secretary. Later speaking to the CIA’s Inspector General, Everett touted his “superior” record compared to his colleagues and bosses; among the reasons he listed was that “he had never raped a secretary.”

Security

Although deep-cover officers operated apart from official CIA field stations, they still fell under the authority of the local CIA Chief, Marelius, who had administrative control over all Agency personnel in the region. Everett believed they were working under one of the most inept local CIA Chiefs imaginable.

According to Everett, no one working for the CIA in Stockholm, whether assigned under official or deep cover, could understand how this man had ever been placed in charge. One popular explanation was that he owed his position to family connections: his brother had been an accomplished Agency officer and an effective Chief in Brazil. That brother, now based at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, was said to have used his influence within the bureaucracy to secure this desirable foreign posting for him. Another rumor held that the Chief’s wife, who had once served as secretary to a powerful U.S. Senator, had pulled political strings on his behalf. Perhaps, Everett believed, Marelius’ appointment was due to a mix of both factors, but it certainly was not earned through merit or ability.

There were countless examples of Marelius’ poor tradecraft. One of the most glaring was his insistence that both official and deep-cover officers should occasionally gather at his home for “social purposes.” These gatherings seemed to be little more than an excuse for Marelius and his wife to drink and entertain. Everett and Kindschi, however, always felt uneasy about them. They knew that local security services were well aware of where the CIA Chief lived and routinely kept his residence under observation. If they ever took an interest in who was attending his social events, all they had to do was drive by, note the license plates of the cars parked nearby, and they would have a convenient list of everyone connected with the Agency.

To minimize the risk, Everett and Kindschi adopted counter-surveillance precautions. They parked several blocks away and walked the rest of the distance to his house. This was a perfectly normal behavior in European cities, where people used sidewalks far more than in the United States. The walk not only gave them a chance to blend in naturally but also to discreetly scan the area for anything suspicious before arriving.

Everett was stunned the first time he visited the home to find that Marelius had carelessly listed both of the deep-cover officer names in the family’s personal telephone directory, openly displayed right beside the phone. Worse still, his housemaid, who regularly helped with these gatherings, turned out to be the sister of a senior member of the Communist Party in another Scandinavian country. It was almost certain she was reporting whatever she overheard. They informed Marelius of this serious security risk, but he brushed it aside, claiming that competent domestic help was hard to find. In the end, they came to realize that the greatest threat to their deep-cover operations was not the KGB, the GRU, or even Swedish counterintelligence, it was their own CIA Chief.

Courage

If killing had to be carried out in their profession, Everett was comforted by the fact that it happened to be taught to new CIA recruits by a gentleman named Egbert “Bert” Courage. One of the most memorable CIA instructors during Everett’s introductory training at the Agency, Everett thought the name Courage perfectly suited the man’s character. Courage taught explosives and self-defense, including lethal hand-to-hand combat methods. Despite his imposing physique and violent experiences, having personally killed in combat, Everett found Courage to be gentle, ethical, and deeply humane. Everett thought of him as a paradox: a man capable of extreme violence when duty required it, yet guided by moral restraint and compassion.

In training sessions, Courage shared firsthand accounts of clandestine raids into Communist China, where small CIA-led teams would launch from offshore islands like Matsu or Quemoy, ambush Red Army patrols, destroy supplies, and retreat swiftly to the sea. These stories came to life during a training ambush simulation, when Everett’s unit was suddenly attacked at night during an exercise. Explosions erupted, gunfire raked their trucks, and chaos ensued. Though the ammunition was blank, the experience drove home the brutal efficiency of a well-planned ambush and how quickly unprepared men could die. “Had they been using live ammunition at least 95% of us would have been killed or seriously wounded in seconds,” Everett later recounted, “long before any of us would have had time to recover from the paralyzing shock caused by the explosions alone. I’m sure most of us would have been dead before we would have been able to even lift our own guns from our holsters or laps, let alone try to mount any type of effective defense or counter attack. It was a horrible, but a very effective demonstration. We certainly learned to appreciate what could be accomplished through a well planned and executed military ambush.” The lesson was sobering, but Everett acknowledged that it raised deeper moral questions about killing, especially in ambiguous circumstances. Trainees were taught the soldier’s creed: “Ours is not to question why, ours is to do and die.”

Everett underwent his CIA Junior Officer Training at the Farm, a former Army base in southern Virginia that served as the Agency’s primary training facility. The six-month program combined academic study, field exercises, and specialized instruction in espionage tradecraft. Trainees lived in officer-style barracks, attended long days of classes, and had access to extensive resources such as a language laboratory, a research library, and secure study materials.

Among Everett’s classmates was Philip Agee, who would later become infamous in the Agency’s history. “Most of our nights were free,” Agee later recalled of the training. “I think almost every night we went down to Baltimore Street to the strip joint.” Training was both practical and ideological, blending military discipline, corporate-style management instruction, and university-level academics. Instructors were seasoned operatives serving temporarily as lecturers, teaching everything from operational security and communications to the legal limits of CIA activity. The CIA cultivated in its recruits the belief that the Agency would always protect its own, through lifetime employment guarantees, support in crises, and even prisoner exchanges if captured. Everett’s experience included a symbolic moment of trust and privilege when, during a family emergency, he was flown home on Director Allen Dulles’ private plane, a gesture that underscored the Agency’s paternal care for its officers. For Everett, this feeling towards his employer would not last: “[A]ny attempt to direct the tremendous covert and secret power of the CIA to personal ends or biases of a particular political party becomes a travesty and a threat to the very democratic processes which has brought this country to its past and present greatness. Little did I know at my time on the Farm that these concepts would be sorely tested by later events in my career as a CIA Intelligence Officer.” He tried his best in later years “to rearrange my prejudices in order to honestly evaluate whether Bert or myself were simply brainwashed.”

Core

At the Farm, CIA trainees were required to complete a series of core courses, while others were elective, offering the freedom to explore areas of personal or professional interest. Everett recalled that, out of curiosity, he would have liked to take classes in explosives and lock-picking, although he never did. Nonetheless, all trainees were given enough exposure to these subjects to develop respect for the technical mastery involved. They acquired a basic understanding of specialized espionage trades, from identifying lock mechanisms to understanding the construction and use of explosives. Those interested could pursue advanced instruction depending on availability and career goals.

Even the rudimentary training in locks proved valuable. Officers were taught how to recognize various types of locks, a skill that could assist in planning operations. Knowing the lock type allowed CIA specialists to prepare the right tools for a surreptitious entry. Trainees witnessed impressive demonstrations by Agency lock experts, who could open even the most sophisticated locks within seconds. These feats relied on deep technical knowledge and precision tools. Students also learned simple bypass techniques, such as opening common door locks with a credit card or thin steel blade. Everett noted that while such skills could be dangerous in criminal hands, the instructors repeatedly emphasized that the CIA used them solely for legitimate intelligence purposes, a claim he recognized as morally complex, given the blurred line between legality and criminality in espionage.

Training in explosives carried an undeniable fascination. Students observed demonstrations on how explosives could be disguised, transported, attached to a target, and detonated. Everett’s curiosity stemmed partly from childhood memories of watching his stepfather use dynamite to clear stumps on their farm, a time when buying explosives at a local store was still possible.

The Farm had its own airstrip, where trainees and instructors flew both military and private aircraft. When a windstorm overturned an instructor’s Piper Cub, damaging it beyond repair, Everett noted the irony that the owner could not claim insurance because the airfield’s covert status made it “unauthorized.” A parachute tower, a relic from World War II, provided another form of instruction. While a few trainees volunteered for actual jumps, most, like Everett, settled for the safer experience of sliding down a training cable. Their instructor claimed the tower was scarier than a real jump, a statement Everett regarded with skepticism.

One of the most memorable demonstrations involved a bungee-assisted aerial extraction system, decades before recreational bungee jumping existed. Designed for emergency rescues behind enemy lines, it used a pair of poles and a tensioned cord to yank a person skyward into a low-flying plane. The demonstration used a sack of potatoes as the “rescuee,” which Everett found both amusing and unconvincing, vowing he would only rely on it in a last-ditch emergency. He was relieved to learn the method was intended for evacuating foreign assets, not CIA officers.

The Farm’s location along the James River also facilitated amphibious training. Because the restricted area prohibited commercial fishing, the river teemed with oysters, an unexpected luxury for many recruits. While Everett himself disliked them, his classmates eagerly gathered and devoured them at informal gatherings. The river doubled as a practice ground for covert infiltration exercises, in which trainees used soundproofed inflatable boats to elude a “police” patrol (actually their instructors) in a nighttime simulation. Equipped with 25-horsepower outboard motors modified for near silence, Everett’s team successfully navigated the dark waters, sometimes hiding just feet from the searchlights of the patrol boat. The exercise proved both thrilling and a testament to the sophistication of CIA field technology.

Training also included obstacle and border-penetration courses, complete with shooting ranges, mock barbed wire fences, and simulated anti-personnel mines (represented by loud “cherry bombs”). Recruits practiced methods of crawling under or cutting through concertina wire with minimal injury. One particularly harrowing night mission replicated the East German border, complete with watchtowers, searchlights, and guard dogs. Teams of two were tasked with crossing without being caught. Everett and his partner found a narrow culvert beneath the fence and painstakingly inched their way through the cold, rising water, only to find the far end blocked by barbed wire. After cutting their way out and narrowly avoiding detection by guards and dogs above, they nearly drowned on their return when the culvert flooded, barely escaping before the tunnel filled completely. Exhausted but triumphant, they rejoined their classmates, having succeeded where many others failed. “We became thoroughly convinced,” Everett recounted, “through both classroom and hands-on exercises that the CIA had the ability to fulfill any anticipated, or non-anticipated, need our government might lay upon it.”

Trainees were exposed to a wide range of firearms, including submachine guns from several countries, and learned safe handling techniques. Although Everett opposed the public availability of such weapons, he admitted to feeling exhilarated by the experience. As he put it, “I stepped up, aimed, pulled the trigger and fired off several bursts.” When he figured the magazine was empty, he “casually lowered the gun and turned around to step back” toward the others, only to be abruptly corrected. The instructor shouted, grabbed him firmly, and spun him back toward the range, scolding him for failing to place the weapon down properly after firing. Even if he believed the gun was empty, there could still have been a round in the chamber, the instructor warned, and mishandling it could lead to a serious accident. “Anyway, it was great fun,” Everett concluded.

Everett learned about unconventional and disguised weapons, some used by the Soviet KGB, including an infamous umbrella gun capable of injecting a lethal poison pellet. Defectors shared insights about Soviet training and assassination techniques. The CIA trainers explained to Everett that assassination required presidential approval and was used only in extraordinary circumstances. He remained unaware for his entire career the extent to which the CIA employed this method through the use of agents across the globe.

Ivan

On the Soviet border with Finland, a stowaway was captured seeking freedom to the West. He was violently dragged out and, to the horror of the other passengers, brutally beaten by the Soviet guards. When he begged for mercy, they responded with more kicks and blows until he was left bloodied and barely conscious. The terrified tourists could do nothing but scream and cry as they watched the assault. Eventually, the man’s battered body was hauled away.

The man was known to Everett, who named him “Ivan,” as a tour guide. As was typical at that time, all foreign travel in the Soviet Union was strictly overseen by this official state travel agency. Intourist guides were usually well trained, knowledgeable about local attractions, and fluent in multiple languages. Both a student and guide at the time, Ivan was a slim young man in his late teens or early twenties, with light brown hair. His specific assignment was to accompany tourists from that neighboring country, which required him to read, write, and speak Russian, both of their national languages, and English. For several summers he guided groups from that nation and quickly gained a stellar reputation for his attentive service and skill as a tour leader. The glowing reviews from returning travelers led tourism officials to frequently request that Intourist assign Ivan to their groups, knowing that he ensured satisfied clients.

In the summer of 1957, Ivan was assigned to another friendly group of tourists from that country. By this time, he had developed close friendships with several of them and confided his deep unhappiness with life in the Soviet Union, expressing his yearning to escape to the West. Those tourists knew from experience that Soviet border guards routinely conducted meticulous passport inspections for all foreigners crossing back into their country by bus. However, recent reports in the press suggested that relations between East and West were beginning to warm, particularly toward tourists from their nation. Instead of requiring every passenger to individually present their passport and answer questions, the guards had relaxed their procedures. Now, they simply had the driver collect the passengers’ passports and hand them over. The guards would count them, glance through them briefly, stamp them, and return them to the driver before allowing the bus to continue toward the capital city.

With this in mind, Ivan and his friends decided to take what seemed a small risk to help him defect. Ivan would quietly remain on the bus, laying on the floor in the back row, concealed under their legs. Even if the guards entered the bus, which they rarely did, they tended to stay near the front to count heads and would not notice him. Once across the border and safely back in the capital, Ivan planned to surrender to authorities and request political asylum.

Believing that his many friends in their country could vouch for him and that the Soviet Union was striving for improved international relations, Ivan and his companions assumed he would not be forced back. They imagined that, once over the border, he could easily start a new life in freedom. When the bus reached the Soviet border, things initially appeared routine, but this time, the guards not only boarded the bus, they carried out a meticulous search. Naturally, Ivan was discovered. The shaken group witnessing his beating at the hands of the Soviets was forced to remain on the bus as the guards berated them for aiding an attempted illegal escape. They were told that, under Soviet law, the guards had the authority to detain the entire group indefinitely. After seeing that the tourists were remorseful, the guards relented and allowed the bus to leave. The traumatized passengers continued on to Helsinki.

Upon arrival, they recounted the shocking story in detail to the press. Newspapers covered it, sparking brief public outrage, but since nothing could be done, the story soon faded. Ivan was taken to Moscow, tried, and sentenced to a northern labor camp. His case was later confirmed in a short article in a Moscow newspaper. About a year later, Ivan again risked everything, this time succeeding in escaping on foot across the border. Once safely on the other side, he approached a farmhouse, surrendered to local authorities, and was brought to the capital city, where he gave an extraordinary account of his ordeal. He reiterated his affection for that country and the West, confirming the severe injuries he had sustained during his earlier beating, details corroborated by press coverage and eyewitness testimony. Ivan recounted his trial in Moscow, his sentence, and his time doing forced labor in the north. Eventually, driven by despair, he decided to attempt another escape, preferring death to continued imprisonment.

Although Moscow lodged brief objections, the issue soon faded. Ivan received a stipend from the government of Finland to attend university and took summer jobs guiding tourists on Baltic cruise ships visiting recently annexed Soviet republics. During this period, he fell in love with a fellow student, the daughter of one of his professors. Life seemed to be improving.

Ivan’s conscience, however, began to torment him. After much inner struggle, he confided to his partner a shocking truth: “I am not a genuine political refugee as I had you all believing. I am really a professional Soviet spy from the dreaded KGB!” Advised by her and her father, Ivan went to the police and confessed everything. He explained that he had been recruited by the KGB to become an “illegal.” His training had been extensive, focusing heavily on foreign languages, especially English and those spoken in his host country. “Part-time employment was arranged with Intourist by the KGB to give me experience working with foreigners and a practical opportunity to improve my language skills,” he told them.

Ivan described how his “first defection” had been carefully staged. The supposed beating by border guards had been orchestrated with specially trained KGB officers, practiced in advance to make the attack look authentic. “The KGB,” he said, “knew that a visually powerful event, such as the beating, would undoubtedly be reported in the West. They therefore staged the first defection attempt so that it would become a part of my bona fides to support my personal credibility when the time would come for me to stage the second and hopefully fully credible ‘successful’ defection.” He said that he had even been tried and sentenced in a real Moscow courtroom, but instead of prison, he had been sent to a secret KGB training facility similar to the CIA’s Farm. After completing advanced espionage training, he was taken to the border and directed where to cross safely, avoiding land mines.

This revelation created a major dilemma for the authorities in Finland. It was one thing to shelter a persecuted defector, but quite another to harbor an admitted spy who had entered under false pretenses. Returning him to the USSR might mean his death, but keeping him posed grave security risks. Recognizing the complexity, the Finnish government quietly informed the CIA. Only the CIA, they reasoned, had the means to verify his claims and possibly use him as a double agent. If Ivan’s story was false, he could be a KGB mole. If true, he might be turned into a double agent within the KGB itself.

To resolve this, Ivan was secretly transported to another country for in-depth questioning. Everett was part of the CIA team assigned to interrogate him. He was sent “black,” meaning it was done without any official record; no immigration or border agency knew he had moved, allowing total deniability for all parties involved.

The CIA had little time; if his disappearance became known to friends or, worse, the KGB, the opportunity would be lost. Their mission was to determine if Ivan’s conversion was real and whether he could be of use. If he was lying, he would be sent back for extradition. To maintain secrecy, Everett’s team used CIA-controlled safehouses, rotating locations daily and using rented vans with covered windows, driving circuitous routes, ensuring that Ivan could not identify where he was.

For long hours each day, the CIA team questioned him, verifying every fact through Agency files and records. Everett was assigned the “good cop” role. Ivan’s story was remarkably consistent; he appeared sincere and volunteered many names, details, and procedures of KGB operations. He described his communications with his case officer in detail and said that after being praised for his integration into Western society, he was finally told he was to begin active operations, an order that prompted his confession. Despite extensive review, the team failed to agree on whether he was being truthful. A Russian-speaking CIA officer and a polygraph expert were brought in to test him in both English and Russian. The lie detector results pointed toward honesty, though the Russian-speaking officer remained doubtful. Personally, Everett found Ivan to be intelligent, open, and likable. He wanted to believe him and feared that sending him back might condemn him to death.

Eventually, they discovered one inconsistency: CIA records confirmed all his alleged meetings with his KGB handler except one. He repeatedly skipped over that particular date during questioning. This omission led them to conclude that he was still loyal to the KGB. They arranged for his return to Finland and recommended that he be expelled as a hostile agent, which they did. For years afterward, Everett questioned whether they had done the right thing. Later evidence suggested they had: Ivan had been secretly corresponding with a wife and children he had left behind in the Soviet Union, proof that his relationship in his adopted country had been a cover. Everett never heard of him again and often wondered how his girlfriend reacted when she learned she had been deceived by such a skilled operative and what drove people like Ivan to dedicate their lives to such elaborate deceptions.

Years later, during a visit to Moscow, Everett discussed the case with a senior former KGB officer. He agreed that it bore all the marks of a sophisticated operation, though he was not personally aware of it, having served mainly in the Far East. He added that if Ivan had truly betrayed the KGB, his execution would have been made public as a warning to others.

Defector

“I am a Chinese diplomat,” the man in the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm said, “and I wish to talk to the Chief of the CIA about my interest to defect.” From time to time, the CIA would receive word through the American Embassy from individuals claiming they had information about, or originating from, the Soviet Union that might interest the U.S. Government, or offering their services outright. Some of these messages came from legitimate sources; others were from unstable individuals, and a few were likely Soviet attempts to expose CIA operatives or disrupt ongoing activities. Such situations rarely involved agents operating under deep cover, but occasionally they did; especially in a city like Stockholm. Though it was a capital, Sweden’s small size meant the number of CIA officers working under official cover was limited. In those circumstances, Everett was sometimes called upon for surveillance or other forms of support, as his deep-cover role provided both flexibility and discretion without compromising his identity.

Perhaps the most significant episode at the Stockholm Embassy during that period was the highly unusual voluntary defection of a Chinese intelligence officer. Although China was a global power, its political, military, and economic reach had long lagged behind its size and population, a situation that was beginning to shift rapidly. In the 1970s and 1980s, the Chinese were intensely secretive and tended to isolate themselves from other diplomatic communities. The families of Chinese diplomats did not take part in international schools or social circles, living instead in secluded, tightly controlled compounds. This secrecy stemmed partly from official policy, and partly from cultural, linguistic, and financial barriers. At that time, Mao Zedong remained a staunch adversary of the West, viewed with particular hostility by the United States, which supported Chiang Kai-shek and Nationalist China in Taiwan. As the world’s second most influential Communist power, any intelligence about China was of high value to Washington. Up to that point, only one Chinese defections had been exceedingly rare.

The case began when a Chinese man walked into the U.S. Embassy in Stockholm and told the receptionist, who happened to be a temporary substitute that day, of his desire to defect. The stand-in receptionist, unable to find a listing for “Chief” or “CIA” in the directory, informed him that no such person worked there. He thanked her politely and left. When the incident reached CIA personnel, there was immediate alarm and regret. Knowing how much danger a Chinese official risked simply by approaching an American building, it seemed unlikely the man would ever return; a valuable chance had likely been lost. The Embassy quickly briefed every receptionist on how to respond should he reappear. Remarkably, about a week later, he did and this time he was escorted straight to a CIA officer.

The man was visibly under intense strain and pleaded to be placed under protection immediately. However, in keeping with CIA procedure, he was asked to demonstrate his commitment by returning to the Chinese Embassy and “working in place” as an informant. Despite obvious fear and hesitation, he agreed, received instructions for secure contact, and was sent back before his absence could draw suspicion. For a time, he successfully served as a CIA asset within the Chinese Embassy.

Eventually, tensions arose between him and the Chinese Ambassador as well as other staff members. The conflict appeared rooted less in doubts about his ideological loyalty and more in a buildup of personal and professional grievances. These disputes escalated until he felt physically threatened during a confrontation. In panic, he drew a pistol to ward off what he believed was an imminent attack, leapt through a ground-floor window, and fled. Somehow, he managed to reach the U.S. Embassy, seeking refuge.

The CIA arranged for him to be secretly transported out of Scandinavia and into the United States “black,” with his identity and movements completely concealed. Once he was secure, the Agency intended to release news of his defection strategically to maximize its political effect. On the very day the CIA had prepared to announce the defection, President Eisenhower and Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev were meeting in Paris. During the summit, Khrushchev dramatically revealed that American U-2 pilot Gary Powers, believed to have been killed when his plane was shot down, was in fact alive and held captive in the USSR. The revelation shattered the summit and dominated headlines around the world. As a result, the much-anticipated story of the Chinese defector, once expected to be front-page news, was reduced to only a few brief paragraphs buried in the back pages of the newspapers. Two years later, the defector, Chao Fu, testified before a U.S. Senate committee; he had broken with the Communist Party, he explained, “and I will be their enemy.”

LPGLOBE

Everett and his family returned from Scandinavia to the United States in 1967 after several years abroad. Everett resumed his work under CIA cover, ostensibly as a public relations consultant for the Washington-based firm Robert R. Mullen & Company. In reality, his main duties were conducted at a CIA proprietary office supporting deep-cover intelligence officers abroad, particularly in Africa. This covert administrative network, known internally under the cryptonym LPGLOBE, functioned separately from CIA headquarters at Langley and was responsible for logistical, financial, and personal support for agents whose true identities were hidden, even from many within the Agency. LPGLOBE operated semi-independently, often drawing resentment from bureaucrats at Langley who disliked any unit outside their direct control.

Everett was frustrated by the pervasive inefficiency of CIA bureaucracy, where excessive time was spent editing minor wording in reports. LPGLOBE’s mission was to ensure that operational assignments matched an agent’s cover and did not compromise their long-term safety or effectiveness. The organization also aimed to rotate officers between field and headquarters roles to maintain empathy and understanding of the deep-cover experience, a lifestyle Everett compared to “driving a race car at the Indianapolis 500” versus a bureaucrat’s “family sedan.”

There were operational and personal challenges faced by deep cover officers and their families, including loneliness, cultural isolation, and the stress of living double lives. LPGLOBE case officers like Everett conducted field visits to review agents’ administrative, financial, and emotional well-being. These trips, while dangerous, were also exhilarating opportunities to practice advanced tradecraft and travel globally.

In one such four-week African field mission, Everett met agents in multiple countries while maintaining a credible business cover. He used a secret writing technique with a disguised aerosol spray, accidentally staining a hotel bathtub in the process: “The chemical stain refused to wash off with water…If I couldn’t get the stain out, how could I explain to the hotel owners or cleaning crew how it got there? I could not rationally envision how I could dismantle the plumbing and get rid of the whole tub without causing even more of a problem. Fortunately, the stain finally succumbed to an excessive, and I do mean excessive, amount of scrubbing. I think I probably wore off at least the top layer of the permanent porcelain before the stain finally disappeared to my satisfaction.”

Meetings occurred in settings ranging from wildlife reserves to luxury hotels, highlighting the strange duality of espionage life. A tense episode Everett experienced in Lagos, Nigeria, where soldiers with submachine guns detained passengers, underscored the risks of traveling with classified materials. Everett was left to wait and ponder what would happen if authorities discovered his documents hidden within a concealment device in his briefcase. “Finally, after what seemed like a lifetime of waiting, we were hustled, without any explanation, back on board and allowed to continue our flight northward.” Compared to this threat, Everett seemed more upset with the assistant to LPGLOBE’s Chief, “a complete dolt” in his estimation when it came to the tradecraft of espionage. Despite his lack of field competence, the man had leveraged his senior rank to secure the next administrative support mission to deep-cover officers in Africa. Upon arriving in Lagos, however, all of his luggage vanished. Ignoring both agency protocol and basic common sense, he had packed all of his notes, secret writing materials, and classified items in those bags. Naturally, he was distraught, but there was nothing he could do except behave like any other traveler whose belongings had gone missing. When told to return the next day, he did so, only to find his luggage still missing. On the following day, however, his bags mysteriously reappeared in the baggage claim area without any explanation.

This mishap occurred right at the beginning of his inspection tour of LPGLOBE’s deep-cover personnel. The most plausible theory was that the Nigerian security services had spent those two days carefully inspecting his possessions. Yet, nothing appeared to have been taken, and no visible signs suggested tampering. When he eventually returned to headquarters, the assistant to the Chief filed a report on the incident. Had such a breach been committed by a lower-ranking officer, there would have been immediate disciplinary action, both verbal and written. But since this individual held a senior supervisory post, his peers quickly worked to downplay the seriousness of the event, especially in how it was officially presented to the counterintelligence division at Langley.

During the same trip, the Chief’s assistant made several other operational blunders, though none as egregious as allowing sensitive materials to be out of his control for such a long period of time. Those in the lower ranks such as Everett quietly enjoyed seeing his incompetence exposed, confident that he would never again be trusted with an LPGLOBE field mission. The true takeaway for Everett from this episode was not the ineptitude, but rather the fact that the higher one sits in the bureaucratic hierarchy, the greater the effort made to shield them from accountability. Conversely, the lower one’s rank, the harsher the consequences.

Terminate with Prejudice

In early 1973, Everett was summoned to Washington, D.C. He thought that the subject of discussion would be the Watergate break-in, a topic that would eventually consume his career, but the matter at hand turned out to still have serious consequences for his Mullen & Company cover. When Everett arrived in the capital, he went to a safehouse, which was an office suite whose address had been provided by his CIA handlers. There, he met with his former colleague from Stockholm, Jack Kindschi, along with Marty Lukowsky from the Central Cover Division and two other CIA officials. He had no idea what the meeting was about, but the serious and urgent tone among the participants suggested it was important. After some brief small talk, they passed him a photograph and asked, “Can you identify this man?” It turned out they were looking into killing one of their own.

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It was rare for a U.S. Treasury Secretary—or anyone, for that matter—to visit the United States Bullion Depository in Kentucky, commonly known as Fort Knox. Such a visit took place on June 17, 1948, when Secretary of the Treasury John W. Snyder inspected what the press called “the world’s biggest piggy-bank.” U.S. reserves of gold had reached as high as 80% of the world’s supply by 1940. At Fort Knox alone in 1948, there was an estimated $12.5 billion worth of gold stored there, amounting to $168 billion today, adjusted for inflation. For the first time in four years, the doors of the fortified vault were opened for Snyder, who turned his gaze to a stack of gold bars worth $2 billion, declaring: “It all seems to be here, right down to the last penny.”

Other portraits of Snyder in the press were not as innocuous. Drew Pearson’s column The Washington Merry-Go-Round in 1951 contained a harsh critique, noting that while he was “an entirely honest man,” that he was “blissfully ignorant—or else indifferent—to the fact that more crookedness was occurring in his department than at any time since the days of President U.S. Grant—perhaps more than at any time in history.” Pearson attributed the failure in part to Snyder being a drunk, which was unmentionable in polite circles. “However,” Pearson wrote, “when a railroad engineer drinks on the job he is fired, when a motorist drinks while driving he is jailed…Therefore, when one of the 10 top members of government, charged with collecting the nation’s taxes with honesty and equality, drinks on the job, the public is entitled to know it.” He cited instances of Snyder’s drinking problem causing him to be confined to his bed “away from his work for periods of time” as well as “moments of embarrassment before the governors of the World Bank and at the French Embassy.”

An earlier Pearson column in 1946 critiqued Snyder’s embarrassing behind-the-scenes role when President Harry Truman was preparing hardline messaging to Congress regarding a national railroad strike. On the Friday morning after the strike began, Truman convened a cabinet meeting, where Synder incorrectly claimed the financial gap between the demands of the railroads and the unions was between $300-500 million. This led other cabinet secretaries to believe that settlement was impossible. Later, Synder had to admit that the difference only amounted to around $25-$30 million. Synder showed up to the President’s speechwriting meeting “feeling no pain” and stating that he interrupted the process several times with “inane cracks which served no useful purpose.” Pearson concluded, “Harry Truman’s worst enemy is his own loyalty to friends.”

Suburbia

One quickly learns the unwritten rules of suburban life in a hurry. Success for Elliot Caplin depended on mastering the unrelenting rhythm of the railroad train timetable. For his daily trip from Larchmont to New York City, a 40-minute ride, he only had two choices to make it to work on time; the 8:17 or the 8:33 express, or he could call in sick. This was his routine when he worked as an editor for the Parents Magazine Institute, which included comic books and periodicals that offered parenting tips. He had also taken on the writing duties of Abbie an’ Slats, a comic strip created by his famous brother, who wrote under the pen name Al Capp (born Alfred G. Caplin) and was best known as the creator of the comic strip Li’l Abner. Debuting in 1934, it had become one of the most widely read and influential comic strips in American history. At its peak, Li’l Abner appeared in over 900 newspapers, reaching an estimated 70 million readers daily. Capp had initially passed the writing work for his secondary creation, Abbie an’ Slats, to his brother as a temporary measure to keep up with deadlines, until he finally gave him the full-time writing responsibilities in 1945. Caplin was proud to be working on a comic strip as it had been one of his career ambitions. However, his professional link with his famous brother was about to bring about immense distress.

When Elliot Caplin and his wife had moved from Brooklyn to their spacious home in Larchmont, New York, they had a newborn and two other children aged one and four. They were immediately taken with the charm of semi-rural life. The only drawback was the uncompromising railroad timetable. Everything for Caplin changed one morning when he hurriedly drank his steaming-hot morning coffee as he typically did and took his car out of the garage, in a rush to catch the train. There was a figure standing at the end of his driveway; as Caplin drove his car backwards, in his rearview mirror he could see a man standing much too close to the edge of the path. As the car reached the end of the driveway, the man still refused to budge. Caplin stopped the car and the man nodded silently. Caplin nodded back, adding: “Need a lift to the station?” The man seemed to know who Caplin was, perhaps recognizing him from a previous get-together in the neighborhood.

The stranger said nothing and got in the car; he seemed to feel that he was entitled to this ride to the station. Caplin struggled to place him: “We met at the…the…” In the moment, he forgot the name of the “Welcome to Monroe Avenue” party one of their new neighbors had hosted. The man remained silent and gave no indication as to whether he had even heard Caplin’s voice. The man sat in the passenger seat in awkward silence for several blocks before uttering: “I know who you are. My name is Bennett Harper.” The man’s eyes remained focused on the road ahead and he quickly added, “You’re Al Capp’s brother.” His tone was flat, carrying with it an odd tension—he was not expressing this connection to celebrity in a positive way. Caplin did not know how to reply, so he simply stated: “Why yes, I am.”

The drive continued in silence until they were about five blocks from the train station. Harper turned his head and finally looked directly at Caplin: “Don’t you see the resemblance?” the stranger asked. Caplin had no idea what he was talking about. He studied Harper’s features: his short, straight nose, his sandy brown hair, his thick glasses, his pockmarked face. Nothing stood out and he came up with nothing. “No,” Caplin replied, shaking his head. “Li’l Abner,” Harper revealed. Caplin blinked in disbelief: “What about L’il Abner?” The namesake of his brother’s popular comic strip, Li’l Abner was drawn as a tall, broad-shouldered young man with a muscular build and rugged good looks. He had thick black hair and was dressed in patched overalls, an open red checked shirt, and boots. Harper could not have looked more different than the cartoon character who lived in the fictional village of Dogpatch, USA.

Harper continued with a serious look on his face: “I resemble Li’l Abner. So much so, I have had to wear smoked glasses so people won’t recognize me.” Even by the 1940s, “smoked glasses” was a mostly antiquated way of referring to sunglasses. “KENTUCKY MERCHANT CAUGHT IN ROBBERY; Wearing Mask and Smoked Glasses He Raids Bank ‘Because Times Are Hard’,” read a New York Times headline from August 1930. As if he were witnessing a crime in progress himself, Caplin instinctively swerved the car to the curb, a sense of danger welling up inside of him. Despite a few blocks still remaining to their destination, Caplin wanted out now. “Let’s walk the rest of the way,” he offered, attempting to sound casual.

Harper stayed motionless in his seat. “Life has become a living hell for me,” he continued, as if Caplin had not spoken. “People—even friends—constantly ride me. And you know why, don’t you?” Caplin had completely lost interest in having a conversation or staying in a confined space with this man; he stepped out of the car as quickly as he could. Harper followed his lead, but his movements were slow and deliberate as he exited the car and explained his supposed predicament: “These people keep saying to me, ‘Abner, why haven’t you had sexual relations with Daisy Mae in the months of August and September!’” One of the comic strip’s longest-running jokes involved Daisy Mae, a beautiful, blonde country girl, constantly chasing Li’l Abner, who in turn dodged her.

Caplin was terrified; not because of Harper’s words, which were patently absurd, but with the grave sincerity with which he spoke them. His tone was humorless, chillingly sincere. The stranger’s pained, stern face let Caplin know that Harper’s words were not meant to engender a laugh. Caplin was now frightened at the prospect of what this large man, who was at least two inches taller and thirty pounds heavier than him, was capable of doing at any moment. They began walking towards the train station. “We’d better hurry if we want to catch this train,” Caplin stated, trying to keep his voice steady. Harper responded: “I’m not taking this train. I live in Rye.” With this admission, he revealed that he had tracked down Caplin and traveled 20 minutes southwest to Larchmont from his home for this bizarre encounter. Harper stopped walking and turned towards Caplin, fixing his gaze with wide eyes menacing Caplin behind the thick lenses of his glasses.

“Oh. Your day off?” Caplin now tried to keep the conversation going to discover more information, attempting to mask his unease. “Not my day off,” Harper replied in a low, unsettling voice. “Ethyl fired me. And I told you why.” With no further clues at his disposal, Caplin had no idea he was referring to a fuel additive company and not a woman named Ethel. Harper continued in a monotonous tone: “They found out that I was Li’l Abner. That’s why I’m not working.” Caplin thought he had figured out Harper’s previous job: “You’re talking about the Ethyl Gasoline people?” Harper did not reply and simply walked away. Caplin remained where he stood and watched as Harper slowly disappeared from view.

Caplin had experienced enough and headed into a nearby drugstore, intending to call his wife. Realizing there was little she could do, he instead called the police. Chief William J. Keresey, who had been with the Larchmont Police Department since 1914 and appointed as Police Chief in 1934, listened patiently to Caplin as he recited what he felt sounded like a paranoid tale from a husband fearful for his family’s safety. “Don’t worry, Mr. Caplin,” Keresey said in a reassuring voice. “I’ll have some of my people watch your house. At least until you get home from work. And we won’t alarm your wife, if that’s what you’re concerned about.”

Feeling a bit relieved, Caplin completed his trip to the office. Still feeling uneasy while at work, he phoned Information and confirmed that a Bennett Harper did in fact live in Rye, New York. Caplin dialed his number and listened with anticipation on the line until he heard that familiar, monotone voice on the other end. Caplin hung up immediately, satisfied that at least the man was not living near his home. He managed to work a partial day and left for home early on the train.

Over the next few days, Caplin waited with trepidation for another sign of Harper. A week passed by and the coast seemed to be clear. He refrained from telling his wife on the advice of Chief Keresey. “I see no reason to disturb Mrs. Caplin,” the Police Chief counseled him. “Chances are this fellow’s just a harmless nuisance—you’ll never see him again.”

How wrong he was; Caplin was sitting in his living room on the eighth day, at around 2:30, when Harper appeared in the window, walking onto the path leading up to the house. Caplin had spent most of his days since their first encounter actively looking out the window for this very purpose. “Call Chief Keresey and tell him that man is here. He’ll know what you’re talking about,” he whispered to his wife as he rushed towards the door. She gave him a questioning look and then proceeded to the telephone. By the time she got the Chief on the phone, Caplin was already halfway down the driveway intercepting Harper.

Harper seemed to be bigger this time in Caplin’s estimation; taller, heavier, and more menacing. Only his dull, lifeless eyes obscured by thick lenses remained unchanged. Harper’s first words of out of his mouth were: “It’s getting worse,” as Caplin took him by the arm and steered him in the direction of the street. “How so?” Caplin asked, guiding him towards the beach a few blocks away. Harper gave a heavy sigh: “Ethyl won’t rehire me. Won’t even consider it.” A car drove by and Caplin spotted Detective Sergeant Crowley from the Larchmont Police in the driver’s seat. He felt a sense of relief that the Police Chief had kept his word, even though the policeman did not look in their direction and kept driving.

“Exactly what kind of work do you do for Ethyl?” Caplin asked, trying to gather as much information as he could in case things turned sour. “I’m a chemical engineer,” Harper replied. “Graduated MIT in ‘47. Worked for Ethyl ever since. Never had another job. And now—” He stopped walking and with a chilling calmness stated: “And now only two professions are left for me to make a living in.”

“And they are?” Caplin asked, unable to resist finding out more. Harper turned to face him directly. Detective Crowley’s car passed by again, this time more slowly. “Guess,” Harper said. “I can’t,” Caplin admitted. “Welding and ski instruction,” he replied. Caplin was flabbergasted: “Welding and—” He searched his mind for a logical connection. “Ski instructing,” Harper clarified. Reaching into his pocket and with careful precision, Harper removed his thick-lensed glasses and replaced them with a tinted pair. “Now you understand, don’t you, Mr. Capp?”

Caplin understood nothing of what was being discussed and wished that Harper would not call him by his brother’s pseudonym, which he never adopted. Harper seemed unbothered by Caplin’s perplexity and continued explaining his job prospects: “Welding and ski instruction are the only two professions where you are expected to wear smoked glasses. When I wear smoked glasses, people won’t recognized me as Li’l Abner. So chances are, I can make some sort of living. Only...” He trailed off and looked at Caplin with a mournful stare: “Only I can neither weld nor ski.”

His range of responses to Harper’s unpredictability running out, Caplin offered only a sympathetic nod. They turned back toward the street and headed for Caplin’s house. Caplin edged his body close to Harper’s right arm; close enough that Harper could not swing a fist easily. He assumed he learned this maneuver from some work of fiction. As they passed the house, Harper inclined his head slightly, gesturing toward the front door, and then continued down the street without another word.

Slumped in an armchair at home, Caplin finally explained to his wife what had transpired previously with Harper. She remained composed and before she could speak, the phone rang. “That was your nut case, eh, Mr. Caplin?” Chief Keresey asked. After thanking him for the police escort, Caplin blurted out a question that had been on his mind since the first encounter: “Chief, what does it take to get a gun permit?” Keresey advised that this type of weapon was not necessary for this situation and that at most, a permit for a gun at home rather than for concealed carry would be best. There was not much that could be done from a criminal law perspective: “Fact of the matter is, Mr. Caplin, that the pieces aren’t much use in a case like the one we got here. Better you just watch your step and keep in constant touch with us.” This answer comforted Caplin somewhat and with three small children at home, he opted to purchase three baseball bats and strategically placed them in different areas of the home.

Harper Must Go

Two days later, Harper returned, this time making an appearance at Caplin’s office. Rosalind, his secretary, was already up to speed on who Harper was and informed her boss on Tuesday morning: “Mr. Bennett Harper wants to see you. Says it’s very important.” Caplin replied: “He knows I’m here?” Rosalind realized her mistake: “I’m sorry. I never thought to tell him you were out of the office.” Caplin acknowledged the situation was beyond their control: “It won’t make much difference.”

Without an invitation or greeting, Harper entered Caplin’s office soon after he did and sat down. Harper looked ordinary, except for the flat, menacing expression on his face that caused Caplin so much dread. “I just found out something in the Mickey Mouse daily comic strip,” Harper announced. “Oh,” Caplin replied, trying to sound uninterested. “What was that?” Harper answered in the same matter-of-fact tone one uses to place an order at a diner: “It’s all right to kill somebody if you say ‘excuse me’ first.” Caplin now regretted taking the Chief’s advice about the gun permit. If a pistol had been readily available, he might have used it on Harper.

It was the calm certainty in Harper’s words that most disturbed Caplin; he meant what he was saying. He was telegraphing an intention to commit violence—perhaps against Caplin, perhaps against Al Capp—and the thought that his wife and children might be targets made him even more alarmed. After uttering his eccentric threat, Harper was done talking. He remained in his chair, watching Caplin with the same unnerving composure he had now witnessed several times. Rosalind reappeared: “Your next appointment is waiting.” There was no such appointment but she understood what needed to be done: Harper needed to leave.

To arm himself with more information, Caplin began digging into Haper’s background. The Ethyl Corporation was cautious when he called, but once they realized he meant no harm they cooperated. “Harper is, or was,” the department head told him, “a very capable chemical engineer. About a year ago, he developed a bad infection in his foot. It got pretty serious, so we sent him down to Johns Hopkins. They treated him, cured the infection. But...” He paused, uncertain of whether to proceed. “How much of this do you really want to know?” Caplin explained everything that had happened so far, in full detail. The company man sighed. “All right, then—you might as well have the whole story.” During Harper’s stay at Johns Hopkins, his surgeon noticed something peculiar about his behavior and brought in a psychiatrist. After a series of tests, the psychiatrist reported to the Ethyl Corporation that Harper was suffering from a serious mental disorder. The company tried to help him; they arranged for him to see a psychiatrist and persuaded him to begin therapy. For a while, Harper kept his appointments regularly.

Caplin next called the psychiatrist, who listened carefully at first without offering much information. Once he realized that Harper’s employers had made the referral, his professional reserve softened, and he asked how he could assist. “Is he dangerous, doctor?” Caplin asked. The answer came immediately, although the doctor’s tone had lost its clinical calm: “He came regularly for a time, then suddenly stopped showing up. No explanations, no calls to reschedule—he just quit.” The doctor sighed heavily. “It’s not uncommon for patients to do that, but Harper’s behavior unsettled me. And then...” Another deep breath followed: “then one evening, around seven o’clock, as I was leaving my office, I saw him. Yes, it was Harper.” The line went silent. Caplin thought he had lost the connection, until the psychiatrist’s strained voice returned. “He was on my front lawn, hiding behind a bush—just standing there, staring. It was getting dark, but I could still see his face. The expression... there was no mistaking it.” Caplin interjected: “That must have scared the hell out of you.” The doctor admitted in a quiet voice: “It did…In my professional judgment, very dangerous, Mr. Caplin.” Caplin could not believe that Harper was allowed to be this way in public without consequences: “Then why don’t you have him committed, Doctor? A man like that running loose is a disaster waiting to happen.” The psychiatrist lost his composure and his voice jumped an octave: “For Christ’s sake, I don’t want to see my brains splattered all over the front lawn!” Caplin thought that putting him away in a mental institution would help. “Sure, sure,” the doctor answered bitterly. “They put him away for six months, maybe a year. Then they evaluate him, and before you can say Sigmund Freud, he’s out again. And who do you think he’s going to come after? Me—the ‘black-hearted villain’ who had him committed. No, Mr. Caplin, I’m not volunteering to be a target for a dangerous schizoid like Bennett Harper.”

The conversation left Caplin shaken. It was dawning on him that no one was willing or able to help remove this potential killer from his life. The longer Harper stayed silent, the more unbearable it became. Each day without contact drained him further; his work suffered and sleepless nights became routine.

“Who the hell is Bennett Harper?” Caplin’s brother Al Capp one day asked, calling from Cambridge. Caplin had thought that Harper’s obsession had transferred from the famous cartoonist to his lesser known brother; that Harper had confused the two of them and forgotten who had actually created Li’l Abner. Clearly, that was not the case. Caplin told his brother as much as he could, leaving out the psychiatrist’s grim assessment of Harper’s violent potential. “I figured as much when he phoned me at the studio,” Capp said. “So I told him to get in touch with Charley Post.” Post was Capp’s lawyer, a tall Midwesterner who had gone to Harvard and sounded like a Boston aristocrat. “What happened? Did Harper call Post?” Caplin asked. Capp confirmed: “He did. They met in Charley’s office, with an inspector from the Boston Police sitting in, posing as a lawyer. Charley says Harper’s clearly not all there. He told them he’s been forced to wear smoked glasses—” Caplin broke in to finish the sentence: “Because welders and ski instructors wear smoked glasses, and those are the only professions open to him?” Capp replied: “Exactly. So—what happens next?” Caplin did not know how to reassure his brother, but he promised that Harper would not trouble him any longer. Capp seemed satisfied with that pledge; Caplin was not.

Harper could not be arrested and Caplin now understood the torment people face when the law was powerless to act against a crime that had not yet been committed. The victim-in-waiting could only wait and ponder the possibilities. The tension became unbearable. Harper’s calm declaration that “it’s all right to kill if you say ‘excuse me’ first” haunted him. He was certain that Harper saw him as his enemy and his next target.

Big Plans

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He had to keep the lie going, even with friends. Patrick McGarvey had a few awkward encounters when old military associates or former classmates phoned while passing through town, hoping to meet for lunch. On one occasion, an Air Force captain called from the Pentagon to invite him to meet at the cafeteria. McGarvey pretended to be working there as well. He quickly left his parking lot, drove twenty minutes to the Pentagon, searched for a parking spot, and finally met up with his friend. He explained his delay by blaming it on being swamped with duties at the Pentagon library where he was supposedly working. Such was the effort he had to undertake to maintain his undercover status with the CIA.

While working at the Agency’s Deputy Director of Plans (DDP) group in the early 1960s on covert operations, the DDP employed agents under various types of cover, most often “official cover” within other government agencies. Posing as an Army librarian, McGarvey was supported by a fake Pentagon office and phone number monitored by a CIA switchboard to maintain the illusion.

McGarvey’s career in intelligence began with quite an initiation: he found himself hooked up to a lie detector deep within the CIA’s headquarters. The session started harmlessly enough, with questions about his family, schooling, and time in the military, all requiring simple yes or no answers. This went on for about fifteen minutes before the examiner casually shifted the topic to his sex life.

“Did you masturbate as a teenager?”

His first reaction was, “Who didn’t?” but almost immediately he froze with panic. What’s this going to lead to? he wondered. His hesitation must have triggered something on the machine, because the dials suddenly reacted; his pulse quickened, his breathing grew shallow, and his stomach tightened. The examiner repeated the question, this time more forcefully.

“Why—uh—yes,” McGarvey answered quietly.

“Do you still masturbate?” the examiner fired back.

“That’s none of your goddamned business,” McGarvey blurted before he could stop himself. He instantly regretted it when the interrogator replied coolly, “I’m sorry, but it is our business.”

After that uncomfortable exchange, the interrogator moved on: “Have you ever experienced fellatio?”

“What’s that?” McGarvey wondered.

“Ever had a blow-job?” he said flatly.

That question sent the needles on the chart leaping across the page. Before McGarvey could recover, another question followed:

“Have you ever engaged in cunnilingus?”

Once again, McGarvey asked, “What’s that?”

The examiner clarified in plainer terms: “Ever eaten any pussy?”

The questions kept coming; about his drinking, his memberships in any groups (from the Boy Scouts to the church choir), his finances, his motivation for joining the CIA, and his moral stances on theft, bribery, and murder. The session ended with a review of the questions he had stumbled on, of which there were plenty. By the time it was over, McGarvey felt like the most worthless man alive.

The lie detector test capped off a grueling week of physical, psychological, and mental evaluations, after which he was left convinced that he was utterly unfit for work, at the CIA or anywhere else. To his astonishment, a few months later he received a letter informing him that he had been accepted into the CIA’s junior officer training program. It was the age of John F. Kennedy, which he found to be a time of idealism and excitement. Inspired, he applied first to the Peace Corps, only to be rejected because of his intelligence background. They wanted the Corps to be unsullied by any trace of espionage.

By the early 1970s, having worked at both the CIA and the Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), he felt severely disillusioned and that he could no longer remain quiet. He published a book, CIA: The Myth and the Madness, in 1972. While believing in the mission of intelligence, McGarvey’s book portrayed the CIA as disorganized, internally divided, and poorly managed. He argued that infighting consumed more energy than the Cold War itself. He also claimed that the Agency’s intelligence quality had declined over the past decade despite having more resources than ever before.

Though completely forgotten today, the book included several revelations, such as the CIA’s theft of a Soviet Sputnik satellite in 1958 (McGarvey was prevented at the time from disclosing the operation had occurred in Mexico City) and a bizarre effort to analyze a foreign leader’s health by surreptitiously obtaining his bodily fluids.

Urine Sample

“King Farouk, of Egypt, yesterday ‘broke’ the Monte Carlo Casino’s bank, winning £20,000,” a short newspaper article read on August 4, 1951. “The stakes were unlimited. King Farouk recently ‘broke’ the bank at the San Remo Casino.” McGarvey revealed publicly for the first time that during one of King Farouk’s gambling sessions, a CIA unit had been on site seeking to obtain a sample of his urine. The purpose of this peculiar mission was to assess his physical condition. With the casino’s management unaware of the operation taking place, agents secretly modified the restroom of the Monte Carlo Casino, installing a hidden mechanism to collect urine as it drained from the urinal into the plumbing. While Farouk played at the tables, one CIA operative waited in a stall with a clear line of sight to the urinals. He signaled with a cough when Farouk entered and gave another discreet cough to indicate which urinal the king had chosen.

Kim Roosevelt, a senior CIA official, had been tasked by the Agency to convince the King to implement a program of reform that would placate the opposition. The royal family seemed to believe that revolution was inevitable. He sat with them one evening and watched as one of the King’s close relatives punctuated his words with the swaying of his glass of Scotch back and forth. “They hate us,’ the royal family member complained. “They look on us as a bunch of rich, no-good Albanians. It won’t be long now.” The bejeweled women in attendance mostly tried to pass this off as a joke, while one of the women did the opposite, tossing a diamond brooch to the ground: “That’s right!” she conceded. “If you don’t give them something, they’ll take it all away.”

If the CIA’s proposed reforms failed, a “peaceful revolution” was the second option, in which another leader would be put forward. According to Roosevelt’s subordinate Miles Copeland, the ideal ruler needed to be “a handsome front man, a strong man, or some formula combining the two.” Copeland revealed the CIA’s informal name for the operation was a vulgar commentary on the King’s weight, called Project FF, short for Fat Fucker. U.S. involvement in Egypt’s 1952 Revolution was similar to 1949 Syrian coup. Copeland reported that Kim Roosevelt met three times with Egypt’s Free Officers in March 1952 to discuss their planned coup and future democratic aims. Copeland further asserted that he arranged these meetings, with help from an American agent named “Rupert,” and that Gamal Abdel Nasser was among the officers Roosevelt met.

Fearing discovery by informers, the Free Officers launched their coup on July 23, 1952 seizing control of Cairo’s army headquarters and announcing their takeover on the radio. With little resistance, they soon advanced on Alexandria, where Farouk and his loyal Sudanese Guard briefly fought back before agreeing to a ceasefire. Ordered to abdicate, the king departed Egypt aboard his yacht that evening, taking his family and crates secretly filled with gold. While the Egyptian government looked to auction off the possessions he left behind, it was reported as being “undecided on the disposal of Farouk’s vast and expensive collection of pornography.” Farouk lived in exile in Capri, Monaco, and later Rome. Weighing 300 pounds and known as a “stomach with a head,” he died in 1965 after collapsing during a late-night meal in a Rome restaurant with a 22-year-old blonde.

In a similar vein to the urine sample operation, during the same year as McGarvey’s book was published, journalist Jack Anderson revealed that the “greatest coup in the annals of the CIA’s medical espionage” happened when the Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev visited the United States in September 1959. CIA officers were able to obtain and ship Khrushchev’s “solid waste” to a lab “for medical analysis.”

The Idleness of Intelligence

While most Americans viewed intelligence work as something out of a James Bond movie, featuring “murder, coup-plotting, intrigue, and a dash of illicit love making,” the reality for McGarvey was that the work could be as dull as any other nine-to-five desk job. Boredom would turn to idleness and CIA analysts would while away the morning hours by taking coffee breaks, going bird watching, and taking two-hour lunch breaks. The restaurants they chose often mirrored the areas of the world they analyzed. The afternoons would be taken up by gossip sessions, more coffee breaks, and discussions of football games. Computers were still in their infancy, but the technical wizards in the CIA’s scientific division managed to replay Sunday-night football games every Monday “to assist in their analyses.”

A DIA colleague who worked with McGarvey managed to receive 24 one-month extension on a project that had been originally set to last for six months. He was viewed “as a very clever fellow who knew how to beat the system.” The U.S. Congress, in McGarvey’s view, with only a few exceptions, treated the intelligence community with too much reverence: “They fail to think of intelligence simply as another bureaucracy, and treat it, instead, as a super-patriotic group of dedicated men above the human foibles and organizational frailties common to the rest of government.” His view was confirmed when he later spoke with U.S. Senator J. William Fulbright before writing his book: “[Fulbright] talked about this Cold War mentality that prevails in Congress and particularly in the Appropriations and Armed Services Committees in both Houses and all the Pentagon and the intelligence people have to do is wave what I call the ‘national security flag’ and congressmen immediately shrink away from probing any deeper.”

Dirty Tricks

Among those working at the CIA, McGarvey found “a surprising number” were members of the Mormon Church. The fact that missionaries of the Church had spent time in Latin America and the Far East was of particular interest to the Agency. A personal friend of his “found himself back in the Mormon mission in Hong Kong after his training,” McGarvey recalled. Three years after the publication of McGarvey’s book, the Associated Press reported on a congressional investigation that found “that the U.S. Central Intelligence Agency sometimes used missionaries and church workers from various denominations for intelligence work.” A member of the LDS Church wrote to a local paper that year that in his nine years at the CIA, “to my knowledge there was never any time...when any of my colleagues ever engaged in any of those ‘dirty tricks’ which are the forte of the heroes of fictional spy stories. Occasionally someone would mention the possibility of using some ‘dirty trick’ to achieve an operational objective, but this was almost always suggested facetiously. There was never any serious consideration given to such things; even had there been, such activities would not have been approved.”

McGarvey disagreed with this sentiment and personally witnessed numerous such operations: “Political action,” he wrote, “runs the gamut of dirty tricks that have made CIA famous.” During the Buddhist uprisings in the summer of 1964, CIA officers deployed dozens of South Vietnamese operatives into protest crowds equipped with itching-powder bombs—small, egg-sized capsules that agents crushed underfoot. The powder, chosen with the knowledge that many of the Buddhist demonstrators “wore no underwear” underneath their robes, drifted upward, irritating skin and effectively dispersing the crowd. The CIA similarly pursued this as an option against Chinese communists visiting Mexico City, the local Agency station writing to headquarters on November 22, 1963, seeking their views on which harassment methods to employ: “request [headquarters’] views re: use [of] stench-devices, itching powder, etc. at fair grounds...not sure use [of] these devices would have desired effect of denigrating chicoms and making more difficult their continued presence [in] Mexico after fair closes. Please advise...”

The same political action branch McGarvey cited also observed that rainstorms tended to dissolve student and Buddhist protests in Vietnam. To exploit this, they arranged for aircraft loaded with silver iodide bomblets to be ready for cloud seeding. During the unrest of 1964, Saigon’s skies were frequently dusted with these chemicals to trigger rainfall and break up demonstrations.

Around that time, a political action officer stationed at Bien Hoa Air Base tasked with monitoring General Ky’s squadron of “coup bombers” took direct action of his own. Ky’s A-1 Skyraider unit was kept near Saigon to deter potential coups from rival military factions. When Premier Hoang’s leadership had run its course and his removal was imminent, the CIA officer discreetly laced the pilots’ meals with a strong laxative, incapacitating the entire group and allowing the coup to proceed without air resistance. The same operative had successfully used this trick four years earlier in Laos, spiking the drinking water of a right-wing battalion in Vientiane to prevent them from seizing control of the capital.

Another episode in which the CIA looked to employ dirty tricks abroad took place in a Washington meeting room in early 1967, in this case against a U.S. citizen. According to an officer from the clandestine service who recounted the story to McGarvey, when activist Stokely Carmichael was traveling to North Vietnam the FBI convened a meeting to explore ways to orchestrate an incident that would publicly undermine Carmichael’s reputation. Their plan was to carry out this scheme while he was in Hong Kong. The CIA, however, blocked the proposal; not for moral or political reasons, but because such an operation could have jeopardized several of their active missions in Hong Kong. The FBI proceeded with an operation of its own by framing Stokely Carmichael as a CIA informant. Agents planted a fake report in his car, a technique called “bad-jacketing,” ensuring it would be found by others with the help of an informant.

The FBI described the 1968 operation as follows: “The report should be placed so that it will be readily seen...It is hoped that when the report is read it will help promote distrust between CARMICHAEL and the Black Community...It is also suggested that we inform a percentage of reliable criminal and racial informants that ‘we heard from reliable sources that CARMICHAEL was a CIA agent.’ It is hoped that these informants would spread the rumor in various large Negro communities across the land.” On September 4, an FBI agent based in New York contacted Carmichael’s mother by phone, posing as an anonymous friend. The caller claimed to be warning her that the rumor had been accepted as true and that a “hit squad” from the Black Panther Party in Oakland had been sent to assassinate her son. Whether this call directly influenced his actions or not, Carmichael soon moved to Guinea in West Africa, adopted the name Kwame Ture, and formally withdrew from the Black Panther Party a few months afterward.

Of all the secret operations he witnessed, McGarvey was most disturbed by a “hideous” Saigon defector reception center manned by a CIA psychologist. The center was housed within the South Vietnamese Navy Headquarters in the heart of the city. McGarvey visited the location once; he and his colleagues were given an enthusiastic tour of the entire facility by one of the CIA psychologists assigned to it. “Here headshrinkers were experimenting with their notions about how to get a man to talk,” he recalled.

Their guide led them to a room and let them peer inside through a narrow slit in the door. The cell was roughly five feet square, with a standard-height ceiling. A Vietnamese youth, probably nineteen or twenty years of age, sat on a wooden stool in the middle of the room. The walls were painted white. Outside, the psychologist demonstrated how he used a rheostat to alter the lighting, cycling slowly through a sequence of colors that began in darkness, shifted to purple, then blue, followed by green, yellow, and red. He proudly claimed that by manipulating the lights he could change the prisoner’s emotional state from cheerful to despondent.

In another room, built much the same way, the psychologist controlled the temperature instead, forcing detainees to endure extreme swings from heat to cold, purely for his own experimental purposes. They learned that none of this had any real bearing on the war effort. It was all sanctioned research designed to collect enough data for the psychologist to publish his results and possibly confirm a pet theory. McGarvey was disgusted that the prisoners were used as guinea pigs: “The victims? They were just handy.”

Mistakes

“Most Americans don’t think about being spied upon.” McGarvey warned U.S. citizens against complacency when mass surveillance was less well-known in the 1960s and 1970s. At the time, however, there were Soviet Union spy satellites monitoring U.S. crops, oil fields, and suburban areas to gather intelligence on the American population. McGarvey warned the “cocky New York honeys” who liked to sunbathe in the nude on the roofs of Manhattan penthouses, that they too were subject to the prying eyes of Soviet agents.

When McGarvey worked for the DIA, the U.S. military staff system was organized into six main divisions—J-1 for personnel, J-2 for intelligence, J-3 for operations, J-4 for logistics, J-5 for plans and policy, and J-6 for electronics and communications. In theory, these branches worked together as equals, each contributing specialized expertise to ensure balanced decision-making. In reality, however, the system was dominated by J-3, the operations branch, which held the most prestige within the military hierarchy. Career officers aspired to command roles in operations, and other branches, including intelligence, often deferred to J-3’s authority. A common saying within the DIA summed up this imbalance: “DIA exists solely to provide justification for whatever J-3 wants to do.”

This dynamic was especially evident during the critical years of the Vietnam War, from 1966 to 1969, when major strategic decisions were being made by the Joint Staff in the Pentagon. As the intelligence arm (J-2), the DIA was supposed to analyze the enemy’s capabilities and mindset to inform military strategy. Yet J-3, which oversaw combat operations, largely ignored this input. The operations staff never asked intelligence how U.S. strategies might appear from the enemy’s perspective or how they could be adjusted to counter Vietcong tactics more effectively. “Pick out a building for us to hit,” was J-3’s request to the DIA.

As frustration grew over the lack of progress in Vietnam, military planners increasingly turned to technology and new weapons systems in hopes of finding a decisive advantage. Each service pushed its own gadgets and strategy became driven more by available weaponry than by coherent planning. The Air Force, frustrated by reports showing little disruption to enemy supply lines, sought ever larger and more impressive bombing targets. Instead of identifying targets based on intelligence value, J-3 demanded that DIA find locations suitable for particular weapons, such as a TV-guided missile, regardless of strategic relevance. Under pressure, DIA analysts searched for generic structures and labeled them vaguely as “possible military storage areas,” providing J-3 with just enough justification to proceed.

In early 1966, the U.S. Air Force sought to weaken the North Vietnamese Army by targeting its divisional headquarters. However, once the bombing campaign began, the North Vietnamese abandoned their garrisons and moved operations into caves, a fact well-documented in their communications and press. Despite this, J-3 and the Air Force insisted that a heavily guarded compound at Quynh Loc was a division headquarters, even though DIA analysts had no supporting evidence. “The analysts at DIA working on the deployment of the North Vietnamese Army said that they had no information to support the existence of a division headquarters at that location,” McGarvey recalled. “This did not satisfy J-3, and they insisted that DIA label the facility a possible military headquarters site. DIA acceded to this demand.” The site was bombed on May 6, 1966. Soon after, North Vietnam revealed that the target was actually a leper colony, showing photographic proof, and claiming that 30 patients had been killed and 34 wounded. DIA examined the photographs, confirming that they matched the “possible military headquarters site” they had been pressured to identify. The U.S. government remained silent and never publicly acknowledged the incident.

The CIA in its reports on foreign radio broadcasts captured an incident from the previous year on Quynh Lap leper sanatorium, which the North Vietnamese government claimed was bombed and strafed on June 13, 1965, taking 82 lives and wounding 30 others. Diane Bevel, an American who visited North Vietnam that December, encountered a doctor there who told her that overall “Eighty hospital and health centers have been bombed. Over 200 patients have been killed in their hospital beds.” Regarding the Quynh Lap leper hospital, according to the doctor “hundreds of bombs were dropped on the center and it was strafed…It was bombed again…We evacuated the lepers to another temporary headquarters. We were bombed there. Then we moved them to the caves at the foot of the mountain for protection. We were pursued to the caves and bombed…This single institution was attacked 39 times. These attacks could not have been mistakes.”

Secret Bombing

The U.S. had begun secretly bombing Laos in 1964 and two years later, the U.S. military was looking to expand this bombing effort. McGarvey got into an argument with Sam, a DIA official, over a Joint Chiefs of Staff (JCS) paper they were working on. The two quarreled over what McGarvey thought was weak evidence supporting the increasing bombing option: namely, pilot reports on the number of trucks and bridges destroyed or damaged in Laos over the past two years. Sam eventually gave up and explained: “Pat, there is one thing you haven’t learned yet. The cold fact is that the J-3 has already decided that we are going to step up our bombing in Laos. He now is going through the fire drill of substantiating the exercise. We can in no way influence his decision.” McGarvey asked what would happen if he inserted into the report the conclusion that the effectiveness of the previous bombing efforts were “in serious doubt.” Sam explained in reply that “They’d take your report, call a meeting with you and perhaps six staffers from the service intelligence and operations staffs, and spin you around in circles. It would probably last from about 11:00 a.m. to past midnight. You could fight all you want, but the results would be the same. They’d water down the original paper to the point where your objections would merely be footnotes to the opinions of the others assembled.” Sam urged him to save time and the misery of spending 12 hours in a pointless meeting for a lost cause. McGarvey refused to budge but in the end, Sam was right and the paper read as he described. McGarvey believed in retrospect that he should have known that Sam was a master of the bureaucratic method, since his office was littered with certificates for “Outstanding Performance.”

The Vietnam War had expanded in 1964 with the Gulf of Tonkin incident, similar in its use of misinformation to advance a desire to widen the conflict. “We knew it was bum dope that we were getting from the 7th Fleet,” a CIA officer later explained to McGarvey, “but we were told to give only the facts with no elaboration on the nature of the evidence…Everyone knew how volatile LBJ was. He didn’t like to deal in uncertainties.”

Phoenix

McGarvey found the CIA’s Phoenix Program to be a hopeless exercise in rooting out the Vietcong enemy from South Vietnamese hamlets. The informant program was haphazardly thrown together and CIA officers were unable to visit the village areas in person, as “the presence of a white man in the village would disrupt the routine there.” Most Agency officers could not speak Vietnamese anyway. The theory was that some in the village would notice some individuals mysteriously absent once a week or receive visitors at irregular hours. These individuals could be identified by their neighbors, passed onto the CIA, and flagged to Vietnamese police as a “suspected Vietcong agent.” The ones deemed more dangerous would be killed.

McGarvey soon learned the fatal flaws of the program. In one region, eight suspected agents were killed in a two-month period. It turned out that a local policeman had used the program to settle personal scores involving his family, a feud that had been going on for generations. His relatives would write the informant reports and submit them against the members of the other family, who would soon be murdered. Another police officer relieved his family debts by having his creditors killed. A further case involved a police official faking the reports of 18 informants who never existed, pocketing their monthly salaries from the local CIA officer. Calling these incidents “fairly widespread,” McGarvey and his colleagues went to their superior in Saigon to rethink or cancel the program. “It’s funded in the budget,” the reply came, “and we’re not going back to Washington and tell them it isn’t working. Moreover, the concept has been bought at the White House, so it has to work.” After trying to report on corrupt police officials, their boss in Saigon replied, “We can’t do this. The South Vietnamese are our allies. It wouldn’t look good in the press.” Some on McGarvey’s team quit and paid their way back home, happy to leave behind their careers in intelligence.

Helms

McGarvey had trouble hiding his disdain for his boss in the DDP, Richard Helms, who became the Director of Central Intelligence in 1966. “Richard Helms has little time for analysts,” McGarvey grumbled, “preferring the more manly and less intellectual men from clandestine services.” He revealed that Helms had his deputies’ phone calls tapped, receiving daily transcripts of their conversations. This practice was justified as a way to keep him informed about Agency matters, with the official explanation that only calls to the White House or other policy-making bodies were monitored. McGarvey, however, found the practice to be troubling, calling it “just a little sick.”

Months after McGarvey’s book was published, Helms left the CIA to become the U.S. Ambassador to Iran. As his time at the CIA came to an end, he ordered a massive purge of records, including the Agency’s documents related to Project MKULTRA. With numerous files on his desk, Helms called Ken Knaus, the Deputy Inspector General, into his office. There, the two men discussed what to do with the “Dulles Material,” arguably the most sensitive cache of files stored in the Langley vaults. This collection included five large copies of the Bay of Pigs Report and the sole copy of an “Assassination Report,” sealed in a manila envelope and detailing various CIA attempts to eliminate Castro.

According to Knaus, Helms destroyed most of the documents himself; he “simply tore up and tossed [them] into his burn bag without comment.” Among the materials he considered destroying were a series of compromising photographs showing a prominent U.S. politician caught in a scandalous scene abroad.

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