The Billion Dollar Spy: A True Story of Cold War Espionage and Betrayal (15 page)

Over time, Buster underwent major improvements. The next model was called Discus. It was also handheld but much easier for the agent and the case officer to use. The Discus eliminated the need for the bulky base station and could transmit to a case officer holding a second small unit hundreds of feet away. Most significantly, Buster had required the agent to encrypt his message by converting it to cipher code, painstakingly by hand, before typing into the device, while Discus used automatic encryption. The keyboard was larger, and it could transmit significantly more data. Moreover, Discus had a verification system so the agent knew the message had been received. The Discus was way ahead of its time; there were no consumer handheld devices available then, nothing remotely like the BlackBerry or the iPhone.
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In June, Hathaway urged the station to consider giving a Discus unit to Tolkachev. He said Tolkachev could use the device to signal the CIA when he was available for a meeting and perhaps “select important portions of documents and transmit them to us.” He speculated that Tolkachev could use Discus to alert the Moscow station about where to pick up film and other materials in a dead drop. Hathaway expressed confidence the Discus would “enhance security and production of this operation.” The Discus beckoned as a kind of invulnerable magic carpet that would soar over the heads of the KGB. While the traditional method of dead drops usually took a day or longer to signal, emplace, and collect, the electronic communicator could transmit urgent intelligence almost instantly.
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Gerber, however, thought the Discus was ill-suited for Tolkachev. He had experimented with the device and knew that operating it was far more complicated than just pressing a button. He tested the Discus in a Moscow vegetable market while looking over cucumbers and tomatoes as his wife, Rosalie, held the second unit in another section of the market. For an exchange, the Discus required both sender and receiver to be static. Gerber tried to send a signal. He immediately realized that an agent would have to be looking down into his pocket until the red verification light flashed, or else he would not know the message went through. The red light flashed only after a pause. Was peering into one’s pocket, watching for the light to flash, the kind of body language that would give away an agent? Was it worth the risk? Moreover, Gerber surmised that the agent would have to give some kind of warning to the CIA that he was about to transmit on Discus. That signal was another operational act. Also, sites had to be selected in advance for Discus transmissions and tested; the radio waves tended to bounce around, and not all locations were suitable. What’s more, the testing also put the signal in the air, briefly, where the KGB might notice, and it required case officers to be exposed. Was it worth the risk?

Gerber doubted that Discus could ease the security dangers for Tolkachev and thought it might bring new ones. “Do not think now is the time to discuss topic with him,” Gerber responded to Hathaway. He added, the “value of
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production is in voluminous reproduction of entire detailed documents, not just in few tidbits” that could be transmitted by Discus. Gerber insisted that they continue personal meetings for the large amount of material Tolkachev was delivering. Gerber wanted a sure, steady process. He said that giving Tolkachev a Discus might spur him to speed up and take risks. He also pointed out that Tolkachev’s own preference was for meetings, not dead drops. Tolkachev “has strong psychological need for direct personal contact.”
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On June 11, Gerber sent a second strong cable to Hathaway, saying he had raised using the Discus with the case officers at the Moscow station. “We conclude that in this operation we have more to lose than to gain,” he wrote. The device wasn’t very useful in sending or receiving complex messages, such as those concerning “requirements,” or what secret materials Tolkachev might gather. Moreover, the Discus would bring Tolkachev and CIA case officers into frequent and close proximity to each other on the street, which the KGB might notice as a pattern. To evade the KGB, different sites would have to be selected for every transmission. It just wasn’t worth it. Gerber thought to himself that perhaps Turner would like to eliminate human intelligence and just rely on technology, but it could not be done.

They needed to look the agent in the eye, and Tolkachev needed to shake the hand of a case officer he could trust.
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O
n June 17, 1980, Guilsher put on a disguise once again and headed out to the street. The KGB watchers didn’t see him; the disguise worked exactly as intended. After a surveillance detection run, he met Tolkachev at 10:55 p.m. for their seventh rendezvous. The sky was luminescent. In good spirits, Tolkachev told Guilsher he had not encountered any difficulties. He was relieved they could meet before his summer vacation because he had been very busy. He had good news: in February, the tightened security arrangements had suddenly been abandoned. Once again, it was no longer necessary to deposit the building pass when checking out documents. The reason was a bureaucratic logjam: the clerks in the department, mostly women, were swamped with all the building passes coming in and could not get out for lunchtime, a break when they usually searched for food and goods. So the director of the institute went back to the old rules: documents could be taken in the morning and brought back in the late afternoon.
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Ever zealous, Tolkachev took advantage when the gap in the cordon opened up. From February to June, he brought thousands of pages of secret documents home to photograph with the Pentax. He told Guilsher that he had 179 rolls of film in his briefcase. But Guilsher didn’t seem to be carrying anything to take it away.

Guilsher said he had a plastic bag, which he pulled out of his pocket.

Tolkachev shook his head. The film just wouldn’t fit. Tolkachev handed Guilsher his personal briefcase, laden with the 35 mm cassettes. Take the whole thing, he insisted.

Guilsher handed Tolkachev the CIA’s new, improved Tropel cameras, saying the agency was hopeful they would make it possible to photograph documents in low light, perhaps in his office. But right away, Tolkachev waved him off. He told Guilsher that it was just not possible to use the miniature Tropel cameras at work. There wasn’t enough time either at the start of office hours or at closing, when other people would not be around. He gave the older Tropels back to Guilsher and didn’t want the new ones.
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He seemed to have hit his stride with the Pentax 35 mm camera. Guilsher told headquarters that the Pentax “permits voluminous photography,” far more than using the Tropels.
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The Pentax had become Tolkachev’s most fearsome weapon in his effort to inflict damage on the Soviet Union.

Guilsher briefly sketched out the CIA’s latest offer to compensate Tolkachev. He emphasized that the proposed salary was higher than that of the president of the United States. He reminded Tolkachev that the CIA would have to bear the considerable expense of his resettlement in America if they went ahead with exfiltration. Tolkachev was stone-faced and showed no sign of reaction. Guilsher had seen that face before.

It was a bittersweet moment for Guilsher, whose family history had played out on these magical Russian summer evenings. His entire career had been devoted to the Soviet target, listening to tapes from the Berlin tunnel and debriefing defectors and agents. His gift had been his language skills. Now, with Tolkachev, as a case officer on the street, he had run one of the deepest penetrations of the Soviet Union ever accomplished.

As the moment came to say farewell, Guilsher knew he might never see Tolkachev again. They had met each other eighteen months earlier on a frigid Moscow street corner. They had only minutes remaining, and both men, reserved and stoic, struggled to find words.
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Tolkachev asked if Guilsher would return to Moscow. Guilsher said there was a limit to good things. It was unlikely he would ever come back. Tolkachev commented that he was reading the dissident books Guilsher had brought him as gifts, slowly, when the conditions were right. They shook hands and exchanged a final farewell. Tolkachev seemed nervous and eager to end the meeting. Guilsher told headquarters the next day the “main reason appeared to be desire to get home at a reasonable hour.”

It was nearly midnight.

The intelligence “take” from Guilsher’s meeting with Tolkachev was massive; the film carried about sixty-four hundred pages of secret documents. Hathaway sent a summary of the latest intelligence to Turner, the CIA director, marked “SECRET/SENSITIVE,” which reported,

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was met on 17 June 1980 at which time he delivered 179 rolls of 35 mm film of sensitive documentary information on Soviet airborne radars and armament control systems. Specifically, the material includes:

—The first documentation on the technical design characteristics of the new Soviet AWACS (it was
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who first alerted us to the existence of this system and enabled us to locate it in overhead photography).

—extensive documentation on a new modification of the MIG-25, the first Soviet aircraft to be equipped with look-down/shoot-down radar; this aircraft, used in conjunction with the AWACS, will effectively extend the Soviet air defense perimeter against NATO aircraft and air-launched cruise missiles.

—documentation on several new models of airborne missile systems and technical characteristics of other Soviet fighter and fighter/bomber aircraft to be deployed between now and 1990.

Hathaway’s memo added, “This volume of documentary intelligence is double the totality of what
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has delivered in the past 18 months of our relationship.”
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Along with the documents, Tolkachev gave Guilsher a melancholy ops note. He said the permission sheet he had signed to get secret documents was at this point several times longer than that of other workers. “As long as the KGB has no suspicion of a leak of information on Soviet radar systems for interceptor aircraft, then my work at NIIR and my ‘permission’ card may possibly lay quietly. But if a suspicious signal is received from America,” he added, “my card will undoubtedly be the first one the KGB will pay attention to.” He went on, “I assume that before asking me why I took out such a large quantity of documents, the KGB will search my apartment. Things I can hide in the apartment from members of my family I can never hide from the KGB.” He was referring to a hiding place for spy gear he had created in his apartment.

Then he ramped up his demand for exfiltration. “Today, I am turning to you with specific request that my family and I be exfiltrated from the USSR. This is how matters stand.” Guilsher’s fears had come true; since the CIA had suggested exfiltration, Tolkachev’s hopes for it were soaring. However, Guilsher knew that Tolkachev had said nothing about revealing this momentous step to his family, so perhaps there was still time.

Tolkachev said he was “under a growing threat,” and with his signatures on the permission sheet “my future can be considered to be doomed.” He wanted planning for exfiltration to begin “as soon as possible.” He added, “I understand perfectly well that for you, the exfiltration of my family and me is tantamount to the death of an agent who provides good quality information. Unfortunately, this loss is unavoidable. It is just a question of time. Therefore, your sincere answer on whether you will attempt the exfiltration or will let fate decide this question is very important to me.”

Tolkachev’s ops note was tinged with sadness, suggesting that he felt his end was near. Referring to the next scheduled meeting, in the autumn, he said, “if it takes place and I am still functioning,” and “if I am not discovered by then.”
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Along with the ops note, Tolkachev enclosed a note titled “To Leadership of the Center,” his appeal for the suicide pill.

He pointed out that “my relationship with you developed neither simply nor quickly,” recalling the long delays before the CIA would meet with him and the disagreements over his compensation, and for “almost a year and a half” he had been seeking the suicide pill from the CIA “but always with negative results.”

Tolkachev added that since he began working as a spy, several years had passed. “During this time, despite the fact that there have been many distressing moments for me, I have never deviated from the outlined plan. I am reminding you of all this so that you understand that I have sufficiently strong nerves. I have enough patience and self-control to put off use of the means of suicide until the last minute. I insist that means of suicide be passed to me in the near future because my security situation must be considered precarious.”
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Besides, Tolkachev reminded the CIA, the reason he checked out so many documents was to answer
their
questions. He then spelled out details of the “traces” that remained of his espionage and said suicide was a way to keep the KGB from uncovering those traces. “Suicide, without any question marks, can protect the work I have begun, that is, can keep secret the volume of my activity and the methods by which I was able to carry out this activity.”

Guilsher was in the final weeks at the Moscow station and, with Gerber, wrote a lengthy cable to headquarters taking stock of the operation. They could afford to take a breather, because Tolkachev would be out of touch in the summer months, on vacation. The cable they sent on June 24 described Tolkachev as under “tremendous pressure and strain” in a “bleak” security situation. They outlined the various ways things could unravel. They said “leaks at our end pose serious threat” and could lead to an investigation “that would quickly uncover him.” Or, a routine check of document sign-out records would also expose him. An “alert First Department clerk” might notice the large number of records he had signed out. And “accidental discovery” of Tolkachev’s carrying out the documents under his coat—or even a recognition of the pattern in which he went home each day at lunch after checking out documents—“could blow” the operation, they warned. On top of all these “serious factors” affecting Tolkachev’s security, “there are undoubtedly others as well.”

“We reluctantly conclude there is little we can do,” they told headquarters. “We are dealing with driven man who dedicated to inflict most damage possible on Soviet regime. He will continue to produce, be it from First Department or secret library, and will probably not heed our urgings to slow down.”

In view of the security situation, “can we realistically expect operation to last several more years?” they asked. They did not think so. They added, “It appears
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is coming close to fulfilling production plan he proposed to us and we accepted.” Thus, they said, it was “critically important” to have a “clear-cut picture of where we stand” on Tolkachev’s work so far and what espionage he could carry out in the future. With Tolkachev’s pressing for exfiltration, Guilsher asked headquarters what the impact would be if Tolkachev were no longer in Moscow. Would it be a huge loss? Guilsher warned headquarters directly: the “operation cannot continue indefinitely.”

“Gloomy” was how Guilsher described Tolkachev’s letter seeking the suicide pill. “If uncovered,” he warned, Tolkachev “will have unpleasant dealings with security organs and will then certainly be shot. As death in case of compromise is inevitable, CKS should be given choice of using ‘special request’ and avoiding agony of facing authorities.” Having the suicide pill available “in case of need” would give Tolkachev “much needed psychological and moral support.” Guilsher cautioned headquarters yet again that “additional delays and rejections of ‘special request’ will alienate CKS at critical state of operation and could lead to serious handling problems or even end of production.”
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At headquarters, Hathaway was sympathetic. Unlike the last time Turner was asked to approve the suicide pill—when the request was watered down by the acting chief of the division—this time Hathaway didn’t mince words. He wrote a strong memo that echoed the thinking of his chief of station and case officer. Providing Tolkachev with the L-pill would be “a significant psychological boost to him,” Hathaway said, describing Tolkachev as “a mature, sensible and cautious individual” who needed an escape hatch in case he was arrested by the KGB.
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In July, Hathaway responded to earlier questions from the Moscow station about the value of Tolkachev’s intelligence. He said that even if Tolkachev departed the Soviet Union, “the value of his product would not diminish for at least 8–10 years.” Why? The weapons systems that Tolkachev had already betrayed to the United States were either just becoming operational or on the drawing boards, and they could not be easily replaced. On the other hand, if Tolkachev continued spying in Moscow, the yield could be even greater, as new weapons systems came across his desk year after year.

Tolkachev’s amazing haul of documents, blueprints, and diagrams was made available in its raw, untranslated form to very few people in Washington. One of them was a special assistant in the air force who had used the intelligence to “terminate or reorient” research and development programs of the U.S. military. Tolkachev was providing a road map to the United States for compromising and defeating two critical Soviet weapons systems: the radars on the ground that defended it from attack, and the radars on warplanes that gave it capacity to attack others. This was an incomparable advantage in the Cold War competition. Hathaway had asked the U.S. Air Force to estimate what Tolkachev’s intelligence was worth, in a broad way. Could they put a dollar amount on how much they had saved in research and development costs? The answer was “somewhere in the neighborhood of $2 billion,” Hathaway reported to Gerber. That was before they even looked at the 179 rolls of film delivered to Guilsher in the briefcase.
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Tolkachev was the billion dollar spy.