Monthly Archives: July 2015

Pebbles at Noon

“Two pebbles, Marcel.” the Chief said to me. “Place them on the black fence surrounding the watch factory near the Number 9 street car stop.”… “Then, get on the streetcar,” he used the Russian term, ‘tramvai,’ “transfer at the inner ring road and return to the Embassy. Just a little shopping on Tverskaya Boulevard.” … “Simple… Drop the pebbles and come home.” He paused for this to register. “Or, don’t drop the pebbles if it doesn’t feel right. Standard signal to our Russian asset. Two pebbles on the fence will tell him where to meet. No pebbles mean no meeting. He must be able to see them without turning his head when he walks past with the crowd.”

This was October, 1991. The street had just been changed from the Soviet name, “Gorky,” to the revived Czarist name, “Tsverskaya.” Major changes had taken place. Yeltsin was in. Gorbachev was out. The Communist Party was out of power for three months now. However, except for a few statues taken down and street names, the changes were not so apparent on the surface. Not yet. I was beginning to think in Russian. “ Not yet,” or “paka nyet,” that was Russian, dropped alone at the end.

We were in Moscow Station, the CIA offices in the Embassy. “John,” the Station Chief, was projecting slides of a local watch factory, with close ups of the black fence next to it, onto a large screen. He was thin but athletic, a marathoner. Short haircut, angular features, light blue eyes. He was bright, natural intelligence in the Kansas farm boy that he was. I had seen it before. Nothing but a bachelor’s degree, but a lighting quick mind that never forgot anything. A soft voice, persuasive and direct, a serious person. He continued, “Henderson will be your back, across the street near the Defense Ministry annex.”

Walt, the Deputy Chief, and my immediate boss, was sitting next to me around the glass conference table. He gave me a look as if to say, “a lot of good that will do.” We had been classmates at Georgetown.

“As we all know,” John continued, “they are watching us very carefully right now. They know they have a leak. They hope we will lead them to our source.” He paused to consider before offering a bit more information, addressing me. “This is important, Marcel.” He didn’t tell me who our Russian source was. “Err on the side of caution… It could mean life or death.”

“For Marcel or the target?” Walt asked dryly, a thin lipped William Buckley smile for me. I enjoyed the joke. No fear here. “Okay,” I said. This would be my first major assignment outside the building. I was more clerical. I could tell that John had reservations about using me, but my cover was still intact. No anonymous black vans parked outside my apartment.

The following day, the day of the operation, I got off the subway at Prospect Mira near the Bolshoi. 11:45 a.m., I strolled up Tverskaya Boulevard, window gazing as I went, in the direction of Pushkin Square. It was cold, minus ten Celsius. A sharp breeze was blowing down the avenue. I had the “go ahead” from the mobile spotters, a Vovlo station wagon with the headlights on. I felt the round pebbles in my overcoat pocket. They were cupped in my gloved hand. I walked over to the fence, waiting for the tram.

The streets were wet. People were bundled, doing errands during lunch hour, mainly women and young couples. Tram lines stretched over the street, and traffic was brisk and noisy, lots of family cars, tires humming on the asphalt. The sky medium blue and cloudless. A few blackbirds were in the air, swirling as a group, then landing together on cornices. White chimney smoke drifted off in the air in thin streams. There was none of the usual Russian chattering, it was too cold. People had their faces down to avoid the wind. So, it’s pebbles at noon, I thought. Anyone can do it. But, what did Walt say, “you can climb Everest, but getting back is the hard part.” Everything appeared normal. “Vso Normalna,” the Russians say. I rested my gloved hand on the fence and left the pebbles before joining the tram queue.

Riding the crowded tram back to the Embassy, all I noticed was a sea of reddish faces wearing astrakhan, felt, rabbit, and mink, but no eye avoidance, nothing unusual, typical Russians. Looking between the crowded bodies and through the steamed windows as the tram took off with a whine, I noticed a Russian man wearing a leather jacket walk over to the fence where I had stood and stand there. He could be the opposition, checking every place I had stopped or touched. It would be typical of KGB thoroughness. Its easy when you have an army of watchers. The last thing I saw out the rear window was a black Volga pull up to the curb near the two men. Maybe it was nothing.

The next weekend, my cat, Natasha, disappeared from my apartment when I was at work. The Embassy said the repair men working on my kitchen may have left the door open. She may have slipped out. No one remembered seeing her. But, I knew better. My sweet Natasha, the girl I picked off the street, the big talker who followed me around and slept on the bed, white shorthair with gray patches, and oval green eyes. I searched the neighborhood in vain. The rule is never to show weakness to the Russians. But, I didn’t care.

I sat at home in the evening, a bit uneasy over being discovered although not wanting to admit it. We have to be tough to survive the hostile, sometimes physically hostile, environment. We are recruited for that more than anything. But, I knew I was cast against type, acting against my own nature. I was tired of the intelligence games and Cold War. It was supposed to be over. I went to the credenza stereo and put on some Vivaldi, horns and oboes. The Baroque age would pick me up. I poured a glass of Burgundy. Natasha’s bowl was still sitting, empty, on the kitchen floor. I walked to the glass door leading to the balcony. The old communist slogans still stood erected on the roof across the street, pigeons were lined up on the drain pipes, gray tin roofs sloped down all around, drab buildings with iron railed balconies, the late afternoon sky was turning lavender and silver, a Whistler scene. Jet contrails high up, military jets. Tight curls.

I could see my face in the glass The somewhat youthful features were soft, the nose a bit too round, the lips and eyes thin, a bit Scotch-Irish perhaps. The eyes looked directly back at me with a touch of resignation, matching the slightly downturned mouth. I was tired, of it all: Russia, the Agency, bureaucracy, the work. But, my mind said, no, go on with your work. Life is not about pleasure and nice places. Hemingway knew that one’s work was what is important, doing it well. I fell back on the Greeks. Let reason rule, not emotion. I opened my briefcase to do some work. Don’t think. Work. Nonetheless, I started drafting a resignation letter. John could tell something was wrong. He didn’t give me any more special assignments.

The next day was Saturday, and I had two tickets to Giselle. Walt joined me.  Sitting at the cafe in the National Hotel after the ballet, we ordered blini and sour cream. During the Brezhnev era, as junior officers, we had sat at this same table after a public lecture at some worker’s institute. Now, twelve years later, the cafe was exactly the same, except now there was a mafia crowd.

Walt was always more dedicated than me. Like most New Yorkers, he had a step up on those of us from the provinces. He was harder working, more focused. He was not preppy, but he was traditional, cardigan sweaters under a grey herringbone sport coat, and practical Rockport shoes. In his forties, of medium stature, brown hair, eyes, and mustache. You might take him for a math teacher or librarian.  He looked and acted older than he was, a bit fussy, sometimes grouchy, some said like an old woman. He was a bachelor and loner, and was rather shy around women, and a bit of an intellectual in his pursuits, spending his evenings at Moscow concerts. I admired Walt for his knowledge of Russia and the humanities as well.  Walt was serious, and you had to be that way with him, but he was more social than he seemed, and, although quiet, he joined our clique of middle-aged Embassy diplomats who got together in the evenings. This seemed to bring him out a bit. It also enhanced cover. There was a camaraderie between us, although we never mentioned our friendship. But, I knew Walt was looking out for my interests.

“Do you think we are accomplishing anything,” he asked over the thin pancakes. It was not an innocent question. He knew I was becoming disillusioned.

“I think we are doing a lot, just by rubbing elbows with the Russians, being here, showing them how Westerners act. How to treat people, how to behave. Helping Russia along the transition to democracy.” I was talking about our cover jobs as diplomats. I didn’t say anything about our real work, intelligence.

Walt could see from my answer that I felt continued Cold War games would do more harm than good overall. He knew I was liberal for the Agency. Some of my own colleagues, the hard liners, didn’t trust me.

“Of course, we also do important covert work, getting information others can’t,” Walt said. “We are doing it for ourselves, and for them,” he added, looking out at the street.

I looked out the window at the pedestrians on the sidewalk below. They were wearing colored clothing, Chinese and American made parkas, rather than the old gray woolen Soviet era overcoats. They seemed to have a livelier walk and more animated expressions, less like the former automatons.  Maybe “glassnost,” if not “perestroika,” had worked, I thought to myself.  More “openness,” at least, if not “restructuring.” But, they didn’t seem to appreciate democracy yet. They thought in terms of better consumer goods.

“There should be statues of Gorbachev everywhere, but they hate him,” I said.

“Give them time. You remember what Mike Floyd said, change would be gradual, and percolate from the bottom up, not be forced from the top down.” Mike was the Deputy Ambassador. We all respected him. Walt was looking out the window at the Tartar looking Metropole Hotel across the street. “In the meantime, we have to be vigilant.”

A few weeks later, we heard a rumor in the Embassy that a Russian accountant, working in the Defense Ministry, had been secretly tried for treason and shot in the Lubyanka cells. I was never told whether he was our source. The Brits got the information and the foreign press were on it. Maybe the intelligence games were not just games after all. The Russian accountant wouldn’t think so. Natasha wouldn’t think so.  Her bowl was still on the kitchen floor.   That night, I tore up the letter of resignation. The next time I saw John in the hall, I asked if he needed more help on the street.

The Galushin Case

The American Charge d’affaires was coming in to the Belarus Foreign Ministry to protest the beating of Belarusan opposition politician Anatoly Galushin.

Belarus Deputy Foreign Minister Alexei Vlasov disliked the new American Charge whom he was about to receive. This American, a career Foreign Service Officer sent out when the American Ambassador was recalled to Washington, was, in Vlasin’s eyes, a Cold Warrior type.  He had already eliminated U.S. Defense Department and National Guard exchanges with the Belarus military, and had avoided the receiving line to greet the Belarusan President at the annual diplomatic corps reception, encouraging the British Charge to join him. More troubling, he had already made two visits to Lithuania, meeting a prominent Belarusan democratic politician in exile, and calling on the Lithuanian Foreign Minister. He reportedly supported closing the American Embassy in Minsk altogether. The Ambassador he replaced was more effective and professional in promoting America’s views while coordinating with Europe; the new Charge was more of a nuisance.

Alexei Vlasov was a child of the Soviet Union, a former Komsomol youth leader and child of the ruling class, the son of a high-ranking military officer. Admitted to the prestigious International Relations Institute in Moscow, Alexei graduated top in his class, and subsequently attended law school at Leningrad State University before joining the diplomatic service. Now, in his late forties, Vlasov was smooth and well spoken, and had lived in the West most of his career. He was the regular contact point for the western Ambassadors in Minsk, with whom he had developed close social connections.

Vlasov was good at his job. He had the local OSCE Director and the European Ambassadors believing in him. The Germans, French, and Italians did not want to believe otherwise, accepting Vlasov’s efforts, and fearing confrontation with Belarus would renew dividing lines in Europe. Give it time, they told the Americans, and things would naturally change. Vlasov was making some progress at the margins, changing the regime gradually. Plus, they had investments to protect in Belarus, in textiles, pharmaceuticals, and trucking. For the Germans, there was also “Ostpolitik.” The SPD was in charge under Chancellor Gerhard Schroeder, a friend of the Belarusan President.

The new American Charge, part of the Sate Department’s Russia club, had seen the Alexei Vlasovs before, and knew them well. They were fluent, smooth, and “Westernized”, but survivors above all, careerists first, and reformers second. They usually served as their hard-line government’s “best foot forward” for dealing with the west, usually with little significant influence.

The American Charge was not buying into the idea that Vlasov was moderating the regime. He had learned from his Soviet Union experience to look only at results. Vlasov no doubt admired the West, having lived there, and admired our standard of living and sought part of this world for his children. But, he was a realist who knew the limitations of democratization and the power of the old elites in the region. He would like greater democracy, but In the world where he grew up and lived, power was all important, the institutions of government were to serve the President, and order was as important as reform.

The American Charge spent a lot of time fighting with his western colleagues, the European Ambassadors, who followed the EU’s pragmatic policy of “engagement” over sanctions. Europe would try to work with the Belarus government to create conditions for change, while maintaining its local watchdog, the OSCE’s, tenuous presence, necessary to protect local democrats. Belarus had already threatened to throw the OSCE out, and was cracking down severely on local democrats. Angered over human rights criticism, the Belarus President had confiscated the western Ambassadors’ residences.  The OSCE and EU had their hands full, and told themselves that Belarus’ leaders were capable of changing.

Sitting across from the German, French, Italian, and Greek Ambassadors in Minsk, the American Charge was reminded of JFK’s entry, why he had put us through the ringer to stop the Russians in Berlin and Cuba. Kennedy had the larger picture in mind, and was thinking partially of the Europeans. If the U.S. didn’t stand up, then NATO would be ineffective and Europe would dissolve into neutrality and apathy. The Charge thought about this, listening to the Germans and French say they have to try to work with the Belarus government. “No” the Charge said, finally, we would continue to fight. The meeting was over. European glances at each other said it all. They called him the American “cowboy” behind his back.

It was time to deliver the demarche.

From his fifth floor window, Vlasov watched the black Ambassador’s vehicle with the U.S. flag on the bumper pull into the Ministry drive, and saw the driver get out and go around to open the Charge’s door. The American, he could see, had brought his number two, the troublemaker Hayes. Vlasov’s assistant, Andrei Klimov, would meet them in the lobby, and escort them up. Vlasov would keep them waiting a bit. He would give the American a short meeting only. The European Ambassadors had already received a separate briefing on the Galushin beating from the Foreign Minister, keeping the Americans behind the curve and the Europeans on top.

After an interval, Klimov came through the black cushioned doors into Vlasov’s office to tell him the Americans were here. The room was lit only by a desk lamp and by light coming through the window. Andrei commented that the Americans weren’t smiling and did not engage in any small talk on the way up. “Send them in,” Vlasov said. Vlasov slowly stood up behind his desk, and didn’t come around to greet the Americans as they walked across his large office to two leather chairs in front of his desk. He waved to the chairs and sat down. There was a formal hello, but no offer of tea.

The American Charge got down to business with no pleasantries, stating he was delivering an official message on instructions from the State Department. He expressed the U.S. government’s “strong concern” over the beating of Galushin, a local democrat, who was brutally attacked by unknown assailants near a central square. The American government was, he said, alarmed by the recent climate of violence, which has witnessed beatings of government opponents and human rights advocates. This includes the recent beating of a Social Democratic Party leader at a metro stop by alleged “skin heads,” and the disappearances of two government opponents. The American government requested a full investigation of the Galushin attack with the cooperation of the OSCE, and a full report on results of that investigation. The U.S. recommended international police cooperation, and offered FBI support.

It was a tough demarche, given that the U.S. had no evidence of Belarusan government complicity in the beating. But, the Charge hadn’t gone over the line to allege that outright.

When the American concluded, Vlasov rejected the U.S. demarche as unfounded, and countered that the Belarus police were investigating reports of possible mafia action against Galushin, who was a businessman with business partners in Russia and elsewhere. He noted that the German Ambassador had driven to the crime scene immediately after the attack, and had been briefed in detail by the police there. Belarus, Vlasov said, will keep the diplomatic corps informed, and has scheduled a Foreign Ministry briefing for the Diplomatic Corps, with police participation, to provide what information the investigation uncovers. Displaying some annoyance, Vlasov added the government of Belarus did not appreciate “unfounded” accusations or suggestions of its involvement in some action against one of its citizens. If the Americans have some information on the beating of Galushin, please come forward. Otherwise, the GOB has nothing more to say. Vlasov’s attitude was one of annoyance over the frequent American demarches on human rights.

As the Charge handed over the non-paper of USG points he had made, and stood to leave, he added his own “personal” comment not authorized by Washington but from one who cares for Belarus, that Belarus may think it can divide America from the Europeans, but it would ultimately discover differently. Belarus will find itself isolated someday and that would be sad for such a great people.

Vlasov said he rejected the isolation suggestion, and felt the rest of the diplomatic community would also see this as unfounded. He asked if the U.S. was accusing the Belarus government of taking violence against Galushin. No, the Charge said, our intent was to see that human rights are preserved and citizens are protected, and that an environment is not created which is conducive to violence.

This is a police matter, an angry Vlasov concluded, indicating the meeting was over and stating he would pass on the U.S. message, asking Klimov to show the Americans out. He also said from now on, the Charge could deliver his demarches to Klimov, the Americas Desk director in the Ministry.

The Charge said he would pass this on to Washington, but Washington would expect continued high-level access on serious matters. We would follow a policy of reciprocity in dealing with their Ambassador in Washington. Vlasov made no response. On the way down, Klimov said nothing. Nor did the Americans. There was silence in the elevator and no goodbye handshake at the front entrance. In the car, Hayes asked if the Charge had perhaps gone a bit over the line in mentioning Belarusan isolation. The Charge smiled, admitting it was not approved by Washington. But as a rule of thumb, it was better to be too tough, than too weak. What was important is showing resolve, that the Americans are watching, and we have our own influence on world opinion.

Upon completion of his tour in Minsk a year later, the Charge retired from the Foreign Service. In 2008, Belarus threw out the OSCE Mission and jailed the political opposition leaders and protestors after a flawed election. The U.S. eventually closed its Embassy except for a skeleton staff.

Monrovia, Libera, 1985

The ride:

I remember the ride with the Ambassador to the Justice Ministry, passing through the crowded streets of downtown Monrovia: the scores of street boys begging to watch people’s cars; the mangrove swamps, and downtown bridges leading to Bushrod Island, the poorest section of town, where people were crowded together in tin huts; the colonial era wooden office buildings where I would often meet with political leaders and artists; the Liberian soldiers in American green fatigue uniforms and helmets milling around the Presidential palace, market, and barracks areas; the Lebanese grocery stores sitting next to small indigenous cafes serving jallouf rice on wooden tables with checkered tablecloths, next to hotels also run mainly by Lebanese.

Riding along, I was thinking of my upcoming trip upcountry, and the pleasure of travel: the beautiful Atlantic coast outside of town, its sand beaches and the restaurant with terrace tables looking out to the sea, the sour taste of lemon on wonderful lightly breaded sole with butter oil.  I looked forward to riding in the Chevy Surburban along country roads with branch overhangs and dense vegetation all around, having rice in the village with the chiefs in the central palaver hut, with the native villagers and children looking in, and everyone sharing the same big rice spoon, enjoying the wonderful, spicy puri-puri hot chicken rice and collard greens.

Down the coast in Greenville, there were rubber plantations, and rides on logging trucks into the forest. In Cape Mount County, near the Sierra Leone border, I once swam in the ocean with two colleagues, suddenly realizing we were surrounded by dolphins riding the waves towards shore with us, the only time I ever swam with dolphins. The children of the city sat on the stone wall near the ocean, looking out to us in the sea and laughing at our pleasure, while drinking from coconuts. I thought, man, did I miss out. What an idyllic life for those villagers, remote from modern civilization. Unfortunately, the Liberian civil war caught up with them later.

The demarche:

We finally arrived at the Ministry of Justice building in downtown Monrovia. It was steamy hot inside. The Liberian Justice Minister, Wilbur Taylor, had worked himself into a tirade, as he was known to do, and this time his audience was the American Ambassador, Ed Townsend. Taylor was a lawyer, he was bright, and, like many Liberians, was a natural orator. He was on the way up, an adopted son of a wealthy Americo-Liberian family in the exclusive suburb of Paynesville. His mother was a native girl who was a servant of the wealthy Taylor family, and Wilbur was born from the union of the patriarch and the native servant who had become his “country wife.” This was not an unusual custom. Wilbur, like many such illegitimate kids, was adopted by the wealthy father and raised as his son with all the benefits of his legitimate children, including college. The mixed offspring of these unions were called “Congoes.”

The overthrow of the government in 1980 spelled the end of Americo-Liberian rule which had been in existence since the founding of the nation. Most of the Americo-Liberians, like Taylor’s father, were either driven into exile to the U.S. or into self-imposed internal exile in Paynesville, co-opted for service in the new native government, or executed. The anger of the native majority, who had been relegated to humiliating second class status over 150 years under the Americo-Liberians had come to the surface as Master Sergeant Samuel Doe and a group of native sergeants and lieutenants conducted a coup d’etat, shooting the President in his office and executing his fellow Americo-Liberian government ministers on the beach, where they were tied to telephone poles and shot by firing squad.

The United States tended to overlook this atrocity, seeing the need to maintain good relations with the new, if unappetizing government, for sake of Liberian strategic assets and support in the Cold War. We also felt we had no choice. Sergeant, later General, Doe became one of “our” dictators, brutal to his own people and totally corrupt, but a strong ally of the U.S..  Our Ambassador at the time of the coup was sickened by the executions, but felt Doe was educable. He was wrong. That did not mean, however, that we would give up on trying to support human rights in Liberia. Over time, as Doe expanded his brutality, our relations became increasingly strained.

“Congoes” like Wilbur Taylor straddled both sides, and usually, like Wilbur, chose the mother’s native side after the 1980 coup, switching allegiance out of ambition or fear. Perhaps Wilbur also harbored some hidden resentment over the treatment of his mother, and perhaps he felt it was not just that a five percent minority population ruled over the other 95 percent with total arrogance and indifference. At any rate, Wilbur was one of the brighter “Congos,” and many like him were allowed to serve Sam Doe, who needed what educated talent he could find to manage things. The Congos were always a bit suspect in the eyes of the true natives, however.

Taylor turned on his adopted father, as had many Congos, and became vociferous in persecuting Americos from his Justice Ministry position. It was an old story of hidden grievances and slights. Most likely, Taylor, who in 1980 had little resources to flee, was flattered when approached by Doe’s group, and had to go along with the new situation, rationalizing to himself that he had no real choice and had been wronged. Mainly he was ambitious and vain, and, perhaps a bit corrupt as well, wearing riding britches and German styled, dark green brushed wool hunter’s jackets with gray felt lapels. He was known to travel often to Germany, which had mining interests in Liberia. His native mother had been of the Kru tribe, closely linked to the ruling Krahn tribe of the new President. Doe probably felt he could trust a fellow tribesman to crack down on the other ethnic groups he was persecuting while promoting his Krahn-Kru rule. There hadn’t been many educated Krahn and Kru to draw from, since these tribes had been at the bottom of the pecking order under the Americos.

Despite Taylor’s henchman role for the corrupt Doe regime, we still had a feeling that he was trying to moderate some Doe’s excesses, carefully explaining to President Doe why Liberia could not totally circumvent international norms. This was risky, and he did not push it too hard, but he was seen as someone who could perhaps be a moderate force in the future.

But, on this day, Taylor seemed to have to show his loyalty to Doe, who was tiring of American human rights lectures and may have been whispering that Taylor was too effete and afraid of the West.

The American Ambassador, Ed Townsend, was, on this day, in the middle of a human rights demarche, or protest, on instructions from Washington, going through his talking points, noting “the USG’s serious concern over the downward trend of events in Liberia, including the intimidation of opposition political figures, the reported beatings of independent journalists, and arrest of candidates forming new political…”.

At this point, Taylor interrupted the Ambassador and exploded into a tirade, a five to ten minutes lecture. His face turning red, and pacing back and forth behind his desk while slapping a riding crop against his twill riding britches, he was Wilbur Taylor at his well-known theatrical and arrogant best, practically yelling that “the U.S. was hypocritical, persecuting its own blacks while preaching to others, turning a blind eye to abuses of the previous Americo-Liberian regime because it suited U.S. realpolitik interests to bolster a cruel minority, and trafficking false lies about so called Doe transgressions of law.” Taylor provided a loud point-by-point legal rebuttal to particular U.S. accusations.

Ambassador Townsend, a large African-American career diplomat, was one of the most highly respected professionals in the U.S. State Department. He was a career minister with numerous postings, and was inscrutable, quiet and diplomatic. He remained stoic throughout the Taylor tirade, sitting passively on the office couch, listening but reviewing his notes and not paying much attention to the outburst.

When Taylor finally finished, he jutted out his lower chin and looked us squarely in the eye with a belligerence and confrontational look, as if to say, “So, what do you have to say to that. Not much, huh? You can crawl back to your Embassy.”

Townsend, realizing Wilbur was through, simply picked up in mid-sentence as if the tirade had never happened, continuing to read from where he had left off,“…the arrest of candidates forming new political parties, such as the Liberian Action Party of Ellen Johnson Sirleaf.” He slowly, and with no emotion or response to Wilbur, finished his talking points.

Taylor was dumbfounded. He looked at me, Ambassador Townsend’s note taker, for some show of support or expression of surprise myself. Hadn’t the Ambassador heard him? I gave Wilbur no encouragement.

Finally, Taylor let out a sigh of exasperation and reverted to being the friendly Taylor, the one who really liked the United States. He ended the meeting on a friendly note, saying the U.S. was Liberia’s closest friend, and that we have a right to complain once in a while, like brothers. Taylor and Townsend shook hands, but there were no smiles as we left.  Townsend, without saying anything, had, through his demeanor, illustrated the dignity and position of the United States.  Our problems, however, were just beginning.