Authors: Benjamin Weiser
Tags: #History, #Europe, #Germany, #World, #True Crime, #Espionage
A Secret Life (10 page)
In the summer of 1970, Kuklinski was working at the General Staff on an exercise approved by Jaruzelski that was based on a surprise NATO nuclear attack on Warsaw Pact troops in their barracks. Kuklinski had been preparing the exercise for six months. Late one night, as he and several other officers were putting the final touches on the maps, the red phone on his desk rang. It was Chocha.
“Are you still working?” Chocha asked.
“Yes,” Kuklinski said.
“But how long are you going to work?” Chocha asked.
“Maybe an hour or more,” Kuklinski responded.
“Fine, let’s work together,” Chocha said. He asked Kuklinski to bring his work with him.
Kuklinski was unsettled, fearing that Chocha, who was known for calling people at night after he had been drinking, would order drastic changes. Nevertheless, he went to Chocha’s office.
“Please display your map,” said Chocha, who seemed clear-headed that night.
But as Kuklinski complied, Chocha reached over and turned up his radio to prevent their conversation from being overheard.
“Colonel,” Chocha began, “why are we always concerned about our external front?”
“That is the topic of our exercise,” Kuklinski said.
“The external front should be a Soviet concern,” Chocha insisted
.
.
Why weren’t Polish troops defending Poland
?
?
“General, we’ve discussed this,” Kuklinski said, referring to their conversation on the train to Berlin three years earlier.
Chocha was not deterred. He continued to ask searching questions about Poland’s military doctrine. Where would NATO have to use its nuclear weapons?
Kuklinski replied that in a war between the superpowers, NATO would target a nuclear response on the Second Strategic Echelon. But such an attack would not occur while the forces were on Soviet territory, nor once they reached Germany. They would be attacked in between.
Where? Chocha asked.
“On the soil of nobody―in Poland.”
Kuklinski could see that his boss was worried, and he pushed further. “It’s not a question of the exercise. It’s the doctrine. We must change our policy. The whole doctrine,” Kuklinski said.
It was, for Kuklinski, the troubling question faced by every patriotic Pole: Whom did one serve? He and his fellow officers were caught up in the aggressive war-making agenda of the Soviet Union, and not the interests of Poland, and in doing so they were ensuring their country’s destruction in a time of war.
Chocha said he had continued to press the issue with top officials. “I have been talking and talking, but they don’t listen to me,” Chocha said as music from the radio continued to play loudly.
“General,” Kuklinski replied, if there could be no common understanding among the Poles and their allies in the Warsaw Pact, “perhaps it would be in our interest to reach a mutual understanding with our enemy.”
“Colonel!” Chocha said, waving his arms over his head. “We have reached the abstract. We are talking about what is impossible, what is not real.” Chocha paused. “I think it’s time to finish the work.”
Kuklinski asked whether he had to make any changes in his exercise.
“Nothing,” Chocha said. “Let’s go home.”
But Kuklinski felt he was being sent a message: Chocha had not dismissed him or rejected his suggestion. He hadn’t even disagreed.
Another event that compelled Kuklinski to cross the line occurred in December 1970, when Polish troops in Gdansk, Gdynia, and Szczecin were ordered to shoot into demonstrations of shipyard workers, who were protesting the raising of food prices before Christmas. Some forty-seven “wreckers of order in the people’s state” were killed. Among them were seven trade-school students. More than 1,000 victims were hospitalized.
Kuklinski knew one regimental commander whose men had been ordered to fire at workers in Gdynia. “We were shooting and crying,” he told Kuklinski. “I had no choice. I got orders.” He said that he had ordered his soldiers to fire at the ground, but the bullets ricocheted up, hitting the marchers.
The orders to fire were given by the Polish leadership. Kuklinski felt the officers had no such right. He was outraged at the casualness with which the orders were given, and that no one had refused to carry them out. Kuklinski started to think in concrete terms, and he devised his plan to reach out to the West. He began reading books on American military doctrine. He worked late at night, confronted by moments of self-doubt and uncertainty. But as he analyzed his choices, he became convinced he was right, and he concluded that his plan, if well thought out, might succeed. Some kind of cooperation must work.
Ultimately, he wanted the U.S. Army to know that he believed other Polish Army officers, in the event of war, would be willing to help eliminate the command-and-control systems of the Warsaw Pact and sabotage the Second Strategic Echelon as it crossed Poland.
The consummate sailor, he got approval from an unwitting General Chocha to lead the surveillance trip on the
Legia
through western Europe with a crew of eight or nine officers. Their mission would be to “complete a study of the western theater of military operations.” Kuklinski also took along his teenage son, Bogdan. He offered the captain’s berth to a crewmate, preferring to share a berth with his son and several others.
Legia
through western Europe with a crew of eight or nine officers. Their mission would be to “complete a study of the western theater of military operations.” Kuklinski also took along his teenage son, Bogdan. He offered the captain’s berth to a crewmate, preferring to share a berth with his son and several others.
Chocha had authorized Kuklinski to carry the necessary food and money on the fifty-foot yacht, which had a hull and superstructure made of mahogany and teak. The General Staff would cover all expenses, as they were on an official mission. Kuklinski, who knew no English, spent weeks practicing with a Polish-English dictionary. He imagined the text of the letter he would send from the boat.
On August 2, 1972, Kuklinski, Bogdan, and the rest of the crew loaded up at Gdansk. They would sail through the Baltic Sea and into the Kiel Canal, along the Elbe River to Hamburg, to the North Sea and to Cuxhaven, and on to Wilhelmshaven, their final stop in Germany. From there, they would travel to four Dutch ports, including Den Helder, Amsterdam, The Hague, and Rotterdam. Their final stop would be Ostend, a port in Belgium, before returning to Poland. Kuklinski, the commander of the surveillance group and captain of the vessel, offered his crew as much freedom as possible, in order to win their confidence. “Do you know who the captain is?” he shouted at one point. “You are!” the crew shouted back. “You’re right!” Kuklinski declared, “From this moment on, everybody does what he wants.”
The crew fell into a daily routine, leaving the boat to explore ports, shop, and visit museums.
On August 11 the
Legia
arrived in Wilhelmshaven. Kuklinski had waited to send his letter from this port, a former German naval headquarters, because of its rich history. On May 6, 1945, the Polish First Armored Division, which participated in the invasion of Normandy and helped to liberate France and Holland, accepted the surrender of much of the German fleet at Wilhelmshaven. Germany made its formal surrender the next day to a British admiral who was accompanied by a Polish officer. Kuklinski reveled in this history and had always considered the Polish troops at Wilhelmshaven to be heroes. But with Poland under Soviet domination, Kuklinski felt that the town symbolized unfinished business.
Legia
arrived in Wilhelmshaven. Kuklinski had waited to send his letter from this port, a former German naval headquarters, because of its rich history. On May 6, 1945, the Polish First Armored Division, which participated in the invasion of Normandy and helped to liberate France and Holland, accepted the surrender of much of the German fleet at Wilhelmshaven. Germany made its formal surrender the next day to a British admiral who was accompanied by a Polish officer. Kuklinski reveled in this history and had always considered the Polish troops at Wilhelmshaven to be heroes. But with Poland under Soviet domination, Kuklinski felt that the town symbolized unfinished business.
Kuklinski waited until his crew had left the ship. With Bogdan busy elsewhere on the boat, Kuklinski shut his cabin door. Sitting at a small table, Kuklinski removed two sheets of onionskin paper, the kind commonly used for airmail letters in Europe. He began to print carefully, slanting each letter to the left, unlike his usual writing style. He decided to address his note to the American military attaché, seeking to meet with an officer of similar rank.
He placed the letter in an envelope, which he addressed to the military attaché, and then sealed it in a second envelope. He had bought the envelopes at their last stop in Germany. Kuklinski then tossed his pen into the water and left the
Legia
. After a short walk, he hailed a taxi and rode to a post office, where he addressed and mailed his letter. Then he returned to the
Legia
, where he sat on the deck, waiting for his crew to return. Seagulls coasted above the boat, interrupting his thoughts with their loud cries. This was
his
Polish resistance.
Legia
. After a short walk, he hailed a taxi and rode to a post office, where he addressed and mailed his letter. Then he returned to the
Legia
, where he sat on the deck, waiting for his crew to return. Seagulls coasted above the boat, interrupting his thoughts with their loud cries. This was
his
Polish resistance.
3
A DOUBLE LIFE
AFTER LANG RETURNED to Bonn Station he got a visit from a senior officer. “You really hit one over the fence,” the officer said. “It’s a shame that nobody is going to know what you did.”
The officer had a cable from CIA headquarters, which commended Lang and Henry for their success. The cable said that Kuklinski, apart from his considerable potential for delivering intelligence, “seems, because of his current and projected assignment, well situated to provide a unique and meaningful early-warning capability within the Warsaw Pact forces superior to that we have previously had.”
Lang was told to shred his files on the P.V. operation, which meant headquarters had decided the project was worth pursuing and would run it through Warsaw Station. At Langley, additional measures were taken to restrict information on the case. Knowledge of the operation would be limited to a small group of officers under Soviet Division chief David Blee, and Kuklinski would need a code name. Blee, aware of Kuklinski’s fondness for the sea, chose “Gull.”
On August 31, 1972, about a week after Kuklinski returned to Poland, Blee sent a cable to Warsaw Station soliciting ideas for an internal “commo” (communications) plan once Gull was back in Poland. His motivation appeared to be “ideological, nationalistic, and anti-Soviet,” Blee wrote. He cited Kuklinski’s experience in Vietnam and his belief that the West was “not as decadent as portrayed by his government.”
“Soviet invasion [of] Czechoslovakia completed his disenchantment with Sovs and convinced him Sovs have no real concern for Gull’s country,” Blee wrote. As a Polish patriot and nationalist, Gull believed he was in a position to assist “in effort which may in time free [Poland] from Soviet domination.”
Blee said Gull had been told that “we will do all possible to exfiltrate [him] and provide safe haven in West should he feel security required it or his life [was] in danger.” Blee also cited Gull’s claims of broad access to secret documents, including war plans, training exercises, and classified Soviet military journals. The CIA had said its highest-priority requirements were for all Soviet Warsaw Pact directives, articles from Soviet military journals, war-planning documents, and “any Soviet or Warsaw Pact preparations for major hostile actions or political ventures requiring military preparations.” Addressing Gull’s credibility, Blee wrote, “Nothing in the recent contacts with Gull suggests that he [is] other than sincere and dealing with us in good faith.”
It was several months before Kuklinski was contacted by Warsaw Station. At the time, the station consisted of just three people―Carl E. Gebhardt, the newly arrived chief of station, his deputy, and an administrative assistant, who opened the diplomatic pouch, maintained the site files, and performed other duties.
Gebhardt, a slightly built thirty-nine-year-old with blond hair and distinctive light-blue eyes, worked out of an expansive office near the ambassador’s suite in the white-marble embassy building on Aleje Ujazdowskie. There was also a vaulted room with a darkroom, sink, shelves, a refrigerator for film, and cabinets that held concealment devices for use in dead drops. Gebhardt was posted under State Department cover and listed as second secretary in the political section. As a diplomat, he was expected to act the role, attending the political counselor’s meetings and carrying out other official tasks.
Warsaw Station made several attempts to contact Kuklinski. The CIA prepared a letter, written in invisible ink, to confirm the time and place for their first meeting in the Powstancow Warszawskich cemetery. The station spray-painted the envelope black to absorb light in case Kuklinski’s car was parked under a streetlight. One evening, Gebhardt took his blond Afghan hound, Ladybug, out for a walk. Gebhardt believed no CIA officer should be without a dog when serving in “denied areas”―places where officers’ movements were highly restricted, and where they were subject to constant and unfriendly surveillance, such as in the Soviet Union and the East bloc. Dogs had to be walked every day and offered a plausible cover for carrying out operational acts. Gebhardt approached Kuklinski’s Opel, which was parked on a side street near the General Staff, and slipped the envelope through a crack in the window on the driver’s side, flipping his wrist to be sure it landed on the seat. But Kuklinski did not appear at the cemetery at the scheduled time. The CIA prepared another letter, proposing a new date before Christmas, and dropped it into his car once again.
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