Authors: Benjamin Weiser
Tags: #History, #Europe, #Germany, #World, #True Crime, #Espionage
A Secret Life (6 page)
That weekend in Warsaw, a CIA officer named Ed Schooley
3
got into his battered British Singer and went for a drive known as a surveillance detection run, or SDR. Warsaw Station had received a “flash” cable from headquarters describing a potentially significant military official who was volunteering information elsewhere in Europe. Schooley was given Kuklinski’s name and address and asked to visit his apartment building, and then to scout for a location where the first meeting could be held. Headquarters wanted a site that had not previously been used. “We want it new, fresh; we want it up in his area,” Schooley was told.
3
got into his battered British Singer and went for a drive known as a surveillance detection run, or SDR. Warsaw Station had received a “flash” cable from headquarters describing a potentially significant military official who was volunteering information elsewhere in Europe. Schooley was given Kuklinski’s name and address and asked to visit his apartment building, and then to scout for a location where the first meeting could be held. Headquarters wanted a site that had not previously been used. “We want it new, fresh; we want it up in his area,” Schooley was told.
It was not unusual for Schooley to go driving on weekends, and he had built regular trips into his routine. For example, on Fridays, he regularly borrowed 16-mm movies from the defense attaché’s office, which gave him an excuse to return them to the embassy on Sundays. That day, Schooley made his meandering SDR around Warsaw in an effort to establish whether he was being followed by the SB, the Polish secret police. CIA officers were trained to carry out their missions even when there was surveillance, but it was important to know whether it was there. As he drove, Schooley glanced frequently into his rearview mirror and eventually concluded that he was “clean.” He headed toward Kuklinski’s neighborhood, a place an American driver with diplomatic plates would ordinarily not go, and parked several blocks away. He then began to case the area on foot, but as he reached Kuklinski’s street a woman called to him from a window above, asking what he was doing.
Schooley had become convinced that a favorite pastime of elderly women in Warsaw was to lean out of apartment windows and watch people on the street. Schooley, who was dressed informally and wearing a light jacket, said he was trying to find an address. He called out a nearby street and number. The woman pointed. Schooley thanked her and began to walk away, but then he slipped behind a building and returned, trying to avoid being noticed. Finally he found Kuklinski’s building, set back from the street. In the lobby, he scanned the mailboxes and found Kuklinski’s name. He examined the box to see if it could be opened without a key, which would make it a good dead drop, or place to leave messages for Kuklinski, but it was locked. Schooley considered trying to find Kuklinski’s apartment, but decided it was more important to locate a site for their first meeting.
As he walked around Kuklinski’s neighborhood, Schooley came upon the Powstancow Warszawskich cemetery. He entered and started to look for the correct configuration―a double right turn and an escape route. He soon found an area that seemed promising. It had a row of bushes and a path that crossed the road through the cemetery. There was only one flaw: The road looped back to the entrance. That violated a cardinal rule about the layout of operational sites: For security reasons, a CIA officer was supposed to enter and leave by different routes. If the officer was being followed, he could leave directly, drawing any trailing cars with him, while the source could scurry away on foot.
But it was late and Schooley needed a site. With enough of a gap, the looping road would still work. He counted the number of steps from the entrance to where the exchange would occur, which he would include in his written description. He then prepared a cable for Langley. The information would be routed to Henry and Lang for discussion with Kuklinski.
The next two meetings, in Ostend and Brussels, went smoothly. When the Powstancow Warszawskich cemetery was suggested to Kuklinski as the site for their first exchange, he was elated. It was an historic location, the hallowed burial ground for victims of the 1944 Warsaw Uprising. He had walked there many times and knew of a wooded area where he could enter without being seen. Kuklinski was given further instructions on how to communicate with the Americans in Warsaw, including how to leave messages in dead drops, which in some cases were out in the open. Often the darkest place, Kuklinski came to learn, was under the lantern. He was given several souvenir key rings and postcards, evidence for his crewmates and son that he had been shopping.
In Belgium, the officers posed thirteen questions from headquarters. The first was: “Describe in detail war plans of the armed forces of Poland, Russia, and other members of the Warsaw Pact during a state of emergency, and first-strike plans as well as for a limited war conception.”
Kuklinski answered adeptly, talking for some twenty minutes without interruption, using a map of Europe to orient himself as he sketched out invasion routes. Finally, he stopped and said that it would take him “at least a week of solid taping” to answer that and the other questions.
The final meeting was held in Kiel, Germany, on August 25, one day before Kuklinski was to sail back to Poland. During the session, Kuklinski said matter-of-factly that he was considered to be a member of what Jaruzelski called the Army’s “gold fund” (or “golden boys”), who were frequently rotated to new assignments to ensure that they gained well-rounded experience in preparation for promotion to the highest levels of the Polish Armed Forces.
As the three-hour meeting came to a conclusion, Lang and Henry handed Kuklinski some more souvenirs that he could have plausibly bought in Kiel tourist shops, including a large piece of coral for Kuklinski’s home aquarium, shampoo for Hanka, and a pocket chess set with a metallic board.
Kuklinski then grew emotional. “Please forgive me,” he began, “if my last statement is somewhat chaotic, but my nerves play a certain role here. I would like to express my deep joy that the thoughts which got hold of me no less than 20 years ago have now, during my stay in the West, materialized. I am very happy about it.”
Citing his willingness to work secretly against the Soviet Union, he added:
I do not consider this a hazardous game, playing some risky game, because I know that my country’s place is in the free world.I would like to extend, above all on my own behalf, to the defense leadership of the United States, my assurance that just as I think, think almost 30 million Poles. It is our deep yearning to find ourselves with you in the free world. My country’s situation is not an easy one. We are placed in the middle of our brothers who we have not chosen but who were given to us by fate, that is, the Soviet Union, which has armies in front of us, and behind, and the situation is hard. But I think that in moments of trial, Polish Armed Forces will stand shoulder to shoulder with the American Army.
He felt certain that Polish soldiers would abdicate their role in an attack on the West and leave an opening for NATO forces. “Our forces might be added to―and counted with―the forces of the free world,” Kuklinski declared.
Kuklinski returned to his boat, and Lang and Henry spent the night in the hotel. The next morning, they walked to the harbor and sat on a large rock by the water. They could see Kuklinski’s yacht in the distance and watched for a while as the
Legia
disappeared over the horizon. “I don’t think we said a word,” Lang recalled. “We just hoped for the best for him.”
Legia
disappeared over the horizon. “I don’t think we said a word,” Lang recalled. “We just hoped for the best for him.”
2
“THE SOIL OF NOBODY”
KUKLINSKI HAD ALWAYS loved the sea, which he imagined as a way to link people, nations, and ideas. Now, leaning over the wheel of the
Legia
, he felt liberated. As a young officer stationed on the Polish Baltic coast, he had often stood on the beach scanning the horizon. Even on the clearest days he was unable to see the free world, the Scandinavian coastline, just 100 miles to the north, but he could sense it. Now, as he returned from his first meetings with the Americans, he was convinced that his voyage would be his bridge to the West, and even though the Americans had not agreed to his organizing a conspiracy, it was a first step. One night the wind puffed gently in the
Legia
’s sails. Suddenly his crew began shouting for him. A freighter was heading straight for them. Kuklinski grabbed the wheel, started the engine, and turned quickly to the right, the law of the sea. The freighter also should have turned right, allowing each boat to pass safely, but instead it turned left, and the vessels almost collided. With the freighter a dozen feet away, Kuklinski spun the wheel and swerved the
Legia
out of danger.
Legia
, he felt liberated. As a young officer stationed on the Polish Baltic coast, he had often stood on the beach scanning the horizon. Even on the clearest days he was unable to see the free world, the Scandinavian coastline, just 100 miles to the north, but he could sense it. Now, as he returned from his first meetings with the Americans, he was convinced that his voyage would be his bridge to the West, and even though the Americans had not agreed to his organizing a conspiracy, it was a first step. One night the wind puffed gently in the
Legia
’s sails. Suddenly his crew began shouting for him. A freighter was heading straight for them. Kuklinski grabbed the wheel, started the engine, and turned quickly to the right, the law of the sea. The freighter also should have turned right, allowing each boat to pass safely, but instead it turned left, and the vessels almost collided. With the freighter a dozen feet away, Kuklinski spun the wheel and swerved the
Legia
out of danger.
Although Kuklinski joined in his crew’s cheers and nervous relief, the incident seemed like an omen; he knew his life had irreversibly changed and that it would be far more dangerous. But he was convinced he had made the right decision: Emotionally, he had crossed the line years before.
At forty-two, Kuklinski was already a decorated officer and could expect further promotions in the years ahead. Hardy and compactly built, he had competed as a runner in school and in the military. He was bright, serious, modest, and a tireless worker. He had won the confidence of his superiors for his intellect and calm competence and had earned the loyalty of his staff for his courteousness. But as he rose in the army and joined the inner circle of the Polish military leadership, he said later, “I started to enter this world of secrets, and I gradually discovered the most tragic plans for humanity.”
For as long as Kuklinski could remember, Poland had existed under the control of outside powers. He had only the sketchiest memory of a different time. He had lived with his parents in a modest one-bedroom apartment on the fourth floor of a five-story brick building at 13 Tlomackie Street in the center of Warsaw, next to the Great Synagogue, a majestic center of Jewish life that dated to 1878. A short distance away were the national theater and the city hall. Kuklinski’s father, Stanislaw, held a series of jobs. He worked in a machine factory that produced tanks and tools and as a waiter at one of Warsaw’s finest restaurants at the time, U Lija. Kuklinski remembers him as a gentle man who loved to row on weekends on the Vistula River and instilled in his son a love for the sea. Kuklinski’s mother, Anna, was confident and strong-willed and had also worked at U Lija before she and Stanislaw married. Roman Barszcz, Kuklinski’s closest childhood friend, remembers Anna as “beautiful, very intelligent, and also very tolerant” and said there was never a shortage of bread, jam, or herring in the family household. Kuklinski’s parents guided him toward an understanding of his heritage and a sense of pride and obligation. “They breathed the air of patriotism,” Barszcz recalled.
In the summertime Kuklinski’s parents took him to a village called Niedabyl, about seventy kilometers south of Warsaw, where Kuklinski’s uncle had a farm. Kuklinski and his cousins rode horses and played in the forest with their friends. Here Kuklinski and Barszcz became known for their practical jokes. Local farmers would haul in hay from the fields and at times fell asleep on top of their carts. Kuklinski and Barszcz once crept up behind a cart and, with the farmer still napping, rolled it into a pond. The enraged farmer waded out of the water, shouting at the boys as they ran away. Another time, they took apart a cart and rebuilt it on top of a barn, where it sat for days.
At the time, young Polish boys aspired to be military officers, priests, or engineers. For Kuklinski, there was never any question that he wanted to be an officer. But on September 1, 1939, as he was walking to school on Elektoralna Street, he was startled by the wail of a siren. The skies began to darken as German bombers made lightning strikes on the city, launching the Nazi invasion of Poland and World War II.
Kuklinski, who was just nine, raced to school with his friends and arrived to find the corridors filled with screaming classmates. Their principal, a large man who terrified them all, motioned for silence. He was a member of the army reserve and said he was going to fight the Germans. Kuklinski was reassured. “If he is in the war,” Kuklinski felt, “we will win.”
Kuklinski’s parents, both Catholic, sought to shield their son, but it became impossible as the bombs fell. An artillery shell crashed into the courtyard behind their home, killing several horses that Polish soldiers had tied up there. Kuklinski never forgot the Nazis’ brutality. One day, he saw the Germans install barbed wire along the street and force elderly Jews to shovel dirt along the makeshift fence. He also heard that the Nazis would use lighters to burn the beards of Jewish men who did not cut them off quickly enough when ordered to do so. A classmate who lived in his building broke down in tears one day, saying her mother had been hurt, and Kuklinski later overheard his parents discussing the incident: The girl’s mother had been raped by German soldiers.
Kuklinski’s father, who had become a caretaker for a building inside the Jewish ghetto, was able to move in and out freely, although some nights he remained behind the ghetto wall, while Kuklinski and his mother stayed alone in their apartment. On those days, Kuklinski would deliver his father’s dinner in a small can to the ghetto gate. He later learned from his father that the food was passed around to people inside who were starving. The Germans built a large barbed-wire fence around the Great Synagogue, turning it into a transit camp for prisoners, and Kuklinski remembered approaching it with his friends and being asked by people behind the wire to buy food or cigarettes for them or to mail letters.
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