One Cold War veteran, Bill Harvey, had already gone, driven into retirement by alcoholism. Angleton, too, was drinking far more than was good for him, and had begun to look not merely pallid but genuinely ravaged. His mood changed too. He became increasingly introspective, and the dry humor became less and less visible. He seemed pent-up and aggressive, trusting fewer and fewer people, who were turning more and more against him.
Drinking, smoking, and fishing were Angleton's main releases. Barry Russell Jones told me in amazement of accompanying him on a fishing trip to a stretch of river he owned in Idaho, and finding that Angleton had buried bottles of Jack Daniel's under the water at hundred-yard intervals, so that he could never be caught short. Back in Washington he found relief in growing exotic orchids (he was a world expert), crafting leatherwork, gold-beating, or making fishing lures for his friends and admirers.
Angleton and I talked until 4 A.M. We examined every possible scenario of the defections. Who was true, and who was false? Who defected, and who was sent? The lines were embedded like poetry in a child's mind. We were both on the rack. So much depended on making the right assumptions about the defectors - for him, the assassination of his President; for me, the next move in the hunt for the mole. Eventually we walked back through Alexandria toward the 44th Street bridge. Angleton had parked his car down behind the Okinawa Memorial, near the National Cemetery. Angleton was highly patriotic in that unique American way which expresses itself in reverence for the flag, and symbols of national heritage, like the Okinawa Memorial, fascinated him. He paused to look across at it. The cars swished past behind us on the freeway.
"This is Kim's work," he muttered. It was one of the few times I ever heard him mention his old friend Philby.
If there was a plot to deceive the West using defectors in the early 1960s, we were easy prey to it. Throughout those years there was a conscious policy in both London and Washington to do everything possible to attract defectors. They were seen as the secret weapon which could disrupt the smooth machine in Dzherzhinsky Square. In part this policy grew up through feelings of guilt. Early defectors like Gouzenko and Von Petrov had been poorly rewarded for their services, and felt bitter at the treatment they had received. They were paid a fee, and then pushed back out into the cold, and expected to make lives for themselves as best they could. Most failed. There was guilt, too, at the inadequate security arrangements which led to the deaths of Volkov and Krivitsky, and we feared that unless a conscious effort was made to show the benefits of defection, word would get back East and inhibit further approaches.
By the time Golitsin came over, the policy had hardened. Any means to secure defections were authorized, starting with immense payments, but including other methods also. I remember one particular operation which began in the mid-1960s involving a senior KGB officer named Sergei Grigovin (a pseudonym) which illustrates the lengths we were prepared to go to. Grigovin was already known to us, because he had served in Denmark, and the Danish intelligence service had alerted us routinely to his identity. They also provided us with a few snippets of intelligence about him - one in particular was that he had a reputation for enjoying the company of women. The source report was circulated through to D4, the agent-running section of D Branch, and they were instructed to keep an eye out for Grigovin's indiscretions, since he had left his wife in Moscow.
Any Russian, and especially a KGB officer, who is caught liaising with women in the West by the KGB security division, the "SK," is in serious trouble, and the case had distinct possibilities. A year later a D4 agent runner received the first tip. An agent of his, a senior executive at the DAILY MIRROR newspaper, was in the habit of occasionally meeting Grigovin at dinner parties. A woman friend of his told him that Grigovin was having an affair with a friend to whom she had introduced the Russian. D4 raised the matter at the weekly meeting with D1 (Operations) and it was agreed that a much closer eye would be kept on the situation. The agent runner was told to encourage his agent gently to keep an eye on the evolving romance.
Eventually Grigovin finished with the girl, and when he next met the woman who had introduced them, he asked if she knew any other friends. The D1 realized immediately this was our chance. If we could introduce our own girl to Grigovin we would be in a perfect position to begin an entrapment operation. The plan was put up to F.J., who gave his consent, although the operation was kept secret from the Foreign Office, on the grounds that they would very likely veto it. D4 were instructed to produce a woman suitable for the job. They had a number of high-class call-girls they used for entrapments, and eventually one was successfully introduced to Grigovin at a party. He took the bait perfectly, and was soon engaged in an affair with her.
Events began to move toward their climax. He was placed under intensive surveillance, and we analyzed the various possibilities. It was obvious from the surveillance that Grigovin was purely interested in the girl for sex, and there was thought to be little chance of playing on his heartstrings. It had to be straightforward entrapment.
The plans for a defection are complex, and require weeks of careful planning. First a room was hired, and a two-way mirror and camera equipment installed. Then safe houses, and transport arrangements were made to safeguard Grigovin should he decide to defect. He had a family in Moscow, and checks were made on them in case he bargained for them to be exfiltrated as well.
Finally the day came. The D1 took charge of the operation himself. Grigovin and the girl arrived, and we ensured we had a good ten minutes of film of them in bed before the D1 and two burly MI5 officers opened the door with one of Leslie Jagger's keys.
"One of ours, I'm afraid..." said the D1, as the girl was hustled out of the door.
Grigovin looked momentarily stunned. The D1 pointed to the mirror. For a moment the KGB man looked straight into the camera. Then he understood.
"I am a diplomat," said the Russian. "I demand to speak to the Embassy... I have my pass!"
He tried to reach across toward his trousers. One of our boys stood on them.
"Hardly diplomatic behavior," said the D1. He bent down and threw the naked Russian his underpants. Then he got down to business.
"Let's face it, you're finished, Grigovin. They'll send you back if they find out."
He let the thought sink in.
"You look as if you're more suited to the West. We know, we've checked. Four years in America, three years in Denmark. Now London. You don't want to go back anyway, do you? Why don't you come over? We'll look after you. There's a good pension. You'll be safe."
The Russian brushed the offer aside with a wave of his hand, and again demanded to speak to his Embassy.
For two hours the D1 tried to reason with him. Think of the future, he told him. He would be stripped of his privileges and sent back to Moscow in disgrace, to serve his career out in some dreary Siberian outpost. No more foreign exchange, no more overseas perks.
"I am a diplomat," Grigovin kept saying "I demand to speak to my Embassy."
He was like a World War II captured airman, reciting only his name, rank, and serial number. He was a crack soldier, and eventually we realized there was to be no defection. His clothes were returned and we dumped him back on the pavement near Kensington Park Gardens. Months of planning, years of patient waiting were wasted.