Delusional (eBook)

CHAPTER I

March 22, 2020; Ankara, TURKEY

I could feel it in my bones – I was about to embark on an operational journey that would have spectacular results. I had this same feeling several other times in my career and the last time it happened I recruited a leader of an Arab terrorist group. Maybe I’ll have similar results this time. But since I was in Ankara, Turkey and not the Arab World, it had to be something quite different. On this particular day we were a short distance outside of Ankara in the countryside on the Anatolian Plateau. Many archeologists believe this is the “cradle of civilization” where farming and agriculture were developed by man. That may be true, but this part of Turkey is rather drab. Even the Turks who live here are somewhat dour and grim looking, unlike the costal Turks who have a spring in their step and a smile on their faces.

Despite the location, we were enjoying ourselves. I sat there sipping the ice-cold vodka, being careful not to drink the potent stuff fast. In an attempt to prod Boris, I asked, “Boris, how is it that your country makes such great vodka, but so little else of excellence?”

Boris was a very big man, and he had a very big laugh to match his physical size. He knew I was baiting him and appeared to enjoy the razzing. As he laughed and pushed his blonde hair out of his eyes he said, “John, we concentrate on what’s important in life: vodka! And are you trying to tell me that Sarkis’ shashlik and Olga’s pierogi are not the best in the world?”

“Sarkis’ shashlik is the best,” I replied, “but it originates from his ancestors in Armenia, and you know better than I that Olga’s pierogies, as good as they are, originated in Poland. You Russians only make good vodka, mournful music and books that are much too long.”

These Sunday afternoon picnics were becoming a tradition between the four couples: two American and two Russian. The American side consisted of me, John Thorn, my wife Alice, Bert Simmons and his wife Beverly. In contrast, the Russian side consisted of Boris Orlenko, his wife Olga, plus Sarkis Demitrof and his wife Shushan.

I was the CIA’s Chief of Station – better known as COS – in Ankara, Turkey and Bert Simmons was my deputy. Boris Orlenko and Sarkis Demitrof were SVR officers. The SVR replaced the KGB’s First Chief Directorate as Russia’s external intelligence service in 1991. The name change did not accompany a change of mission, and for all practical purposes, it was still the KGB.

Neither we nor the Russians ever admitted to one another that we were intelligence officers. But we Americans were very well aware of the Russians’ true affiliation, and I assumed they knew Bert and I were CIA officers. I wondered from time to time if I was just spinning my wheels with these Russians; I could be spending my limited free time trying to recruit spies that were easier targets than Russians. But I had to admit to myself that Alice and I enjoyed the bantering, challenging discussions and excellent food and drink that came with these Sunday picnics. Also, Russia was still considered our number one enemy, given its extensive nuclear arsenal. So, while it was a long shot, recruiting a Russian – particularly an SVR officer – would provide the U.S. Government with desperately needed intelligence.

Alice in particular enjoyed these Sunday outings because she had minored in Russian Studies in college. When the picnics had first started, she spoke halting Russian. Now, she was able to converse in Russian quite comfortably. My specialty was Arabic, but I was also able to converse in Turkish, although I struggled with the language. I had studied Russian with an elderly Russian émigré when I was in my early 20s. She had left Russia during the great Russian Revolution and still considered herself a supporter of the Tzar and Tzarina. All I remember from those lessons is how to say “I don’t speak Russian. Do you speak Russian? What is that? That is a hat. That is a pen. How are you? Goodbye.” Obviously, I had not studied very hard.

By comparison, all the Russians spoke flawless English and Turkish. The English language school for Russian intelligence officers was legendary. The Russians had recreated a small Middle American town that was fully staffed by Russians fluent in American English. They played the roles of shop keepers, local politicians and just about any other profession one would find in a small town. The regular intelligence officer would spend about a year in that town and become a fluent, but accented, English speaker. But “illegals” – those Russian intelligence officers who were installed into American life with American identities, complete with a set of backstopped documents to include birth certificates, social security cards, etc. – would spend two or more years in the make-believe town and leave with the ability to pass as natural-born Americans.

Sitting in the office after one of these picnics, Bert, my deputy, asked me what was the rationale behind continuing the Sunday picnics.

“I get the feeling that we’re just wasting our time,” he said. “I don’t think either of the two Russians are recruitable. We have been seeing them for a little over six months now, and while you in particular have developed a close relationship with Boris, I don’t see a recruitment in the future.”

“You’re probably right, Bert, but we’ll just keep a friendly door open and present to the Russians our true way of life and our ability to think and speak openly on any subject. If either of these two Russians ever decides that their lives would be better in the U.S., we will be there to help them ‘come over.’ I also have to admit that their company is good and the food is outstanding. Sarkis’ shashlik is to die for. He gets excellent Turkish lamb, cuts it into cubes and marinates it for at least 24 hours in red wine, garlic, onions, olive oil, lemon and a whole host of herbs. Did you notice how he rejected the American charcoal I brought to one of our first picnics, claiming that the true taste had to come from a charred wood fire? The lamb shish kebap was heavenly, particularly so when eaten with a hunk of ekmek – Turkish bread. I almost feel like we’re not pulling our weight by not contributing more to the picnics.”

“The Turkish mezze you and Alice contribute is fantastic; you’re definitely pulling your weight,” Bert said assuringly. “I love your patlican salatası, or eggplant salad – the Turkish version of baba ghanoush. And that çerkez tavuk is so good! What’s in it anyway?”

I told Bert that çerkez tavuk can be translated as Circassian chicken and is made of boiled chicken, crushed walnuts, bread and spices mashed into a paste. Then I said, “I also noted that you like Alice’s stuffed grape leaves and her cacık, which you probably know better by its Greek name – tzatziki. You never seem to touch the cold, spicy white bean dish, though. It’s called barbunya fasulya.”

Bert laughed. “I didn’t think you’d notice,” he said. “The idea of eating cold beans just doesn’t appeal to me, but maybe I’ll try them next time. In any event, I think more work is needed to make the mezze than everything the Russians bring. And of course, I bring one of the most necessary items: cold beer.

“You know, John, I think there was a better case to be made for recruiting Russians during the old days of the Soviet Union because back then, there was such a disparity between life in the U.S. and life in the Soviet Union. The communist state was based on a massive lie, and almost all the citizens knew they were living a lie.”

“I somewhat agree with you, Bert,” I said. “However, it was extremely difficult to recruit KGB officers back then; they were the elite of Soviet society. They had the best educations; they were afforded luxuries that the commoner could only dream of, and they were able to travel and live abroad. So, while the KGB officials knew better than anyone in Soviet society that the system was corrupt, they basically turned a blind eye to it because of their privileged positions.

“Today, the contrast between life in the U.S. and Russia is certainly not as dramatic, but it is still severe. On the other hand, SVR officers do not hold the exalted status that their KGB predecessors once did. Certainly they are the elite in government circles, but the private sector in Russia has produced many oligarch millionaires. Many of these oligarchs achieved their positions by criminal or nefarious means. So, SVR officers often either envy the oligarchs or despise them.

“I have spent many hours thinking about how we might influence a Russian target to turn against his country and become a spy for the U.S. Becoming a traitor to one’s country is a monumental step for anyone, but it is particularly difficult for a Russian whose heritage is exalted from the time he is a toddler. I have asked myself, ‘What would influence me to betray my country?’ My answer every time is that it is impossible. Firstly, betraying my country would also be a betrayal of my wife, my children and my entire family. Secondly, I firmly believe in the rule of law, freedom of the press, free and democratic elections and free speech. While all those attributes can be found in some countries, they certainly aren’t abundant in Russia.

“When you really think about it,” I continued, “you have to conclude that nations or countries are similar to tribes. Most people give their allegiance to a country come hell or high water without really examining why. A frequent...