[As I promised in my closing note to “Berlin Memoir, Part 2” (see 31 December 2016), this installment will detail the most significant investigation in which I was engaged during the 2½ years I was stationed in Berlin. It’s probably no surprise to ROTters who’ve been following this reminiscence that the case involved exfiltration, that peculiar phenomenon in which I’d become the Station expert. (For an explanation of what exfiltration is and how I got involved in its investigation, I recommend going back and reading parts 1 and 2 of this memoir before embarking on the latest chapter. That’s also where readers’ll find definitions of the intel terms and army jargon I bandy about. “Berlin Memoir, Part 1” was posted on 16 December 2016.)]
As I said, most exfiltration cases were minor incidents,
especially from the counterintel perspective.
The case involving the Deputy Provost Matchall of Berlin Brigade was an
exception. One other time, however, I
hooked a really big one. The events of
this episode, which only took a few hours, were actually set in motion months
earlier. Some time in mid-1971, an ex-GI
named “Red” Kappel (I think his actual given name was Martin, but everyone
called him Red anyway), now working in Berlin at the PX warehouse, got caught
on the Autobahn between Berlin and West Germany driving a car with five
would-be refugees concealed in it. To
complicate matters, he was driving his boss’s Caddy, a favorite of the
exfiltrators because of its big trunk, implicating this high-ranking Civil
Servant—he was a GS-12 or something, the equivalent of a lieutenant colonel—in
the tangle. The East German Vopos turned
Kappel over to the Soviets and after they took Kappel to Potsdam for a few
days, the Soviets returned him to East German custody and he ended up in jail
in East Berlin.
Military Intelligence interest began in this case because
when Kappel had been a GI he had had a security clearance, and when he first
came to Berlin after he got out of the army, he delivered pizza for a local
restaurant and one of his regular delivery stops was Field Station Berlin, the
super-secret, mountain-top ASA SIGINT and ELINT facility—our version of what I
described at Helmstedt earlier—and no one knew what he might be able to tell
someone about that place. FSB, located
on the highest point in Berlin, Teufelsberg, a little mountain in Wilmersdorf
created from the rubble of the city’s wartime destruction (which you see being
shoveled into wheelbarrows in The Big Lift), bristled with antennas,
domes, spheres, and silos—it looked like a set from the space opera Star
Trek—and was a major target of Soviet espionage both because of its extreme
sensitivity and because it was aimed at them.
We eventually determined that Kappel didn’t really have any
info that the Soviets wouldn’t already possess, though at the beginning we
didn’t know that. Security questions set
aside, the case became part of the muddle of diplomatic-military-political issues
that made up the Cold War. An American
had committed a crime on Soviet-controlled soil, and the Soviets were going to
make as big a deal out of it as they could.
My job was to find out who else was involved and how far the
participation of any official Americans, GI and civilian, went. The people running exfiltrations were the
same ones who controlled the worst of Berlin’s crime; as I’ll describe later,
they were about as nasty as anyone could be and the generals didn’t want any of
their people in bed with them. And
smuggling people across the East-West border by someone associated with the
U.S. Forces was clearly a provocation to the Soviets at a time when that was a
dangerous button to push.
We already knew about the warehouse manager, but as the
investigation developed and other U.S. Forces personnel were identified, I also
ended up coordinating with the OSI, the Air Force’s Office of Special
Investigations, which combines the responsibilities of both MI and CID. I even did a good cop-bad cop interrogation
of one AF NCO who turned out to be the lynchpin for exposing the whole team
involved in the Kappel operation—he copped out under pressure and named
names. (I was the bad cop. As we’ll see, I’m very good as playing a
hard-ass. There was also one exercise at Holabird that sort of stunned
everyone. But that’s another story.)
To find out if anyone else was involved we monitored the mail at
Kappel’s home and had his phone tapped.
(The rules for this were a lot easier in Germany than in the U.S., and
within the military community—and in occupied Berlin, that included civilian
employees like Kappel anyway—it was at the discretion of the USCOB. In Berlin, the three Western generals had
supreme authority, though the USCOB seldom exercised it over Germans or
Americans with no official connection.)
Now, Kappel, like many GI’s, had married a German
woman. Beside the fact that she wasn’t a
U.S. citizen, a circumstance always considered a potential security risk,
nearly every West German had family in East Germany. Family in the East was a pressure point the
East Germans and Soviets were never reluctant to exploit. Helene Kappel was very vulnerable now, with
no income and her connection to the American community and its safety net
severed; there was no telling what she might do. In addition, before her marriage to Red,
Helene had been a prostitute. I can tell
you, I learned some interesting German from her mail and the phone tap because
when she ran out of money, she went back to her old profession. She also made contact with the people who had
hired her husband to drive the refugees to West Germany (actually they
contacted her) and she began to recruit more drivers and car-owners for the
organization.
While all this was going on, though, Kappel was just sitting
in an East Berlin jail. I was on 24-hour
call and couldn’t leave my BOQ without telling the Duty Agent where to reach me
and calling in every hour or so. (The
Duty Agent, or DA—usually an EM, though for a period when we were understaffed
junior officers pulled this duty, too—stayed in the Station all night to answer
the phones and respond to an alert by calling the section SAIC’s—Special Agents
in Charge.) My parents came to Berlin for a visit during this time, and
they were very impressed at how important I seemed to be because while we were
out wandering around the city, I kept ducking into Stuben and bars to
use the phone. Of course, I couldn’t
tell them exactly what was going on, but they were very impressed
nevertheless.
All this time, of course, I was writing reports on
everything we were learning about the exfiltrators and their operations, as
well as the contacts Helene was making and everything else related even
remotely to the investigation. I
attended high-level briefings with colonels and generals and ministers—sometimes
in that secure room—where I was generally the only junior officer present. I’d have been impressed myself, if I hadn’t
been so afraid of making a mistake. (I
can tell you, I was replaying that previous run-in with the DCSI over the
incident concerning the DPM. The DCSI
didn’t like me, and we both knew it.) I
learned at these briefings that my reports were going to the State Department
and being read by Henry Kissinger, Secretary of State at the time. I even had intimations that some of my stuff
was going to the White House. This was a really big deal, and I was the
point man. (Somewhere, in some State
Department or DOD archive is a big file with all my reports on this case, plus
whatever other people were sending. That staff study’s probably moldering
somewhere, too.)
Obviously, at one point there ceased to be much more we
could do. Kappel had been caught
red-handed (pardon the expression), so there was no denying his guilt. Except for trying to roll up the exfiltration
operations, which we eventually pretty much did, there wasn’t anything left to
investigate. Getting Kappel released
became a diplomatic function, so the case went cold except for monitoring
sources for word of his whereabouts and potential release. Everything pretty much went back to normal
(which at Berlin Station was frequently hectic and crazy anyway, as you may
have learned). I went back to my regular
duties and was no longer on 24-hour call except when I was my section’s duty
officer in the regular rotation. And
that’s when it happened.
I was on call for the Counterespionage Section one evening,
and I was just hanging out at my BOQ.
(One agent from each section was on call every night and on the
weekends. We had to be available and contactable at all times. Remember, there were no cell phones, or even
beepers, in those days.) Sometime around 7 in the evening, the DA phoned
me at home to come in and take a call. A
guy thought that a recent photo of a wanted Baader-Meinhof member in the
newspaper looked like his wife’s brother-in-law (or something). I talked the guy down, thanked him, and got
rid of him. But as I was preparing to go
back home, the phone rang again and the duty agent passed it on to me. The man on the other end said he was Red
Kappel, that he had been released in West Berlin, and he wanted to meet
someone.
Well, this didn’t sound kosher. Our latest information was that Kappel was
still in the East Berlin lock-up, and while it was possible that the East
Germans might release him suddenly and without notice, it was highly
unlikely. They were all making too much
hay out of holding him. (Kappel’s
eventual release was almost certainly a direct result of Nixon’s trip to Moscow
in May 1972. If they were working at
that level, letting him go unannounced, with no bargaining or propaganda, would
be pretty silly on their part. The
Soviets could be petty, but they were seldom silly.) And even if he had been released that way,
why would he call Military Intelligence?
Not his wife, not his boss, not the guys who hired him (and probably
hadn’t paid him yet), not some friends.
Still, I couldn’t just ignore the call.
I arranged to meet “Kappel” at the PX snack bar across Clayallee. It was about 8 p.m. now, and the place closed
at 9, so it would be neutral, safe, but somewhat private. We made a date for a short time later.
Now, because this case fell between all the floorboards of
military investigations—it wasn’t a security matter, it wasn’t a military
crime, and since none of the people involved were GI’s, it wasn’t even a breach
of military regs—we shared the case with the military detectives, the CID
(Criminal Investigation Division of the MP’s).
I had a CID counterpart, a German-born, naturalized-American warrant
officer who didn’t want to be on this case any more than I did. Karl-Heinz Wiedermeyer also shared with his
CID and MP colleagues a tendency to overreact whenever something got a little
spooky. One whiff of spy stuff, and
military cops sometimes went off half-cocked.
Not that I was so cool, with my vast experience in
counterespionage. (I once got into some
trouble with my CO because I lost my cool when I got stuck with an
malfunctioning radio when I was doing security for General Westmoreland at an
Armed Forces Day parade. I started
cursing over what I thought was a dead radio, but it was only broken at my
end. They could hear me perfectly well
back at base, and cursing on the air is a major RTO—Radio-Telephone
Operator—no-no. So much for cool under
pressure.) I was, however, at least
trained for this stuff. Karl-Heinz
wasn’t. He was a cop, not a spook. Anyway, I called Karl-Heinz and, because his
office was at Andrews Barracks in Lichtenfelde and the ’X and I were in
Zehlendorf, we decided that I’d go meet “Kappel” and he’d join us later. So I went on across the street to the PX
complex, and went into the snack bar.
The PX snack bar is a cafeteria. This one was nearly all glass, with windows
all around the two exterior walls, and the entrance in a completely glass
wall. (The fourth side was the food
counter and the kitchen.) At 8 o’clock
in the evening, an hour before closing, there was virtually no one there except
the workers closing up. As I entered, I
saw one lone guy sitting at the opposite end of the room. He was at a table, with his broad-brimmed hat
pulled down sort of ’40s style, and he was buried in the brigade Daily
Bulletin. Every military post puts
this out, with all the announcements, official and unofficial, and it’s a
couple of pages long, printed—mimeographed in those days—on legal-sized
paper. A guy in a slouch hat, poring
over the DB looks pretty silly, believe me. The only other people in the snack bar were
the cooks and servers cleaning up behind the counter and one teenager turning
the chairs up onto the tables in the main part of the room. Obviously, the guy with the DB was my
guy—but he wasn’t Red Kappel. I’d seen
enough pictures of him over the months of investigation to know what he looked
like, and this guy was ten years too old, ten pounds too heavy, and a good six
inches too sort. And even with the hat,
I could see that his hair was not red (Kappel didn’t get his nickname for
nothing). I had to talk to the guy in
any case. Even with all the deception,
he might actually know something we should know. I doubted that, but I had to make a report
anyway, so I had to find out what he wanted.
I crossed the room and went up to the guy’s table. I stood across from him, but he didn’t look
up from the DB. Christ, I
thought, the guy’s gonna play Sam Spade or something.
“Are you looking to talk to someone?” I said.
“You CIA?”
“No.”
“You got ID?” He
still hadn’t looked up.
“No. Do you want to
talk, or not?”
“OK.” I sat across
from him.
“You got any ID?” I asked. He handed me his DOD ID card (though I’ve
forgotten now what his name really was).
“I hear the Reds got one of our guys,” he said a little
heatedly.
Oh, God. He’s a
John Bircher or something. Where’s this
gonna go? “Where’d you hear that?”
“Around. I work in
the EES beverage shop. The words
out.”
“OK. Why’d you want
to see us?”
“I got a brother-in-law—well, my wife’s brother-in-law—in
the East. He’s a party member, but he
don’t like it there. I can go over and
get him to find out where they’re holding Red.”
“Ah, no, that wouldn’t be a good idea. We really know where Red is, anyway. But thanks for offering.” Somewhere about here, I saw Karl-Heinz look
in through the glass doors across the room.
It was near closing now, and all the activity in the snack bar had
pretty much ceased. There was only our
James Bond wannabe and me in the room, and that teen mopping the floor. But Karl-Heinz looked around, didn’t come in,
and left. What the hell, I
figured, this isn’t important and I’ll just fill him in later, after I talk
this guy down and send him home. I
was a little afraid, considering how ditzy the guy was, that he might be armed
and if I signaled Karl-Heinz across the room, “Kappel” might lose it or
something. It wasn’t worth the chance
under the circumstances. I let
Karl-Heinz go without making a move or saying anything.
“Well, what if I go over and get my wife’s brother-in-law to
help me break Red out? We could go over
and get him before anybody knew. My
wife’s brother-in-law”—he never used the man’s name, it was always “my wife’s
brother-in-law”—”has access. He knows
stuff, and he can find out things.”
“Fine. But don’t do
anything until we get back to you. I
have to report to my superiors, you know, and they’ll let you know. Promise me you’ll wait until you hear from
me.”
“Sure. But I want to
help. We can’t just let them get one of
our guys like that.”
Jesus, this guy’s gonna do something dumb, I know
it. He’s seen too many spy flicks. “Of course not. We’re doing things right now, don’t you worry. Believe me, we’re not just sitting on our
hands here. Just don’t do anything
without hearing from us. You might get
in the way of another operation, you know.
Don’t even talk to your wife’s brother-in-law yet. Just wait.”
“Sure. I understand. But you’ll get back to me. I’m ready to do something. I know I can trust my wife’s brother-in-law.”
I stood up then, and pointed out that the snack bar was
closing up. I walked him out and across
Clayallee. We stopped in front of the
entrance gate to the compound. “Now,
remember, you promised not to do anything until you hear from us. Right?
Don’t even go to the East until then.”
“Right. I
gotcha. I’ll wait to hear from
you.” We shook hands and he walked away
toward Saargemünderstrasse, around the corner of which was the small compound
where the EES beverage store was, and where I imagined his car was parked. I watched him go until he turned the corner,
then went into the headquarters compound and into the Station. When I entered the Station, there were three
people in the DA’s little office and the phones—there were ten or a dozen
lines—were all ringing. The DA was
there, Karl-Heinz, and another agent from the Station who, it turned out, just
happened along and got shanghaied.
“Karl-Heinz, where the hell did you go? Why didn’t you come into the snack-bar? I saw you look in, but you left right away.”
“I, uhh . . . . What
the hell are you doing here?”
“I work here! What
are you doing here? What’s going
on?”
“Where were you?” asked the DA.
“Right where I said I was going to be. What’s this all about?”
“Wait a minute, let me call off the dogs,” said
Karl-Heinz. Most of this dialogue is
recreated from my memory—though it’s very close to what we all said. But this particular line was precisely what
Karl-Heinz said. That phrase is etched
in my brain.
After a second’s hesitation, the three started dialing and
talking again, very nervously.
“What do you mean, ‘Call off the dogs’?”
“I didn’t see you in the snack-bar. I thought you got grabbed. We’ve called your CO, my CO”—that’s the
PM—“the USCOB, the Brigade Commander, and the DCSI. We’ve put out APB’s on you, Kappel, your car,
and the Caddy Kappel was driving.
They’re shutting the whole city down.”
“Jesus, Karl-Heinz, did you overreact! I was right where I said I’d be. The only thing was, when I got there, I found
out it wasn’t Kappel at all, of course.
It was just some nut from the EES.
He heard through the grapevine that Kappel got picked up in East
Germany, and he wanted to go over and bust him out. He was a little hinky, so when I saw you peek
in, I didn’t want to signal. Since it
wasn’t Kappel or anyone important to the case, I figured I’d tell you later.”
“Well, I wasn’t looking for you, actually; I was looking for
Kappel. When I didn’t see him, I just
naturally assumed . . . .”
At this moment, Colonel Collins arrived. He was already on his way when the DA called
to head him off. Besides, with the DCSI
and two generals informed that I’d been kidnapped, he figured he’d better be in
the Station to settle the flap.
Unfortunately for me, the DCSI was also on his way in. The generals, at least, had been caught in
time.
Colonel Collins picked up a phone and made several
calls. I was still watching this whole
scene in amusement and disbelief. After
all, I hadn’t done anything. Was it my
fault that Karl-Heinz had jumped to conclusions and overreacted?
“Well, the shit’s gonna hit,” said my CO. “The DCSI wants to see us in his office at
USCOB. The PM’s closed the checkpoints
and stopped the military train. The
military part of Tempelhof’s been closed, too.
They got the French and the Brits to lock down their sectors also, and
the PM’s been on to the German agencies to shut down the civilian crossing
points and exits as well. It took about
half an hour to shut the city down.
It’ll take hours to open it all up again. The DCSI’s gonna be pissed.”
“But why at me, sir?
I was right where I said I’d be, doing just what I was supposed to
do.” I knew the DCSI was just looking
for a reason to chew my tail again.
Would Colonel Collins back me again, as he had done before?
Well, the DCSI did light into me. At least he started to. And Colonel Collins pointed out right away
that the flap had not been caused by anything I had done. The DCSI backed off, but he was clearly not
happy about that.
As we left the DCSI’s office, Colonel Collins told me, “When
I heard that you were kidnapped, my first fear was that you had your creds with
you. Then I wondered if you had a
weapon.” I looked at him a moment. He was really more worried about my boxtops
and my .38 than about my safety. How
comforting.
As far as I know, the city untangled itself and was back to
normal by morning. I doubt anyone
outside the Station, the PMO, and USCOB really knew what had happened. Probably some travelers were
inconvenienced—mostly military ones, since the civilian stuff probably never
got closed before the all-clear came down—but they probably never learned why. Anyway, I’m the only person I know who had a
city shut down for him. Kinda makes me
proud to be an American. This case had gone on for months—over a year I
think. Then, suddenly, the case was
over. Kappel was released. The scuttlebutt was that his release had
been negotiated during Nixon’s trip to Moscow a few weeks earlier. (I was
never able to confirm that, of course, but that’s what everyone assumed.)
The most this case did was ID some more exfiltration
personalities, and drive up the fees they paid for cars and drivers.
Because of the more detailed info my study provided, the Allied forces were
able to clamp down pretty tightly on the operations and essentially deny the
leaders access to Allied personnel as drivers—they could get through checkpoints
with less scrutiny than Germans or other nationals—and cars with Allied plates,
especially big American cars in which whole families could hide. The more
difficult it got to get these assets, the higher the payment they
offered. The PX warehouse manager had gotten $500 for the use of
his Caddy (which he ended up losing, along with his job with the EES; we
figured some Soviet general was tooling around Moscow in the Caddy); as a
result of our operation, we pulled the lid so tight the exfiltration organizers
were offering several thousand for cars, drivers were getting $10,000 and more,
and Helene herself was promised a Mercedes for just recruiting people.
For the rest of the time I was in Berlin, GI’s were out of the exfiltration
biz—it was too risky, even for that kind of money. (As the costs went up,
so, of course, did the price paid by the refugees. It was a cash deal,
and I imagine fewer and fewer would-be escapees could afford it anymore.)
[So, how many people do you know who’ve had a city closed on their account? Not many, I’ll wager. (My Dad was actually thrown out of a city by
the mayor . . . but that’s a different story.)
If this episode whets your appetite for more reminiscences about Cold
War Berlin, please come back in a couple of weeks for part 4 of “Berlin Memoir.” Since I’m posting the installments somewhat
haphazardly, I can’t say exactly when the next chapter—which covers some of the
other intel activities in which I was involved (just the highlights, of course!)—will
appear, but they’ve been coming about once every two to three weeks.]
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