The Falcon and the Snowman (32 page)

They reviewed the meeting over breakfast, and Chris told Daulton that he had agreed to one more delivery.

33

“Disinformation.”

The idea was intriguing to Daulton. He had wondered what story he should tell if ever he and Chris were tripped up, and the idea seemed promising. It wasn't a new idea; he'd first thought about it months earlier. But as he lay stretched out with a book on a chaise longue beside the pool at the Oceana Palace Hotel in Mazatlán, where he had gone after the meeting in Mexico City with Chris and Boris, it began to seem more and more attractive. Perhaps it was the book he was reading,
The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence
, by Victor Marchetti and John D. Marks. Disinformation was
wrong
information leaked to an enemy that was camouflaged as the truth. “Disinformation is a special type of ‘black' propaganda which hinges on absolute secrecy and which is usually supported by false documents,” the authors had written.

Both the CIA and the KGB, he read, routinely used agents to feed false information to each other and to penetrate the other's intelligence service. It was a cat-and-mouse operation. Daulton read on and became further intrigued by the plan that was taking shape in his mind. It was common, the authors wrote, for the CIA to encourage Americans involved in espionage “to cooperate with the Soviets in order to learn more about what kind of information the KGB wants to collect, to discover more about KGB methods and equipment or merely to occupy the time and money of the KGB on a fruitless project. CIA counterespionage specialists do not necessarily wait for the KGB to make a recruitment effort, but instead may set up an elaborate trap, dangling one of their own as bait for the opposition.”

Daulton laid down the book and wondered. It would make an excellent defense if he ever needed one, he decided. Then a further thought flashed through his mind and it delighted him: maybe, he fantasized, his idea for a defense was even
true
.

From across the pool, two friends from Colorado who were also trying to convert the Mexico sun's rays into autumn tans had seen the American who was about their own age reading a paperback book that had something to do with spies. Bob Herbert and Larry Smith had decided in early October that they needed a vacation, and on October 20, 1976, they had checked into the high-rise Oceana Hotel on the beach at Mazatlán. They saw the American put down his book, get up from his chaise and walk along the edge of the pool toward the two Coloradans. He introduced himself as “Alex Lee” and said he was recuperating from minor injuries in a traffic accident. Smith hadn't known Daulton long before he decided that he had a distaste for him. “He's a cocky punk,” he later told his companion; Smith was unimpressed that first day by Daulton's ostentatious offer each time a bill arrived for cocktails or food to pick up the tab, and when Daulton began to boast of exploits in the drug trade, Smith wrote him off as a bore and a phony.

Herbert, though, was less put off by the stranger; Daulton struck up a friendship with him, and they spent many hours together during the next few days, at the pool and in the hotel bar, with Herbert alternately fascinated by and suspicious of the stories spun by the diminutive stranger who was constantly scanning the faces of people around him, declaring that he was worried about Federal drug-enforcement agents' putting him under surveillance.

On the first day they met, Daulton informed Herbert that he was a member of the “Mexican Mafia.” He described himself as a major-league drug dealer whose base of operation was Culiacán, up the road from Mazatlán. He hadn't meant to get involved in drugs, Lee continued. It had all started by accident because his sister had gotten in trouble with Mexican drug dealers and he'd had to go to work for them to get her out of a jam. Daulton said he was “a lot of dead babies”—a man of many identities, with several passports and credentials for several people. The way to do it, he explained, was to obtain birth certificates of deceased children and use them to procure false identification. That was how he managed to travel back and forth between Mexico and California without being arrested, he said.

After three or four days, Daulton began to tell his new friend of riches he had been mining besides drugs. He said he took photographs of ships in American harbors and sold them to a foreign government for $50,000. “You don't go to the country where you're going to sell the film,” he explained, “but to their embassy in another country.”

Herbert feigned belief, but Daulton decided that he really didn't believe him, so he added more details to convince him.

“Come to my room; I'll show you,” he said, as if challenged.

The first thing Herbert noticed about Daulton's room was a stack of spy novels on a dresser, along with so many containers of Valium and other pills that he wondered if he was a hypochondriac. He noticed several cameras on a table near the room's window wall that offered a spectacular view of the Pacific.

Daulton picked up one of the cameras and said he'd obtained it in a trade with one of his customers for cocaine. He showed Herbert a hiding place inside the leather case and pulled out long strips of film negatives.

“This is the kind of stuff I sell,” he said.

Herbert held it up to the light, and on the first frame he noticed two words in large print: T
OP
S
ECRET
.

Daulton said it was a photograph of a document he'd received from the Swiss Government and he was going to sell it to the highest bidder.

Actually, he added, this material wasn't all that good. “I've got better stuff to sell,” he said.

Acting like a tutor, Daulton explained how easy it was to get into the business. “You can go to a public library and take pictures of stuff in books and sell it to foreign embassies.”

When Herbert suggested it was a gold mine and asked why Daulton didn't do more of it, his new friend said he could make more money dealing in drugs with the Mexican Mafia.

“Aren't you taking a chance telling me about all this?” Herbert asked.

“All you know is that I have a real nice camera and took pictures of a shipyard,” Daulton said.

When the Coloradans' six-day vacation was up, Daulton said he'd foot the bill if they wanted to stay on a few more days. They declined, however, saying they had to get back to work.

Before they departed, they noticed that Daulton was visited twice by a young, well-dressed Mexican. On the day they left, Daulton rented a car and drove to Culiacán for another meeting with the same man. He placed an order for the heroin buy. Now he had to pay for it.

On October 27, 1976, Chris completed application for admission to the University of California at Riverside. He wrote that it was his intention to major in history and minor in political science.

In the essay that was required with the application, Chris outlined his aspirations:

After twenty-three years of existence, it is possible to divide my life into two distinct periods. First, my childhood and adolescence were dominated by a sense of searching. My attractions switched from monastic Catholicism to social protest to athletics. Most movements, fads and causes of that time held my complete if short-lived attention. I was continually groping in search of a purpose with which to direct my energy.

In 1974 I interrupted my education in San Luis Obispo in exchange for employment at TRW in Redondo Beach, California. It was here that I formulated the concepts which color my “second phase.” I am extremely fortunate in that my daily responsibilities include interaction with middle level management of the federal bureaucracy. These working relationships have allowed me the opportunity to narrow my focus concerning my social role. It is from this group of mainly young, ambitious achievers from which I derive my direction.

Their ultimate goal is to accumulate the maximum amount of personal power through advancement within the bureaucracy. These drives are motivated by self-achievement yet they serve to further the public interest. Herein lies my aspirations. The completion of my education is the next logical step in pursuit of these aims.

My free time is spent dabbling in falconry, fresh water fishing and historical study. Through these interests I am aware of America's continued deterioration in the areas of environmental preservation and global politics. I perceive major altercations in the world at large in my lifetime due to population increases and food and energy shortages.

As the United States faces these massive challenges in the years to come, it will take competent performance within the intelligence community and foreign service to safeguard the national integrity. For this purpose I seek admission to the University of California at Riverside.

It was the essay of someone declaring his intention to work for the United States as an intelligence specialist or in the foreign service. It was just as Boris had requested. Chris mailed the application and waited for a decision.

Five days after Chris put the application in the mail, Daulton caught a Mexicana Airlines flight from Mazatlán to Mexico City with plans to shake down the Russians again.

Following the routine that was now familiar, he checked in at the Holiday Inn, taped X marks on a row of lampposts in one of the designated streets and arrived at the Bali Restaurant at ten o'clock the following morning.

The Russians did not appear.

After smoking a joint, Daulton went to a souvenir shop and purchased a picture postcard showing the Pyramid of the Sun. He printed three letters on the card—“K.G.B.”—and then addressed it to “John.” He signed “Luis” at the bottom of the card and went to the embassy, where he threw it past the iron bars into the compound.

At 6
P.M.
on November 2, he was at the Bali, hoping Boris had gotten the message.

He was a no-show again.

Daulton decided to confront the situation head-on.

He flagged down a taxi and gave the driver directions to an intersection near the Russian embassy. En route, he sniffed a pinch of cocaine he had slipped into his right nostril, and again, the marvelous sense of self-confidence it gave him cascaded over Daulton.

As the cab moved slowly through dense early-evening traffic, Daulton looked out the window and saw small bands of adults and children in processions, some of them carrying candles that lit up the early-evening shadows with a soft flickering glow. He realized it was
El día de los muertos
—the Day of the Dead, one of Mexico's major holidays. It was a blend of Halloween, All Saints' Day, All Souls' Day, even a bit of Easter.
El día de los muertos
was rooted in Spanish and pre-Columbian traditions, a time to show reverence to the dead. In shops around the city, windows were filled with miniature human skulls made of white sugar and decorated with frosting and tinsel; bakeries had produced thousands of sweet breads called
pan de los muertos
(the bread of the dead), and pastries shaped like human bones; special altars had been prepared and were laden with photographs of deceased family members. Samples of their favorite foods had been left on the altars beside the pictures. And throughout the city, there were processions of families flocking to cemeteries bearing candles, incense and more servings of dead family members' favorite foods, which were to be left at their graves while the family sang traditional songs of the holiday.

Daulton paid the driver and made his way through several processions of celebrants before reaching the high fence of iron bars outside the embassy. Deciding that there was just one way to accomplish his goal, he positioned himself near the front gate and waited. When his chance came, he followed a car that entered the gate. He introduced himself to a guard and said in his poor Spanish that he wanted to see Boris Grishin.

Boris was furious.

The tight expression that Daulton had learned to be wary of twisted the muscles around the KGB officer's mouth, as he angrily denounced Daulton for violating orders not to enter the embassy unannounced and for throwing the card through the fence. He accused Daulton of being incoherent because of drugs. “You're stupid,” he said in Spanish.

In defense, Daulton whipped out several strips of microfilm ciphers given him months earlier by Chris, and demanded $10,000. Boris ridiculed the demand. The material was worthless, he said, and scolded Daulton for again failing to bring information he had promised. Daulton stood his ground; he said again he was tired of risking his life for the Russians and getting nothing for the risk and began to wave his finger at Boris and raise his voice. On this occasion, however, Boris was sober and not in a mood to debate his undisciplined spy: without any warning, he grabbed him by the back of his jacket and pulled the garment over his head, and with the help of two embassy chauffeurs, he marched Daulton to a limousine with the jacket draped over his face like a blanket. Daulton was pushed into the back seat and ordered to lie on the floor so he couldn't be seen. Within seconds, the car roared out the embassy gate with the KGB man Igor Dagtyr at the wheel, Karpov in the back seat and Daulton crouched on the floor. From the sounds of the streets, Daulton knew they were moving away from the center of Mexico City, but he couldn't tell in which direction they were headed. Sitting above him, Karpov told Daulton not to speak.

He had been lying on the floor of the back seat of the limousine for perhaps fifteen minutes when, suddenly, it began to slow. Daulton's confidence was still buoyed by the drugs. But he retained enough of his inherent sense of cunning to be panicked by the tug of inertia he felt as the car began to slow. In his last words to Boris before he was escorted out of the embassy, Daulton had promised to return soon with some of the data the Russians had wanted all these months. But now he was disoriented; he wasn't sure whether he had his former power over the Russians. As the car slowed, he wondered: Had his promise been enough to plant seeds of hope in Boris? Or had they at last called his hand and decided to eliminate him? The car continued to slow; Daulton heard the familiar squeak of the limousine's brakes and braced for it to stop. But then he began to realize Dagtyr didn't plan to stop. He heard the two men conversing in Russian. Something in their voices suggested they weren't going to stop. Then Karpov opened the backseat door next to him and suddenly pushed Daulton out.