Luke LaManna
Appearances
48 Hours
A Tragic Journey
Behind the closed doors of government offices and military compounds, there are hidden stories and buried secrets from the darkest corners of history. From covert experiments pushing the boundaries of science, to operations so secretive they were barely whispered about.
48 Hours
A Tragic Journey
Each week on Redacted Declassified Mysteries, we pull back the curtain on these hidden histories, 100% true and verifiable stories that expose the shadowy underbelly of power. Consider Operation Paperclip, where former Nazi scientists were brought to America after World War II, not as prisoners, but as assets to advance U.S. intelligence during the Cold War.
48 Hours
A Tragic Journey
These aren't just old conspiracy theories. They're thoroughly investigated accounts that reveal the uncomfortable truths still shaping our world today. The stories are real. The secrets are shocking. Follow redacted, declassified mysteries with me, Luke LaManna, on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. To listen ad-free, join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app.
48 Hours
The "Batman" Intruder
Behind the closed doors of government offices and military compounds, there are hidden stories and buried secrets from the darkest corners of history. From covert experiments pushing the boundaries of science to operations so secretive they were barely whispered about.
48 Hours
The "Batman" Intruder
Each week on Redacted Declassified Mysteries, we pull back the curtain on these hidden histories, 100% true and verifiable stories that expose the shadowy underbelly of power. Consider Operation Paperclip, where former Nazi scientists were brought to America after World War II, not as prisoners, but as assets to advance U.S. intelligence during the Cold War.
48 Hours
The "Batman" Intruder
These aren't just old conspiracy theories. They're thoroughly investigated accounts that reveal the uncomfortable truths still shaping our world today. The stories are real. The secrets are shocking. Follow redacted, declassified mysteries with me, Luke LaManna, on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. To listen ad-free, join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
You Can't Leave That Way (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions, from covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts. Follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
You Can't Run From This (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions. From covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts, follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
The Creature
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions. From covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts, follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Something is in the Woods
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions, from covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts. Follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Stranger Than Fiction Vol. VIII
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions. From covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts, follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Under the Bricks
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions, from covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts. Follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Goodbye Uncle Jack (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Imagine this, you help your little brother land a great job abroad, but when he arrives, the job doesn't exist. Instead, he's trapped in a heavily guarded compound, forced to sit at a computer and scam innocent victims. all while armed guards stand by with shoot-to-kill orders.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Goodbye Uncle Jack (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Scam Factory, the explosive new true crime podcast from Wondery, exposes a multi-billion dollar criminal empire operating in plain sight. Told through one family's harrowing account of sleepless nights, desperate phone calls, and dangerous rescue attempts, Scam Factory reveals a brutal truth. The only way out is to scam their way out.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Goodbye Uncle Jack (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Follow Scam Factory on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of Scam Factory early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery+.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Goodbye Uncle Jack (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions, from covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts. Follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
Helium Road (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions, from covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts. Follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
MrBallen Podcast: Strange, Dark & Mysterious Stories
The Mutant (PODCAST EXCLUSIVE EPISODE)
Redacted Declassified Mysteries is a new podcast hosted by me, Luke LaManna. Each week, I dive into the hidden truths behind the world's most powerful institutions. From covert government experiments to bizarre assassination attempts, follow Redacted on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.
REDACTED: Declassified Mysteries with Luke Lamana
Ballen Studios Presents: Late Nights with Nexpo
Hey, it's me, Luke LaManna. Thank you so much for listening to Redacted. Today I've got something different, but very special for you that I know you'll love. My good friends at Ballant Studios have another incredible brand new podcast for you to listen to, and it's hosted by none other than Nexpo, a creator on YouTube with millions of subscribers.
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Ballen Studios Presents: Late Nights with Nexpo
Nexpo is truly an incredible storyteller, and now he's launching his own podcast with all exclusive stories you can only find on his new show. It's called Late Nights with Nexpo, and each week Nexpo will bring you a terrifying story that will absolutely shake you.
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Ballen Studios Presents: Late Nights with Nexpo
If you enjoyed that episode of Late Nights with Nexpo, head over to the show and tap the follow button so you don't miss any of Nexpo's chilling stories. New episodes come out every Wednesday.
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Ballen Studios Presents: Late Nights with Nexpo
From the most bizarre unsolved mysteries, to chilling true crime, to going down the creepiest rabbit holes, Nexpo will explore the true stories that keep him up at night. And if they're keeping him up, I'm pretty sure you'll want to listen with the lights on. or off, depending on how much you like to scare yourself. I'm about to play you an episode of Late Nights with Nexpo.
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Ballen Studios Presents: Late Nights with Nexpo
It's called Madness on the Mountain. In it, Nexpo dives into a terrifying mystery of death and survival, which still stumps people today. In 1993, seven hikers set out into the Camar de Bon mountains, but only one returned alive. The reason for their sudden violent deaths has never been explained. What happened on that mountain?
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Ballen Studios Presents: Late Nights with Nexpo
After you finish listening, please go follow Late Nights with Nexpo wherever you get your podcasts. New episodes of Late Nights with Nexpo come out every Wednesday. Enjoy.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. On the morning of August 1, 1985, Vitaly Yurchenko walked out of the Soviet embassy and into the bustling streets of Rome. The blond-haired Russian told his embassy co-workers that he wanted to visit the Vatican Museum. But that was a lie.
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Ames Mole Hunt
These meetings were fully sanctioned by the CIA because Rick told his bosses he was developing Sergey as a CIA asset, just like he'd done with Igor Shurigan in Mexico. But the truth was, each time Rick met with Shuvakin, he was giving him intel on the CIA's anti-KGB operations. And in return, Shuvakin was rewarding Rick with tens of thousands of dollars in cash.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Once he got there, everything happened fast. He was questioned by CIA officers, who immediately wanted to know why he was defecting. Some Soviets switched sides for political reasons. Others were sick of life in Russia and wanted to start over again in America. Most did it for money, since the CIA paid well for KGB intel. Yurchenko didn't fall into any of those categories.
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Ames Mole Hunt
At first, Rick's info drops were small and selective. Then, he gave them a full list of all KGB personnel who were secretly working with the U.S. government. The KGB thanked Rick over time by lining his pockets with millions of dollars. Sure, he was selling people out. He was endangering lives. But what he was getting back in return was worth it. He was buying himself and Rosario a new future.
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Ames Mole Hunt
They would never have to worry about money again. All they would have to worry about was how to spend it.
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Ames Mole Hunt
On the morning of August 1st, 1985, Rick walked down the halls of CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, with a bounce in his step. He was feeling great. He was marrying Rosario in a few days, and little by little, he was filling his bank account up with KGB money. Rick headed for his office, greeting everyone he passed. When he got in, he heard his boss call out for him.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Rick went into his office and saw he was looking cheerful too. His boss handed Rick a piece of paper, new intel from Palazzo Margherita in Rome. When Rick read it, his heart sank. A KGB agent named Vitaly Yurchenko had just defected, and now he was on his way to the US to reveal the identity of a mole inside the CIA. Rick felt a surge of panic.
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Ames Mole Hunt
He was about to be found out, and he had no idea what to do. His boss pulled the page from Rick's trembling hands and asked if he was alright. Rick plastered on a smile and said, of course, this was great news. His boss laughed and said he had even better news. When Yurchenko landed in D.C. the next day, Rick was going to debrief him.
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Ames Mole Hunt
He was defecting for love. He was on the outs with his wife and son and desperate to rekindle a flame with an old mistress who lived in Canada. Moving to America would let him break from his family and start a new chapter with his old girlfriend. Yurchenko was pretty sure the CIA would help him. After all, he was the highest-ranking KGB agent to ever defect.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Rick went home that night and got plastered, but it didn't make his anxiety go away. The next day, he showed up at the airport like a man heading towards his own execution and with an awful hangover. As he exchanged terse nods with the CIA and FBI agents assembled for Yurchenko's arrival, he felt doomed. For all he knew, Yurchenko would call him out as soon as he hit the tarmac.
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Ames Mole Hunt
But when he met Yurchenko, the man shook his hand and made no sign that anything was wrong. Rick tried to relax, but his guard was still up. Maybe the man was just biding his time. He got even more nervous when he was forced to share a limo with Yurchenko later that day. He couldn't help but notice the Russian's piercing blue eyes were constantly on him.
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Ames Mole Hunt
He couldn't tell if Yurchenko was just curious or if he recognized him as the mole. At a safe house in Virginia, Rick took point on debriefing Yurchenko. He handed him a glass of water and asked him to describe the CIA mole. Yurchenko took a long sip. Rick felt the man's eyes boring into him. He wondered if he should just turn around and fess up before Yurchenko beat him to it.
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Ames Mole Hunt
But then the defector spoke, and for the first time in 24 hours, Rick could breathe. The KGB mole Yurchenko described wasn't Rick. It was Edward Lee Howard. another agent who the CIA was already investigating. Rick was safe. But this debrief was going to go on for weeks. He was going to be in constant contact with Yurchenko. He could still sniff Rick out. After all, that was the man's specialty.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Yet, as Rick questioned Yurchenko over the next month, his traitor status remained a secret. If Yurchenko knew he was facing off with a mole, he didn't say anything. which just filled Rick's head with more paranoid questions. Was Yurchenko truly in the dark? Or was he a double agent sent to protect Rick by directing attention to another mole?
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Ames Mole Hunt
Either way, Rick typed up reports for the CIA and passed copies to the KGB. Every time he did, he put Yurchenko's life at risk. But Rick was in too deep, and the KGB's money kept filling his bank account. It was too late to turn back now. On May 2nd, 1986, Rick walked down an empty hall at Langley. He was headed for an unmarked black door, and he wished he could stop time. But he couldn't.
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Rick was about to face the black box. That's what CIA grunts called a polygraph test, which agents had to take every five years, or at least they were supposed to. The agency was backlogged, and Rick hadn't had a test in 10 years. Back then, he wouldn't have cared, but now he was terrified. A dark cloud hung above the CIA, and Rick was the secret at its center.
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Ames Mole Hunt
In his year of selling secrets to the KGB, Rick had snitched on many Russian agents in league with the CIA. He expected the KGB to investigate them slowly, punish them discreetly. Instead, he was horrified when he learned that 20 CIA assets had disappeared, virtually overnight.
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He got the sense that the CIA knew something had gone horribly wrong, but he wasn't sure what data they had, or if they suspected him. Rick was dying to get out of DC and away from all the agents at CIA headquarters who knew him too well and might start to suspect him. He had just landed a cushy gig as the CIA Soviet branch chief in Rome.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Once Yurchenko got comfortable, the officers asked what they always ask defectors. Did he know any of the Americans leaking secrets to the KGB? Yurchenko said he did. There were two of them. One worked at the National Security Agency, and the other was a CIA agent and a mole. The officers were well-trained to betray no emotion, but Yurchenko couldn't help but see the impact of his words.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Though the job would take him away from a lot of valuable DC intel, it had other benefits, not the least of which was keeping his romance with Rosario alive by whisking her off to a glamorous life abroad. But Rick couldn't go to Rome if he didn't pass the polygraph test, and he had no idea what kind of questions were waiting for him. He got to the door and knocked.
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Ames Mole Hunt
A female technician opened it, then guided him into a dark room. It felt like a tomb. She told him to sit and hooked him up to the polygraph. Rick took a deep breath and told himself, keep calm. He knew that polygraphs weren't 100% reliable. They were too reactive to a subject's emotions. A nervous truth teller might fail while a relaxed liar might pass.
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When the operator asked if Rick had unauthorized contact with foreign spies, he said no. When she asked if he disclosed CIA secrets, he said no to that too. He felt like he was in control, until she asked, had Rick ever been pitched by a foreign agency? As in, had someone tried to turn him into a mole? That's when Rick faltered. He couldn't think of what to say.
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The technician looked sharply up at him. Rick had to think fast. So he laughed. Then he apologized. No, he'd never been pitched. But yes, he was worried he might be pitched in Rome. This new job was a big deal, and he was nervous that something would go wrong. That's why he stumbled. The technician paused, then she nodded and moved on.
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She asked the rest of her questions and Rick answered each one calmly. Once she was done, Rick got the results. He'd passed the test. With that, he stepped out of the black box and back into the light. Rick took a walk outside to bask in the spring sunlight and marvel at the cherry blossoms. He was nervous about leaving DC for Rome, but there were definite upsides.
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The KGB was committed to their relationship. And since the CIA and FBI weren't constantly surveilling the streets of Rome the way they were in DC, it would be easier for Rick to meet his contacts. More meetings meant more money. More money meant a better life. Once he got to Europe, Rick intended to live large.
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A few months later, 34-year-old Rosario Ames snuggled under a cashmere blanket by a crackling fire. She was at a luxury ski chalet in Gestadt, Switzerland, having the time of her life. She felt a hand on her neck, and she turned. It was Rick, his face red from a day on the slopes. He held out a hot chocolate, spiked with Grand Marnier liquor.
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The last few months had been like something out of a dream. Since coming to Rome, Rick had treated her to fine dining, designed her clothes, and had even started talking about buying a Jaguar. Rosario liked her new life. It was so much more exciting than the dreary grind of DC. But on the other hand, something felt off. Back in DC, Rick had been so worried about money.
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Ames Mole Hunt
He'd complained constantly about his debt and how expensive the city was getting. but now he was opening Swiss bank accounts and spending like a king. She had even overheard Rick telling friends that their new money was coming from her family in Colombia, which she knew was a lie.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Her family was well connected, they even had ties to the president, but they weren't rich, and they certainly weren't sending Rick and Rosario cash. So why was Rick pretending that they were? Rosario took a deep breath. Then she grabbed Rick's hand.
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She told him she didn't need to know what he did at the CIA or why he was always on calls with men with Russian accents, but she did need to know where was all this cash coming from. Rick told her it came from Robert, his college friend from back in Chicago. Rosario nodded. She'd heard of Robert. Last year, Rick was in financial despair until he came home with 50 grand in cash.
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He told her it was a loan from his old pal Rob. Rosario asked Rick, had Robert lent him more money? Wouldn't they have to pay him back? Was this lifestyle going to plunge them into debt? Rick said, no, this wasn't a loan. This was income. Robert's rich friends wanted to make some investments in the European market. Rick was managing their funds and earning a commission.
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Ames Mole Hunt
One officer blinked several times in a row. The other agent's mouth twitched. The two men thanked Yurchenko and calmly walked out of the room. But Yurchenko imagined that the minute they were out of hearing range, they would start racing down the halls to put in an urgent call to Washington. Because they had just unearthed a terrifying secret. That a KGB mole was operating right under their noses.
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Rosario wondered if Rick was lying. He had done it before, hiding his CIA work from her when they first met in Mexico. But then again, Rosario had kept secrets too. While she was a cultural attache at the Colombian embassy, she had also been working as a CIA asset. She lent her apartment to the agency for covert meetings, in exchange for rent money.
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Once they discovered their CIA connection, Rosario and Rick became even closer. Now Rosario worried that Rick's secrets would tear them apart. But Rick caressed her cheek and promised there was no funny business. Just Robert's business, which was going to make them rich. Rosario kissed Rick and finished her hot chocolate. She might as well enjoy the luxury while it lasted.
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On a rainy November morning in 1989, 56-year-old Jean Vertuffet stepped into the CIA lobby in Washington, D.C. She flashed her badge to the guard, then stopped to clean the rain off her glasses. She made her way to her second-floor office. When she sat down, she noticed a present on her desk. Jean unwrapped it to find a John le Carré spy novel, gifted to her by an assistant. Jean sighed.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Le Carre's stories featured an older female researcher who was a genius at cracking Soviet cases, just like Jean. She didn't love the comparison or the attention, but she got a lot of it these days. Ever since October 1986, when she was the head of the CIA's mole hunting unit. By then, it was clear to the top CIA brass that the agency had been infiltrated.
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Ames Mole Hunt
Too many of their Russian assets had disappeared, and eventually they learned that some had actually been executed by the KGB. First, they thought their offices might have been bugged, but Gene thought it more likely a mole within the CIA. Gene's first suspect was Edward Lee Howard, the mole identified by Vitaly Yurchenko in 1985. But Gene couldn't tie every disappearance to Howard.
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so she decided there had to be more than one mole. She spent a few tough years in the weeds, mostly following dead-end threads that had been planted by the KGB to confuse her. But on this November morning, Jean got a gift way better than a spy novel. Someone knocked on her door, and a young CIA investigator named Dan Payne rushed in. He'd gotten a tip from within the CIA
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an unnamed female employee noticed something odd about her co-worker who'd moved back to DC after a three-year tour of duty in Rome. His name was Rick Ames, and apparently he'd just bought a mansion and paid for it in cash. He also drove a Jaguar worth 50 grand, had a full set of veneers, and wore designer suits, all on a meager CIA salary.
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He said the money came from his wife's foreign family, but this woman just didn't buy it. The informant had a final piece of information that sent a chill down Gene's spine. At his old job, Ames had access to files that named many of the CIA's Russian assets who had since gone missing or turned up dead. Gene stared out the window as the rain fell harder.
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Then she turned to Payne and told him their mission was simple. Follow the money. In late 1991, Rosario Ames walked up the marble stairs of her five bedroom mansion in Washington, DC. The one Rick bought when they returned from Rome in 1989. She headed to the massive walk-in closet in her and Rick's bedroom and smiled. It was a cliche, but she thought she might get lost in this house someday.
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She had to admit she'd gotten used to this life, the mansion, the jewelry, the trips to visit her mom in Columbia, the 24-hour childcare for their toddler, Paul. Thanks to Rick and his friend, Robert, Rosario had everything she wanted or needed. Well, almost everything. Today, she was hunting for an old wallet of Rick's that she wanted to use.
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Rosario rummaged in a drawer until she found the little red wallet. She opened it and saw something inside, a piece of paper. She unfolded a faded, typed-up note. It was a set of cryptic instructions telling someone to meet in, quote, the city where your mother-in-law lives. Rosario felt her knees go weak.
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The note sounded a lot like instructions from a handler, the kind she used to get when she did work for the CIA back in Mexico City. That night, Rick came home from work. He walked over to kiss her, but Rosario stopped him. She held up the wallet and showed Rick the note. In a trembling voice, she asked, who wrote it and why was her mom mentioned? Rick blinked, then took the wallet and the note.
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He shrugged, saying he wasn't sure. He hadn't used it in forever. Maybe it was a note from an assignment on his last job or something from their Mexico days. Rick brushed it off, but Rosario's doubts kept eating away at her. A couple of weeks later, while they were out to dinner, Rosario asked him again, what was that note in the wallet? This time, Rick wasn't so smooth.
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Rosario saw him fumble and she insisted, no excuses, no stories about this so-called friend named Robert. She wanted the truth. In a voice so soft Rosario had to read his lips, Rick confessed, I'm working for the Russians. Rosario sat in silence. It was almost a relief to know the truth, that his suspicious stories about Robert from Chicago were just clumsy lies.
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She felt clear-headed for the first time in months. But Rick was looking rough. Rosario looked at her husband and felt a wave of sympathy. This was the man she'd married, the man she'd vowed to stick with for richer or poorer, for better or for worse. Now they were richer, but things were definitely worse. So Rosario made a new vow. She'd help her husband keep his treason a secret.
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On a fall morning in 1992, Jean Vertife stared out at the counterintelligence parking lot at CIA headquarters. She'd gotten to work early and sat in her office, watching everyone else park, chat, and enter the building.
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like so many bits of data coalescing into a complete picture gene heard tire screech it was rick ames late as usual he was driving a brand new red jaguar not her favorite sight in the morning but she always watched him with rick flaunting his money it wasn't hard for gene to open an investigation into his finances
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Over the course of the year, her investigator, Dan Payne, had found out that Rick and Rosario spent $30,000 a month on credit cards. Plus, they were traveling overseas without reporting it to superiors. And the clincher? Over the past few years, Rick had transferred over $1.5 million into his bank accounts. Jean knew she was close.
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And later that day, when Payne scrambled in and slapped a printout on her desk... He confirmed it. It was a list of dates that Rick had met with KGB agent Sergei Shuvakin in the mid-80s. Then, next to the meeting dates, Dan showed her a dated list of Rick's bank statements. Dan didn't have to say anything because Jean's eyes lit up. She saw it instantly.
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Usually, after Rick met up with Sergey, he'd deposit cash into his account the very next day. Gene almost cheered. They finally had enough to detain Rick and question him. But there was just one problem. the CIA didn't have the authority to arrest people. Jean's next step was clear. She'd have to transfer the case to the group who did have that power, the FBI.
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Ames Mole Hunt
On the morning of February 21st, 1994, Rick walked out of his house and clicked his garage door open. As the door rolled up, the morning sun glinted off his cherry red Jaguar. Rick loved this car. It was his third Jaguar, and he was already starting to think about an upgrade. Over the last few years, Rick had gotten more ambitious.
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Besides the fancy cars and fine suits, he'd also bought oceanfront property in Colombia. That's where he went a few times a year to meet with his KGB handlers. But since Rosario's parents were from Colombia and Rick had told people her family was rich, nobody really questioned the trips or the purchases. his spy tactics were getting bolder too.
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Thanks to advances in technology, he was able to siphon CIA data onto floppy disks and slip them to the KGB. He routinely left work in the middle of the day to drive to the suburbs, where he dead-dropped messages to the Soviets in suburban mailboxes. Afterwards, his KGB contacts would come and pick them up. He also had a new partner in crime.
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Rosario made good on her vow to help keep Rick spying a secret. She even helped him plan trips to Colombia. It seemed like once Rosario got used to the idea of Rick's secret job as a mole, she became a real accomplice. Now they talked about money laundering the way other couples might discuss weekend plans. As Rick kept the intel coming, the KGB got more generous.
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They had paid him over $2.7 million to date. Rick hopped in his Jaguar and headed to the office. It was President's Day, and Rick was supposed to have the day off, but he'd just gotten a call to come in. It was a little odd, but he didn't think much of it. Rick drove a few blocks and pulled up to a stop sign. He rolled down his window and lit a cigarette.
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A car was idling in front of him, and Rick cursed under his breath. This guy was taking way too long. He thought about driving around the car and into the turn lane, until he saw that another vehicle was idling in that lane. He looked over his shoulder, aiming to back up and take a different route. That's when he saw two more cars come up behind him to box his Jaguar in.
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These ones had flashing red lights. In that moment, Rick Ames knew. It was over. After nine years of a high-stakes tightrope act, he'd been found out. Before he could toss his cigarette and roll up his window, men burst out of the cars and drew their guns. They held out their FBI badges and told Rick he was under arrest.
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Rick would soon learn that the FBI had been tracking him since they took over his case from the CIA in 1993. President Clinton himself was following the mole hunt very closely. The FBI had proceeded slowly because they were afraid that Rick, a trained spy himself, would pause his talks with the KGB if he felt he was being investigated. So they had gathered the case on him little by little.
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When they searched Rick's office, they found over a hundred documents about Soviet espionage that had nothing to do with his day job, which was suspicious, but not a smoking gun. After that, they tailed his car and saw him make several suspicious drives, but those hadn't given them any answers either. Their big break came in fall 1993, when they started searching Rick's home garbage cans.
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Analysts found a yellow post-it note in Rick's handwriting. It was written in code, but once they cracked it, the FBI understood. It was a draft of a message from Rick to the KGB. In it, he asked to meet in Colombia on October 1st. This was the team's big break. Clear evidence of a meetup with the Soviets on foreign soil.
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It was enough for their superiors to authorize bugging Rick's house and get a search warrant. Once the bug was in place, the FBI overheard Rick and Rosario casually planning his next KGB trips, which just confirmed what they already suspected. Now, nearly a decade after betraying the US for the first time, Rick Ames was finally arrested.
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As he opened the door of his Jaguar, Rick felt like he was floating above his body. He watched himself get out of the car. He saw an FBI agent pluck the lit cigarette from his hands. The whole thing felt like it was happening in slow motion, like a dream or a movie. He heard himself tell the agents over and over, there must be some mistake. But the only one who'd made a mistake was Rick.
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On April 28, 1994, Rick Ames pled guilty to charges of espionage and tax evasion on the $2.7 million he'd made from the KGB. Rick was given a life sentence with no parole. As of 2024, he's still alive and serving that sentence. Rosario also pled guilty for conspiring to commit espionage and tax evasion. But Rick cut a plea for Rosario.
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He promised to cooperate if she was given a lenient sentence, because someone had to take care of their five-year-old son. Rosario did five years in prison. When she was freed, she didn't go back to her lavish lifestyle. Rosario was forced to give up all of their family's assets. The money went to the Justice Department's Victims Assistance Fund.
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but it hardly made up for the pain that Rick had caused. Take the young Russian informant in Moscow who fed the CIA intel. Once Ames revealed his identity, the KGB sent him to a labor camp. He had been repeatedly beaten and forced to drink radioactive water. By the time he was released at age 37, his bones were brittle as an old man's and his teeth had fallen out.
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But he was one of the lucky ones. At least he hadn't been executed like the other ten Ames had ratted on. So, we know why Rick did what he did. Simple greed. But the question remains, how was he able to pull it off right under the CIA's nose? He was loose-lipped, an erratic drinker, and a compulsive spender. He was sloppy and overconfident. But then again, so was the CIA.
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Even before he sided with the KGB, Rick should have never been entrusted with his high-level jobs. His behavior in Mexico was a big red flag. He went on benders, got into car crashes, and fought with other diplomats. He badmouthed U.S. policy to both Russian operatives and fellow agents. That led to bad reviews from local bosses, but they were never properly reported to officials at the D.C.
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CIA office. When Rick moved to D.C., the old friend who got him a CIA job never bothered reading those reviews, so he gave him a major promotion and unwittingly let the KGB into the CIA. As for overconfidence, the CIA seemed to assume that all their agents were patriots who were fueled by faith in a noble mission.
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So they routinely placed people like Rick in contact with KGB officers who appealed to human desires much stronger than patriotism. Like the need for power, influence, and of course, money. Rick Ames was a deeply flawed man who flourished in a flawed system. The CIA spent so much time looking out into the world for enemies that they forgot to look within.
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Thanks to that, Rick Ames became one of the worst traitors in American history. Follow Redacted, Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts.
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Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. From Ballant Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories. We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized.
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We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend Nightmover, How Aldrich Ames Sold the CIA to the KGB for $4.6 Million by David Wise. and How the FBI Finally Caught Aldrich Ames by David Johnston for The New York Times, and The Terrible Secret of Rosario Ames by Sally Quinn for The Washington Post. This episode was written by Amin Osman, sound design by Ryan Potesta.
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Our producer is Christopher B. Dunn. Our associate producers and researchers are Sarah Vytak, Teja Palakanda, and Rafa Faria. Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson. For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel. Produced by me, Luke LaManna.
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Executive producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our head of sound is Marcelino Villapando. Senior producers are Loredana Palavoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman. Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan. Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Our executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis. For Wondery.
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From Ballin Studios in Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called The Ames Mole Hunt.
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Ever since I became a student of military history, I've known that the US and Russia have always had what you might call a complicated relationship. Both countries have enough nuclear weapons to obliterate the other and have always relied on spies to plumb each other's secrets. The CIA has a history of sniffing out Soviets willing to switch sides and fight for the American cause.
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brave double agents willing to risk their lives, and who sometimes ended up living their own American dream in the States afterwards. These defectors may have been foreign, but the CIA saw them as American heroes. But spies cut both ways. And in 1985, one of the CIA's top agents, the chief of Soviet counterintelligence, did the unthinkable.
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Instead, he walked in the direction of the American embassy in the Palazzo Margherita. When he reached the ornate three-story building, Yurchenko looked around, wondering if he was being watched. Then he took a deep breath, walked over to a payphone just outside the embassy, and dialed the CIA. An officer picked up. Yurchenko told him two things. First, he said he was a senior officer in the KGB.
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He betrayed his country to sell secrets to the KGB and reveal the identities of top-secret CIA assets. It led to the execution of 10 Russians working for the American cause. And he did it for cold, hard cash. The brutal murder of these agents sparked a decade-long hunt for whoever ratted them out. At first, the CIA asked themselves who was capable of such horrific treason.
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Then, when they closed in on a suspect, they wondered, how could we have let this happen? As it turned out, all it took was two things. One man's desperation and the CIA's deadly blind spots. Late one night in 1981, an American and Russian diplomat roared with laughter at a Mexico City dive bar. They clinked glasses and downed their sixth round of vodka shots. Or maybe it was their seventh.
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It was a blur because these guys were on a day-long bender. The tall, dark-haired one was a 40-year-old American named Aldrich Ames, or Rick to his friends. He was posing as an employee at the U.S. Embassy. But Rick was actually an undercover CIA agent. And his drinking partner, a short, lively Russian named Igor Shurigan, was undercover KGB agent.
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Rick's mission in Mexico was to seek out local KGB officers and recruit them to work for the CIA. Igor's job was the same, but recruiting Americans for the KGB. They were an odd couple, two spies trying to extract secrets from each other. But despite their ulterior motives, they bonded over two powerful forces, vodka and complaining. Today's binge started at lunch at the diplomat's club.
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Now, hours later, it was last call at a dive bar. Rick's mood turned grim as he fumbled for his pack of cigarettes and found it was empty. Luckily, Igor swooped in with a cigarette and a lighter. Rick lit it, took a deep breath, and exhaled. Igor asked him what was wrong. His friend seemed stressed. Was it trouble at work? Rick felt a flutter of nerves.
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The smart thing to do would have been to stub out a cigarette, pay his bill, and call it a night. The last thing he needed was to give Igor insight into his life. But it was hard to keep his frustrations to himself. The fact was, Rick felt trapped. He hated his job. His boss was a jerk. And over the last few years, he'd begun to lose faith in the CIA as a whole.
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But instead of talking about work, Rick moved on to more personal problems. There were two of them. Money and marriage. Rick's last post with the CIA had been in New York City, and it was a job that came with a lot of perks. He'd lived in a luxury apartment with his wife of 12 years, Nan. But despite their cushy lifestyle, the relationship grew strained.
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When Rick was offered the job in Mexico, he felt like he had to take it. He had turned down other overseas jobs in the past since Nan didn't want to leave New York. but foreign experience was too important an opportunity to pass up. Plus, a new backdrop might just be what he and Nan needed. So this time, Rick said yes, only Nan didn't take this well.
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She said there was no way she was going to uproot her life for him. But Rick had already said yes. So in the end, he moved to Mexico without her. Their marriage had already been on shaky ground, but now it was on the rocks. The move had worsened Rick's money problems too. In New York, the CIA had covered most of the rent on his nice apartment.
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They also gave him a steady stream of cash to cover business expenses, like taking Soviet targets out to dinner or shows. After a couple years, he'd gotten used to high living. When he moved to Mexico, the New York subsidy ended abruptly. But since Nan was still there, Rick had to cover their expensive rent himself. And that quickly drained Rick's bank account.
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His job at the CIA only paid $36,000 a year. Rick coped with the stress by drinking more. And he started cheating on Nan, too. He'd been with three different women since getting to Mexico. His life was quickly turning into a mess, and he had to vent to someone. Tonight, his outlet was a KGB agent. Igor responded by ordering two last shots.
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And second, he wanted to defect to America. If the CIA could help him get there, he was willing to spill Soviet secrets. The officer's breath caught in his throat, and Yurchenko smiled. He'd put himself in danger, but he was pretty sure he'd made this agent's day. In the waning years of the Cold War, Yurchenko knew he'd be a hot commodity. The officer told Yurchenko to head into the embassy.
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He forced one into Rick's hand and proposed a toast to better days ahead. As Rick stumbled back into his apartment a few hours later, he wondered if he had said too much. He reassured himself, no, his job was to get close to Igor. Maybe Igor hadn't revealed much about his own life yet, but that would surely come. If Rick was sober, he might have realized he had definitely said too much.
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Complaining about work was one thing, but admitting his personal and financial issues gave Igor a direct line into his vulnerabilities. Igor could clearly see the hole Rick had dug himself into, and a KGB could offer him a way out of it. All it would cost him was some information.
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Four years later, on the evening of April 16th, 1985, Rick Ames stood at the doorway of the Soviet embassy in Washington, D.C. His head was spinning. He'd had a few drinks before coming. Maybe not the best move, but he needed liquid courage for what he was about to do. In his sweaty palms, he held an envelope, one that could do serious damage to the CIA.
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In it was a short list of KGB agents who'd volunteered to work for the US, and paperwork confirming his new job title as the CIA's new chief of Soviet counterintelligence. It was an unlikely position for a man whose career flamed out in Mexico. Rick's bond with Igor Shurigan produced lots of hangovers, but few results. His drinking had gotten worse.
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Rick fought with Cuban diplomats and even got into a car accident. It got so bad that his superiors reported his drinking to CIA headquarters. Rick was sure that after his Mexico tour ended, his career would be over. The only bright spot was Rosario Casas Dupuy, a 30-year-old cultural attache at the Colombian embassy. She was beautiful, smart, and 10 years younger than Rick.
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Rick saw Rosario as his last chance at happiness. So when his job in Mexico ended in late 1983, he flew back to D.C., divorced his wife Nan, and moved in with Rosario. But furnishing their new apartment was pricey, and Rick's divorce was even pricier, especially since he had to pay Nan monthly spousal support. He was in the hole for over $50,000. It was all he could think about.
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Something had to change. Miraculously, he got the job offer for Chief of Soviet Counterintelligence from an old CIA buddy. It paid much more than Rick's last job. It was also a highly covert gig that put Rick in charge of supervising CIA assets working undercover at the KGB and hunting moles in the CIA. The job seemed like a solution to his problems, but for Rick, it was really a means to an end.
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In April 1985, Rick reached out to Sergei Shuvakin, an arms control expert at the Soviet embassy. He told Shuvakin that he wanted to discuss security concerns, but really, he wanted to let him know that he was willing to betray the CIA for a price. Rick stepped into the Soviet embassy and straight to Chewbacca's office. The men chatted for a while and Rick left.
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What they talked about didn't really matter. What was important was the envelope Rick left behind. It was a list of CIA assets in the KGB and paperwork confirming Rick's new job as the head of Soviet counterintelligence. It was a clear message. Rick was willing to turn on his agency and his country to help the KGB.
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The last document in the envelope was a request for $50,000, the equivalent to a year of his new CIA salary and exactly the amount he needed to survive after his divorce emptied his savings. A few days later, Rick met with Shevakin again. And this time, Shevakin brought Rick an envelope filled with money. Rick didn't feel too guilty.
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He suspected that the informants that he'd ratted on were really double agents, so the Russians probably wouldn't hurt them. And if they did, well, he told himself that this was just a one-time thing. But Rick loved money just as much as alcohol. Soon, he was having regular lunches with Shuvakin.
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Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Just before dawn on January 28th, 1980, Cora Lijak stood outside the Canadian ambassador's residence in Tehran, Iran. She breathed in the crisp morning air, trying to settle her churning stomach.
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A few weeks after the embassy takeover in mid-December, Tony Mendez was in his painting studio at his home in Virginia. During the day, Tony was chief of disguise at the CIA. His job was to come up with different schemes to get people out of life or death situations. He had a solid track record of disguising CIA assets and saving their lives.
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It was hard to believe how dangerous Iran's capital was by day when everyone was still peacefully asleep. Her thoughts drifted to her co-workers, the 53 Americans who were still being held hostage by radical Iranian students at the American embassy. She'd seen them being paraded around on the news with blindfolds on. If she and her companions got caught today, they'd likely join them.
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But at night, he needed to blow off steam, and he did this by painting. If anyone ever asked him, Tony would tell them he considered himself more of a painter than a spy. He loved his wife and three children, but sometimes he needed to disappear into the studio he'd built above his garage. But that night, he couldn't concentrate on the landscape painting he was working on.
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He was too keyed up about the urgent cable he'd received earlier that day about the six Americans who had escaped capture in Tehran and gone into hiding. Tony learned their names were Bob Anders, Mark and Cora Lijak, and Joe and Kathy Stafford. A sixth man named Lee Schatz had joined them a little later. He was the one who'd given himself the codename Palmtree over the radio.
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The group was being referred to by the code name, the House Guests, and they were currently hiding out at the Canadian embassy. The State Department wanted Tony to coordinate with the Canadians and plan a rescue as soon as possible. The House Guests were running out of time to get out of Tehran undetected.
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To make matters worse, a Canadian journalist had put the pieces together that a few embassy employees had escaped and wanted to run a story about it. The Canadian government asked him to hold off, but he said he wouldn't wait long. Tony went into the office early the next day to discuss the options for rescuing the houseguests. Some government higher-ups had already discussed one idea.
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It involved providing the houseguests with bicycles and having them ride over 400 miles to the Turkish border. Once they were out of Iran, they could get on a plane and fly back to the United States. Tony wanted to laugh because the idea was so ridiculous, but on the other hand, nothing had ever seemed less funny. Six people's lives were at stake, and the government wanted to send them bikes?
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Tony didn't think he'd have trouble convincing his bosses this was a bad plan, but that still left him the challenge of coming up with a better one. It was clear to him that he needed to create cover identities for the six Americans. Then he could get them on a flight out of Mehrabat Airport. But finding believable identities for the houseguests wasn't going to be easy.
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Because what jobs, other than government employees, would a bunch of Americans in Tehran possibly have? At first he thought, what if they pretended to be schoolteachers? But then he remembered the English language schools had been closed for the last eight months. He considered having them pose as crop inspectors for foreign agriculture. But that wouldn't work either.
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It was winter and there was snow on the ground. Tony needed to come up with something airtight, and he needed to come up with it fast. The houseguest's lives depended on a cover believable enough to get them through airport security. And then, just when he was about to panic, an idea came to him. It was bold. It was unorthodox. Part of him wondered if it was any less crazy than the bicycle plan.
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But then he thought, it might just be crazy enough to work. Normally, CIA cover stories were designed to not attract attention, but Tony wondered if this might be a moment to lean into spectacle instead. In his time developing disguises, he'd done a lot of work with Hollywood special effects artists. Science fiction movies had been all the rage since Star Wars had come out two years earlier.
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These movies often filmed in exotic locations that could double as alien planets. What if the house guest's cover story was as a Hollywood film crew scouting locations for a movie? Tony presented his idea to his CIA higher-ups. They were skeptical. Who would believe that a Hollywood film crew would want to film in such a dangerous location as Tehran in the middle of a rebellion?
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Or face something even worse. Cora double-checked that her forged Canadian passport was still in her pocket. She dug around to make sure she wasn't carrying anything with her real name on it. When she found an old receipt for the dry cleaners, she stuffed it in between the car seats. The vans pulled up outside the Mehrabat airport. Cora's heart pounded as she walked toward the entrance.
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But Tony said it was the best option they had. He asked his bosses who else would be self-absorbed enough to show up in Iran at a time like this. Tony's bosses didn't give the plan full approval, but they trusted Tony enough to let him lay the groundwork. Once he set things up, they could present the Hollywood plan to the White House.
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From there, it would be up to President Jimmy Carter to give the go-ahead. Or shoot it down. Tony knew he could only pull off the plan if he believed in it himself. So like so many dreamers before him, he took off for Hollywood in the hopes of making a movie. Only the movie Tony was making wouldn't actually exist.
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In early January of 1980, Tony arrived in Los Angeles with a briefcase filled with $10,000. Step one was calling up his longtime friend, John Chambers. John was a legendary makeup artist who'd won an Oscar for his work on Planet of the Apes. He was sharp, funny, and most importantly, well-connected. In short, he was the kind of man who could make the fake movie seem real.
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John brought on a fellow makeup artist to help. His name was Bob Seidel, and he was deeply moved by the plight of the hostages in Iran. He said he was willing to do anything to make the plan work. Step 2 was setting up a believable production company. They decided to call it Studio 6, which was a secret reference to the six Americans they planned on rescuing.
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They made business cards for each of the houseguests' false identities and assigned them roles in the production. Screenwriter, producer, cinematographer, transportation coordinator, location manager, and art director. Step 3 was finding a script. John Chambers said he had just the one. A few years earlier, he had been hired to do makeup on a science fiction movie called Lord of Light.
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It featured a number of scenes on a desert-like planet. A lot of the setting descriptions sounded like parts of the Middle East. The movie had never been made, but John still had the script and concept art at his house. Tony looked at the drawings and agreed they were perfect for what the CIA was looking for.
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The Studio 6 team renamed the movie Argo after the ancient Greek story of Jason, the captain of the Argonauts. They took out full-page ads in Variety and The Hollywood Reporter with a poster of the movie, and then they set up an office off Sunset Boulevard. In just a few days, they'd managed to create a whole fake movie production. People in Hollywood would take money wherever they could get it.
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No one had any clue that Argo was being bankrolled by the CIA. At the end of the week, Tony met with John and Bob in the Studio 6 office. He told them how proud he was of their work. He asked John if there was anything they'd missed. John said there was nothing more to be done.
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Now, he and Bob would be at the office, sitting by the phone in case anyone called to verify the cover story, especially Iranian militants. Tony's week in Hollywood had gone well, but the real challenge still lay ahead of them. If the plan failed and the houseguests were captured by the militia, they could wind up dead. And so could Tony.
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After all, if Argo was approved, he would be flying over to Tehran to orchestrate the mission himself. The three men said a quick toast and Tony left the building. His life and that of six Americans was in the hands of Studio Six Pictures and on the believability of an elaborate lie.
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The freedom she'd been praying for over the last three months of hiding was closer than ever. But so was the danger of being discovered, captured, and possibly killed. The only way she and her co-workers were going to make it home was to believe they were who they said they were. As she stepped into the airport, she told herself one final time, I'm Teresa Harris. I'm the screenwriter.
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President Carter was impressed with Tony's plan. He agreed that the Argo idea fell into the category of just crazy enough to work. He gave the Hollywood option his full approval. Two weeks later, Tony was on a flight to Tehran. He tugged at his fancy flared collar.
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At that moment, everything about his movie producer cover felt awkward, down to the fake passport he had in his pocket with the phony name Kevin Costa Harkins. The plane shook with turbulence. Tony was dying for a drink to dull his nerves. but they just entered over Iranian airspace. Sale of alcohol was now officially forbidden.
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On the plane, Tony couldn't shake the feeling that he was walking into a death trap. He'd been on dangerous missions before, but nothing like this. It was still less than a year since the Iranian revolution had begun. The country was in a state of total chaos. Many Iranians had been shot in the street or hanged in public.
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There was no telling what the militants would do if they found out Tony was a spy with the CIA. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking and the houseguests were running out of time. Someone had recently called the Canadian ambassador's house asking to speak to one of the Americans. The ambassador's wife had said she didn't know who they were and hung up. But the message was clear.
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Someone had figured out where the Americans were hiding. If word spread to the Iranian government, they would have no chance of getting out of the country. The options for the houseguest's rescue were dwindling by the day. Tony was the only hope they had, and the pressure was getting to him. As his plane made its final descent into Tehran, Tony gripped his armrest tightly.
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He couldn't stop thinking about his wife and three kids. There was a chance that he might have said goodbye to them for the last time. By the time his plane landed, Tony's whole body was trembling. As he got off the plane, Tony took a deep breath and did a final gut check. There was an unwritten rule at the CIA. If an agent on the ground thinks the mission will fail, it's okay to abort.
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Tony went over everything in his head. As he made his way to the immigration counter, he made the decision to move forward with the mission. It wasn't a perfect plan, but it was the best shot they had. And besides, the house guests didn't have anyone else. The Iranian immigration officer stamped Tony's fake passport. He made his way out of the airport. There was no turning back now.
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When Tony reached the Canadian ambassador's house and explained the plan to everyone, Joe Stafford looked at Tony and shook his head. I just don't see it, he said. The house guests were gathered in the living room. Everyone but Joe had agreed that the film crew cover was a good idea.
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Joe was worried his friends, who were still being held hostage at the embassy, would be punished if he and his fellow house guests were discovered. He tried to explain to the group that leaving now was a terrible idea. They should stay put, be patient, wait for a better idea to come along.
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The rest of the group were worried about their friends too, but they didn't understand how staying in Iran indefinitely was going to help them. Trusting Tony was the only chance any of them had of getting home, and they'd been in hiding for long enough. The last few months had been long and nerve-wracking.
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The houseguests did what they could to keep busy during the day, but in the end, it was one agonizing waiting game. Every night they turned on the TV hoping for good news, and every night they saw footage of their friends still being held hostage at the embassy. It was either that or news footage of people hanging in the street. It was easy to imagine that they would be next.
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Tony said he understood Joe's fears, but told him the plan would work. It was like a magic trick. It seemed impossible right up until the moment it was pulled off. In fairness to Joe, the group held a vote. Five of them agreed to get on board with the Argo plan. Joe was the only holdout. He glared at his wife, Kathy, when she voted with the rest of the houseguests.
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Tony thanked the group for trusting him. He reminded them that they would be doing a dress rehearsal tomorrow before their departure on Monday. Joe looked at Tony. For a moment, he thought he saw doubt flash in the CIA agent's eyes. Joe looked away. He couldn't understand how everyone else could trust Tony so easily. On the morning of January 27th, Lee Schatz looked at himself in the mirror.
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Over his three months in hiding at the Canadian ambassador's house, his hair had grown shaggier than normal. He might have gotten a few raised eyebrows as an agricultural attaché, but he figured it was perfect for a Hollywood cinematographer. He fidgeted with the viewfinder Tony had given him. He tried to make himself look comfortable with it, like he used it all the time.
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He walked back into the living room and yelled out, call me Woody. He was so into his character that he'd given himself a nickname. The rest of the house guests were all dressed up for their parts too. Bob Anders, who'd been assigned the role of director, had really gone above and beyond. He walked into the room wearing a shirt two sizes too small with a medallion hanging over his bare chest.
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Even Joe Stafford forgot his worries for a minute and laughed. Tony and a second CIA agent, Ed Johnson, who had joined them in Tehran, began quizzing the group on the details of their identities. They warned them that the Iranian military could ask any number of questions to try and poke holes in their covers. They went over everything, the movie they were working on, details about Canada.
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They even checked to make sure their accents sounded authentically Canadian. After a few hours, the group took a break to eat a celebratory dinner. After dinner, the house guests lined up as though they were in the immigration line at the airport. One of the Canadian diplomats dressed in a military outfit to look the part of an Iranian officer. Lee volunteered to go first.
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He was feeling confident. He approached the diplomat and handed over his passport. He gave his false name and smiled. Then the man asked Lee where he got his visa to enter Iran. Suddenly, Lee stammered. His face flushed. He said he didn't remember. The diplomat lashed out at him. What do you mean you don't remember? Lee felt his stomach drop.
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He'd been so sure that he would be able to keep up the lie. But even here in a practice situation, his mind was totally blank. If this was the real thing, he could have just destroyed their cover. The diplomat put his hand on Lee's shoulder and told him it was all right. He just needed to study a little harder. Tony calmly explained to the group that the stakes really were that high.
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One forgotten detail could be the end of all of them. They practiced for hours, getting all the facts down perfectly. Tony and Ed ran through the plan one more time, then said goodbye around midnight. After all that rehearsing, there was only one thing they could all agree on. They all needed a drink. Maybe more than one.
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They celebrated and toasted, trying to ignore the fear that gnawed at their stomachs. It was easy to imagine that this might just be the last night of their lives. Lee Schatz and Joe Stafford were the last to go to bed, polishing off the last bottle of alcohol. Joe slurred his words as he brought up different things that could go wrong the next day.
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With every potential failure he could come up with, he got a little more emotional. He teared up at the thought of being separated from Kathy, and at the thought of the 53 hostages they were leaving behind. The stress and the alcohol were getting to him. Lee reminded Joe that sticking around wouldn't help anybody. He pulled himself off the couch. He wanted to get at least a few hours of sleep.
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But before he left, he turned to Joe and said, The bottom line is that I'm going to get on that plane tomorrow. I hope you decide to make the trip. But if you don't want to come, then that's your choice. But if you do come, then don't screw it up for me and the others. They arrived at the airport early the next morning.
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When Lee approached the customs desk, he handed over his Canadian passport with a smile. He tried to settle into the easygoing charm of his alias, Woody. The officer handed him back the passport without a second look. Lee took a small breath in relief. He was one step closer to his goal. He moved along and waited for his fellow houseguests.
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The airport wasn't crowded since it was still early in the morning. Posters of Iran's leaders covered the walls. A few bored-looking Revolutionary Guards stood around with guns slung over their shoulders. Lee felt like eyeballs were all over him, but he tried to look casual as he walked over to check in for the flight. Once again, he handed over his passport.
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He tried to give off an air of impatience. The officer flipped through the passport but stopped when he got to Lee's photo. He narrowed his eyes. Is this you? He asked. Lee said that yes, of course it was. The immigration officer squinted at the photo, then looked up at Lee. Suddenly he got up and disappeared into a back room. Lee felt a wave of nausea pass over him.
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He looked back at the others, who all looked as nervous as he felt. The only thing he had to cling to was Tony, who looked every inch the cool Hollywood producer, arrogant, bored, annoyed at the slow process. Finally, the officer came back. He looked at Lee again. He said, this picture doesn't look like you.
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Lee mimicked a pair of scissors cutting off his mustache, as if to say he'd trimmed it since his photo was taken. The officer still looked unconvinced. But after another long look, he shrugged. Then he stamped Lee's passport and sent him on his way. Lee's heart was pounding in his ears as he made his way to the departures lounge to wait for the others. He tried his best to relax.
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They were so close to freedom. After the others got through and met Lee at their gate, an announcement came over the PA. Their flight, Swiss Air Flight 363, had been delayed. Lee wanted to scream. He walked over to Tony and asked if they should try to get onto a backup flight. Tony told him that would only draw attention. The only thing they could do was wait and hope for the best.
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Each minute that ticked by was excruciating. Lee felt exposed as the bright morning sun started filling the room. He tried to ignore the additional guards filing into the terminal. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Joe Stafford, who had stubbornly decided to join them. Lee watched as Joe picked up a newspaper and started to read it before he abruptly stopped. The newspaper was written in Farsi.
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For a moment, Joe had forgotten he was supposed to be a Hollywood producer. Lee tried his best not to freak out, but he couldn't stop thinking about what would happen if they were caught. Tony had told him to look confident, but seem innocent. In the midst of his panic, Lee felt he'd never looked more guilty. Soon the PA crackled and a voice announced that Swiss Air Flight 363 was now boarding.
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Lee's legs were practically jelly by the time he filed onto the plane. A little while later, the plane finally took off, and the houseguests were off the ground. After two excruciating hours of waiting, the flight attendant announced they were out of Iranian airspace. The whole plane burst into cheers. It wasn't just the Americans who escaped Iran that day.
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There were Iranians on the flight equally thrilled they had made it out of the war-torn country with their lives. The group all ordered Bloody Marys. Tony raised his glass to everyone and declared, Argo, we're home free. Lee took a deep sip of his Bloody Mary. He'd never tasted anything so good in his life.
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One week after the houseguests escaped Iran, Tony was back in Los Angeles to tie up the loose ends of the mission. He pulled up outside of the Universal Studios Sheraton, and his wife Karen pointed out the marquee that read, Thanks, Canada. Karen sighed and told her husband, You're a national hero, but nobody will ever know. Tony shrugged.
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He reminded his wife that being a CIA agent meant your accomplishments never saw the light of day. But that wasn't what mattered. The important thing was that six Americans had gotten out alive. And so had he. They parked and checked in at the hotel, where they received lapel buttons with Thanks Canada written on them as well. Tony smirked as he pinned it on.
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They went up to the room where they were greeted by John Chambers and Bob Seidel, the Hollywood veterans who had helped pull off the Argo plot. John gave Tony a big hug and welcomed him to the wrap party for Argo, the film that never was. The news of the houseguest's escape had made headlines around the world.
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The White House issued a statement thanking the Canadian government for their role in the rescue. But no one knew about Tony's involvement. That was classified. The U.S. didn't want to endanger the hostages still held at the embassy by revealing they'd participated in such a bold rescue. President Carter met with the houseguests at the White House and thanked them for their bravery.
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Soon after, the Studio 6 offices were shut down. Argo was officially dead. It was a bit of a letdown for the dozens of actors and artists who'd called Bob Seidel, hoping to get to work on Argo. They thought it sounded like a great movie. The Canadian caper was one of the most successful covert operations in the CIA's history.
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The American and Canadian government's work in freeing the houseguests remains a lasting example of how nations can collaborate in times of crisis. In May of 1980, Tony Mendez and Ed Johnson, the CIA partner in Tehran, received the Intelligence Star, one of the CIA's highest honors. Due to the classified nature of the Argo mission, the ceremony was held in secret.
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It would be another two decades before Tony's involvement was declassified. Ed Johnson's role wasn't made public until 2023. For his role in setting up Studio Six Pictures, John Chambers received the Intelligence Medal of Merit, the CIA's highest civilian honor.
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Ambassador Ken Taylor received the Congressional Gold Medal, and President Carter would later call him the main hero of the mission for opening his home to the House guests. The houseguests eventually returned to their work in the Foreign Service. They continued to keep up contact with Tony over the years.
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With the exception of one US citizen who was released earlier, the 52 hostages in the American Embassy remained in captivity for 444 days. The military mission intended to free the hostages turned out to be disastrous, resulting in the deaths of eight American service members when the rescue helicopters encountered an unexpected sandstorm.
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The hostages would eventually be released on January 20th, 1981, the day of President Reagan's inauguration, after almost 15 months of captivity. In the more than 40 years since the Iranian Revolution, the relationship between the United States and Iran has been fraught with controversy and conflict. But the clash between the two countries was never more tense than during the hostage crisis.
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The Canadian caper gave Americans hope in the midst of a very dark period in American history, and it reinforced unity between the United States and Canada. In this case, the CIA proved to be master storytellers.
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From the creation of Studio Six Pictures and the movie Argo, to the cover identities crafted perfectly for the houseguests, Tony Mendez and his colleagues executed an outlandish idea perfectly, saving six lives in the process. How many fake movies can claim that? Follow Redacted, Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. From Ballin Studios in Wondery, this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories.
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We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend the book, Argo. how the CIA and Hollywood pulled off the most audacious rescue in history by Antonio Mendez, and the article, How the CIA Used a Fake Sci-Fi Flick to Rescue Americans from Tehran, from Wired Magazine.
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This episode was written by Jake Natureman, sound design by Andre Pluss. Our producers are Christopher B. Dunn and John Reed. Our associate producer and researcher is Ines Renique. Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson. For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel.
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Produced by me, Luke LaManna. Executive producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our head of sound is Marcelino Villapando. Senior producers are Laura Donna Palavoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman. Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan. Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis. For Wondery.
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From Ballant Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called The Real Argo.
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One time during my military career in 2014, my team was doing a counterintelligence job in Manila, operating in and out of a hotel in plain clothes. We worked in eight-hour shifts around the clock, and every night we had some time off. We ended up just going right next door to a bar for a few drinks and some karaoke.
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She exhaled and pulled a film script out of her bag. She knew the basic plot, but hadn't had the chance to read it all the way through. The title page read Argo in big bold letters with the words, A Cosmic Conflagration, written below in smaller font. Cora flipped through the pages.
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We all picked out our fake names, agreed on our story, and it was kind of fun just pretending to be someone else for the few weeks we were there. I chose the name Sam, and I loved to sing karaoke. And I still remember every night we'd go back to the bar, the owner of the bar would see me walk in, give me a big slap on the shoulder and just scream, Sam is back!
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Was it a little nerve-wracking wondering if I was ever going to slip up and introduce myself with my actual name? Yes, but we all kept up the act. And it was a funny feeling leaving that operation and knowing there was a bar full of locals who thought that they met a guy named Sam who was traveling in Manila on some kind of business.
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My life was never in danger, so I can't imagine the stress of having to craft an identity and fool people who could have executed me if they wanted to. The Argo story is wild. On November 4, 1979, militant student protesters stormed the United States Embassy in the Iranian capital of Tehran.
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More than 50 Americans working at the embassy were taken hostage and used as bargaining chips in the high-pressure conflict between America and Iran. They would ultimately be held in captivity for over a year. The same day, however, six Americans managed to escape and hide out in the Canadian embassy.
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While they were hiding, the CIA cooked up one of the wildest covert operations in history to rescue them. It became known as the Canadian Caper, or more popularly, Argo. The story was popularized by the 2012 Best Picture-winning movie directed by Ben Affleck, but a lot of the details of the real mission were changed or simplified for the screen.
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Most notably, the way the movie depicts the hero, Tony Mendez, played by Affleck, is a lot different from the real man. Affleck plays Tony as a down-on-his-luck CIA agent with self-destructive tendencies. He's on the outs with his wife and desperately trying to prove himself. But in reality, Tony was one of the best agents in the history of the CIA.
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He was known for his creative missions that used technical wizardry and complex disguises to protect some of the CIA's most valuable assets during the Cold War. But despite the Hollywood treatment, the real story remains stranger than fiction. So the question is, how did Argo come to be? Why did President Carter and the CIA approve such an audacious plan when so many lives were at risk?
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And how did the unlikely alliance of the CIA and the film industry pull off the rescue? It's a story so extraordinary that even a Hollywood screenwriter couldn't come up with it. As students stormed the embassy on November 4th, 54-year-old Bob Anders was in his office at the American Consulate in Tehran. It was raining hard that day.
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She tried to take in all the details of the sci-fi thriller, the absurd names of the characters, the ridiculous plot, the weirdly stiff dialogue. The movie seemed to be about tearing down a caste system on an alien planet, which made her wonder what kind of hack had come up with this. I did, she reminded herself.
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The Iranian protesters were still gathered outside the main gates, as usual. Bob was a senior officer at the consulate, and he knew enough Farsi to understand the words they were chanting. They said, "'God is great. Death to America.'" Bob cleared his throat, trying to keep his attention on the older Iranian couple sitting on the other side of his desk.
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He explained the process of getting a visa to the United States. Things had been extra busy in the last year since the Iranian revolution had begun. A lot of Iranians were looking to get out of the country. The sound of the mob outside grew louder, and Bob raised his voice to talk over the noise. He knew why they were angry.
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They'd been protesting for months, ever since the US had given refuge to their former leader, the deposed Shah of Iran, so he could receive cancer treatment. The student protesters believed this was part of a plot to overthrow Iran's government and reinstall the Shah as leader. It wasn't that far-fetched, since the CIA had done exactly that 25 years earlier.
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The students wanted the Shah to face justice, and they wanted America to pay. Still, Bob didn't know what that had to do with him. He was just there to help Iranians get visas to travel to the US. He hardly felt like an agent of, quote, the great Satan, which was the name Iran's leader would give America. The din outside suddenly turned into a roar. Bob looked out his window at the courtyard.
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Some of the protesters had taken bolt cutters to the gate locks. Bob's stomach tightened as the gate flew open and the group flooded into the embassy compound. Bob tried to keep calm, even though he heard shouting from outside his office. With any luck, the Iranian police would get there any minute to arrest the trespassers. They'd done it before.
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He thanked his lucky stars that he was in the smaller consulate building across the courtyard and not the main embassy that seemed to be their focus. The older Iranian couple at his desk scrambled up to leave, but Bob told them to take a seat. They should finish their visa application first. He was trying to convince them that everything was under control.
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In truth, he was trying to convince himself too. The woman was shaking as she signed her name and hurried off. Bob hurried down to the lobby. There he saw some of his coworkers frantically locking and barricading the doors to the courtyard. Everyone looked scared, especially the Iranian employees and visa applicants.
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They knew the revolutionaries liked to shoot first and ask questions later, especially against Iranians they thought were supportive of the United States. Bob hurried over to a small group of coworkers, two couples, Mark and Cora Lijak, and Joe and Kathy Stafford. In hushed tones, they discussed a plan of action. Should they wait around to see if the police would come to their rescue?
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Or should they make a break for it? Suddenly, the power went off and gunshots rang outside. People started screaming in English and Farsi. Bob's younger co-workers looked at him, wide-eyed. It was clear what they had to do. Get out. Now. Now. An Iranian guide led the group outside. The consular building was the only structure in the compound with direct access to the street.
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Cora had been instructed to memorize her cover story down to the last detail and to sell the lie. I'm Teresa Harris, she told herself. I'm the screenwriter. Her husband, Mark, came up behind her to tell her it was time to go. Cora, Mark, and the other four Americans in their group thanked their hosts and left in a Canadian embassy van. Cora looked out the window as they drove.
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Silently, they filed out the door and into the rain. Bob let out a sigh of relief when he saw that none of the protesters were waiting for them in the side street. But now the question remained, where would they go? The only thing he could think to do was to keep moving. He and the group headed south in the direction of the British embassy.
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Hopefully they could hide out there until this all blew over. Fifteen minutes after leaving the embassy, Bob was so nervous he could hardly see straight. But he was the highest-ranking officer among them, not to mention 30 years older, so he had to keep it together. Still, the thought of what might be happening back at the embassy made his heart race.
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He had a lot of friends who were now at the mercy of a dangerous mob. He felt guilty for running away, but he knew there was no point turning back, not when he was responsible for four other people. Bob tried to keep his footing on the slick, rain-drenched streets, but as they rounded the corner of the British Embassy, he saw something that made his blood run cold.
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The building was surrounded by another angry mob. They were chanting the same violent words as the protesters at the American embassy. Bob knew they had to get off the streets before anyone recognized them as foreigners. He took a deep breath and told the others to follow him to his apartment. It was only a few blocks away. They could hide there while they figured out what to do next.
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The group snaked their way through the streets. Joe Stafford wrapped his arm around his wife Kathy to comfort her. Cora and Mark Lijak gripped each other's hands tightly. Bob breathed a sigh of relief when they got to his building without being spotted. The five of them crammed into his tiny apartment. Bob pulled out his small communication radio that the embassy had given him.
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The group huddled around the radio, hoping to hear some news of their colleagues at the embassy. A panicked American voice came through. He referred to himself by the code name Palmtree. Then he described how the militants were unloading guns from trucks and heading into the embassy.
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Over the next hour, the American voices on the radio gradually disappeared and were replaced by voices speaking in Farsi. To Bob, this could only mean one thing. The embassy security forces had been taken over. They were now officially under Iranian control.
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Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple podcasts. This episode contains depictions of violence and is not suitable for everyone. Please be advised.
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Since he had arrived in the country a month ago, Rodriguez had been posing as a Bolivian army captain. He'd been embedded with an elite unit of Bolivian soldiers who were trained by the United States Army. Their mission was to stop the guerrillas, who had killed 30 Bolivian soldiers so far. And earlier that day, Rodriguez's unit finally had a big break.
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Tipped off by a local farmer, they'd ambushed a group of 10 guerrillas. Rodriguez's unit had cornered the unsuspecting group at a river crossing and opened fire at close range. Paco was one of the only survivors of the attack. One of the officers in Rodriguez's unit wanted to execute Paco, but Rodriguez had stopped him.
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He believed that Paco could provide intel that would help them find Guevara, and now he was determined to extract that information. Rodriguez dragged a chair in front of Paco and took a seat. It was time to try a different approach. He kept his voice calm and reasonable. He told Paco that he just wanted to know about his life as a gorilla.
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He asked him to tell him about the men who had been in his group. Where were they from? What were they like? Paco looked up. This seemed to soften him. After a moment, he began to talk about one of the men. He was a medical student who had trained in Cuba. It wasn't especially helpful information, but at least Paco was talking. Rodriguez was determined to keep wearing him down.
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The more he knew about life in Guevara's rebellion, the better he'd be able to hone in on the man himself and make good on his vow to bring him down.
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He was supposed to be leading a revolution throughout South America, but they were still just in their very first country and already surrounded. They'd escaped for the time being, but Guevara had a feeling that the end was near. Maybe not today, but soon the Bolivian army was going to capture him.
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On a late summer night in 1967, Guevara huddled against a rock on a hillside trying to sleep. A sharp wind blew against him. He fought to take a breath, but his chest wheezed and it felt like no air was making it in. He forced himself not to panic. He'd been dealing with asthma attacks since he was a boy. He could deal with this one. But he was worried.
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His cache of medicine had recently been discovered and seized by the army. It was just the latest blow over the last long few months. In the spring, he and his men had launched a string of successful ambushes against the Bolivian army. They killed several soldiers and stolen supplies. But their attempts to grow the movement had stalled.
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In Cuba, Guevara had been able to recruit the local population to his side. Locals had provided shelter, food, information, and taken up arms. But that wasn't happening in Bolivia. It probably should not have been a surprise. For one, the region Guevara was in was sparsely populated, so there weren't many people to recruit. And the people were so far from the capital, La Paz,
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that they didn't have much contact with the government. In fact, Guevara's guerrillas seemed just as foreign to the locals as the Bolivian ruling party, so they had little interest in risking everything to help Guevara overthrow it. And as the months had dragged on, morale fell. Some of Guevara's men deserted, others were captured,
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and Guevara had reason to believe that some of them had talked because the soldiers seemed to keep finding the guerrillas' equipment stashes. And overall, the Bolivian soldiers seemed to be getting more aggressive in their fight against the guerrillas.
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Guevara was desperately trying to get word back to Cuba that they needed more fighters, but his radio had broken and he had no way to transmit a message. Meanwhile, their food was dwindling fast, the terrain was rough, and the weather was extreme. Sometimes it was brutally hot, other times the wind was so sharp it felt like it was cutting through their skin. And it was only getting worse.
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Guevara felt their only escape from the soldiers was to go higher up into the mountains. But the altitude made Guevara's asthma worse. The attacks were so intense, they kept him awake at night. As he huddled against the rock, trying to sleep, he heard two of his men break out into a fight a few yards below him. One insulted the other's mother, and the two were soon yelling and shoving.
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This was the last thing Guevara needed. He knew he should go and break up the fight, but he couldn't work up the energy. Guevara had turned 39 a few months ago. He'd written in his diary that at his age, he was starting to wonder just how much longer he could keep fighting. But as the shouting between his men grew louder, he saw one man raise his fist to punch the other one.
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Finally, Guevara lumbered to his feet and yelled down for the guys to knock it off. His voice was reedy and thin, but Guevara was still their leader. The men listened and stopped fighting. Two months later, on October 7, 1967, Che Guevara was lying in a potato patch in a narrow ravine high in the Andes. His ear was pressed to his radio.
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He was listening to a report saying that the Bolivian army had encircled the guerrillas. By this point, he had just 17 people left in his group, down from the initial 24. The Bolivian army had continued to close in on them, and a small group of guerrilla fighters had been caught in several gun battles, barely managing to escape each time.
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By early the next morning, Guevara's men spotted the soldiers on the ridges of the ravine on either side of them.
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was no way to escape their only way out was to fight guevara split his small group of men into three squadrons assigning them positions along the narrow ravine for hours there was a tense standoff both sides had their guns trained on the other but neither fired then as two of guevara's men ran to new positions the bolivian soldiers started shooting they killed one of guevara's men
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Guevara hid behind a boulder at the bottom of the ravine and shot up at the soldiers with the rest of his men. But not long into the battle, a soldier's bullet ricocheted off Guevara's gun and destroyed it, leaving him unarmed. Then, Guevara got hit. One bullet struck his left calf, while another pierced his hat, barely missing his head. Unarmed and wounded, Guevara had to escape.
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With the help of one of his men, he tried to climb out of the ravine and up a nearby embankment. They hoped that the soldiers would be distracted by the battle and not shoot at them. But Guevara, leading on his comrade for support, made it only a few feet before a Bolivian soldier burst out from the brush. The gun pointed directly at them. The soldier yelled that he had captured two guerrillas.
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A moment later, a captain in the army approached. He asked Guevara his name. Guevara didn't lie. He told him the truth. He was Ernesto Che Guevara. The captain reached into his pocket and pulled out a hand-drawn portrait. He held the portrait next to Guevara's face and checked for a scar behind his ear. A smirk came over the captain's face.
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Without another word, he whipped off his belt and bound Guevara's hands. Then he radioed his superiors that Che Guevara had been captured. The battle raged on around them, gunfire still echoing off the ravine walls. But for Guevara, it was over. Later that evening, Lieutenant Colonel Andres Selich paced the dirt floor of a schoolhouse in the nearby village of La Higuera.
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Che Guevara lay on the floor in front of him, bloody and wounded, his hands and feet bound, and next to him were the dead bodies of two of his comrades. Another man was being held alive in a separate room. Salic had immediately gotten on a helicopter and flown to La Higuera when he heard the soldiers were holding Guevara.
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His orders were to keep Guevara in custody until it could be decided if he should live or die. It wasn't an easy decision, so Salic knew he could be there for a while. There was no death penalty in Bolivia, but there also wasn't a prison with strong enough security to hold Guevara if his friends tried to break him out.
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Killing Guevara would be the most efficient, but Solich knew the Americans might not like that. He was more valuable alive than dead. But Guevara's fate was above Solich's pay grade. For now, Solich was determined to wrest as much information as possible from Guevara about his plans for Bolivia. Salich leaned down and demanded to know why Guevara had targeted Bolivia for his revolution.
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Why hadn't he gone to his own country of Argentina? Guevara didn't explain, though he acknowledged that maybe Argentina would have been better. But whichever country he started with, Guevara argued that communism was the best form of government for Latin America. Salich cut him off. He didn't want to hear Guevara's political rubbish.
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He argued that Guevara's revolution was doomed and that Bolivians had no desire to fight for communism. He noted that the majority of Guevara's guerrillas were foreigners. Then he asked Guevara his nationality. Was he Cuban or was he Argentine? Guevara answered that he was Cuban, Argentine, Bolivian, Peruvian, Ecuadorian, and so on, naming one Latin American nationality after another.
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Salic kept pushing. He asked for information on other guerrillas still on the run, but Guevara only gave evasive answers. Salic wasn't deterred. He was going to keep up this interrogation until he got what he wanted. The next morning, on October 9, 1967, CIA operative Felix Rodriguez was standing outside the schoolhouse where Guevara was being held. His mind was reeling.
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He'd arrived early with a group of high-ranking Bolivian military officials. When they landed, Rodriguez had gotten straight to work photographing documents that had been captured with Guevara. This was invaluable information on how the revolutionary leader thought and operated. It would be essential in combating other insurgencies.
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But moments ago, Colonel Centeno Anaja, the ranking officer on site, had received word that the Bolivian government was ordering Guevara to be executed. This was not what the United States wanted. The U.S. government felt that it would advance their cause further if Guevara was shown captured and weak, and they still hoped Guevara would reveal more information under interrogation.
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But Colonel Anaja was preparing to leave and bring the weapons and documents that had been captured to military command. Rodriguez knew that unless Anaja said something to contradict the order, Guevara would soon be executed and turned into a martyr. Rodriguez rushed over to Anaja. He urgently informed him that the United States wanted to keep Guevara alive no matter what.
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He told the colonel there were US aircraft standing by. They could evacuate Guevara to Panama and continue to interrogate him. He would be out of Bolivia's hands so they wouldn't have to worry about his escape. It was a win-win. Rodriguez studied Anaja's face. He knew that many in the Bolivian army agreed that it would be better to keep Guevara alive. Maybe the colonel thought so too.
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But after a moment, Anaja shook his head no. He told Rodriguez that he couldn't disobey an order that had come directly from the president of Bolivia and his Joint Chiefs of Staff.
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anaja looked rodriguez in the eye and told him that he would leave for 90 minutes and he expected che guevara to be dead by the time he returned as anaja flew away in his helicopter rodriguez debated his options he could disregard the orders and get guevara out on a u.s aircraft who knew what kind of information the united states would obtain if they were able to properly interrogate guevara this could be invaluable information to stop the spread of communism
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But whisking Guevara out of the country would risk starting a major international incident with Bolivia. The Bolivian government despised Guevara for all the soldiers he killed, and they wanted vengeance. Ultimately, Rodriguez decided he couldn't risk defying Inaja. For better or worse, he had to leave this decision in the hands of the Bolivians.
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They had made their choice that Guevara must die, no matter how much Rodriguez and the American government disagreed. Shortly after the Colonel left, Rodriguez took a deep breath and went back inside the schoolhouse. He might have been proud at one point to kill the communist revolutionary, but now he looked at the wounded man and told him he was sorry.
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He told Guevara he had done everything he could, but orders had come from the highest levels of the Bolivian government. He didn't need to explain what those orders were. Guevara knew. He looked shocked for a moment, but then he nodded. He told Rodriguez it was better this way. He shouldn't have been captured alive. Guevara asked Rodriguez to pass messages on to Fidel Castro and to his wife.
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Rodriguez agreed. He was surprised at how emotional he felt. He'd spent much of his adult life hating Guevara and everything he represented. He'd spent months tracking him down through the Bolivian mountains. But seeing an emaciated and wounded Guevara in front of him stirred him. Guevara was facing imminent death, and he was handling himself with courage and grace.
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Rodriguez found himself almost admiring him. Rodriguez hugged Guevara and stepped outside the schoolhouse where a sergeant named Mario Teran was waiting. He told Rodriguez he was volunteering to be the executioner. His unit had engaged in a firefight with Guevara's men the previous day, and Teran had lost three friends. Teran was here to avenge their deaths.
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Rodriguez shoved aside any lingering emotions he was feeling. He told Tehran that he could only shoot Guevara from the neck down. No shots to the face. It was imperative that it looked like Guevara had been shot in combat, not executed. Tehran nodded and entered the schoolhouse. Rodriguez walked up a hill. Moments later, he heard a barrage of gunfire ring out. He checked his watch.
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Che Guevara was killed at 1.10 p.m. on October 9, 1967.
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A few days later, Rodriguez was back in the United States. Inside CIA headquarters, he laid a Rolex watch on the desk of his superior. It was one of Guevara's, a souvenir of Rodriguez's time in Bolivia. Rodriguez then debriefed his bosses about what had happened after Guevara was executed. He told them how he had flown with Guevara's body on the helicopter to Valle Grande, the closest city.
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Guevara's corpse was taken to a hospital, where an autopsy was performed. The biggest debate had been what to do with the body. Bolivian army policy was to disappear the bodies of any guerrillas killed and bury them in unmarked locations. Cuba and Guevara's family doubted the Bolivian reports that Guevara had been killed, so the military wanted to prove that he really was dead.
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One colonel suggested decapitating Guevara and preserving his head as proof. but Rodriguez had argued that was too barbaric. He advocated that they remove only one finger. The fingerprint could be used to prove it belonged to Guevara. Ultimately, a compromise was reached, and they removed his hands.
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A pair of Argentine forensic experts compared the fingerprints from the severed hands to the fingerprints they had on file for Guevara. It was a positive match. Finally, Cuba, Che's family in Argentina, and the rest of the world knew Guevara really was dead. Rodriguez and his colleagues at the CIA held their breath as they waited to see how the world would react.
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Nine days after Che Guevara's death, his brother-in-arms, Fidel Castro, stood in Havana's Plaza de la Revolución. He eulogized the dead revolutionary in front of close to a million people who gathered to mourn. Castro couldn't hide his emotion. This wasn't the Cuban leader, the dictator. This was a man who lost someone important to him.
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Castro described Guevara as a model human being, the type of person revolutionaries and their children should aspire to be. Castro hailed him as the human embodiment of the revolutionary spirit. Any disagreements they had about the best approach to revolution were irrelevant. Behind him hung a huge banner with Guevara's portrait.
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Guevara was bearded with long, scraggly hair and a black beret perched on his head. His large brown eyes conveyed his purpose and determination. Castro swore that his fight would go on. Almost immediately after Guevara's death, questions arose about how exactly he had died.
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Bolivian officials made inconsistent statements to the press about when Guevara had been killed and what kind of wounds he had suffered at the time of his capture. Very quickly, the cover story that Guevara had died in combat was shot full of holes. But the Bolivian government doubled down. On October 16, 1967, a week after Guevara was executed, the armed forces released a report.
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It officially confirmed that Guevara had died in combat, but it redacted the exact time on both the death certificate and the autopsy report, fueling suspicions that the Bolivian military was hiding the truth. People quickly jumped to the theory that the United States was involved. Five days after Guevara's death, students at the Central University of Venezuela organized protests at the U.S.
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Embassy. During the height of the Cold War, it was easy for people to believe that the United States had executed Che Guevara in cold blood. The country's foreign policy was laser-focused on stopping the spread of communism, and Che Guevara was one of its most famous proponents.
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In the wake of his death and the unanswered questions about it, his armed struggle in Bolivia took on mythic proportions in media accounts and eventually books. It became a David versus Goliath story. Guevara was a small idealist going up against the giant of the United States. The truth remained classified for years.
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It wasn't until the CIA's files were released in the 1990s that many people were surprised by how small a role the United States actually played in Guevara's death. The U.S. hadn't executed him. They hadn't even wanted it. They left the decision to the Bolivian government. But the US was still involved.
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From Ballin Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called The Death of Che Guevara. Che Guevara has one of the most famous faces in the world.
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The soldier that captured Guevara had been trained by the United States Army, and CIA operatives helped track him down. And in the end, the CIA operative on the scene advised Guevara's executioner about where to shoot him. Guevara had misread the situation in Bolivia. There was no broad support for an armed insurgency, and his ranks never grew beyond 120 people.
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By the time he was captured, Guevara's mission was largely a failure. Perhaps the US could have let Guevara's rebellion run its course until it fizzled out, just like his attempted revolution in Africa. If they had, Guevara's name might have only been known to the most ardent students of the Cuban Revolution. But instead, Rodriguez was right. Killing Guevara turned him into a martyr.
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Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.
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From Ballant Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories. We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend the books Che Guevara, A Revolutionary Life by John Lee Anderson and The Fall of Che by Henry Butterfield Ryan.
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This episode was written by Austin Rackless. Sound design by Andre Plews. Our producers are Christopher B. Dunn and John Reed. Inez Ranike is our associate producer and researcher. Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson. For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel.
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Produced by me, Luke LaManna. Executive producers are Mr. Ballin, and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our senior producers are Loredana Palavoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman. Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan. Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis. For Wondery...
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In late September 1967, the famous revolutionary Ernesto Che Guevara crouched behind a tree on a rugged hillside high in the mountains of Bolivia. His comrades were nearby, cowering behind other trees and watching him anxiously. From his hiding spot, Guevara could see a Bolivian soldier halfway down the hill. One wrong move and their lives would be over. And so would their revolution.
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His portrait appears on T-shirts, coffee mugs, and posters. His signature black beret is almost instantly recognizable, and his deep-set eyes seem to peer into the future. He's come to symbolize youthful idealism and fierce rebellion. and he's viewed as the eternal underdog and a martyr for his cause.
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Having seen Che Guevara's face everywhere, I had been given the impression that he was clearly some kind of pop culture icon. Maybe at one point I thought he was in a band. It wasn't until I took an interest in military and political history that I began to understand who he actually was.
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As one of the architects of the Cuban Revolution, Guevara was once an archenemy to the United States, and the Central Intelligence Agency viewed his capture as crucial to stopping the spread of communism. To the CIA, Guevara was a terrorist intent on destabilizing Latin America and threatening the entire free world.
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The agency first opened a file on Guevara in 1954, not long after the Cuban Revolution began. Over the years, it became one of the CIA's largest records as the agency worked to track him down around the globe. Guevara's popularity in the West may be unique for a communist revolutionary.
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After all, the leader of the Cuban Revolution, Fidel Castro, is still largely seen as a dictator and serial human rights abuser. Meanwhile, Guevara is considered a legend, even though he too killed in the name of communism and oversaw the execution of 500 prisoners at a famous Cuban jail. So how did Guevara transform himself into a pop culture icon while preaching global revolution?
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And what role did the CIA play in creating the modern Che Guevara brand? Is it possible that Che has his enemies to thank for his current popularity? In November 1966, Che Guevara sat at a table at a secret training camp in the Viñales region of Cuba. The table was overflowing with roasted pig and red wine. Guevara savored every bite.
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In a few hours, he would be getting on a plane to Bolivia, where he was going to lead the next revolution. Following a similar playbook as he had used in Cuba, he planned to unite the peasants of the country against their oppressors. He would rally them under one rebel banner and lead them in attacking the Bolivian army until the government collapsed.
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An advance team was already in Bolivia, making contact with the local Communist Party and finding a secure location for their base of operations. Now it was time for Guevara to join them. Guevara had dreamed of spreading the revolution through South America since he was a young man. But as he looked around the table, part of him became sad that this was the end of an era for him.
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At the head of the table was Cuban leader Fidel Castro, Guevara's longtime friend. He was holding court, telling stories about how he and Guevara had conquered Cuba. The table laughed as Castro explained how he'd once had to yell at Guevara for leaving his rifle behind during a fight and fleeing into the hills. Guevara felt a wave of warmth wash over him.
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He and Castro had had their ups and downs over the years. They had disagreed on the best way to run Cuba's economy and maintain its relationship with the Soviet Union and China. But right now, none of that mattered. Castro was Guevara's best friend, his brother in arms, his ideological debate partner. And Guevara didn't know when he would see him again.
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His dream was that revolution in Bolivia would be the spark that ignited communist uprisings across the continent, including in Guevara's native Argentina. Such a massive revolution could take years, but only if his plan actually worked this time. The previous year, he had tried to start a revolution in the Congo, but the mission had ended in disaster and he was back in Cuba in a matter of months.
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As Castro wrapped up another story, Guevara rubbed his hand over the top of his head. He still wasn't used to feeling the smoothness of his scalp. As part of his disguise, a specialist from Cuba's intelligence services had personally plucked hairs one by one from Guevara's scalp.
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International intelligence agencies, including the CIA, were desperate to know where Guevara was, so he was traveling to Bolivia undercover as a middle-aged businessman with a receding hairline. Between the thinning hair and the thick black glasses he wore, he was unrecognizable. Even his own daughters had been fooled by his appearance. Guevara checked his watch and leapt from the table.
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A decade earlier, Guevara helped lead the Cuban Revolution that carried Fidel Castro to power. Guevara had come to Bolivia ten months ago to start a communist uprising there, too. But the mission hadn't gone as he'd hoped. And now he'd heard on the radio that the Bolivian army had 1,800 soldiers searching for him and his few remaining men.
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He'd gotten so wrapped up in all the tales of his glory days with Castro, he'd lost track of the time. He needed to go to the airport now or he would miss his flight. Castro stood up and the two men hugged. Then they just looked at each other until Guevara couldn't bear it any longer. Overwhelmed by sadness, he broke Castro's gaze and hurried into a car that was waiting for him.
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Once inside, he barked at the driver to hurry. It was time to lead the next revolution. A month later, in December 1966, Guevara was in the foothills of the Andes Mountains in southeastern Bolivia, training 24 men committed to overthrowing the government.
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Their secret base camp was stocked with food and ammunition, and a network of comrades in the capital of La Paz were carrying messages to and from Guevara. Guevara had concerns about his rebel army. Of the 24 men under him, only nine were from Bolivia. This was supposed to be a Bolivian uprising, but there were more Cuban rebels in their small group.
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Guevara knew he needed more, at least 20 Bolivians. So in late December, he prepared to meet Bolivia's Communist Party leader, Mario Monge. With Monge's support, Guevara hoped he could recruit the remaining fighters he needed. When Monge arrived at their camp, Guevara led him to the forest to talk privately.
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He pitched his vision that a Bolivian uprising was the first shot needed in a revolution that would bring down United States dominance over the continent forever. To Guevara, everything was riding on success in Bolivia. And that success was riding on Monge's support. But Monge had several demands.
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Guevara thought Monge should serve as the political leader of the movement, while Guevara would lead the military operations. But Monge wanted to be the military leader too. Guevara would not agree to that. They also argued over whether to work with Monge's rival political party, the Maoist Communist Party. Guevara thought they should, but Monge again disagreed.
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And he said that Bolivia wasn't ready for an armed revolution yet. The men debated for hours but got nowhere. And the next day, before Monge left, he told the nine Bolivians under Guevara that they should also leave the camp. He warned that if they stayed, they would be expelled from the Bolivian Communist Party, and their families would stop receiving stipends.
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The Bolivians decided to stay, but they were discouraged, and Guevara knew it. He couldn't let Monge's defeatist talk derail their plan. So Guevara did what he did best. He rallied the troops. He told them that even without the support of the local Communist Party, they would still unite with all Bolivians who wanted to make the revolution happen and end American imperialism.
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Guevara was not going to let this setback stop him or his vision. Four months later, in March 1967, Guevara's armed rebellion had begun. It hadn't started off exactly as he had planned it, though. In early February, Guevara had taken most of his men on a training march, but they'd gotten lost and didn't return to camp for 48 days, a month longer than planned.
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By the time he returned, the camp was in an uproar, and Guevara learned that two new recruits had deserted. They were recaptured, but Bolivian army planes were also circling overhead, and some of Guevara's scouts had spotted government soldiers nearby, which made all the revolutionaries nervous.
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Down the hill, the soldier spoke to a peasant woman, and as they were talking, he seemed to point at the very tree where Guevara was hiding. Guevara's chest tightened, and his lungs fought for air. It wasn't just anxiety. A month ago, the Bolivian army had found his cache of asthma medication and confiscated it.
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Then, the day after Guevar's return, one of his sentries killed a Bolivian soldier who had gotten too close to the rebel camp. The revolution was on. Guevara quickly abandoned the camp and led his men along a river until they came to a group of unsuspecting Bolivian soldiers. Guevara decided to ambush them and sent five of his men ahead to create a diversion.
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At 8 am the next morning, one of the rebels from the ambush team sprinted into Guevara's new camp with news that the plan had worked. The soldiers had walked right into their trap. The guerrillas killed seven of them while capturing 21 more. They also seized weapons, including mortars and machine guns.
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Even better, they had found strategy notes that showed another unit of Bolivian soldiers was headed toward them. Now Guevara's men could ambush them too. Guevara still had major concerns about the future of the rebellion. He needed more men and food and more time for training. And he was concerned about the distrust between the Cuban and Bolivian factions of his rebel army.
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But in their first real skirmish, the revolutionaries had come out the victor. Guevara was starting to think that it was possible they could pull off this rebellion after all. In the summer of 1967, CIA operative Felix Rodriguez walked into the CIA field station in Miami, Florida.
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He'd received a call from his supervisor asking him to come in for a meeting, and he didn't know what it was about, but he hoped it had something to do with Bolivia. Guerrilla fighters had been ambushing the Bolivian army, seemingly at will, for the past few months.
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The United States had been helping the Bolivians defeat the guerrilla uprising by sending Green Berets to help with training, but Rodriguez hoped the CIA was preparing to take an even more active role. Rodriguez was born in Cuba. His uncle had been a minister in the government, but when Castro had taken control, Rodriguez and his entire family had fled the country.
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Rodriguez was 18 years old at the time and already involved in military training. He'd vowed to spend the rest of his life stopping the Cuban Revolution from spreading any further. In the field station, Rodriguez was led to a back office where he was introduced to a CIA division chief. The chief told Rodriguez what he was about to say wasn't to leave the room.
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The CIA had reason to believe that Che Guevara was in Bolivia. Rodriguez was shocked. For years, many suspected Guevara had died in the failed Congo uprising. But now it appeared that wasn't the case. The division chief said that if the communists took over Bolivia, they might be able to spread their ideology throughout the region, including Argentina and Brazil.
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The CIA had also heard that Cuba wanted to start several guerrilla wars in Latin America, similar to the one currently raging in Vietnam. By forcing the United States to engage in multiple conflicts, they'd strain its military and intelligence resources. The revolution in Bolivia needed to be stopped before it got any bigger and even more dangerous.
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The division chief asked Rodriguez if he would be willing to go to Bolivia to find Guevara. He would pose as Felix Ramos, a member of the Bolivian army. Rodriguez didn't need to think about it. He immediately said yes. This was the mission he'd been waiting for since he was 18. In late August 1967, Rodriguez paced in a makeshift interrogation room in Valle Grande, Bolivia.
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Guevara struggled without his inhaler, and his breathing only got worse as he and his men climbed to higher and higher altitudes. At times, he could barely walk, so they were forced to travel by mule. The soldier stared right at Guevara's tree for a long, tense moment. Then he abruptly turned and walked down the hill, away from where Guevara and his men were hiding. Guevara let out a sigh.
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In front of him, a gorilla who went by the name Paco slumped in a chair, his hands tied behind his back. The young rebel was filthy. His long beard was matted with knots. Rodriguez growled at Paco. He demanded information about the rebel forces. Paco hissed back that he'd never talk. Rodriguez smiled. He'd see about that.
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Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. It was the middle of the night on December 4th, 1969. Deborah Johnson was about nine months pregnant in bed sound asleep next to the father of her unborn child.
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But Debra was doing everything she could to keep the chapter afloat, spending practically every waking minute at headquarters. She was halfway down the block when several police cars whizzed past her and screeched to a halt outside their building.
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Deborah stopped dead and watched in terror as officers jumped out of their cars and aimed their guns at headquarters, yelling for everyone inside to get down. She wanted to turn and run, but she knew that would only draw attention to herself. One of the cops might recognize her as Fred's girlfriend. The safest thing she could do was keep her head down and keep walking.
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She crossed the street and listened helplessly as glass shattered and the sounds of fighting erupted from inside the building. She could hear the police racing up the steps and bursting into Fred's office. She picked up the pace, praying none of the police would look her way. Then she heard a gunshot.
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Then machine gun fire ripped across the front of the house. Windows shattered. Bullets sank into the drywall. The whole apartment shook with the impact. And at that moment, Deborah had the horrifying thought that she, Fred, and her baby might not make it out of this alive.
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She looked back and saw police dragging panthers out of their building, throwing them into cop cars. One of the cops had Bill O'Neill in handcuffs. More gunshots sounded, police and Panthers were yelling, glass was breaking, and the upstairs air conditioning unit came crashing down onto the sidewalk. Deborah turned the corner, feeling sick.
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She didn't know if any of her friends had been hurt in the gunfight, or even killed. Privately, she wondered what would have happened to her and the baby if she had arrived five minutes earlier. She might not be so lucky next time. Two weeks later, on August 14th, a young lawyer named Jeff Haas walked into the People's Church on Ashland Avenue, just a couple miles from Black Panther headquarters.
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Jeff was two years out of law school and had been doing civil justice work in his free time. As a white man, Jeff was in the minority at the church, which was filled to the brim with Black Panthers. They'd been using the church as a meeting space ever since headquarters was raided. Jeff had driven past the building that morning. It was full of debris and riddled with bullet holes.
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The Panthers had been working to clean the space up, but they still had a long way to go. Jeff spotted a colleague of his sitting in a pew near the back of the church and snuck in beside him. The colleague had invited Jeff to the church that morning. Their law firm was representing Fred Hampton and had recently appealed his conviction to the state Supreme Court.
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Two days ago, Jeff's colleague got Fred released from prison on bond while they waited to hear whether the court would uphold a sentence. Jeff wanted to hear Fred speak since their law firm would likely be doing more pro bono work for the Panthers in the future.
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jeff believed in social justice and he was intrigued by everything he'd heard about the 20 year old black panther chairman but he wasn't convinced that someone so young was capable of leading a revolution a minute later fred walked to the pulpit the room exploded with applause someone shouted free fred hampton and the rest of the church joined in stomping their feet and chanting fred smiled warmly and told the crowd
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i'm free the answering cheers were so loud that the wall shook jeff couldn't help but join in with the applause fred assured his fellow panthers that nothing would stop him from pursuing their mission he told them to stand and in an instant the entire church was on its feet jeff was impressed fred really knew how to mobilize a crowd Fred held up his right hand and told the crowd to do the same.
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He said, I am, and the church responded, a revolutionary. The call and response continued. Jeff wanted to join in, but the word revolutionary caught in his throat. He believed in social justice, but he never felt part of a movement before. He wasn't one to join the fray. But Fred's passion was infectious. Jeff couldn't help it. He said, quietly at first, I am a revolutionary.
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He said it again, chanting with the rest of the crowd. Each time, it became easier, until he was as loud as everyone else around him. The meeting lit a fire in Jeff, one that was still burning by the time he got home. He knew that Fred was a once-in-a-lifetime leader and that this was not a fight that he could watch from the sidelines. Jeff decided to leave his job at the new law firm.
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He was ready to join the revolution.
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In early October, Deborah stood in the middle of her new living room, directing Bill O'Neill and a couple other Panthers as they moved boxes into the house. She was seven months pregnant and couldn't lift any of the moving boxes herself, but was happy to order the boys around. She heard Fred upstairs unpacking their new bedroom.
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They decided to move in together and rented this five room apartment just a few doors down from headquarters. Some of the Panthers had cautioned them against renting a place in the city. They said she and Fred should get a place in the suburbs, further away from the Chicago police.
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But the couple decided it was more important to be close to their base, where Fred was recruiting new Panthers every day. Bill set down the last box from the truck, threw on his leather jacket, and called upstairs for Fred, saying it was time to go. Deborah heard footsteps overhead, then Fred came bounding down the steps. He kissed her and followed Bill out the door.
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He and Deborah decided that for his safety, he should vary up his routine, never let the cops figure out where he was going to sleep. Tonight, he'd stay with his mom in the suburbs, and Bill would drive him. As Deborah watched him go, she did what she always did. She said a silent prayer that he would make it to his destination safely.
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On December 2nd, Jeff Haas stood outside the steel door of Black Panther headquarters. The front of the building was still marked with bullet holes. Over the past few months, police had raided and shot up headquarters so many times that the owner of the building was threatening to evict the Panthers. So Fred decided to raise the money to buy the building.
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And since Jeff had some experience with real estate law, he offered to draw up the papers and make it official. Fred and a few other Panthers were already waiting for Jeff when he got upstairs. Jeff set down his briefcase and took out a stack of papers. He smiled and told Fred that once he signed them, this beautiful, bullet riddled building would be all his.
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Fred beamed as he looked the papers over, filled in a few blanks and signed the bottom. Jeff promised to file the paperwork right away. They gave each other a nod and said, power to the people. It was the last time Jeff would see Fred Hampton alive.
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The next evening, Deborah gripped the armrest in Bill O'Neill's car as he sped through Chicago's West Side, driving her home from Fred's mother's house. Bill usually drove like he was in the Grand Prix, and Deborah was doing her best not to get carsick. When they finally pulled up to their apartment, the lights were on.
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Through a gap in the curtains, she could see Fred and a few other Panthers sitting in the living room. Deborah wondered if they were planning for when Fred went back to jail. A few days ago, they learned that the state Supreme Court had upheld Fred's prison sentence for stealing $71 of ice cream. Next week, he would have to surrender himself to prison, where he would serve two to five years.
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Deborah was furious and heartbroken at the same time. And to make it worse, the police had been tailing them more than ever since the sentencing, probably to make sure Fred didn't try to run or go into hiding. Deborah guessed Fred was lecturing some new students. It was more important than ever to leave the Panthers in the strongest shape possible before he had to go to jail.
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Deborah knew the meeting would run late. She told Bill he might as well come inside with her and listen in on the lecture. She joked that he could use a refresher anyway, since he skipped so many of them. He was a man of action. He wasn't as hot on the education part. Bill followed Debra into the apartment. He went straight to the kitchen and started rooting around in the fridge.
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Debra went to the living room to join Fred, who helped her down onto the couch. She was nine months pregnant now and moved slowly. Fred asked if they were tailed on the way over, but she shook her head no. She didn't think so. Fred was still sleeping at different places every night to keep his schedule unpredictable.
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He and Deborah were supposed to stay at Fred's mother's house tonight, but Fred changed his mind and said he decided to stay with Deborah at their apartment instead. He wanted them to be alone together while he still could. Deborah was too tired to join in the conversation, so she just listened.
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A few minutes later, Bill came out with a few beers for everyone, and a Kool-Aid for Fred, who never drank alcohol. He couldn't afford to have his mind clouded for even a minute. The group drank and talked, and soon Deborah was yawning. Fred noticed, because after a few minutes, he suggested they go to bed. Upstairs, Deborah called Fred's mother to let her know they weren't coming tonight.
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Then she handed the phone to Fred while she got ready for bed. As Fred listened to his mom, he was already looking drowsy. Deborah smiled to herself as she went to the bathroom to brush her teeth. By the time she got back to their bedroom, Fred was fast asleep, the phone still in his hand. This was typical of Fred. He ran himself ragged every day and fell asleep the minute his head hit the pillow.
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But tonight, he'd seemed especially tired. Deborah figured it was the prison sentence looming over him. She hung up the phone and climbed into bed next to him, thinking about how this was one of the last nights they would get to sleep like this. A few hours later, bullets flew as Deborah crouched over Fred, shaking him, begging him to wake up.
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Someone began shouting out the window to stop shooting that there was a pregnant woman in the house. And for a moment, the gunfire ceased. Then two cops came into the room and lifted Deborah off the bed. She looked over her shoulder. The last thing she saw was Fred flat on his back, still asleep. One of the Panthers tried shaking him, but he was limp and unresponsive.
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And that's when Debra realized Fred had to have been drugged. That was the only possible explanation for why he hadn't moved a muscle through all the gunfire and chaos. She didn't understand how it could have happened. Fred was so careful about what he drank and ate. As the police walked her down the hallway, Debra tried to keep it together. She told herself to keep breathing.
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protect the baby at all costs to fight the panic rising in her chest she looked into the eyes of the policeman rushing into the apartment trying to memorize their badge numbers and faces she wanted to know exactly who was doing this to her family and make sure they paid for it one of the cops threw her bathrobe open and said what do you know we have a broad here
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Then police rushed into their bedroom where Fred was still unconscious. Two gunshots rang out. Deborah heard someone say, he's good and dead now. The following afternoon, on December 4th, Jeff Haas was at the police station. He was fuming. He'd been trying to see Deborah and the other Panthers who'd been arrested in the raid.
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but the sergeant on duty told him the Panthers weren't allowed to see anyone, not even lawyers. Jeff argued that was illegal, but the sergeant didn't care. That morning, Jeff had heard two cops being interviewed on the radio. They said they were part of the raid that killed Fred Hampton. They'd come to his apartment with a warrant, and the Panthers had started firing shots.
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By the time they got into Fred's bedroom, he was already dead. Jeff knew instinctively that this was a lie. The Panthers would never open fire on police without provocation. After making a special call to a contact at the state attorney's office, Jeff finally got past the sergeant. He was led into a small, windowless room with a wooden table in the middle and a two-sided mirror on the wall.
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Jeff sat down, and a moment later, Deborah Johnson, a woman he had never met, was brought in. Deborah was shaking, and her face was stained with tears. She looked exhausted as she dropped down into a chair. Jeff introduced himself and explained he was with the People's Law Office, that he'd like to help her if he could. He wanted to make sure that she and the baby were okay.
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He knew that Deborah was new any day now. Deborah told him that Fred wouldn't wake up. The entire bed was shaking from bullets hitting the frame, but he'd just lay there without moving. She said he must have been drugged. Jeff agreed. The question was how. Jeff already knew that the police were tailing Fred and listening in on his phone calls.
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But now he had to wonder, could they have flipped one of the Panthers and gotten them to drug Fred the night of the raid? Jeff couldn't voice his suspicions. The police were listening in on him and Debra. But by the way Debra was looking at him, he suspected that she was thinking the same thing.
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A few weeks later, Jeff stood in his office going over the results of a private autopsy report that his firm had ordered for Fred. After his ordeal at the police station and the way Fred's death was being talked about on the news, Jeff knew that the police were spinning lies to make the Panthers seem like criminals. It was time to take things into his own hands.
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The cops still maintained that the Panthers had been the first to shoot at them. But now Jeff had evidence to prove that wasn't true. The day of Fred's murder, one of Jeff's partners had the presence of mind to run over to Fred's house and take video footage. He counted around 90 shots coming into the house from outside where the police were standing.
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Only one single bullet came from inside from a Panther gun. Even if the Panthers had fired first, a single bullet didn't warrant 90 in return. To Jeff, it was clear that the cops had instigated the bloodshed. But the real smoking gun was the autopsy report in Jeff's hands. It said that Fred was shot twice at point-blank range. This wasn't the case of a stray bullet. It was an execution.
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And most startling of all was the final note left by the coroner. that a large amount of a sleeping pill called secobarbital had been found in Fred's system. Fred didn't use drugs, which meant someone drugged him earlier that night. And based on how careful Fred was, the person who slipped him the drug was likely someone he trusted.
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On May 8, 1970, six months after Fred's death, Jeff sat in a courtroom with his legal partners. In the row behind them sat Deborah and the other Panthers who'd been arrested during the raid. They'd all been indicted with at least one count of attempted murder, one count of armed violence, and several weapons counts. Jeff was proud to be one of the lawyers representing them.
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From the get-go, Jeff and his partners knew that if the Panthers wanted to win over a jury, they would have to win over the public first. They encouraged the Panthers to speak to the media to tell their side of the story in the hopes that it would drum up public support and turn the spotlight on Chicago PD. The Panthers didn't hold back. They gave tours of Fred and Deborah's destroyed apartment.
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Giant crowds came to see the bloody mattress and bullet-riddled walls for themselves. 5,000 people came to Fred's funeral the week after he was killed. Support swelled for Deborah and her newborn son, Fred Hampton Jr., who was born on December 29th, just 25 days after his father's murder. Someone called Fred's murder a northern lynching, and the phrase caught on.
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now two months later as jeff sat in the courtroom he hoped that their media campaign was enough to keep the panthers out of prison he heard people whispering power to the people around the room as though encouraging one another to keep the faith bill o'neill gave jeff a salute from his place in the audience they were all in this together The judge entered and everyone rose.
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Jeff took a deep breath, readying himself for a fight. But instead, the opposing counsel announced that they were dismissing the indictment. Their evidence against the Panthers was insufficient, so they were no longer pressing charges. The case was dropped and the Panthers were free to go. Jeff was shocked. He looked at Deborah, who was too stunned to speak.
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For a moment, everyone just stared at one another in disbelief. They had spent months preparing for this trial, building a defense, and readying the Panthers to fight for their lives. And now they were just free to go? For a moment, he wondered if the bad press had been so intense that the prosecution had decided to drop the case.
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As the news sunk in, Deborah and the others began hugging one another in relief. And that's when Jeff had a brainwave. What if the prosecution had dropped the case because they were hiding something? If the trial were to move forward, the police would have to reveal the names of any informants they were working with.
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Maybe, just maybe, they were dismissing the case because they didn't want to reveal their source. The same source who told them where Fred was going to be that night. Maybe even the same source who had slipped something into his drink. And now that the case was dismissed, Jeff doubted he would ever know the truth.
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Three years later, on a cold Saturday morning in February 1973, Jeff was in his kitchen pouring himself a cup of coffee. He grabbed the newspaper off the table and saw the day's headline. It read, Informer Aids FBI. He turned to the story and nearly dropped his coffee in shock.
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The article named Bill O'Neill, Fred's former chief of security, as an FBI informant who had been working with the feds since 1968. On the next page, Jeff saw Bill's familiar face. He was Fred's friend, his bodyguard. Jeff felt a rush of fury as he realized that Bill, the man Fred trusted with his life, had to be reporting Fred's movements back to the FBI.
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That's how they knew where Fred was on the night they raided his apartment. And that's how drugs made their way into Fred's drink. Jeff remembered how Bill had sobbed after Fred died. He now realized that this hadn't been a display of grief, but of guilt. Bill, the lovable loudmouth, had been a spy the entire time, and he had gotten Fred Hampton killed.
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Jeff didn't want to believe it, but the more he thought about it, the more it began to make sense. After all, Bill never attended Fred's lectures on Panther politics because he didn't really care about the mission. Yet he always pushed for the Panthers to be more militaristic. He carried a gun himself and tried to get them to commit crimes.
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Jeff now realized that Bill had been trying to set them up, to give police just cause to arrest them, to harass and kill them. It was genius, and that made Jeff feel sick. On the night of the raid, Bill had been one of the last Panthers at the apartment before Fred and Deborah went to sleep.
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It would have been only too easy for him to slip sleeping pills into Fred's drink, and Fred never would have suspected Bill. He was his bodyguard, his last line of defense, the man who was supposed to shield him from danger. After the newspaper article outed Bill as an informant, Jeff and his partners took the Chicago Police Department to court for Fred's wrongful death and the unlawful raid.
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The trial lasted 18 months, and throughout that time, the FBI remained uncooperative about handing over documents. The trial ended with a deadlocked jury. But three years later, in April 1979, an appeals court called for the lawsuit to be heard again. That's when Chicago PD chose to settle the case out of court instead. Bill O'Neill was overwhelmed with guilt for his part in Fred's death.
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It would follow him for the rest of his life. In 1989, Bill gave an interview for a television documentary about Fred Hampton. He talked about what it was like to embed himself in the Panthers as an FBI informant. And in January 1990, Bill O'Neill committed suicide. In November 1982, almost 13 years after Fred was murdered, Deborah Johnson left a meeting with Fred's family and her lawyers.
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The Chicago PD was awarding them $1.85 million to be split between her, the other survivors of the raid, and Fred's family for damages. Of course, it was no consolation for the hell they had all gone through and the loss they had sustained. The police had robbed Deborah of her partner and her son, Fred Jr., of the chance to meet his father.
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No amount of money could erase the pain of Fred's death or the echoes of trauma that haunted them all for the rest of their lives. Like Muhammad Ali and many other black power activists in the 1960s and 70s, Deborah changed what she called her slave name and started going by Akua Njeri. Akua went on to become an activist and an author. She taught Fred Jr.
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about his father's mission, the cause he was killed for, In 2021, the mother and son raised the funds to buy and restore Hampton Senior's boyhood home in Maywood, Illinois. The goal was to grant the building landmark status and to refurbish it as a museum. In the end, it became much more than that.
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It served as a community meeting place and education center, a place where like-minded people could come together and study Hampton's mission. A little more than a year later, on September 4th, 2023, Akua and her son returned to the site where Fred Sr. was shot and killed at 2337 West Monroe Street. But this time, they were accompanied by Chicago Mayor Brandon Johnson. He proclaimed that Fred Sr.
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From Ballant Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called The Black Panther Plot.
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's birthday, August 30th, would now be known as Chairman Fred Hampton Day in the city of Chicago. When Mayor Johnson handed Akua the proclamation, she wept as the crowd began to chant, Long live Chairman Fred. Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. From Ballin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories.
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We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend The Assassination of Fred Hampton, How the FBI and the Chicago Police Murdered a Black Panther in by Jeffrey Haas, interviews with Deborah published by Washington University in St. Louis, and articles in Slate, Esquire, and the Village Free Press.
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This episode was written by Aaron Land. Sound design by Ryan Potesta. Our producers are Christopher B. Dunn and John Reed. Our associate producers and researchers are Sarah Vytack and Teja Pelikonda. Fact-checking by Brian Ponant. For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins.
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Production support by Avery Siegel. Produced by me, Luke LaManna. Executive producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our head of sound is Marcelino Villalpando. Senior producers are Loredana Palavoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman. Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan. Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis. For Wondery.
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From 1956 to 1971, the US government sanctioned a covert operation called the Counterintelligence Program, or COINTELPRO. It was run by the FBI with the purpose of infiltrating and spying on any group that the government saw as radical or threatening. They hired informants who would join these groups and report on their movements.
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And while some of this undercover work helped to undermine hate groups like the Ku Klux Klan, the FBI also targeted groups such as the Communist Party, the American Indian Movement, and at the very top of the list, the Black Panthers. The Black Panther Party was an African-American revolutionary organization founded in Oakland, California in 1966.
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Originally formed to patrol black neighborhoods and protect them from police brutality, the party eventually turned into a socialist-leaning political group that believed black Americans should arm themselves as protection from the cops. They eagerly joined the fight for equality and social justice, often condemning the U.S. government.
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For longtime FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover, the Black Panthers became almost an obsession. He saw them as violent and out of control, and his administration labeled them a black nationalist hate group. The FBI even adopted the motto, discredit, disrupt, and destroy. In the winter of 1968, 18-year-old Deborah Johnson sat in her living room with a college textbook in her lap.
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His name was Fred Hampton and he was the chairman of the Chicago black Panther party. Suddenly the door swung open and one of their fellow black Panthers barreled into their bedroom, yelling that the house was surrounded by cops. Deborah turned to Fred, still fast asleep next to her. She shook him and screamed his name, but he didn't move.
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She yawned and glanced at the clock. It was after midnight, and she still had a few chapters to go. She turned the TV on to the Ronnie Barrett late night show for a little background noise to help her stay awake. Deborah half listened as she got back to her reading, until Ronnie announced his guest that night. a couple of high-ranking members of the Black Panther Party.
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Debra looked up and watched as a couple guys in leather jackets and black berets took their seats next to Ronnie. One of them caught her eye. He was tall, handsome, and with a voice like a church preacher. He introduced himself as Fred Hampton, chairman of the Chicago chapter. He looked young, not much older than herself, but he spoke with the authority of someone twice his age.
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Fred started talking about the free meals program that the Panthers ran for kids in Chicago. He said it wasn't rocket science that kids who didn't get anything to eat weren't able to learn, and that education was the key to interrupting cycles of oppression. Deborah felt immediately drawn to Fred, to his personality, his mission, his charisma.
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A strange feeling came over her, like she was staring at her future. She knew that someday their paths would cross. A few months later, Deborah walked down one of the gravel pathways at Wright City College in Chicago, where she was a freshman. She passed a notice board where students usually advertised open mic nights or babysitting jobs. But today, a flyer caught her eye.
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Her school was bringing Fred Hampton and other Black Panthers to give a talk on campus. Deborah's heart skipped a beat. This was how she was going to meet Fred. Later, she told her friends at the Black Student Union about the talk. But to her surprise, some didn't want to go. They said they were busy with schoolwork, but others were more honest. The Black Panthers could mean trouble.
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The cops trailed them and sometimes broke up their events with billy clubs. Not even a college campus felt safe from potential violence. Deborah was disappointed, but she decided to go anyway. A few days later, she entered the back of the school auditorium. The room was packed. Deborah scanned the crowd for an open seat and found one in the front row.
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The Black Panthers filed in, wearing their iconic uniform, leather jackets, and matching black berets. Fred led the charge. Deborah thought he looked even taller than on TV, and he gave off the kind of confidence that felt magnetic. Every eye followed him to the front of the room.
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And when he began to talk about serving his community and empowering the people, Deborah felt herself leaning forward in her chair. Deborah could have sworn Fred glanced at her and that the corner of his mouth twitched with a smile. After the talk was over, Deborah worked up the courage to go up and say hello. When she shook Fred's hand, she felt a bolt of electricity run up her arm.
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She had spent months dreaming of meeting this man, and now her premonition was becoming reality. A few months later, in late spring, Deborah sat in a folding chair at Black Panther headquarters in Chicago. She was taking notes as one of the Panthers gave a lecture on the party's beliefs.
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As Deborah continued shaking Fred, a dozen gunshots exploded from the street. The bedroom walls shook from the impact. With a wave of panic, Deborah realized they were shooting up the building. Deborah heard the downstairs windows shatter. She screamed and then turned back to Fred, frantic to wake him. The panther who had run into the room slammed the door shut, barricading them inside.
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Deborah joined the Black Panthers right after Fred's speech at Wright College and had been doing her best to handle the steep learning curve that came with joining the party. She had political orientation classes like these a few times a week. All the new recruits would pile into headquarters and a senior member, sometimes Fred himself, would talk about the party's politics.
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On top of these classes, Debra was expected to volunteer at their free meals program and at the free medical clinic. Plus, she was still juggling her college workload. She had never been more busy, but she loved it. She also loved Fred. The two of them had started dating after they met on campus. Deborah fanned herself with her notebook.
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There were so many new Panthers crammed into headquarters that the room felt stuffy. The uptick in membership was thanks to Fred, and it wasn't just Deborah who thought so. Everybody knew Fred was the one drawing in dozens of recruits. Plus, Fred was making alliances with other groups outside the Panthers, too.
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He'd formed the Rainbow Coalition with a Puerto Rican turf gang called the Young Lords and a group of white Southern leftists called the Young Patriots. It was no wonder that headquarters was usually bursting at the seams.
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senior panther stopped his lecture to sip some water and deborah looked out the window there she spotted a two-tone sedan parked on the curb with two middle-aged white men sitting in the front seat deborah rolled her eyes the cops were here again cops were always hanging around headquarters sometimes they followed recruits out of the building just to intimidate them
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A few recruits had even been roughed up. And on top of that, the headquarters phone lines were being tapped. Deborah knew the cops saw the Panthers as a threat to society. Many Panthers wondered if a larger government agency was behind it all, like the FBI. A lot of the college chapter thought there could already be an undercover cop or FBI informant among their ranks. They had to be careful.
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After the class wrapped up, Deborah headed upstairs to Fred's office. She knocked, and the chapter's head of security, Bill O'Neill, let her in. Debra had mixed feelings about Bill. He was a loudmouth who drove a fancy car and had a big ego. But he'd been with the chapter since its early days and took his job seriously.
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So much so that last year he tried to build a full-scale electric chair inside Panther headquarters. Bill said it would scare off any undercover FBI informants trying to mess with the Panthers. Debra doubted whether the chair actually worked, but Bill said that didn't matter. It was just there for intimidation. In short, Bill was a handful.
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He was always trying to convince Fred to stir up some kind of trouble. But Fred was good at keeping him in check. And in the end, Bill was fiercely loyal to Fred. So Fred used Bill as a personal bodyguard, too. Deborah stepped into the office and asked everybody but Fred to leave. Everyone filed out of the room until it was just her, Fred and Bill.
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Deborah smiled and assured Bill that Fred wasn't in any danger. Bill looked to Fred, who nodded that it was OK to go. Deborah took a deep breath and told Fred the news. She was pregnant. She knew they'd only been dating a few months, but they were going to be a family. Fred looked stunned. Then he raced over to kiss her. Deborah burst into tears. She was both excited and terrified.
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Becoming a mother was daunting enough. But she and Fred led risky lives. It was dangerous to be a panther, and even more so to be Fred's partner. It would be a full-time job keeping the new baby safe, but she decided that it was worth the risk. A month later, on May 27th, 1969, Debra sat in the back of a downtown courtroom, racked with nerves.
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Then, a bullet flew into one of the bedroom windows, and Deborah rolled over to cover Fred from the glass. She begged him to wake up, but he didn't so much as flutter his eyelids. She worried he'd been shot, but there was no time to search for a bullet wound. The Panther screamed out of the window for the cops to stop shooting, that a pregnant woman was inside.
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About a year earlier, Fred had been arrested and charged with robbery. The police claimed that he stole $71 worth of ice cream bars from an ice cream truck, and handed them out to the neighborhood kids. They said the ice cream vendor identified Fred's picture in a photo lineup. Fred denied the charges but was arrested anyway, and today they were awaiting his sentence.
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This was just the Chicago PD's pathetic attempt to take Fred off the streets and put him behind bars. He was the glue that held the Black Panthers together. They probably figured that if Fred went away, his chapter would fall apart. The judge entered the courtroom and Deborah's heart started pounding. She glanced at Bill O'Neill, who seemed just as upset as she was.
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He couldn't protect Fred from what was about to come. The other Panthers in the room looked equally nervous. The judge read over Fred's crime and the evidence against him. Then he delivered the sentence. Fred would serve two to five years in prison. The Panthers around the courtroom jumped to their feet, yelling as the police led Fred away in handcuffs. Deborah was horrified.
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Their baby would be born in seven months and Fred would be gone. Aside from her and the baby, Deborah worried that without Fred, the Chicago PD's plan would come true and their chapter really would fall apart. There was only one thing to do. She had to appeal the conviction. Two months later, on July 31st, Deborah turned the corner on West Monroe Street, walking toward Panther Headquarters.
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It had been a rough few months without Fred. He was capable of juggling a hundred things at once and rallying a room to action. Without him, it was hard to keep everything going. Meetings were unfocused, the chapter lacked direction, and new recruits were already beginning to fall away.
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He did a double take when he noticed Bonnie. Thinking fast, Bonnie explained she was looking for an exit. Could the agent point her in the right direction? The agent smiled and walked her back to the waiting room. As she rushed down the stairs and out onto the street, Bonnie felt herself relax for the first time that day. She glanced down at her notepad to review her scribbles.
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She had good news to report. There was no alarm system and many of the cabinets seemed easy to access. Then a terrifying thought crossed her mind. Despite her disguise, the FBI had seen her face. What if they suspected her in the wake of the robbery? Bonnie pushed the thought aside. She'd come this far. She couldn't stop now.
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When March 8th arrived a few weeks later, it was a little past 8 p.m. when Keith Forsyth parked his car in an alleyway near the FBI office and quietly got out. His stomach was a mess of knots. Keith knew that if he couldn't pick the lock on the front door, the rest of the plan was shot. But he told himself he could get it done.
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Keith glanced around the empty street as he made his way to the front of the building. The coast was clear. This first entrance was always unlocked. Keith let himself inside and crept up the stairs to the second floor where the FBI was located. He came to a stop before the door to the office. Panic flooded his body as he realized a second lock had been installed.
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It was time to get the hell out of there. Before leaving, Bob stopped at a big teletype machine that the FBI used to send confidential messages and cut the cord. Just then, he spotted a photo of J. Edgar Hoover, the head of the FBI, on a shelf. Bob pocketed the photo as a memento of his achievement.
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It must have happened sometime after Bonnie had visited the office. This lock was way more complicated than the one Bonnie had described. In fact, it was more complicated than anything Keith had ever picked before. His mind raced. The others were waiting for him at a nearby motel. The plan was for Keith to pick the lock, meet up with them, and then they would head back to pull off the robbery.
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Now, Keith wasn't sure what to do. Not only could they not get in, but the additional security made him think the FBI had somehow found out about their plan. They had to regroup before it was too late. Keith retraced his steps back out to the street and hustled to a nearby payphone to call the others.
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He gave them the bad news and raced over to the motel to come up with plan B. Keith couldn't hide the disappointment on his face as Professor Davidon announced they might have to call off the robbery entirely. Keith looked around the room. Someone had to have an idea. Then, Bonnie suggested they try the second door she'd noticed, the one that was blocked by a large heavy cabinet.
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Keith thought it over. As long as they could push the cabinet to the side enough to slip through, it should work. Everyone agreed. Even if it ended up being a complete failure, they had to try. Armed with their new plan, Keith returned to the media office around 10.40 p.m. This time, he was wearing a baggy overcoat to hide the crowbar he'd brought with him.
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His failed attempt earlier was a blessing in disguise, because even though the fight had been scheduled for 8pm, it had been delayed for hours. As a result, Keith was right on time for the noisiest part of the event, the start of the fight, and he could hear it echoing from nearby apartments. Keith turned his attention to getting inside.
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Bonnie had carefully explained how to find the second door, and Keith replayed her directions in his mind. He walked to the other side of the hallway and located the door Bonnie had described. Keith pried the deadbolt open with his crowbar, then admired his handiwork. Now he had to find a way to push the door open without knocking the cabinet over on the other side.
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He gave the door a big shove, but it wouldn't budge. Keith tried using his crowbar again, but it just wasn't strong enough. He thought a longer prying bar would work better, but he couldn't exactly run to a hardware store right now. So he raced out to the car and grabbed one of those long, straight metal bars that was used with a tire jack.
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Keith, who stood over six feet tall, sprawled out onto the hallway floor. Using his leg muscles, he pushed and pulled the bar, applying pressure that slowly pushed the inside cabinet forward and allowed the door to open inch by inch. But this movement also caused the wooden door to start cracking. His heart raced as he worked. The fluorescent lights in the hallway were blinding.
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Finally, he was able to work his way in and move the cabinet away from the door. This created just enough space for Bob and the other burglars to get in. Keith wiped the sweat from his brow and then rushed back outside, found his car, and drove back to the motel to inform the rest of the group. It was go time.
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A few minutes later, Bob and the inside crew made their way through the front door of the FBI building. He usually resorted to some funny remark when he was feeling nervous, but tonight he couldn't utter a word. He and the others silently climbed the stairwell, then squeezed through the hallway office door, carrying two bulky suitcases. Once inside, they split up to search the rooms.
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He rushed to catch up with the others who were already squeezing back through the narrow side doorway. As they waited downstairs for their getaway drivers, Bob's hands were shaking so bad that the suitcase he was carrying rattled against his legs. Part one of their mission was complete. Now came the most critical step. finding out if they had enough proof to bring down the FBI.
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Some cabinets and drawers were locked, so they used screwdrivers to pry them open. Bob used a taped-over flashlight to provide minimal light, being careful not to let the beam show from the windows. He occasionally checked the street outside to make sure no police were around. Working mainly in the dark, they took every piece of paper they could find, except for some blank personnel forms.
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It was time to get out, but they couldn't just leave. The group had decided it was best not to have cars parked nearby drawing attention. so they needed to call the getaway drivers who were back at the motel. One of the team members picked up a phone from a desk and dialed the number. When Keith heard the shrill ring, he picked up the receiver. All he heard was a cryptic, OK.
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Then the line went dead. That was the signal Keith had been waiting for. He glanced over at the other getaway driver and they both sprang into action, hurrying to their cars. They drove towards the FBI office, ready to execute the next phase of the plan. A few minutes later, Keith breathed a sigh of relief as he watched his friends emerge from the FBI building.
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Their overstuffed suitcases bounced side to side as they ran towards Keith's car and the other getaway vehicle. He waited anxiously as they loaded the suitcases into the trunk of the cars. Now that they were out in the open, he couldn't help but feel nervous. Keith surveyed the deserted neighborhood. There was a courthouse across the street that always had a guard posted.
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That's when he nearly let out a gasp. The guard was looking right at them as they loaded up the vehicles. Keith turned to see how the rest of the group was progressing with the baggage. He silently willed them to move more quickly. As soon as the group finished packing up the car, Keith drove off, heading to their safe house out in the country.
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On the way, he told everyone that a guard had seen them. The only thing they could do now was hope that he wouldn't report them. As an extra precaution, the group transferred to two different getaway cars. About an hour later, they arrived at the Fellowship Farm, a small Quaker conference center outside of Philadelphia that the professor had chosen as their meeting place after the break-in.
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When Bob Williamson stepped out of the vehicle, his body still hummed with adrenaline. After the near miss with the guard, he was worried someone else may have spotted them or even followed them here. But as Bob surveyed the area, everything was still and he felt his shoulder muscles relax. He watched his seven accomplices climb out of the cars and suspected they felt a lot like him.
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They were cautiously hopeful, but knew the most important part was about to begin. Finding out if they actually got anything good from the FBI office. Bob followed Keith and the others into the building and settled around a conference table. There was a sense of accomplishment in the air. They'd done it. Bob let out a cheer and the rest of the group joined in.
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They'd brought food and drinks to celebrate and refuel for the night ahead. Bob took a long swig of beer and listened closely as Professor D'Avedon organized the group into pairs. He decided they needed at least two people to comb through each document and categorize them. Bob grabbed a stack of documents and huddled at one corner of the table with his partner.
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As Bob read through the files, his eyes glazed over. They were mostly about mundane office business, or just plain funny. One file stated that overweight agents would have to do weekly weigh-ins, while another contained information on how agents should celebrate J. Edgar Hoover's birthday. Bob couldn't decipher some of the others. One mentioned an operation called Co-Intel Pro.
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Bob had no idea what that meant. He started to worry. What if they'd done all of this for nothing? Finally, after about an hour of reading through paperwork on office protocol, Bob heard someone shout. They had found something and began to read one of the memos aloud. The memo was dated a few months earlier and addressed to agents who were investigating activists.
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The document told agents to conduct more interviews with protesters and dissidents, so they were highly aware of the law enforcement presence. The memo said their goal was to enhance the paranoia and get the point across that there is an FBI agent behind every mailbox. Bob looked at the rest of the group. They were all as shocked as he was. Bob grabbed the document. He had to see for himself.
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After reading it over several times, there was no doubt. It seemed like FBI agents weren't there to investigate crimes. They were there to intimidate activists who hadn't even broken the law. He was buzzing with excitement. There were still thousands of other documents to look through. This was just the tip of the iceberg. Bob was certain there would be a lot more damning evidence to uncover.
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And once they had all the proof they needed, he was equally sure they'd be able to show the rest of the country just how crooked the FBI really was. About two weeks later, on March 23, 1971, journalist Betty Metzger walked into the mailroom of the Washington Post's office in D.C., She'd been a reporter with the Post for about a year now.
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Before that, she worked in Philadelphia, covering anti-Vietnam protests, among other topics. At 29, she was unlike most of her coworkers, who were older men who'd been in the game for decades. Metzger knew they underestimated her, which is why she was so eager to prove them wrong. Metzger opened up her mailbox. As she rifled through various letters, one large envelope stood out to her.
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The return address was Liberty Publications, Media, Pennsylvania. She'd never heard of them, but she did know the name Media. Something had happened there recently that had been in the news. She just couldn't remember what. Metzger set the large stack of letters down and placed the manila envelope in front of her.
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She had a long to-do list this morning, but couldn't stop herself from tearing it open. Inside was a cover letter, along with 14 documents. The letter had stated it was from the Citizens Commission to investigate the FBI. It went on to explain that the commission had sent these documents to Metzger and others who had shown concern and courage about the issues documented in the enclosed materials.
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Metzger furrowed her brow. She wasn't sure what that meant, but this seemed intriguing. As she began reading through the documents, she only became more confused, and then concerned. The first document was about instructing FBI agents to enhance the paranoia among activist groups. Metzger thought how odd it was for this to be a stated goal.
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Just a few weeks ago, the Assistant Attorney General had testified to Congress that government intelligence agencies were not trying to intimidate protesters. This document was a complete and utter reversal of that. Metzger eagerly read on. Other documents revealed that FBI head J. Edgar Hoover himself had ordered agents to closely monitor black students and black student organizations.
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Hoover's memos described these groups as potentially violent and urged his agents to secretly investigate them. Another file showed that the FBI had a network of informants throughout U.S. universities. These informants looked like ordinary switchboard operators, letter carriers, and even some college administrators, but they reported information about students and professors to the FBI.
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Another document said that every black student at Swarthmore College in Pennsylvania, regardless of their political affiliation, was under surveillance. Metzger was stunned. This was a bombshell of a story if she'd ever seen one. But before she could do anything, she knew she had to confirm the legitimacy of the documents. She went over to her editor's desk to tell him what she had just read.
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While Metzger spoke to her editor, another reporter overheard the conversation and joined in. He told Metzger that word around Washington was that two government officials had received similar documents about the FBI. He said that Hoover's office had already called the Post to urge them not to publish the reports. This confirmed Betty's suspicions.
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The documents were authentic, and the FBI didn't want the public to know what they contained. That was all the ammunition Metzger needed to start writing. She grabbed some coffee and got to work. By 6pm that day, she was done with her first story. She was brimming with excitement as she went over to her editor's office. She placed the story on his desk. But her editor didn't glance at it.
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Instead, he looked up at Metzger with hesitation in his eyes. He explained that it might not be published. The Attorney General had called the newsroom several times that day. Somehow, he knew Metzger had received the documents, and he did not want them published.
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The AG was adamant that the documents could put the lives of federal agents at risk and jeopardize the security of the entire United States. Metzger tried to tamp down her anger. She understood the documents were embarrassing for the FBI, but nothing she read indicated that releasing their contents was a national security risk.
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The only issue she could see was that the Citizens Commission to Investigate the FBI had stolen the documents. That could complicate things. Even so, she said the information was simply too important to keep secret. Metzger tried to argue with her editor, but she knew the final decision wasn't up to her. It was up to the Post's team of lawyers.
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As Metzger made her way out of the newsroom, she hoped her bosses would make the right choice. By 10pm that night, the Post made a decision. Metzger's article was quickly sent out by the paper's wire service so that it would appear in newspapers around the country. Metzger was thrilled her editors had decided to publish the story after all. She was even happier the next morning.
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On March 24, 1971, the story was on the front page of the Post. It was titled, Stolen Documents Describe FBI Surveillance Activities. By the end of the day, the article accomplished the burglars' goal. People wanted to learn more about the FBI's undercover activities.
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Over the next few months, Metzger and other reporters published additional stories about the FBI's alarming investigation tactics, and Metzger continued to receive even more packages filled with stolen documents. One of them mentioned a mysterious FBI program called COINTELPRO. She had no clue what that meant, but made a mental note to look into it.
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Months later, on August 22, 1971, the FBI's assistant director, William Sullivan, sat at his desk at FBI headquarters in Washington, D.C. Although it was around 2.30 in the morning, Sullivan was wide awake. As Hoover's second in command, Sullivan was ordered to suppress an anti-war protest at a draft office in Camden, New Jersey.
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He had more than 80 agents waiting at a nearby funeral home until it was time to swoop in and arrest the activists, who the FBI believed were planning to break in and destroy documents. Sullivan knew the protesters wanted to prevent young men from being drafted to fight in the war. If he had anything to do with it, they wouldn't succeed.
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But there was an even more important reason the FBI was staking out the location. Sullivan was certain that some of the burglars who broke into the FBI office in Media, Pennsylvania would be in Camden too. The FBI suspected that the young woman who had come into the office for an interview just before the break-in was actually one of the burglars.
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The FBI had come to believe that the mastermind behind the FBI burglary was a man named John Grady. Grady was a sociologist from New York and was heavily involved in the anti-war movement. They also believed Grady was in charge of the Camden, New Jersey protest too.
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If Sullivan could capture him, they'd finally be able to take down the whole group of crooks and stop any more secret files from becoming public. It couldn't come soon enough. Sullivan and FBI head J. Edgar Hoover watched article after article pour out about the documents.
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Most of the American public was enraged by the news, and members of Congress had even called for a congressional investigation into the FBI. Sullivan was still confident he and Hoover could stall that investigation, but only if they found the robbers. He was delighted when he got word that the FBI had received a tip about the Camden raid.
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Apparently, the protesters asked a local contractor to help plan and execute their break-in. The contractor immediately informed the FBI, who then encouraged him to help the activists and report back what he learned. After several months of monitoring the preparations for the raid, Sullivan and the FBI were ready to pounce.
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In the early morning hours of the raid, when Sullivan was in his office, he had a direct line to the agent in charge of the bust. When he got word the protesters had broken in, Sullivan instructed the agent to hold off on storming inside. He wanted to make sure the protesters were caught in the act.
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Arresting them for entering a federal building was a minor offense, but destroying official documents was a federal crime. About two hours later, at 4.30 a.m., the agent confirmed that the protesters had been inside the draft office the entire time. This would have given them plenty of opportunity to destroy files. Perfect, thought Sullivan, and he gave the agent the go-ahead.
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Just six minutes later, Sullivan got word that 20 people had been detained, including his primary target, John Grady. Sullivan leaned back in his chair and smiled. Now, the media Pennsylvania robbers were his.
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On Sunday, May 20th, 1973, two years after the FBI raid, Bob Williamson filed into a Camden, New Jersey courthouse. Bob had been one of the people arrested in the protest at the New Jersey draft office, along with fellow burglar Keith Forsyth. Now, the two men were about to hear the jury's verdict on whether they had conspired to remove and destroy files of the draft board, which was a felony.
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As Bob took a seat, he reflected on the last two years. Thankfully, the FBI had never been able to prove that he and Keith were involved in the burglary of the FBI office in Media, Pennsylvania. But that didn't stop them from suspecting it. Bob knew they had gotten lucky. The FBI mistakenly thought John Grady was the ringleader in Pennsylvania, but he had nothing to do with it.
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So when the FBI pressed Grady to reveal his accomplices in the crime, he couldn't do it because he wasn't there. Still, even without any new information about the media Pennsylvania break-in, the protesters were in serious trouble, potentially facing many years in prison for the New Jersey break-in.
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The Camden protesters could have avoided a trial altogether if they accepted the prosecutor's offer to plead guilty to minor offenses and admit they broke in. But the whole reason they had infiltrated the draft office was to make a powerful statement. All of the defendants felt that accepting a plea deal would weaken the anti-war movement as a whole.
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So Bob and the other protesters took their case to trial and used it as a public forum to attack the FBI. They showed that the FBI had aided the New Jersey break-in by supplying the contractor who helped the protesters. That meant the FBI actually wanted the break-in to take place so that they could arrest the protesters.
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Without the FBI's help, the draft office raid likely never could have happened. Boston University professor Howard Zinn, one of the country's best-known progressives, had testified on the protesters' behalf as an expert on civil disobedience. In his testimony, Zinn said that some of the stolen media documents proved the FBI uses unconstitutional tactics to thwart protests.
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The trial had lasted for three months. After waiting all this time, Bob would finally find out the jury's verdict and whether he would spend the next 50 years of his life in prison. As the judge entered the courtroom, Bob looked around. In spite of his fear, his heart swelled. 200 people had come to support him and everyone else who was on trial.
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As Bob stood shoulder to shoulder with his co-defendants, he held his head up. Even if they lost the case, he knew they had truly made an impact. He was ready to hear the jury's decision. Bob held his breath as the foreman read the first verdict. He thought he had heard the foreman say, not guilty. He turned to Keith, who stood next to him and saw the look of shock on his face.
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He had heard correctly. Then the judge asked for the next verdict. Again, the foreman said, not guilty. He repeated not guilty two more times before the judge stopped him and asked if any of the other verdicts differed. The foreman responded, no. Bob felt his knees buckle and the air leave his lungs. They were free, all of them. The jury had heard their reasoning and agreed.
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From Ballant Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna. And this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called Enhance the Paranoia. Enhance the Paranoia.
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They thought the war was unjust, and so was the FBI. Bob felt more hopeful than he'd been in a very long time. Just then, he heard the courtroom audience begin to sing. Many were in tears, so it took a moment for Bob to realize that they were singing Amazing Grace. As Bob put his arms around Keith and his co-defendants, he saw the chief prosecutor walk towards them.
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He shook each defendant's hand, then embraced them. The prosecutor looked at Bob and told him, it ended the way it should have ended. After the Camden trial, Bob, Keith, and the other media burglars went their separate ways. They knew they could never speak again. Bob and Keith had been suspects in the robbery, but no one was ever caught.
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The Citizens Commission to investigate the FBI was a bigger success than they ever could have imagined. About a year after the robbery in 1972, NBC reporter Carl Stern was studying the stolen FBI files. He zeroed in on the FBI program called COINTELPRO. Stern was determined to figure out what it meant, but the FBI refused to tell him.
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So, he and NBC successfully sued to obtain government documents about the program, and it was more shocking than Stern could have predicted. The FBI wasn't just targeting activist groups. They were also trying to undermine prominent leaders of the civil rights movement. One of their main targets was Reverend Martin Luther King Jr. Stern learned the FBI had spied on and harassed King.
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They mailed him letters urging him to commit suicide. They sent King's wife a recording of what the FBI alleged was him having sex with other women and offered to share it with journalists, too. After Stern published his findings, the public was outraged.
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It seemed to them that the FBI was above the law and that the Bureau could do whatever they wanted and keep it a secret in the name of national security. In January 1975, the Senate created a committee headed by Senator Frank Church to look into abuses by the FBI and other intelligence agencies.
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The Church Committee eventually provided 96 legislative and regulatory recommendations that would keep the FBI in check in the future. But the identity of the burglars who started it all remained a secret until 2014, when journalist Betty Metzger published her book, The Burglary, The Discovery of J. Edgar Hoover's Secret FBI. The burglars had kept their code of silence for more than 40 years.
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Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.
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While most Americans were at home cheering on the heavily promoted fight of the century between boxers Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier, Bob Williamson was focused on something else entirely. That's because at around 11 p.m. on March 8, 1971, the 20-year-old activist was breaking into the offices of the FBI in Media, Pennsylvania. Bob quietly shimmied through a partially open side door.
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From Ballant Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories. We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We used many sources for our show, but we especially recommend The Burglary. The Discovery of J. Edgar Hoover's Secret FBI by Betty Metzger.
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The second season of the podcast Snafu called Medburg and the Documentary 1971. This episode was written by Natalie Pritzofsky. Sound design by Andre Plews. Our producers are Christopher B. Dunn and John Reed. Our associate producers and researchers are Sarah Vytak, Teja Palakonda, and Rafa Faria. Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson. For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt.
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Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel. Produced by me, Luke LaManna. Executive producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our head of sound is Marcelino Villapando. Senior producers are Loredana Palavoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman. Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan.
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Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Our executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis. For Wondery.
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For much of its history, the FBI operated with very little oversight of its activities. During the nearly 50 years that J. Edgar Hoover ran the agency with an iron fist, no one dared to question their methods, even as FBI agents went to extreme lengths to suppress political dissent in the name of national security.
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That all changed on March 8, 1971, when a group of eight ordinary citizens robbed an FBI office in hopes of exposing some of the agency's most disturbing secrets. This daring act was fueled by the growing opposition to the Vietnam War, especially among disillusioned young people. Their nationwide protests were making the news every day.
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The FBI tried to stifle their voices, and the documents those burglars uncovered that day in 1971 revealed that the FBI was willing to entrap its political opponents through any means necessary. This included sending threatening messages, planting evidence, and even framing people for crimes they didn't commit.
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Each burglar that broke into the office that day took on an enormous level of personal risk in the pursuit of a nearly impossible task. Did they really think their sacrifice would be enough to topple the FBI, the world's most powerful law enforcement agency? Incredibly, the answer is yes.
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On a chilly evening in late December 1970, 20-year-old Keith Forsyth walked through a quiet neighborhood outside of Philadelphia until he arrived at an imposing three-story Victorian-style house. Keith knocked, and a moment later, a well-dressed young woman with flowing dark hair and a welcoming smile opened up.
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Behind her was a man with clean-cut blonde hair who was dressed in a button-down shirt and khakis. Keith knew he was different from 29-year-old Bonnie Raines and her husband, John, who was 37. The couple owned this beautiful house in the suburbs and had a picture-perfect family. while Keith lived in a commune and drove a cab part-time to make ends meet.
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He had long hair and dressed in loose-fitting jeans and tie-dye shirts. But Keith reminded himself they all had the same goal, to expose the FBI. Specifically, to break into an FBI office and steal important documents that Keith, Bonnie, and John thought American citizens had the right to know about. Keith felt himself light up with nervous energy at the thought of their mission.
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Bonnie ushered Keith inside and offered him a beer. He accepted and made his way into the spacious living room. As he took a seat on the couch, the Rains' three young children came tumbling into the room. While Keith played with the kids, more people arrived. Keith called out a greeting to Bob Williamson, a 20-year-old fellow college dropout that he knew from anti-war protests.
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Keith felt a sense of kinship with Bob. With his messy hair and thrift store clothing, they could have been brothers, and they immediately started chatting. Next, a man in his 40s came up to say hello. Bill Davidon was a physics professor at nearby Haverford College. Like their host, John, he didn't fit the image of a young anti-war activist.
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But Keith knew that the professor was one of the most outspoken critics of the Vietnam War and one of the most effective leaders of the entire movement. Keith thought back to when Professor Davidon first approached him about pulling off the FBI robbery. It seemed completely impossible. How could a group of ordinary people fight the most powerful counterintelligence organization in the country?
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Then he carefully slid two large suitcases through the opening, too. Once he was inside, he looked around the room. His heart pounded in his ears as he imagined an FBI agent seated at one of the desks, waiting to arrest him. But the only other people he saw were his three accomplices who had gone in ahead of him. They had been planning their heist for months.
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But Keith trusted the professor, who always backed up his words with action. Bill had traveled to Vietnam to see the war firsthand and had given refuge to American men who were at risk of arrest for refusing to fight. And Keith, well, he knew that he possessed a crucial skill, lockpicking.
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He'd taken a correspondence course just to learn how to open locked doors in order to break into draft offices. Once everyone had arrived, Keith followed them all upstairs to the attic. He took his seat next to Professor Davidon, and John Raines shut the door. The professor explained that many of his comrades in the anti-war movement had become worried they were being spied on by the FBI.
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Because of this fear, he felt that protesters were losing sight of the bigger picture. Many activists had become more preoccupied with their safety at anti-war rallies, worried that undercover FBI agents were just waiting to arrest them. Or worse, they feared their fellow activists could be FBI informants.
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Professor Davidon thought that if they could prove that the FBI was, in fact, spying on and intimidating activists, it could go a long way in swaying public opinion against the war.
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professor's tone became deadly serious as he outlined the dangers of the operation in order for the plan to work no one could speak about this to anyone outside of the group before or after the robbery davidon turned to each person seated around the table and asked if they would take a vow of secrecy keith lifted his fist in agreement one by one everyone else in the attic did the same
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Reassured, Davidon explained that he had already chosen a location to carry out the burglary, a small FBI office in the nearby town of Media, Pennsylvania. Now, they just needed to decide on a date. Someone suggested the night of the Muhammad Ali-Joe Frazier heavyweight boxing match.
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It was scheduled for March 8, 1971, about three months away, and it was expected to be one of the most watched events in the history of television. Others pointed out that most police officers and FBI agents would be watching or listening to the fight too, making it the perfect distraction. Professor Davidon agreed.
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An electrifying energy filled the room as the group brainstormed names for themselves. It needed to be something that sounded official, but also reflected why they were doing this. When politicians and journalists referred to them, it should feel like the group was an organized and powerful force. After going around for a few minutes, they settled on the Citizens Commission to investigate the FBI.
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Keith was filled with pride and excitement. Looking around the table, he felt like these people were both organized and passionate. They might be lucky enough to pull this off. And if they succeeded, he was sure that it would be one of the most significant acts of protest in the history of the entire war.
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In late February 1971, Bonnie Raines walked up to the doors of the FBI's office in Media, Pennsylvania. She could feel her heart pounding as she turned the knob and entered the hallway. The group had been monitoring the office for weeks, but they needed to learn more specific details about the inside of the building. Was there an alarm system? Were the cabinets inside the office locked?
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Now, they spread out to all six rooms in the office and began to grab as many documents as possible. Hopefully, some of those papers would help them expose the FBI's underhanded tactics. Tactics the agency was using to intimidate anti-war protesters and anyone who spoke out against the government.
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The group had decided that Bonnie should be the one to get some answers. With her bright smile and innocent disposition, she was the least likely to draw attention, especially since she was about to interact with actual FBI agents. Bonnie had called the office a few days ago and said she was a student at nearby Swarthmore College.
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She'd been doing research for a class about the FBI's hiring practices and was hoping to interview an agent. The representative on the phone invited her to stop by the office. Bonnie adjusted the wool cap that covered her hair. Normally, she wore too long pigtails that trailed down to her waist, but the group had decided she needed a disguise.
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So, along with the cap, she wore a large overcoat and reading glasses. She very much looked the part of a nerdy college student. As Bonnie took the stairs up to the second floor of the building, she reminded herself that she was an instrumental part of the operation. It seemed to her that everyone else had a job to do except her.
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Bonnie had started to think she was just there to serve spaghetti dinners to everyone before their meetings. When the group decided she should be the one to scope out the FBI office, she jumped at the opportunity. As Bonnie rounded the corner and knocked on the office door, she felt her stomach flutter with excitement. This was her chance to make a meaningful contribution to the anti-war effort.
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One of the agents greeted Bonnie and showed her into the waiting room. Bonnie apologized for arriving 15 minutes early. She explained that the bus had come ahead of schedule. The truth was, Bonnie had purposely done this so that she could have more time to study the office. But the agent didn't suspect a thing.
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Bonnie took a seat and asked if she could look over a job application while she waited. She said it was important to her research. She watched closely as the agent retrieved one from a cabinet. She noticed the cabinet was unlocked. That was a good sign. Fifteen minutes later, Bonnie followed another agent into the adjoining room for their interview.
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Bonnie straightened out her overcoat as she sat down and pulled out a notepad. She started by making small talk with the agent. Then Bonnie asked him about his role at the FBI and his typical schedule. The agent stressed that most office employees only worked from nine to five. Bonnie wrote this information down, but her eyes strained against the prescription lenses.
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She wasn't used to wearing glasses, and it made taking notes difficult. She hoped he didn't notice. Then Bonnie wondered whether she was taking up too much of the agent's time. Was he getting suspicious? She pushed her fears away and asked him more questions. After 45 minutes, Bonnie thanked the agent and made her way out of the interview room.
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She scanned the hallway and tried to look confused in case anyone was watching. She had noticed there was another room and wanted to see what was inside. Trying to look as innocent as possible, she breezed by the exit and headed through an open door into the room. She paused to look around.
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Bob clicked on his flashlight and used a screwdriver to pry open a locked drawer, while the others kept stuffing the suitcases. Once Bob emptied the drawer, he crawled up to a window and carefully peeked out. There was a security guard at the courthouse across the street, but he wasn't looking. Bob breathed a sigh of relief and gave a thumbs up to the other burglars.
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She saw that a large cabinet partially blocked the other door into the room, a door that led out of the FBI offices into the hallway. Bonnie made a mental note that the group would not be able to enter through this side door and would have to break in through the main entrance she had entered that afternoon. As Bonnie glanced around the space, an agent walked by.
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Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. On the morning of September 21st, 2001, Ana Montes got up early and stepped into her shower. She turned on the hot water and then started using her many bars of soap, one after another, as she meticulously cleaned every inch of her body.
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Marta introduced their dinner date as someone concerned about the plight of the Sandinistas, just like her and Anna. The three of them sat down for dinner, and it wasn't long before Marta popped the question. Ana didn't take more than a few moments before agreeing to help.
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In fact, she felt almost like it was her destiny to help the Sandinistas while at the same time aiding Cuba's fight against the U.S. Ana felt betrayed by American support for violent regimes, so betraying her country in turn felt very appropriate. Marta congratulated her on such a monumental decision. Their dinner guest predicted Ana would be one of the best agents to ever assist Cuba.
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She noticed his usual friendly tone with her had become curt and impatient, but she chalked it up to the stress of a national emergency. Curtin said there was a problem with one of her employees' time cards, and he didn't have time to deal with it. Could she please go to the Inspector General's office and fix the problem? Anna didn't hesitate.
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The three of them drank a toast to the future. When they got home, Marta lent Ana a typewriter, asked her to write a detailed biography for her new bosses. She reminded Anna to describe her top-secret job at the Justice Department for good measure. Anna did as she was asked. Little did she know, she was typing up a list of her psychological vulnerabilities for the Cubans to use as blackmail.
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Shortly after Ana agreed to be a Cuban spy, she got a call from her sister Lucy. Lucy told Ana how much she inspired her. Lucy was so proud to see her older sister dedicating her career to the Justice Department and serving her country faithfully. Lucy said she was so inspired, in fact, that she'd applied to become an agent with the FBI, and she'd just been accepted. Anna was stunned.
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All at once, her sister had become the enemy, an agent of the state she decided to betray just months earlier. Lucy expected her to be overjoyed, but Anna didn't take the news well. She weakly tried to dissuade her sister before hanging up. The prospect of being a spy suddenly seemed a lot more difficult and risky.
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Lucy's decision to join the FBI now loomed over Anna as she prepared to take a covert trip to Cuba with Marta. They had been scheduled to participate in a two-week crash course in the art of spying, courtesy of some former Soviet agents.
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Dealing with administrative issues was commonplace since she'd become acting division chief. She marched down to the fourth floor, where a receptionist directed her to a conference room. Anna opened the door, but there was no employee having timecard issues. Instead, she found two FBI agents waiting for her.
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Pushing her fears aside, she and Marta traveled first to Spain on a fake spring break trip, where they met with a Cuban agent who gave them fake passports to get them to Havana. Once there, they learned how to receive encrypted radio messages, how to shake a tail, and how to utilize their anal sphincter muscles to control their blood pressure, a tactic for manipulating polygraph tests.
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After their two weeks of spy school, Anna and Marta hopscotched back across Europe to Madrid, where they took a few tourist photos to legitimize their trip. When Anna arrived back at home, she was energized by the experience. She struggled to keep it all a secret. She really, really wanted to tell someone. She called up Mimi Colon, her old friend from her year studying in Spain.
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She raved to Mimi about her amazing trip to Cuba, where she got to attend all sorts of fascinating lectures on Cuban military bases. At the time, most Americans were banned from traveling to Cuba at all. So Anna's travel stories were highly suspicious. She wasn't exactly putting what she learned in spy school into practice.
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It wasn't long before Anna realized it had been a mistake to tell Mimi the truth. Not long after, she stopped taking her calls and closed the door on their friendship. It wouldn't be the last time she abandoned someone she loved.
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Eight years later, in 1993, Anna had more than mastered the skills the Soviet agents had taught her in Cuba, and she was doing it right under the nose of her American employers. Once a week, she left her office at the Defense Intelligence Agency, went back to her apartment, then left again, always making sure she wasn't followed.
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She drove to one of the nicer neighborhoods in Washington, D.C., a spot she had insisted on. Even top secret spies worry about getting mugged. Anna walked into a Chinese restaurant and took a seat at a table for two. She asked for some water and took the liberty of ordering egg rolls, the kind her handler liked. Then she waited.
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About ten minutes later, her handler walked casually into the restaurant and sat down at the table. They exchanged pleasantries and spoke idly about the news. To anyone watching, they were nothing more than old friends catching up. No one seemed to notice when Anna slid a floppy disk across the table while she picked up an egg roll.
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By this time, Ana had established herself as the foremost analyst on Cuban intelligence in the entire federal government. She received multiple commendations from her superiors for her work evaluating information gathered about the Cuban government and its actions.
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Then, one of the agents looked directly at Anna and said, I'm sorry to tell you, but you're under arrest for conspiracy to commit espionage.
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The two countries' simmering hostility didn't cool even for a moment into the 1990s, and Ana was often called into brief high-ranking officials about Cuba's strategies, politics, and most importantly, spycraft. To keep her cover airtight, Ana's work was thorough and damaging to the Cuban government. It was a compromise they were willing to make to keep one of their finest agents undetected.
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Anna saw herself as the dominant voice in the agency on Cuban affairs, and she didn't take kindly when others disagreed with her analysis. If any other employees dared to have a difference of opinion, Anna would make an example of them. Half respectfully, half derisively, Anna's co-workers at the DIA called her the Queen of Cuba.
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To her colleagues, she was an enigma, introverted, intense, and incredibly private. They assumed whatever secrets she was keeping, she had good reason to. And they were right. While she climbed up the ladder of US intelligence, Ana fed mountains of information to the Cubans. Three nights a week, she would turn on her shortwave radio and receive directives from Havana.
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Then Ana would meet for dinner with her handler and hand over an encrypted floppy disk containing intel and techniques the Americans were using against Cuba. She divulged details about a top-secret satellite program and gave up the real identities of over 450 American operatives working in Cuba and Central America.
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But Ana's position had become too prominent for her to just steal documents for the Cubans and walk out with them. Ana had to spend time painstakingly developing her ability to memorize so that she could recall the contents of thousands of documents and pass them on to her handlers. Over the years, she took two trips to Cuba for the Defense Intelligence Agency, ostensibly as fact-finding missions.
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During each trip, she would slip away at night to meet with important members of Cuban intelligence. Just like their American counterparts, Ana's Cuban higher-ups gave her commendations and medals for her work, some of which had caused the death or disappearance of American agents. The strain of maintaining this double life took a toll on Ana. She barely had any friends and rarely dated.
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The Cuban government even went so far as to set her up on a blind date with a fellow agent to help her mood, but she didn't feel a connection. More often than not, Anna sat alone in her apartment and stewed in her isolation, developing a few nervous tics along the way. But the stress was worst of all with her family.
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Lucy, her sister, had become something of a rising star within the FBI, carrying out national security investigations out of their Miami office, no less. And she had even married one of her fellow agents. Anna could barely force a smile in the lead up to Lucy's wedding.
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Her sister kept asking what was wrong, but Anna couldn't tell her sister that the problem was the growing number of FBI agents in her family. To make matters worse, Lucy encouraged their brother Tito and his wife to become FBI agents as well. By the time Anna became the Queen of Cuba, four members of her family had taken oaths to uphold the Constitution as FBI agents.
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Every family event suddenly became a minefield for Anna. All she could do was stay quiet, just like she did at her bi-weekly Chinese dinners with her Cuban handler. On the morning of February 24th, 1996, Anna's cell phone rang. Lucy was on the other line, sounding worried. She seemed surprised to hear that Anna wasn't at the office. It was a Saturday, the only day Anna could actually relax.
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Why would she be at work? Lucy cleared her throat. She explained that she'd just seen on TV that the Cuban government had shot down a Brothers to the Rescue plane. Ana felt like she'd got the wind knocked out of her. Brothers to the Rescue was a Miami-based group of Cuban expatriates who flew planes to rescue defectors and dropped anti-communist pamphlets over the island.
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Two of their planes had flown into Cuban airspace and Cuban authorities shot them down, killing four people. Lucy had called Ana to ask what was going to happen. But Ana could barely speak. The conflict between the two countries she served had come to a boiling point. She was going to be expected to guide the US's response to the crisis while somehow trying to help Cuba too.
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Anna communicated with her bosses, who asked her to come into the office early the next day. She arrived at the DIA at 6 a.m. on Sunday, and it wasn't long before she received word that the Joint Chiefs of Staff had formed a task force. Anna was being called in.
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The United States hadn't used military action against Cuba since the Bay of Pigs invasion, but suddenly a show of force seemed like a certainty. ANA was meant to brief the Joint Chiefs on Cuba's military preparedness and help them evaluate the best options for retaliation. Anna crossed the Potomac and arrived at the Pentagon around 11 a.m.
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She spent the rest of the day there, filling in the Joint Chiefs and keeping tabs on new intelligence. All day, Anna stood in anxiety. She was trapped in the walls of the Pentagon, unable to contact her Cuban handlers and inform them of the U.S. 's counterattack plans. Around 8 p.m., Anna decided it was time to get out.
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She told her team that she was exhausted from the events of the day and needed to go home. But Anna's decision immediately raised eyebrows. Intelligence officials working on a Joint Chiefs Task Force are supposed to stay at their post until dismissed.
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More than a few analysts were surprised, even suspicious, when the so-called Queen of Cuba left the Pentagon early amidst the most significant U.S.-Cuba conflict for over 30 years. But Ana needed to meet with her handlers. Over the next three days, Ana would continue to update them as often as she could.
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One Cuban agent even stopped her on the street before her morning commute, taking the massive risk of being seen out in the open together. They were deathly afraid that the United States was about to attack the island. Despite her suspicious exit, Ana did manage to influence the task force's response, arguing strongly against taking military action.
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In the end, the American government strongly condemned the shoot-down and issued sanctions against Cuba, but issued no military response. Ana had served her masters in Havana well, but she had drawn unwanted attention from her colleagues. Leaving the Pentagon early that day would be the first domino that would ultimately bring her down.
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In 1998, while the FBI was investigating a ring of Cuban agents in Miami, they discovered that the Cubans had placed a mole in a high-ranking position in the federal government. The FBI called the mole Agent S, but they only had limited information on the mole's identity. All they knew was that this person had met with someone with the initials WD and bought a Toshiba laptop to use for spy work.
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In addition, this mole had visited Guantanamo Bay, a US-controlled section of Cuba, in 1996. Beyond that, they had no idea who Agent S was. The FBI's investigation into Agent S stalled for two years until it finally came to the attention of Scott Carmichael, the Defense Intelligence Agency's senior counterintelligence investigator. It was Scott's job to find enemy spies within their ranks.
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Scott didn't exactly fit the image of a spy hunter. People often told him he looked like the comedian Chris Farley. And because of this, most people underestimated him. But Scott was hard-nosed, ambitious, and thorough, and willing to do whatever he needed to root out moles.
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As he began digging into the information, Scott increasingly suspected that Agent S might be working in the Defense Intelligence Agency. Scott reviewed the records for government officials who visited Guantanamo Bay between July 4 and July 18, 1996, the dates the Miami evidence indicated the spy had been present. When he saw Ana Montes' name flash on his screen, a chill ran down his spine.
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Ana had visited Guantanamo Bay in that window exactly, and it was just five months before she left work early during the Brothers to the Rescue incident. Scott began to dig deeper. Knowing that Agent S had met someone with the initials WD, he recalled that Anna had met her own WD after the brothers to the rescue planes were shot down.
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When he'd interviewed her, she'd boasted about closely working with William Dougherty, the chief of the FBI's counterintelligence section. The initials matched perfectly. Scott was certain Anna was the mole. He went to the FBI with his findings, but Stephen McCoy, the FBI agent in charge of the investigation, was skeptical.
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He told Scott he was certain the mole was a man, like approximately 95% of spies. For the next year, Scott fought to convince McCoy that Agent S was in the other 5%. Eventually, Special Agent McCoy relented. He and his partner began investigating Anna. and it soon became clear how right Scott Carmichael had been.
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As they began looking into Anna's activities, they gave her the codename Blue Wren to keep her identity a secret throughout the investigation. The FBI started watching Anna's every movement, every keystroke, every call, even going through her trash, her apartment, and her pocketbook.
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They discovered Anna's shortwave radio, along with the unencrypted data on her computer hard drive and a sales receipt for a Toshiba laptop. the same kind that Cuba had directed Agent S to buy. Indisputable evidence was piling up against Ana, and she had no idea she was even under investigation.
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Anna's niece and nephew came bounding into the guest room at her sister Lucy's house at 6 in the morning. It was Christmas 2000. Anna had come down to spend the holidays in Miami with Lucy, who had just split with her husband, and Lucy felt it would be nice for the kids to get some extra time with their aunt.
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Lucy and Anna joined the kids in the living room, then watched as the kids tore open the wrapping paper on their presents with delight. Lucy leaned back on the couch, relaxed and happy, but Anna remained tense, watching the kids like a hawk. Anna got up and began obsessively cleaning up every last shred of wrapping paper almost as soon as it hit the floor.
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Lucy pulled her aside, a little alarmed at her sister's sudden compulsive need to tidy up. She asked Anna to just relax and enjoy the day with them. There was no reason to be so stressed out. Lucy was wrong. Anna had a lot to be stressed about. After the FBI took down the Miami-based group of Cuban spies called the Wasp Network, Anna's handlers went dark.
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She was completely out in the cold with no one to talk to. Even her one-time colleague Marta had long since cut off contact to prevent suspicion about their activities. Anna was entirely alone. Unbeknownst to Anna, the root of her troubles was sitting right next to her by the Christmas tree. Lucy had been one of the agents in the FBI task force that took down the WASP network.
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Of course, Lucy had no idea she was endangering her sister's safety. How could she? Anna desperately wanted out of being a spy. She was over 40 now, and she had had a long distance boyfriend that she wanted to build a life with. She couldn't exactly intercept shortwave radio transmissions with him around, especially since he was also a US analyst of Cuban intelligence.
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Her betrayals were eating away at her, making her feel like her whole life was a lie. Anna had told her handlers she was ready to retire from spying, hoping they would just thank her for her help and let her go on her way. They declined, reminding her about all of the information they'd accumulated on her over the years.
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They implied that information might fall into the hands of her employer if she were to ever betray their confidence. By this point, Anna's obsessive-compulsive behaviors were getting downright scary. She would shower for hours, meticulously cleaning herself. Boiled potatoes with no condiments became the bulk of her diet. She wore sun protective gloves while she drove.
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She couldn't bear even the smallest mess. That's why she cleaned up the Christmas wrapping paper as soon as it hit the floor. Lucy was beginning to notice how much her sister was changing, and not for the better. Lucy wanted to do anything she could to help her sister.
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So when Anna's boyfriend called, asking Anna to spend a few days with him after Christmas, Lucy encouraged her to join him, even though it meant cutting their visit short. Anna told him she didn't want to. There was nothing Lucy could do. Anna's time as a spy had done its damage. And soon enough, it was going to come to an end.
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In October 2001, Lucy drove from her mother Amelia's house in Maryland, along with her mother, her brother Tito, and her sister-in-law. The mood in the car was grim, almost like they were going to a funeral. But in fact, they were heading for a federal prison. Three weeks earlier, Lucy was working in the FBI office in Miami when her boss asked to see her.
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As she walked down the hallway, she assumed it had something to do with a post-9-11 threat, but then her boss began to explain that her sister, Anna, had been arrested for espionage. At first, Lucy could only ask, is it true, and stare in disbelief. But she suddenly realized that she could finally understand her sister's decades of distant, sometimes hostile behavior.
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She cried for a minute, then stopped herself. Her sister Anna was a spy. A few agents drove Lucy home, then spent a few hours interviewing her about Anna's activities. But they weren't suspicious Lucy had helped Anna, especially with how important she was to the WASP network investigation. Tito and his wife were interviewed as well.
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They were in more disbelief at first, but trusted that if the Bureau had arrested and charged Anna, they had done their due diligence. Tito was the one to call their mother and give her the news. She was inconsolable. It was almost impossible for her to see her smart, overachieving daughter as a spy.
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As soon as her FBI interview was over, Lucy drove all the way from Miami to Baltimore to be with her mother. Lucy was heartbroken to see her mother so wounded. Three weeks later, the family arrived at the Central Virginia Regional Jail after a three-hour drive. They went through security and went to the visitation room, where they could only speak with Anna through a jail telephone.
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From Ballant Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called Codename Blue Wren.
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After a few minutes of waiting, Anna came shuffling out in a black and white striped jumpsuit. Anna gave them a slight smile as she sat down on the other side of the glass. Lucy couldn't help but notice how relieved Anna looked, like a great weight had been lifted off of her shoulders. Emilia spoke to Anna between sobs, asking how could she have done such a thing.
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Tito offered angry remarks, telling Anna how badly she'd let down the family and their country. When Lucy came up to the phone, she looked her sister in the eye. Even though Anna was only a year older, she had once been like a mother to Lucy. In the midst of their father's abuse, Anna was often the one to bathe Lucy, to take her to school, and meet her teachers.
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Even as Anna pulled away from her, Lucy had always looked up to her sister. There was so much she could have said. She could have cried like her mother or been angry like her brother. Ultimately, Lucy could only think of one thing to say. What made you think you wouldn't get caught? Anna stared back at her. After a moment, she looked away. She refused to engage with Lucy at all.
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When Ana Montes was arrested, it barely registered in the public consciousness. In the wake of September 11th, it seemed the American people had far more to worry about than a spy feeding state secrets to Cuba. But Ana's work was undoubtedly a threat to American lives. At least one Green Beret was killed in Nicaragua because of the intelligence she passed along to her Cuban handlers.
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And the fates of the American operatives in Cuba that Ana outed are unknown. Ultimately, Ana's actions represent a difficult quandary for the American intelligence community. What to do with so-called true believer spies? Most turncoat government analysts who spy for foreign governments do it for money. But Ana did her spying because of what she believed in.
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Ana turned on her country and her family because she had absolute faith that her actions were morally right. She was never directly paid for her work, and the Cubans only gave her a few thousand dollars to settle her diploma and buy her Toshiba laptop. For counterintelligence operatives like Scott Carmichael, catching spies is an arduous business.
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But it's made all the more difficult when a person begins spying out of personal belief because there is no money trail to follow. And true believer spies offer fewer clues to their actions and are often more empowered to keep their actions a secret.
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While Anna did a very good job of concealing her double life, federal intelligence officials often repeatedly cut corners or skipped precautions entirely as she climbed the ladder of the federal intelligence community.
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When Anna began working at the DIA in 1984, the personal security division accepted the FBI's background check from five years earlier when she'd been hired at the Justice Department. This background check hadn't been updated and therefore overlooked her relationship with Marta, her secret trip to Cuba, and her use of drugs in graduate school.
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The DIA granted Anna an interim top secret clearance just two days after she was hired, She was never required to take a polygraph or undergo psychological testing, as she would have at the CIA or NSA. Four months after her hiring, she was granted a top-secret SCI clearance. Suddenly, she had access to sensitive compartmentalized intelligence documents concerning U.S.
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military operations in Nicaragua and El Salvador off the back of an inadequate background check. After the Brothers to the Rescue incident, when Anna left her shift at the Pentagon early, some of her co-workers raised concerns about her actions.
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Even after she was flagged as a potential spy, Anna's supervisors recommended her for the Exceptional Impact Promotion Program, where she was given GG-14 status. a coveted rank that came with a significant raise and more responsibility.
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The DIA, which was clearly far less rigorous in its safeguards than other intelligence agencies, finally updated its security measures after Ana's arrest to hopefully avoid similar circumstances in future. At her trial, Ana argued that the United States was too harsh toward Cuba. She said that she hoped her actions would ultimately result in the two countries moving closer together.
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Anna was sentenced to a 25-year maximum security prison sentence, but she did manage to avoid the death penalty. The legacy of her father's abuse and the influence of her boyfriend and friends may have pushed Ana to become disillusioned with the United States policies, but becoming a spy was entirely a decision of her own making.
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If Ana really wanted to bring Cuba and the United States closer together, could she have been more effective as a diplomat rather than a traitor to her country? The effort required to lead two lives at once nearly gave Anna a mental breakdown. She had to lie to every single person she knew for almost 20 years. To this day, her family struggles to comprehend how she could betray them so deeply.
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The United States and Cuba have been feverishly spying on each other ever since communist revolutionary Fidel Castro overthrew a U.S.-backed dictatorship in Havana in 1959. Suddenly, America had an enemy less than 100 miles from Key West, Florida, and both sides were desperate for dirt on the other.
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Anna was released from prison on January 6th, 2023. After that, she moved to Puerto Rico, saying she hoped to live a quiet and private life. It goes without saying that her family is barely a part of it. Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. From Ballin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories.
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We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend Codename Blue Wren. The true story of America's most dangerous female spy and the sister she betrayed by Jim Popkin. And True Believer, inside the investigation and capture of Ana Montes, Cuba's master spy by Scott Carmichael.
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This episode was written by Jake Natureman. Sound design by Ryan Potesta. Our producer is Christopher B. Dunn. Our associate producers and researchers are Sarah Vytak, Teja Palakanda, and Rafa Faria. Fact-checking by Brian Ponant. For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins.
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Production support by Avery Siegel. Produced by me, Luke LaManna. Executive producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our head of sound is Marcelino Villapando. Senior producers are Laura Donna Palavoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman. Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan. Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Our executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis.
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Cuba's close ties with the Soviet Union gave American officials heartburn and brought the adversaries perilously close to nuclear war in the early 1960s. But even when the Soviet Union collapsed and the Cold War thawed in 1989, Cuba and the United States continued to be sworn foes. Each country worked tirelessly to recruit
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and implant their agents at the highest levels of government, sometimes with startling results. Take Ana Montes, a most unlikely turncoat. By all accounts, she was very good at her job, which involved gathering damaging information to use against the Cuban government. At the time of her arrest, Ana was trusted with America's best-kept secrets.
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Ana had a secret she was trying to scrub off. She stepped out of the shower and got dressed quickly. Her apartment in the upscale Washington, D.C. neighborhood of Cleveland Park was clean and organized, with not a thing out of place, or so she thought. She sped off to work in her red Toyota Echo. As she breezed along the highway, Anna steeled herself for a busy day.
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Plus, she was the sister of not one, but two FBI agents, and she was related to two more, all of whom had sworn to serve this country, no matter the cost. So what drove Anna to turn on her country? How could she betray her deeply patriotic family too? And how did she get away with it for so long while working in the heart of the US intelligence establishment?
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It was a bizarre story, a lifetime in the making, and one that raises alarming questions about America's vulnerability to traitors hiding in plain sight. Ana Montes was 15 years old the day her father moved out of the house. It was 1972. Ana waited nervously in the bedroom she shared with her sister Lucy in the suburbs of Baltimore.
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Her father Alberto already had taken her three siblings, one by one, into his office. Ana, the oldest, was last. Lucy returned to their bedroom, stone-faced. Anna watched her sister carefully, but Lucy said nothing. The two of them had once been inseparable, but as they entered into young adulthood, they were growing further apart. Lucy told Anna that their father wanted to speak with her.
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Anna thought about hugging her sister, but she didn't know if it would be welcome, especially now. Instead, she stood up and walked out of their room without saying a word. Anna's heart raced as she walked into her father's office. He asked her to take a seat. As she stared into his dark eyes, memories of the way he abused his family flashed through her mind.
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Alberto Montes had moved to the mainland United States from Puerto Rico to serve as a doctor for the US Army. After a few years, he moved his burgeoning family to Kansas to study psychotherapy at the acclaimed Menninger Psychiatric Hospital. In his time there, he researched the way that domineering parents can do lasting damage to their children.
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But whatever lessons Alberto learned in his research, he clearly didn't bring them home with him. His temperament was a dangerous combination of violent and unpredictable, and he lashed out at his children for any perceived slight, especially Anna. Sitting in the same chair where Anna once feared she would suffocate, she wanted to cry.
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But she'd gotten enough bruises from her father's fury to know to hold back her tears. Alberto cleared his throat and calmly explained that their mother, Emilia, was divorcing him and wanted him out of the house. He asked if Anna wanted to come live with him in his new apartment. Like all of her siblings, Anna declined.
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As soon as Alberto left the house, it felt like Ana and her family could finally relax. Without her father looming over her, Ana flourished. She earned a near-perfect 3.9 GPA in high school and began joining in on the marches for Hispanic unity her mother Emilia helped organize. But all the while, she and her sister Lucy kept drifting apart.
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Anna harbored no resentment toward her sister, but she was determined to exercise her independence as often as possible. For instance, she would often leave their shared bedroom and sleep in the basement, where she had hung up a poster of South American revolutionary Che Guevara.
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She felt a sense of kinship with communist revolutionaries, people who fought back against violent repression in the way she wanted to fight back against her father. By the time Anna graduated high school and left for the University of Virginia, her relationship with Lucy was amicable, but distant.
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Without their father's abuse to unite them, the Montez sisters became set on different paths in life, paths that would ultimately lead them to opposing sides of American intelligence. In the fall of 1977, Ana hurried down a street in Madrid, laughing as she ran. She called back to her friend Mimi Colon, telling her to keep up.
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She worked at the Defense Intelligence Agency. Things had been hectic in the 10 days since Middle Eastern terrorists had hijacked planes and flown them into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon. Ana was the chief analyst of Cuban intelligence, but now, with the country preparing for war, it was all hands on deck, even for people like Ana, whose jobs seemed far removed from the Middle East.
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In the months they'd spent studying abroad, Ana and Mimi had become inseparable. They were both Puerto Rican, fiercely independent and ready to change a world they saw as unjust. Together, they had marched the streets of Madrid against US support of Spanish dictator Francisco Franco's regime and discussed the negative impact of American policies on other countries.
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In a way, Ana felt like she'd found a new sister. The two carried bottles of wine up the stairs and knocked on the door of a small flat. Ricardo Fernando Aires opened the door and Ana threw her arms around him. She ran her fingers through his dark curls and kissed him hard. Ana and Ricardo had met on the train from Barcelona back to Madrid.
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She was captivated by the Argentinian boy with sensitive eyes who'd come to Spain to escape the authoritarian dictatorship of his home country. In Ricardo, she found both a boyfriend and a comrade. Ricardo let Ana and Mimi into his flat, where his other friends greeted them warmly.
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Ana poured everyone some wine, and they settled into the living room, where they were harshly criticizing the United States and its government's support of violent regimes. Mimi thought her native Puerto Rico should be independent and free from the control of the American government. Even though Ana agreed with her, her feelings were more complicated.
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Her parents had come from Puerto Rico, but she thought of herself as fully American, though she was embarrassed to admit it in this group. Ana's romance with Ricardo fizzled out by the end of her year in Madrid. She respected his revolutionary passion, but maintaining a long-distance relationship would have required work that neither of them was willing to put in.
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They parted on good terms, and when she got back to the States, Ricardo continued writing to her and passing along books on Argentinian revolutionaries. Ana graduated from the University of Virginia with a degree in foreign affairs a year later, eager to forge a new path for herself.
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One of her friends told her about a low-level clerical job at the Justice Department's Office of Privacy and Information Appeals in Washington, D.C. Being a clerk typist wasn't exactly an opportunity to change the world, Anna thought, but it was stable and secure and close to home in Baltimore.
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Just four months after she started working at the Justice Department, Anna's boss called her into his office. She reassured herself that she had nothing to worry about. She'd done her best to keep her head down and do the job well. Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that she'd done something wrong.
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Could they have discovered her relationship with Ricardo, or the revolutionary books he'd been sending her? Anna had passed her FBI background check despite her growing contempt of the U.S. government, but she was worried they knew about her politics and had flagged her for additional review. Anna walked into the office, mustering her best poker face.
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Her boss asked her to take a seat, and she fidgeted anxiously with the hem of her skirt. She'd only just moved into her new apartment in northwest D.C. If she got fired, she'd probably have to move back in with her mother. That's when her boss began explaining to her that she'd been granted a top-secret security clearance.
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Her boss acknowledged that they rarely promoted a new employee so quickly, but they were short-staffed and needed more clerks to process Freedom of Information Act requests. Suddenly, Anna found herself reviewing some of the most sensitive national security files, determining which information could be released to the media and public. Anna relished the extra responsibility.
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Under different circumstances, Ana might have noticed there was a car tailing her. But today, she was too focused on getting to work to pay any attention. Ana arrived and settled into her desk. But just as she began work, her phone rang. It was Dave Curtin, a high-ranking intelligence official.
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Her attention to detail and analytical skills impressed her bosses, and she was promoted again to a legal technician. Anna had gone from an unemployed communist sympathizer, fresh out of college, to the inner circle of federal government intelligence. Ana picked over her food with her fork, trying to gather her thoughts about her friend Marta's question.
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She'd asked Ana if she would be willing to aid Cuba in their support of the Sandinistas, the Nicaraguan revolutionaries battling the American-backed Contras in the early 1980s. Marta explained that by using Ana's access to top-secret intelligence, the Cuban government could turn the tide in Nicaragua. With her help, they could better prepare against the Contras and their ruthless tactics.
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It sounded easy enough, but what Marta was asking was for Ana to commit treason, to be a spy for the Cubans. It was December 1984, five years since she began at the Department of Justice. Anna, eager to advance her career, had entered the graduate school program at the Johns Hopkins School of Advanced International Studies.
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As she absorbed the finer details of international relations, Anna's socialist worldview continued to crystallize. Her friendship with Marta, one of her classmates, had started innocently enough. They shared a passion for world affairs and outrage at the US government's actions in Nicaragua.
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Marta, who seemed almost effortlessly outgoing, got Ana to come out of her shell a bit more, to speak out for what they both believed in. What Ana didn't know was that Marta was an intelligence operative for the Cubans. Her enrollment at Johns Hopkins was a ploy to recruit students on their way to high-ranking careers in government who were disillusioned with U.S. foreign policy.
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Students like Ana. Marta invited Anna on a trip to New York City to spend some time together before the holidays, cavort around Manhattan, see the sights, and discuss helping the Nicaraguans as they battled the Contras. Marta had made a reservation for three at a busy restaurant so Anna could meet her friend.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. This episode contains depictions of violence and sexual assault and is not suitable for everyone. Please be advised. In May 1977, a young man named Bobby Lowe took the witness stand in a packed Chicago courtroom.
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He'd been forced to quit his job. He'd been put in witness protection along with his wife and their four children and moved between safe houses under a 24-hour guard. It was pure hell, but everything was building to this moment. The chance to put a murderer behind bars. The prosecutor asked Lowe if the man he'd seen that night was in the courtroom today.
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A few days later, Haik used surgical tape to strap a recording device underneath his left arm. He wore a T-shirt under his dress shirt, hoping it would hide the awkward bulge. By the time he got to the courthouse, he was sweating and hoped it wouldn't drench the recorder. Haik tried to act casual as he approached Costello in the hall.
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He asked him to have lunch again, this time in the courthouse cafeteria. They loaded their trays with cheeseburgers and fries. After they sat down, Haik thanked Costello for the $100 he had given him. He said he had used it to take his girlfriend Kathy out over the weekend. Then he fished for information. He was shocked to hear Costello admit he paid off Judge Olson nearly every day.
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Haik prayed his tape recorder was working. He tried to memorize everything Costello was saying in case it wasn't. The next day, Haik handed the tape over to his FBI contact, who told him he'd threaded the tape incorrectly in the recorder. But somehow, Costello's incriminating words had come through, loud and clear.
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In another conversation, Costello gave Haik a full rundown of how the system of fixers and payoffs worked. It was as if he were training a new employee. Costello explained he had a deal with Judge Olson. The judge would send him defendants and Costello would give him 50% of his legal fees in return. Every Friday, he dropped $500 or $1,000 into Olson's drawer.
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This was crucial information Haik could use to bring down the corrupt system. But he also wondered what some of his honest lawyer friends might think, watching him sit with Costello at lunch, day after day. While the system was full of corruption, there were still upstanding attorneys committed to doing their jobs. His girlfriend Kathy was on her way to becoming one of them.
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She was in law school, and her father had been a judge with an honorable record. And though Haig had been sworn to secrecy, he told her about his undercover work. Luckily, Kathy was proud of what he was doing and promised not to tell anyone. All the other lawyers were left to guess what was going on. By hanging out with Jim Costello, Haik was making it known that he was open to taking bribes.
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As dirty as it felt, he knew this relationship would open up doors, even if he lost friends in the process. In October 1980, about five months after starting his undercover assignment, Haik walked up to a swanky apartment building on Chicago's near north side. He was there to meet an old friend named Mark Chiavelli, who'd once worked alongside him as a prosecutor.
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That night, boxer Sugar Ray Leonard was facing off against Roberto Duran. Haik wasn't much of a boxing fan, but this was a big fight. So when Chiavelli suggested that they watch the broadcast in a local movie theater, Haik had agreed to go and Chiavelli picked him up in his BMW.
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Chiavelli had left the state's attorney's office to become a defense lawyer, and it was clear from his luxury car, fancy apartment and tailored suits that business was booming. The month before, he'd approached Haig, suggesting he also ditch his career as a prosecutor and join his private practice. Ciavelli even admitted to bribing judges, telling him, that was just how things worked.
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Lowe nodded and pointed at the man who'd haunted his nightmares for so long, Harry Alleman. The mobster sat coolly in his flashy suit and silk tie, his eyes hidden under tinted glasses. The smirk never left his face. Lowe finished his testimony and was escorted out of the courthouse flanked by police. Now, all he could do was wait. Lowe wasn't the only eyewitness to the murder.
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Haig had been shocked to learn that even his old friend was corrupt. It seemed like it was just a matter of time before he found out everyone he knew was taking bribes. But that evening, Haig figured he and Ciavelli weren't going to talk business, just unwind. He could use a night off. The stress of working undercover was getting to him.
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He'd spent the last few months enduring boozy lunches and late-night binges with Big Bird Costello and Judge Olsen himself, pumping them for information. Haik leaned back into the BMW's smooth leather seat, but as soon as they got on the road, Ciavelli dropped some disturbing news.
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He and a guy named Bob Silverman, another one of the most corrupt attorneys in Cook County, had fixed a narcotics case in a suburban courthouse. Haik tried to hide his disappointment. He forced a smile as Ciavelli described the way he and Silverman had just bribed several judges.
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Silverman had deep ties with the mob and was so confident about his fixes that he'd stroll into court for trial without carrying a single file or briefcase. He was known as Silvery Bob. He was a big fish, and Hake wanted to reel him in. Chiavelli then described another business opportunity. There was a case coming to Hake's narcotics courtroom, which Judge Olson would hear.
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Chiavelli asked him to drop the charges in exchange for a bribe. Haik played along, knowing he could use the offer to his advantage. He nodded and told Chiavelli he'd drop the charges, but it wouldn't be necessary to pay. He'd do it as a favor. Now he could go after not just the judge, but Silvery Bob, too.
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The day before Thanksgiving, 1980, Haik was lurking anxiously in the hallway of the Cook County Courthouse. Most of the courts had closed early and everyone was trying to wrap up their work before the holiday. But that afternoon, Haik wasn't thinking about turkey and stuffing just yet. He was trying to look inconspicuous as he kept his eyes glued on the door of Judge Olsen's chambers.
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Two FBI agents, disguised as repairmen, were waiting nearby to bug the office. They had walked confidently into the building and unlocked the door to the switchboard room where operators managed the court's phone calls. Once Haight confirmed the chambers were empty, they would head in, pretending they were there for a repair.
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Olsen was on vacation, but he had a fill-in judge that must have been taking his job seriously. It felt like he would never leave. Finally, Hake heard the door open and then footsteps striking the marble floor. He walked quickly to a phone nearby and confirmed the office was empty. A few weeks earlier, Hake had flown to Washington, D.C.
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to meet the director of the FBI and lay out all the evidence he'd gathered. By that point, Olsen had admitted to Hake that he had accepted thousands of dollars in bribes, and with that admission, the FBI had given him the green light to install the bug. It was the first time an American judge's chambers would ever be put under this kind of surveillance. The timing was perfect.
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When Olson came back to the office on Monday, lawyers would be clamoring to fix cases that they hadn't been able to under the fill-in judges. And now they'd be caught doing it on tape. While the FBI agents went into Olsen's office to install the bug, Haik left and drove to a nearby supermarket.
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He met a female agent who accompanied him back to the courthouse in an unmarked car, ready to pose as his girlfriend. If the two FBI agents inside Olsen's office ran into trouble, Haik and his fake girlfriend would run back into the building, claiming he'd forgotten his briefcase. The ruse would hopefully cause enough of a distraction so the agents could slip away.
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As they waited for updates on a walkie-talkie, Haik's mind raced through the worst-case scenario. What if someone came back unexpectedly? A janitor? Or worse, one of Olsen's fixers? If anyone showed up in the chambers, it could blow the entire operation. But as luck would have it, the agents placed the bug without a hitch.
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By early December in 1980, the FBI had been listening in on Judge Olson's chambers for more than a week. So far, the Bug had recorded enough evidence to prosecute Jim Costello, the fixer attorney. But they still hadn't gotten Judge Olson clearly admitting he was in on the scam.
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Another neighbor had identified the gunman too. And the man who drove the car had also turned state's witness. He gave a detailed account of the mobster's role in the murder. A few days after testifying, Lowe and his wife were in a car with federal agents. They were listening to the news on the radio, and the judge was about to read the final verdict. Lowe asked the agents to turn up the volume.
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The judge had told Haik about plenty of his illegal dealings over drinks at their usual bar, but it had always been too noisy to Bug. The FBI needed Olson to confirm on tape that he took bribes. That would be enough to charge him with federal crimes under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act, otherwise known as RICO.
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Eventually, they got him when the agents in the FBI listening room picked up a heated argument between Judge Olson and Costello. Olson wanted to know why there wasn't more cash in his drawer. He'd written down he should have $2,300, but when Costello counted, he told the judge that there was only $800.
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The two men went back and forth about the number, and then, loud and clear, Olsen told Costello that yesterday they'd fixed eight or nine cases, so where was the rest of the money? The bug caught every moment of the fight. Haik was out in the hallway while it was happening, unaware of what was going on inside. He saw Costello storm out, looking like he was ready to punch someone.
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This disagreement over a few hundred dollars would not only reveal their level of greed, it would cement the federal conspiracy case against Olson. Just a few days later, Haik got another big breakthrough. Bob Silverman, the mob-connected fixer his friend had been working with, passed him a bribe. Haik had been wearing a wire and caught Silverman discussing the payoff on tape.
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But Haig's elation was short-lived. He soon got some troubling news from his FBI contact. The bug in Olson's office had picked up someone telling the judge that Haig had once applied for a job at the FBI. Haig felt his stomach drop. He understood immediately what it meant. Maybe his cover had finally been blown.
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When the announcement was read, Lowe was shocked. Not guilty. The judge said the state had not proved its case beyond a reasonable doubt. And not only did he acquit the mobster, the judge accused Lowe of lying on the stand. Lowe punched the seat in front of him, stinging his knuckles. He put his life on the line to testify against a violent mobster, and in the end, it had all been for nothing.
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Two weeks later, in the middle of January 1981, an assistant prosecutor pulled Haig aside in the back of the narcotics court. He spoke quietly, telling Haig there was something he needed to know. Haig braced himself for the bad news that Olson had figured out his connection to the FBI. But instead, the prosecutor had a very different kind of warning.
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He told Haig that court insiders were calling him Terry Take behind his back. He told Haik to watch out the next time he takes a bribe. Haik cursed the prosecutor out and denied that he was doing anything illegal. But on the inside, he was actually pleased. His cover as a corrupt fixer seemed to be safe. It also reminded him that there were still some honest lawyers in the Chicago courts.
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Shortly after that, on January 20th, 1981, the FBI removed the bug from Judge Olson's chambers. By that point, they had captured more than 2,000 conversations between the judge and his many crooked partners. And if Judge Olson was onto Haik's FBI aspirations, he never let on. For Haik, the mission was a massive success. That night, he went out for a celebratory meal.
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He stopped at a busy restaurant in Little Italy, asked for a table for one, and ordered an Italian beef sandwich. But as he took the first bite, he looked across the room at couples, families, and friends eating together and realized just how isolated he had become. Working undercover meant living a double life. He felt lucky he didn't have to lie to his girlfriend, Kathy.
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But instead of spending time with her, he was knocking back beers with lowlifes like Jim Costello. And he didn't even like beer, because he was allergic to it. But Haik knew the work wasn't over. The worst was yet to come. Even with all the bribes and taped conversations, the FBI and Operation Grey Lord still needed more evidence to stop the corruption.
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They would start staging cases themselves, and they would need Haik to go undercover in a new role, this time as a crooked defense lawyer. A few weeks after the bug in Judge Olson's office was removed, Haik was sitting at a restaurant near the courthouse, surrounded by Jim Costello and a few other corrupt fixers.
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Costello ordered another round of beers, and the waitress arrived with plates of fried food to soak up the booze. As usual, Costello's drunken voice seemed to fill up the whole dining room. He told Haik they would miss him and raised his glass for a toast. Haik had told everyone at the courthouse he was leaving the prosecutor's office and going into private practice as a defense lawyer.
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So Costello had surprised him with this going-away party. For Haig, it was another reminder of how successfully he'd played the part of a corrupt prosecutor. These guys actually liked him and trusted him. At the end of the night, Costello pressed a wad of cash into Haig's hand as a going-away present. He told him to buy himself a new car. Up until now, Haig had been accepting bribes.
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Now, in his new role, he would be handing them out. It would be the next phase of Operation Grey Lord. While the FBI had been gathering evidence of bribes, their investigation was also allowing criminals to walk free in cases that they knew were fixed. But they couldn't do anything to stop them. The FBI now wanted to create their own crimes.
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They would manufacture cases from scratch and control every aspect from the criminal activity to the courtroom bribes. Agents flew into Chicago from around the country to pose as perpetrators and victims. It was awkward at first. The agents had been hired due to their respect for the law and their unwillingness to break it. And here they were being asked to steal cars and guns and carry drugs.
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To the mobster, the verdict was no surprise. He knew the judge had been bought off. It had taken just $10,000 to throw a murder case.
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But Haik embraced the assignment. After months of anxiety, he found himself re-energized by his high-stakes role. In one made-up case, an undercover FBI agent was supposed to get arrested for drunk driving. As he careened through downtown Chicago, an FBI colleague called the cops to report him, but no squad car showed up.
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So the agent went so far as to drive the wrong way down one-way streets until the police finally pulled him over. In another staged incident, Haik played the role of a defense lawyer for a shoplifting suspect. He approached the judge, telling him the evidence against his client was weak.
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The judge nodded in agreement, suggesting that Haik's client might have simply forgotten to pay for the items he had purchased. The judge later dismissed the case, but he didn't mention any kind of bribe payment from Haik. So Haik followed the judge to his chambers and asked if there was anything he could do to show his appreciation. The judge's response was cryptic.
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Take $100, buy stamps and postcards, and write to all your friends supporting my re-election campaign. Haik was baffled, but then his fixer friend Costello decoded the message for him. He's telling you the first one's free, but the next one will cost you $100. A few years later, on August 5th, 1983, Haik got a call from one of his handlers at the FBI.
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The voice on the other end of the line was low and urgent. He asked Haik if he'd seen the 5 o'clock news. Haik had not. An investigative reporter had just gone on TV to break the story of a massive undercover operation aimed at rooting out corruption in the Chicago courts.
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Haik cursed under his breath. Who could have leaked the details of Operation Grey Lord to the press? And what the hell was this reporter doing? Now that the investigation was public, anyone who was dirty would immediately clean up their act. In the days and weeks that followed, Haik was proven correct. One older judge, accused of accepting bribes, abruptly announced his retirement.
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Haik worried about what this meant for his personal life too. He and Kathy had recently gotten married and bought a house in the suburbs. Now, he wondered if they would have to move to an entirely new state for protection. But while the existence of Operation Grey Lord was no longer a secret, the reporter had no idea that Haig was the mole. As a result, Haig's own cover still hadn't been blown.
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So he told his handler that he wasn't ready to quit, and the FBI agreed to let him keep wearing a wire to record every dirty deal he could. His status as a mole wouldn't last much longer, though. Four months later, Haik was waiting for a flight to Washington, D.C. at O'Hare International Airport. He was carrying a briefcase full of incriminating tapes.
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And as he passed a newsstand, he spotted a headline about a former assistant state's attorney who had been working as a government mole. He grabbed the paper and read the article. Haik's name wasn't in the story, but he knew it was all about him. And he knew Costello and all the other fixers would recognize it was him, too. Then, within days, someone did leak his name to the press.
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When Haight got back to Chicago, the FBI brought him and Kathy to a hotel to hide out. After three and a half long years, his time as an undercover agent had finally come to an end. In March 1984, Haik took the stand to testify in a federal corruption case for the first time. He looked out at the courtroom from behind the witness stand, trying to spot Kathy's face in the massive crowd.
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He felt sweat seeping under his armpits. He wasn't used to being on this side of the courtroom. The trial was for a traffic court bag man named Harold Kahn. It seemed like a minor case, but it was pivotal for Operation Grey Lord. It would serve as a test of the approach the FBI used to gather evidence and whether they had followed proper legal procedures.
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An acquittal could potentially unravel all the FBI's cases against corrupt judges and fixers and other bag men. Haik had spent the last several weeks reviewing tapes of Kahn and going over the case with prosecutors. he still didn't feel ready. The cross-examination from Khan's defense attorney was tough.
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He accused Haik of violating the lawyer's code of ethics by lying, creating phony cases, and allowing his undercover FBI colleagues to testify falsely in court. Haik replied that he didn't think he was lying. He argued that a lie was something you said for personal benefit. Haik was acting on behalf of the people of Cook County, not himself.
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After the barrage of questions, Haik was finally able to step down from the stand, exhausted. All he could do now was pray the jury would agree with him. A few days later, the jury found Khan guilty of racketeering and extortion. He was sentenced to six years in prison. Haik breathed a sigh of relief.
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It seemed his more than three years of undercover work with Operation Grey Lord was actually paying off. Over the next decade, Haik testified 22 times as a witness. But no matter how often he appeared, he never shook off his courtroom nerves. The defense attorneys called Haik a rat for stabbing his friends in the back.
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Friends like his old buddy Mark Chiavelli, the corrupt prosecutor turned defense lawyer. It also included the so-called friends he'd made undercover, like Jim Costello, the lawyer who taught him how to be a fixer. Chiavelli would ultimately strike a deal with the FBI. He would testify in exchange for avoiding criminal prosecution.
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One thing Chiavelli admitted eased any pangs of guilt Hake might have felt about betraying his friend. According to Chiavelli, Bob Silverman, the corrupt attorney with mob ties, had threatened to kill Hake because he thought he worked for the FBI. Chiavelli hadn't even bothered to warn him.
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Not wanting to deal with the shame of standing trial, Silvery Bob would plead guilty for bribery, mail fraud, and racketeering. He was sentenced to seven and a half years in federal prison. Jim Costello was sentenced to six years. In all, more than 100 people were charged as a result of Operation Grey Lord, including 20 judges, 57 lawyers, nine police officers, and 17 court staff.
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Three judges died before they were ever indicted, including two by suicide. Judge Olson received 12 years in prison. He died at the age of 63 while still behind bars. In 1986, Operation Grey Lord ended. A corrupt attorney named Robert Cooley came forward to the FBI about his involvement in fixing cases and agreed to wear a wire.
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One of the first things he admitted was that he had paid a judge $10,000 to find Harry the Hook Alleman not guilty of murder back in the late 1970s. In 1997, Bobby Lowe, the eyewitness who had seen the murder while walking his dog, returned to the stand to testify, along with Cooley. That year, Alleman was finally convicted.
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Terry Haik's undercover work paved the way for a distinguished career with the FBI. He became a full agent within the Department of Justice. Despite the FBI's warning that he would never work as a lawyer in Cook County again, he eventually did make it back to the Chicago courts.
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After retiring from the FBI, he went to work for the Cook County Sheriff's Office and eventually the state's attorney's office, the same place he had started his legal career. Operation Grey Lord exposed how corrupt Chicago's judicial system had become, where justice was offered to the highest bidder. Terry Haik was a young lawyer thrust into this murky underworld.
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He discovered that sometimes the most dangerous conspiracies unfold not in far-off lands, but in local courtrooms and city halls, in the very institutions meant to serve and protect us. Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts.
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You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey. From Ballin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories.
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From Ballin Studios and Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This week's episode is called Operation Grey Lord, Chicago's Corrupt Courts.
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We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We use many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend the book Operation Grey Lord, the true story of an untrained undercover agent and America's biggest corruption bust by Terrence Haick. and news articles on Operation Grey Lord from the Chicago Tribune. This episode was written by Susie Armitage.
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Sound design by Andre Plews. Our producers are Christopher B. Dunn and John Reed. Our associate producer is Ines Rinike. Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson. For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel. Produced by me, Luke LaManna.
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Executive producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our senior producers are Loredana Pellevoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman. Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan. Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis. For Wondery...
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If you spend enough time in the military, you'll realize that just because someone has been in for a long time, or even if he has a lot of rank, that doesn't mean he's a good person. One of the most frustrating aspects of military service is when you find out you have a corrupt or otherwise incompetent leader, and yet you still have to call him sir.
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I'm not going to name any names, but one of the ships I was deployed on had several high-ranking Navy personnel, such as the ship's commander, that were caught taking bribes from sleazy foreign contractors. They scammed the U.S. Navy out of millions. All of them were arrested. But even all of that doesn't hold a candle to how bad the Chicago judicial system was in the 1970s and 80s.
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Lowe swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to focus on the prosecutor. The man he was here to testify against sat at the defendant's table, staring at him. He was one of Chicago's most feared mobsters, Harry the Hook Alleman. Lowe took a deep breath to steady his nerves. Then he told the court what he'd seen one night five years ago.
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During that time, Chicago's courts were a breeding ground for corruption. The system was rife with mob ties and bribery that let killers like Harry the Hook Alleman walk free. Brave witnesses like Bobby Lowe spoke out in cases with predetermined outcomes. Victims of horrific crimes, including rape, murder, and child molestation, were routinely denied justice.
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Chicago's courts preferred to keep their dirty secrets hidden, but federal authorities had a plan to blow the lid off the whole corrupt system. They launched Operation Grey Lord, a covert investigation to expose and dismantle crooked local institutions. It would ultimately lead to the biggest corruption bust in U.S. history. At its center was Terry Haake, a young, idealistic attorney.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Without him, Operation Grey Lord would never have been possible. In the fall of 1979, Terry Haake sat at the prosecutor's table in a downtown Chicago courtroom. He was an assistant prosecutor just three years out of law school, and he was about to question the victim and key witness in a rape trial. Haik watched as the teenage girl took the stand.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Her voice was shaky as she began to recount her horrific ordeal. The teenager had been raped by her boss at the grocery store where they both worked. Her boss had chased her around the store, bitten her neck, brandished a gun, and threatened to kill her if she went to the police. The courtroom fell silent, absorbing the weight and horror of her testimony.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Hake sat down and waited for the defense attorney to rise for his cross-examination. But the attorney chose not to question the victim at all. That was highly unusual. but a little while later, it all made sense to Haik. The judge dismissed the charges without any hesitation, letting the alleged rapist go free. After the trial, Haik pulled the girl's parents aside to talk.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
They were devastated, and he felt awful for making their daughter publicly relive her experience for nothing. He did his best to console the girl's parents. He told the couple that the judge must have killed the case because there were no witnesses. He didn't have the nerve to tell the girl's family what he strongly suspected. He believed the defense lawyer had paid off the judge.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
As the girl's parents turned to leave, Hague heard footsteps approaching him. He turned to see the courtroom sheriff's deputy walking toward him, her face contorted with anger. She demanded to know how he could have lost the case. She told him to think about what his failure did to that poor girl and her family.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Her words rang in Haig's ears as he drove home to his parents' house, where he still lived. Haig had become a lawyer because he wanted to put bad guys behind bars. Now he felt disgusted with the profession and utterly helpless. He was starting to reach his breaking point. It had been two years since a judge found Harry the Hook Alleman not guilty of murder.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
At the time, Haik was shocked, but he didn't immediately conclude the system was corrupt. He later noticed it was part of an alarming pattern. Some judges seemed to be playing by an entirely different rulebook when it came to the law. The latest rape case proved it once again, and for Haik, it was the last straw. Many judges were just as bad as the criminals in their courtrooms.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Some were even worse. Someone had to do something about this rampant corruption. Haik decided it might as well be him. Shortly following the court system's most recent failure in the rape case, Haik filed a complaint about the judge with the state's attorney and the special prosecutions unit. But his fight for justice would have some unexpected turns.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Lowe was out walking his German shepherd and spotted his neighbor heading to his car. The neighbor was a Teamsters Union steward. Out of nowhere, a vehicle pulled up and gunshots poured out of its open window. The Union man was hit repeatedly and knocked into some nearby bushes. Before Lowe could process what he'd seen, he heard a car door open.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
A few months later, Terry Haik walked into a Chicago FBI office. He'd gotten a call to go there in the middle of the workday. Haik wasn't sure what to expect, but he figured it had to be connected to his complaint. He made his way past the entrance, where photographs of former special agents hung on the wall.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
A receptionist ushered him into a room with a long oval table where three Justice Department officials were waiting. The man in charge was an assistant U.S. attorney with dark brown hair and a reddish mustache. His name was Dan Reedy. Reedy asked Haik point blank if he'd ever taken a bribe. Haik shook his head and said no. Reedy leaned over and pressed Haik.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
He demanded to know what Haik would do if he was offered money to throw a case. Hake said he would report it to his division. Reedy kept pushing. He asked if Hake knew anyone who took bribes. Hake said no, but he didn't need a personal connection to know what was going on. He said it was no secret that people were taking bribes, but he didn't know who exactly.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
He and other attorneys often speculated. After a long pause, Reedy stared straight at Hake and finally told him why the FBI had called him in. They wanted him to pose as a corrupt prosecutor and take bribes to drop cases, and they wanted him to wear a wire so that they could listen in. Haig's heart was racing. He'd never expected a request like this.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Reedy told him the government had long suspected something was rotten in the Cook County courts. He said he had an entire folder filled with the names of judges, lawyers, and police officers who may be linked to corruption at the highest levels of the system. But to root out the bad actors, they needed someone honest on the inside.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Haik had been the only lawyer to make an official complaint about the corruption. Haik shifted nervously in his chair. He worried about what would happen to him if he took the job. He remembered the advice he had gotten one day outside the special prosecution's office. Don't ever rat on your colleagues. Besides, any corrupt lawyers surely had mob ties.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
What if the mafia found out and showed up at his house? Haik also knew he wouldn't be the only one in danger. He still lived with his parents, and he'd recently started dating someone that he was getting serious about. They could be in danger, too. Reedy promised Haik that the FBI would protect him, and they would keep the investigation tightly under wraps until it was time for him to testify.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
They were calling it Operation Grey Lord, after a racehorse one of the FBI agents had gambled on and won. But Reedy did have a warning. If Haik agreed to go undercover, it would probably be the end of his career as a lawyer in Cook County. Their corruption went so deep that no matter who they put away, there would still be people who would see him as a rat.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Haik understood the risks of taking on this assignment. But at the same time, a jolt of adrenaline ran through him. He'd always dreamed of working for the FBI. He'd even applied for a position there while he was in law school. His mind was made up. He wanted to make a difference. But there was one person he needed to talk to first.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
That night, after work, Haik drove back to his parents' house in the suburbs. Reedy had agreed that since Haik was still living there, he could tell them about going undercover. Haik didn't want to reveal anything to his father, since he could never keep a secret, but he knew his mother could, so he told her what he was going to do. Her face fell. She was scared. Haik tried to reassure her.
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Someone got out and headed straight toward him while pointing a gun. Lowe's dog lunged forward to attack. As Lowe tried to hold her back, he locked eyes with the gunman. He was frozen for a second and then ran to escape. The murderer's face was instantly seared into his memory. As Lowe recounted his experience, he thought about everything he'd been through over the last few months.
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He'd said he had dreamed of this moment ever since he was a kid, watching shows about the FBI on TV. Haik could see his mother understood, and reluctantly, she gave him her blessing. At his next meeting with the FBI, Haik gave Reedy his answer. He was in. Just a few weeks later, Haik was seated in a booth at a restaurant near the courthouse frequented by lawyers.
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He was having lunch with a man he'd never thought he'd be sitting in front of, Jim Costello. Costello had a reputation as a crooked defense lawyer. He'd earned the nickname Big Bird due to his height and unruly hair. Haig thought of him as a hallway hustler, always ready to prey on defendants from low-income backgrounds.
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Costello would promise he could make their cases go away and told them he had the judge's ear. The judge was Wayne Olson, who was rumored to be the most corrupt man in all of Cook County and maybe even the whole country. Haik really wanted to bring Olson down, but to get to him, he needed to go through Costello. The two lawyers had gone to the same university, but they made an odd pair.
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Operation Greylord: Chicago’s Corrupt Courts
Costello was from the South Side, a rough part of town, and he'd worked as a cop for years before becoming an attorney. That's where he'd learned how the justice system really worked. Haik was soft-spoken and had grown up comfortably middle class. Many of his colleagues joked that he looked like a choir boy with his rosy cheeks. The FBI had even suggested he grow a beard to look older and tougher.
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Haig had taken their advice and sprouted a scraggly mustache, but he had just shaved it off. He figured he'd be a more confident mole if he felt comfortable in his own skin. As they waited for their food to arrive, Costello nodded towards some of the other prosecutors sitting in the restaurant.
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He called them dorks and said, Costello took a swig of beer and told Haik he knew how to get things done, and it wasn't by following the rules. He said there were certain ways to make things easier for everybody. Haik was surprised at how openly Costello was talking about corruption.
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Even without Haik admitting to any illegal activity of his own, Costello had alluded to his connections with fixers who collected bribes. He seemed to be inviting Haik into his shady world. It worked. Later that summer, Costello stopped by Haik's office and handed him two $50 bills. He said it was for all the favors Haik had done for him. Haik hadn't done him any favors.
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So it was clear Costello was trying to buy his help in the future. Haik reminded himself this was the whole point of the operation. He put the bills in his pocket. He was officially a crooked prosecutor for Chicago.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
Wondery Plus subscribers can listen to redacted, declassified mysteries early and ad-free right now. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. In the early hours of September 1, 1983, Korean Airlines Captain Chung Bae Young guided his Boeing 747 through the vast darkness over the North Pacific Ocean. Bae Young had been flying this exact route for five years.
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In the warm cocoon of the cockpit, Byung and his crew were unaware that they were being closely watched. Their false sense of comfort was about to come to a horrifying end. They had no idea that the plane had gone completely off course and was actually illegally entering Soviet airspace in a sensitive region of the Russian Far East. Suddenly, the plane shook violently. Oxygen masks dropped.
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He predicted that his bosses would see imminent threats everywhere.
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A few months later, on September 14, 1982, President Ronald Reagan sat across from a man named Edward Teller in the Oval Office in the White House. Teller was a nuclear physicist and chemical engineer. He was known as the father of the hydrogen bomb for his work developing one of the most destructive technologies ever created.
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Teller briefed Reagan on a revolutionary concept, a third generation of nuclear weapons. His idea was to deploy powerful X-ray lasers in space that would destroy incoming enemy missiles before they reached the U.S. It sounded like science fiction, but Teller convinced Reagan it was possible.
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After witnessing the Ivy League 82 exercise six months earlier, Reagan was more frightened than he'd ever been of nuclear war. but he also believed that the US had to be prepared for it both offensively and defensively.
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It previously didn't seem possible to defend against a nuclear attack, but now the father of the H-bomb was describing a strategy that might just give the US the upper hand against the Soviets. Reagan asked his top advisors to further study this wild idea of space defense and see if it was feasible.
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Six months later, in February 1983, Reagan listened as the head of the Navy confirmed that Teller's idea could theoretically work. Computers, lasers, and particle beams had advanced to the point that shooting nuclear missiles down from space was a legitimate prospect. Reagan was so excited about the news that he wanted to announce this bold new plan during an upcoming televised address.
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His advisors, including the Secretary of State and the Defense Secretary, urged him to hold off, but he did it anyway. At 8 p.m. on March 23, 1983, Reagan spoke to the country and the world from the Oval Office on live TV.
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Reagan called this bold new program the Strategic Defense Initiative, but it was swiftly dubbed Star Wars by the media and critics alike. Kremlin officials were immediately alarmed at the idea. If U.S. space lasers were capable of neutralizing Soviet nuclear attacks, their arsenal of thousands of nuclear warheads would be obsolete.
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Then, what would stop the United States from launching a massive nuclear attack on the Soviet Union? It was a possibility the Soviets simply wouldn't accept. Late on August 31, 1983, six months after Reagan's announcement, Major Gennady Osipovich of the Soviet Air Force took command of the night shift.
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Chaos erupted in the cabin as pressurized air inside began rushing out. as if someone had ripped open a door. Captain Bayoung felt the temperature drop as alarms blared in the cockpit. The flight engineer checked his instruments and confirmed that all four engines were functioning normally. Whatever had exploded, it wasn't an engine. Captain Bayoung's mind raced. The plane was out of control.
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He led a squadron of Su-15 interceptor jets out from a large naval base on Sakhalin, Russia's largest island in the Far East, just north of Japan. Osipovich took off and guided the fleet up to cruising altitude.
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As an experienced squadron leader, Osipovich figured it would be another night of chasing shadows, or at most, of deterring foreign planes that approached, but never quite passed into, prohibited Soviet airspace without real conflict.
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For months, Osipovich and his squadrons had been sent to deter any American aircraft that were spotted flying over the sea just east of Soviet territory, but they never crossed over, so the missions felt like a waste of time. Then Major Osipovich heard the radio crackle. Ground control told him to fire his guns to test his armaments.
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The order was usually a sign that he might need to use those guns later, so Osipovich was a bit surprised. But he followed orders, pulling the trigger and letting off a few rounds. Everything worked just fine. As he wondered what prompted the order, ground control sent another message. An aircraft was heading towards Soviet airspace. He was informed that it was most likely a U.S. spy plane.
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Osipovich suddenly felt his senses sharpen. He checked his radar and headed towards the aircraft. Just after 3 a.m., Osipovich pulled within 20 miles of the plane. He tried to contact it using standard military radio procedures, but he got no response. Then he transmitted messages on the International Emergency Frequency and the Military Distress Channel. Again, nothing.
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His next order was to try and force the plane to land. Osipovich flashed his lights and tipped his wings to draw the attention of the plane's crew. He saw no sign of acknowledgement. As he updated ground control, he could hear a flurry of overlapping voices. He was ordered to fire his guns across the plane's trajectory.
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In 13 years of flying, he'd never been ordered to fire warning shots like this. But once again, Osipovich did as he was told. He fired the shots, but in the dark sky, they went unnoticed by the mysterious plane. Osipovich didn't know it, but he was firing at Korean Air Flight 007.
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At that moment, inside the dimly lit cabin of flight 007, most of the passengers were stealing their last moments of sleep before breakfast service started. The long-haul flight had been uneventful, with only the steady drone of engines as company. From the cockpit, the crew could only see the vast expanse of ink-black sky outside their windows.
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Following their flight plan, they had received clearance from air traffic control to ascend another 2,000 feet. The crew adjusted the autopilot settings, and the Boeing 747 began its gradual climb, its speed temporarily decreasing as part of the maneuver. The change was so subtle that the sleeping passengers remained completely unaware of their ascent.
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Major Osipovich's eyes narrowed as he continued to track the enemy plane on his radar. He watched the aircraft climb, and to his surprise, its speed dropped significantly. Caught off guard by this abrupt change, Osipovich found himself overtaking his target. His Su-15 interceptor jet, which was designed for high-speed pursuit, zoomed past the larger, slower-moving plane.
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As he banked hard to circle back, Osipovich thought it was obvious that the intruder was making an evasive maneuver. He flew in close enough to see that the plane had four engines. It definitely looked like a commercial American plane, but it made no sense that a plane like that, with sophisticated navigation, could end up so far off course.
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The first officer radioed Tokyo Air Traffic Control, informing them that they were experiencing a rapid decompression. Captain Bae Young tried to maneuver the plane to a lower altitude where there would be less damage from decompression, but he couldn't gain control of the aircraft that he had piloted so many times before.
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He couldn't make out the writing on the fin, but he could see a row of dark windows on the side. Osipovich believed this had to be a spy plane disguised as a passenger aircraft, which the Americans sometimes used for reconnaissance. Osipovich was sweating now. It seemed inevitable there would be a confrontation. After about 10 minutes, he was cruising behind the aircraft again, ready to fire.
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But the enemy plane was heading out of Soviet airspace, and he was still awaiting orders on what to do next. It felt like every second was racing by, and his window of opportunity was rapidly collapsing. Osipovich knew that orders were moving up the ranks from the captains to the lieutenant colonels to the generals. Each moment ticked by. And then, finally, he got the message. Destroy the target.
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Osipovich held his breath. Then he launched two missiles, one heat-seeking and one radar-controlled. Each of them contained 88 pounds of explosives. The heat-seeker hit the left wing of the target, and the radar-controlled missile hit the rear. The plane stayed aloft momentarily, then Osipovich reported to ground control that it had been destroyed. He turned and flew back to his base.
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He had just taken down a commercial aircraft, Korean Air Flight 007. The following morning, on September 1st, 1983, Secretary of State George Shultz rushed to the White House soon after finding out about the attack. At 10.45, he addressed the nation on TV.
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President Reagan was also outraged. The consensus at the White House was that the Korean Airlines shooting exposed the Soviets as a cruel and savage enemy, thirsty for capitalist blood. They knew the plane was filled with civilians, but shot it down anyway. Meanwhile, U.S. Air Force intelligence determined that a combination of factors led the plane off course.
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The autopilot might have been set slightly off, and over time the navigation system gradually drifted without the crew realizing it. And coincidentally, earlier that day, a genuine American military reconnaissance aircraft had been detected in the vicinity.
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The Air Force concluded that the Soviets were likely still on high alert from the earlier sighting, and may have mistaken the civilian airliner for a military threat. And the warning shots and flashing lights by the Soviet pilot could have been easily missed by the Korean air pilots, who had no idea they were off course.
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He heard the terrified screams of passengers, and there was nothing he could do. For the next six minutes, the plane fell through the darkness, spiraling down 35,000 feet and then crashing into the Sea of Japan. No one survived. What happened to flight 007 would soon trigger a chain of events, pushing the world to the brink of World War III.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
Heartbreaking as the situation was, Schultz saw an opportunity to prove to the world that the Soviets were the villains of the Cold War. The U.S. immediately suspended all Soviet passenger air service to the United States. It also placed its military forces on heightened alert. There are no records of how Soviet leader Yuri Andropov reacted to the downing of Flight 007.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
He had been in power for less than 10 months and was in the hospital when the incident happened. But other Soviet officials were quick to respond. They claimed it was orchestrated by the US as a deliberate provocation meant to undermine the Soviet Union's peace efforts. If tensions were high between the two superpowers before, they had now reached a boiling point.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
A few weeks after the attack, Lieutenant Colonel Stanislav Petrov was making dinner for his wife Raya. It was September 26, 1983. Raya was sick and battling cancer and had become extremely weak. Petrov brought the food on a tray to her in bed in their small, sparsely decorated apartment. Raya thanked him in a weak voice as Petrov sat beside her and helped her eat.
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As he tipped a glass of water into her mouth, the phone rang. Petrov answered. It was someone from the Serpukhov 15 base calling. Another senior officer at the station was sick. They wanted Petrov to cover the night shift. He didn't want to leave Raya, but he had no choice. He agreed and put on his uniform, then kissed his wife goodbye.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
He said he hoped she'd get some sleep and that he'd see her in the morning. Tensions at work had been high since the Korean Airlines incident, and Petrov felt the stress acutely. The pressure intensified as Soviet officials publicly claimed that the US deliberately sent Flight 007 into Soviet airspace, most likely to spy.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
Meanwhile, news broadcasts in the Soviet Union showed NATO allies testing new ballistic missiles during military exercises. A Soviet official cautioned that these missiles could potentially be used for a surprise attack against the USSR. Petrov thought that relations between the two great powers were now at their very worst.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
It was bad enough that his wife was sick, but now it seemed like the entire globe was on the brink of World War III. And this time, two sides had access to nuclear arms. Petrov pulled up to Serpukhov 15 about an hour later. The moon was bright and nearly full, and he could feel the season's first chill.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
He walked inside the concrete building and, as he had done countless times before, took his position at the command center. At midnight Moscow time, Petrov glanced at the monitors displaying data from Soviet satellites, which kept a close eye on their adversaries from 20,000 miles above the Earth. Everything seemed normal.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
But as he sipped a cup of tea and chatted with a colleague, an alarm suddenly blared. The persistent noise was jarring and didn't sound like the usual exercise signal. Petrov looked up at a monitor. Large red letters flashed over a white background with a clear and frightening message. Launch. His eyes shot from the screen to the other analysts.
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They were all staring up at him, wondering what to do. For a moment, Petrov couldn't move. He was shocked. The message meant a satellite had picked up an incoming missile from a base on the west coast of the United States. Petrov forced himself into action. He ordered everyone to check their systems, and the men scrambled to confirm the American launch.
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Petrov's heart raced as his team confirmed both the main computer and its backup were functioning correctly. Then, as abruptly as they had begun, the alarms fell silent and the message vanished. Petrov was confused but relieved. Then the banner on the main screen suddenly changed once again. Now it flashed the words, Missile Attack. Missile Attack. Petrov silently cursed.
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He needed visual proof from the satellites that a missile had actually been launched. Normally, a ballistic missile is visible to the satellites for the first three minutes after it launches. But as he searched the satellite imagery, he saw nothing. No flashes, no fire, no contrails in the sky. The alarm had to be a mistake.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
Petrov picked up the phone and reported back to the military command center that a missile launch had been detected but he believed that it was a false alarm. He and his team reset the launch detection system. It was silence as everyone waited for it to restart. Seconds later, the alarm blared again, this time indicating a second launch had been detected. Was Petrov's gut wrong?
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
From Ballant Studios in Wondery, I'm Luke LaManna, and this is Redacted Declassified Mysteries, where each week we shine a light on the shadowy corners of espionage, covert operations, and misinformation to reveal the dark secrets our governments try to hide. This episode is called The Man Who Stopped World War III.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
He had his team reset the system again to be sure, but the alarm went off yet again. Now three incoming American missiles had been detected, But still Petrov had not confirmed visual observations of any of them. As Petrov stood in the bunker, terrified, a fourth missile and then a fifth were detected. The alarm seared into his brain. His men were all looking to him for their orders.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
Petrov willed himself to concentrate. He knew American Minuteman missiles traveled at four miles per second. So if these launches were real, the first American warhead would reach Russia in about eight minutes, potentially killing hundreds of thousands of people, if not millions. He knew that's how long he had to make a decision. Eight minutes.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
He also knew that if he reacted by sending missiles of his own, it could mean annihilation for tens of millions of people around the world. Nuclear winter could follow, which would mean darkness and extreme cold, global crop failures and widespread famine. He glanced at the clock. By this point, he had just three minutes left to decide.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
Would America really start a war by launching just a few of their thousands of nuclear warheads? Petrov had always been told a first strike would be massive. It didn't make sense. He felt paralyzed, but his training demanded action. The mantra drilled into every Soviet officer echoed in his mind. We do our duty. The room was silent. All eyes were on Petrov.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
Just one minute remained until the first strike. He calculated the odds in his head. The computer showed missiles. The visuals did not. Finally, Petrov made his decision. There were too many confounding factors. He didn't want to be responsible for starting a third world war if the alarms were wrong. With just seconds left to strike, he shut his eyes and bowed his head to brace for the impact.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
But it never came. Petrov opened his eyes. There was no strike. There were no missiles. He had made the right call. Petrov's story illustrates how an ordinary person can make an extraordinary decision. He demonstrated calm, rational thinking in a moment of profound crisis.
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The Man Who Stopped WWIII
But his experience highlights the inherent dangers of systems that rely on human judgment, while also warning against overdependence on technology. Had Petrov blindly followed protocol or unquestioningly obeyed the computer's output, the fate of humanity might have been drastically altered. His decision to question both the rules and the technology potentially saved our entire civilization.
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An investigation later discovered that one of the satellite's sensors had not detected missiles, but rather rays of light reflected off high-altitude clouds. This caused the computers at Serpukhov 15 to mistake the sun's rays for rocket flares. If someone less familiar with the many faults of the computer system had been in charge that night, who knows where the world would be now?
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The incident at Serpukhov 15 epitomized the dangerous levels of mistrust between the United States and the Soviet Union. Years of Cold War tension had created an atmosphere where even a computer glitch could be misinterpreted as an act of aggression, potentially triggering nuclear war. In communist Russia, the false alarm incident ruined Stanislav Petrov's 26-year career in the military.
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Immediately after avoiding catastrophe, he was verbally admonished for not keeping detailed logs that night and held in an isolation bunker for three straight days. But the failure to log wasn't the real reason he was punished. It was his failure to follow protocols, no matter the consequences. The next year, in 1984, Petrov was discharged.
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For 10 years, Petrov and the Soviets kept that fateful night a secret. Word didn't leak out until after the Berlin Wall fell and the Soviet Union dissolved. Russian journalists found Petrov in 1996. He was living a quiet life in an old Soviet tower block. Soon after that, the West caught wind of what had happened in the bunker and Petrov finally started getting the recognition he deserved.
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The Secretary General of the United Nations would recognize him as the man who saved the world. Petrov was haunted by the false alarm for the rest of his life and by how close he came to making the wrong decision. How everything depended on one decision by one man.
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He told one reporter, one way or another, you still need a person to order a launch of one of these weapons, and a person can always make a mistake. Petrov died on May 19, 2017. He was 77 years old. His Encyclopedia Britannica entry reads, he is survived by his two children, two grandchildren, and the entire human race.
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In the early 1980s, the Cold War between the United States and Soviet Union had reached a fever pitch. Tensions between the two superpowers fueled an escalating arms race, aiming a total of 18,400 nuclear warheads at each other. America's president, Ronald Reagan, was a hardline anti-communist, openly referring to the Soviet Union as the Evil Empire. The Soviets were led by Yuri Andropov,
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Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app, Amazon Music, or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to every episode of Redacted early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.
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From Ballin Studios and Wondery, this is Redacted, Declassified Mysteries, hosted by me, Luke LaManna. A quick note about our stories. We do a lot of research, but some details and scenes are dramatized. We used many different sources for our show, but we especially recommend the books 1983, Reagan, Andropov, and A World on the Brink by Taylor Downing.
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The Brink, President Reagan and the Nuclear War Scare of 1983 by Mark Ambinder, and Stanislav Petrov, The Man Who Saved the World by Matthew C. Rivers. This episode was written by Sean Raviv. Sound design by Ryan Potesta. Our producers are Christopher B. Dunn and John Reed. Our associate producer and researcher is Teja Palakanda. Fact-checking by Sheila Patterson.
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For Ballin Studios, our head of production is Zach Levitt. Script editing by Scott Allen. Our coordinating producer is Samantha Collins. Production support by Avery Siegel. Produced by me, Luke LaManna. Executive producers are Mr. Ballin and Nick Witters. For Wondery, our head of sound is Marcelino Villapando. Senior producers are Laura Donna Palavoda, Dave Schilling, and Rachel Engelman.
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Senior managing producer is Nick Ryan. Managing producer is Olivia Fonte. Executive producers are Aaron O'Flaherty and Marshall Louis. For Wondery...
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a dedicated communist who harbored a deep distrust of the United States. And in this powder keg of a situation, the world was about to face a moment that could have turned the Cold War hot and possibly wiped out humanity with the push of a button. But one man would end up saving the planet from nuclear disaster.
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He would do something unthinkable in military circles, ignore a direct order to launch weapons. He was a Russian officer named Stanislav Petrov. As a Marine, I can tell you that following orders is drilled into us from day one. It's more than protocol. It's a fundamental principle of military service.
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So I can't even begin to imagine what it would have been like to have the responsibility of being ordered to launch nuclear missiles and then choosing not to follow that order. The weight of that decision, it's almost unfathomable.
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But Petrov's act of defiance and the fact that the world came so close to nuclear annihilation remained top secret until the mid-1990s, when the collapse of the Soviet Union finally allowed the story to emerge. In early 1982, Stanislav Petrov walked down the long corridor of a top-secret Soviet military bunker. Petrov was a 43-year-old lieutenant colonel in the Soviet Air Defense Force.
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This flight, number 007, was a 4,000-mile, eight-hour route from Anchorage, Alaska to Seoul, South Korea. Captain Bae Young, a former Korean Air Force pilot, brought years of experience to the job. Along with the plane's advanced navigation system and his first-rate crew, he could fly to Seoul in his sleep.
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The base, called Serpukhov 15, was located 80 miles south of Moscow. It was surrounded by barbed wire and guarded by hundreds of armed soldiers. Soldiers at Serpikov-15 used satellites to scan the globe for missile launches, particularly those from American soil. Petrov's crucial role was to oversee incoming satellite data.
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Any potential missile sighting would trigger an urgent verification process. If an incoming missile was confirmed, the leaders at Serpukhov 15 would then decide whether to strike back. So far, Petrov was thankful that he had never had to make that decision. After punching in a security code, Petrov entered a dimly lit cavernous room.
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A massive screen dominated the space, displaying grainy satellite images of Earth. Beneath it, rows of soldiers sat hunched over bulky computer monitors. Fluorescent light bounced off their faces. As Petrov walked into the control room, conversations quieted down, and all eyes turned to him. Petrov wasn't tall or imposing, but he commanded respect from his men.
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He attributed this skill less to his military experience and more to his childhood days mediating disagreements on the soccer field. After graduating from an engineering technical college, Petrov joined the Soviet air defense system. He never had to fly planes, which was fine by him. He much preferred the emerging world of technology.
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Petrov had a mind for understanding complex radar systems and could keep cool under pressure. Over time, others in his unit, including higher-ups, started coming to him for technical advice. Petrov gained a reputation as an expert in his field. Early in his time at Serpukhov 15, Petrov posed a thought-provoking question to one of his officers.
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He wondered how they could tell the difference between missile warning drills and the real thing when the two looked almost the same on their screens. The officer had a terse reply, ''We do our duty.'' The answer left a lasting impact on Petrov. It drove home the critical nature of his role, emphasizing that he must perform his task precisely, regardless of the chaos that might surround him.
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As Petrov sat at his station deep underground, he felt like he was right where he needed to be. A small screen sat above a panel of buttons and knobs before him. The specific satellite system he worked with was codenamed OKO, which meant Eye. a fitting name for the satellites that kept watch over the planet.
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He turned on the display and got to work overseeing the system which controlled the fate of the Soviet Union and ultimately the world. Deep in the basement of the White House's West Wing, President Ronald Reagan walked into the Situation Room. He was there to watch a military simulation codenamed Ivy League 82. It was March 1st, 1982. Reagan was 71 and barely into his second year as president.
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Just 11 months earlier, Reagan had stared death in the face after an assassination attempt. Despite being shot, he had made a remarkable recovery. Reagan now faced a world teetering on the edge of destruction. Neither the US or the Soviet Union were willing to back down from their escalating arms race, and both continued to build more and more nuclear weapons.
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Technically, he could sleep, since the autopilot did much of the flying, as it was right now. The plane held 246 passengers and 23 crew members. Most of the passengers were Koreans heading home. There were also a few dozen US citizens and a handful of people from Japan, Taiwan, and other countries.
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Reagan took his seat at the large mahogany conference table. Top advisors from the White House and Pentagon settled into leather chairs, their faces serious. The Situation Room didn't look like much. It had wooden walls and a few televisions. But there were few places in the world where such consequential decisions were made.
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It was where the President and the National Security Council would gather to face any sort of national emergency or critical situation. On this day, there was no emergency, but Reagan and his team were preparing for one. The military exercise, called Ivy League 82, was designed to test command and control procedures during a nuclear conflict. The U.S.
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needed to ensure that its forces could continue to communicate in the event of an unprecedented attack. Reagan's new National Security Advisor, William Clark, quieted everyone in the room. They were ready to begin. What Reagan saw on the large projection screen stunned him. It showed a map of the United States.
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On it, red dots representing Soviet missile strikes started appearing, first on Washington DC, then on New York City, a three-hour train ride away. More red dots appeared over Chicago, Los Angeles, Detroit, and then key military bases across the U.S. Next were Miami, Philadelphia, Boston, and San Francisco. Soon, the entire country was a sea of red. And it wasn't over.
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The simulated exercise showed the Soviets launching a second barrage of nuclear missiles, and the red dots began to fill in any untouched spots on the map. If this were a real attack, nearly everyone in the United States would be dead. Even though he knew this was just a simulation, Reagan was extremely disturbed by what he saw.
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The Soviets could potentially destroy the entire country and do it all in just about a half an hour. Later that night, President Reagan came back to the Situation Room for another exercise. This time, he was briefed on how to identify himself to the Pentagon using codes if he wanted to launch a nuclear attack. Again, he felt the gravity of the situation.
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He was now simulating his own role in the nuclear war and his own power to kill tens of millions of human beings on the other side of the world. Despite the horror of nuclear war, Reagan believed that an arms reduction or easing tensions with the Soviets would simply not work. Any attempt to pull back would be seen as weakness by the enemy.
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So the only way to beat the Soviets was to strengthen America's position. and bully the Soviets into submission. Reagan's defense secretary had vowed to rearm America, and that's exactly what they did. The administration was overseeing the biggest peacetime increase in military spending in history, and now, in the Situation Room, Reagan was witnessing what that all could mean.
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The flight was so routine that the captain and his first officer were casually chatting with the crew of another plane a few minutes behind them. The conversation drifted to upcoming plans, like taking time off to enjoy the changing autumn leaves. At about 3.25 a.m. local time, the plane began approaching Sakhalin Island in the North Pacific Ocean.
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Death on a scale never before seen in this world. In June 1982, Major Oleg Gordievsky showed his passport and ID badge to a guard at the Soviet embassy in London. He entered the compound in Hyde Park for the first time, went up three flights of stairs, and walked down several long hallways. He saw signs on every wall written in Russian.
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They read, in no uncertain terms, don't say names or dates out loud. The Russian major finally reached an office, where he received a long orientation. He was an officer with the KGB, the Soviet Union security agency, and he was being assigned to work at the embassy in London. Gordievsky was reminded several times that computers and electronic typewriters were not allowed on embassy grounds.
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because they could be easily bugged. He was also told to keep an eye out for listening devices everywhere he went. Of course, Gordievsky knew this already. He trained in Moscow and worked at the embassy in Copenhagen. He knew that his Soviet comrades in London were obsessed about spies. Still, he was surprised at the sheer level of paranoia here.
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Everywhere you turned in the compound, you were reminded that the British Secret Service, MI6, could be, and likely was, spying on you. At the embassy, you were encouraged to distrust your own colleagues, your friends, and your family. They said even your pets could be bugged.
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One of the many official byproducts of this mass Soviet suspicion was a relatively new intelligence program called Operation Ryan. It had been started by party chairman Yuri Andropov when he was still the head of the KGB.
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Operation Ryan's goal was to detect any signs that the United States or its allies might be planning a nuclear strike on the USSR, and Gordievsky had come to London to work on it. But he was also working on another top secret project, one that he could be killed for if anybody found out. A few weeks after his arrival in the UK, Gordievsky waited until everyone in the office had left for lunch.
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He then discreetly gathered some documents and took them to an apartment in West London. He parked far away and covered the diplomatic plates on his car. Then he walked to the apartment where he had a scheduled monthly meeting. The meetings were never to last longer than 50 minutes, so he could return to the embassy without raising suspicion.
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There, in the West London flat, he met two British MI6 agents. Gordievsky was a double agent. He'd been recruited by British intelligence eight years earlier and had been providing them with intel ever since. The Soviet embassy was right to be paranoid. An MI6 administrator in the apartment took photos of the documents Gordievsky brought.
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All the while, he updated the agents on what he'd learned that month. This time around, he'd provided MI6 with all the details he had on Operation Ryan. He explained that KGB agents like himself were looking for any signs that the UK was preparing for war.
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Since it was America's most powerful ally, the KGB was monitoring any British troop movements, travel plans of politicians, and even construction of new roads. Gordievsky's job as a Soviet agent was to help arrange government contacts and befriend journalists who could unknowingly supply information to the KGB.
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The hope was all these bits of information would paint a picture of what the British were doing. But Gordievsky had a hunch that his anxious Soviet bosses would take all the information he provided and twist it to confirm their fears. If you're nervous enough, even ordinary road construction could be interpreted as proof the West was about to attack.