The Reluctant Spy by John Kiriakou Page B

talk to, I could hop a flight to Rome. If there was a connection to the network of Carlos the Jackal, the notorious terrorist arrested a few years earlier, and I needed to see somebody in Paris who could talk about it, I ran off to France. The former Soviet Union was very active in Greece in the 1970s, and I often wondered if there was a connection between the intelligence services of the former Communist countries of Eastern Europe and Greece’s hard-left terrorist groups.
    In 1991, not long after the collapse of the Soviet empire, a general from an eastern European country agreed to go to an FBI training program in New Orleans, Louisiana. In the bad old days of Soviet-style Communism, Radomir Zhivkov had been such a true believer in Marxist-Leninist nonsense that they used to call him Radomir the Red. But after the fall, he was able to recognize Moscow’s corrupt and stultifying ideology for what it was. He was still a true believer; the difference now was that he believed in democracy, free markets, and especially the rule of law made by elected representatives, not dictators. In the postcommunist world, he was interested in making the transition from a military career to law enforcement, which was why he ended up in New Orleans.
    His training evaluation at the end of the course was in his file, part of the voluminous material I had read before heading to southern and eastern Europe on temporary assignment. Radomir testifiedto his new faith in the institutions of the West and said he looked forward to working with the Americans in the future. But no one from any U.S. government entity contacted him afterward. He seemed to disappear from America’s radar screens.
    I found it stunning but not terribly surprising. One of the problems with some CIA operatives in the field is that they don’t read files because they don’t think like analysts. They glance quickly at the two or three cables on top of the file, then run with whatever idea they’ve cooked up—sometimes without thinking much about the hook to catch the fish. There was a terrific hook for Radomir, separate and apart from his apparent affection for Americans, but no one had twigged to it, which was why, I supposed, no one had followed up with him.
    Radomir lived on turf outside my area of temporary assignment, so I had to cable headquarters to ask whether I could approach him, assuming the Red was still around. Yes, he’s around, I was told by my bosses, but we don’t think there’s any useful purpose in contacting him. From their point of view, I was on my own: They were fine with an approach, providing the money and any subsequent expenditures came out of my operational budget. Burt, my boss in the region, approved the trip; I flew to Radomir’s country and tracked him down to a small office in what may have been a Russian Mafia bank, where he worked as head of security for about forty dollars a week. From his file, I was betting that this wasn’t what Radomir had in mind when he said he wanted to work in law enforcement.
    His door was open, but I knocked anyway, walked in, and wasted no time when Radomir looked up: “General Zhivkov,” I said, extending my hand. “My name is John Kiriakou from the CIA in Washington, and I’m here to change your life.” Really, that’s exactly what I said.
    Radomir blinked several times rapidly before he answered. “Please, my friend, sit down, sit down. I’ve waited a long time for this day.”
    â€œGeneral, I understand that nobody knows as much about your country’s intelligence service and its activities in Greece in the 1970s as you do.”
    â€œI think this is correct,” Radomir said. “What is it that you want?”
    What the United States wanted was anything that could shed further light on the murder of Americans by 17 November, particularly the 1975 assassination of Richard Welch, head of the CIA’s office in Athens at