My Arrest and Detention by KGB For Espionage in Moscow; A CIA Officer's Story

Here's the full story from both the CIA and KGB side

The early moments of the arrest. The KGB officer on the right is seen trying to remove a tape recorder that was sewn into my jacket — you can see the wire in his hand leading to the microphone.

One of the chapters from my upcoming book Year of the Spy about the KGB-CIA upheaval in Moscow in 1985 tells the story of my arrest by the KGB. The telling is not just my remembrances - I was able to get the KGB side of everything that happened that night from the KGB officers who were in on the arrest, so it’s a 360 degree view of it.

To set up this chapter, it’s important to know a few things. One - beginning in June 1985 the the CIA began experiencing catastrophic losses of Soviet agents in Moscow and elsewhere. We didn’t know why and we urgently needed to figure out what was happening. The agent I was trying to meet was directly related to CIA’s efforts to determine what was causing the losses. He was known to us by his cryptonym GTCOWL. We didn’t know his true name because he had refused to give it to us. He was, in fact a very wiley operator who insisted on controlling all aspects of our communication because he thought he knew better than anyone how the KGB caught spies, and his system was designed to defeat that. What we did know was that he was an officer of the Second Chief Directorate of the KGB — the Counterintelligence Directorate responsible for protecting against foreign espionage in the USSR, so he was arguably right that he had better knowledge than we did of how to avoid getting caught. Apart from the fact that a number of our Soviet agents had been lost — there was also the fact that Vorontsov had missed several meetings before this in November and December 1985, and as the March 10 meeting date approached there was a high level of concern that he too had been compromised , and that the meeting might end with the case officer (me) being ambushed and arrested.

In fact, as the excerpt will show, Vorontsov had been arrested in December 1985, and after displaying some resistance, had eventually come around to cooperating with the investigation and was now prepared to participate in the effort to draw a CIA officer out to a meeting and arrest him. So in fact, the meeting which I was about to attempt was a setup designed to ambush and arrest whatever CIA officer came to the meeting. But of course we didn’t know that at the time. To trigger the meeting I had to first get free from surveillance, then make a phone call to a certain phone number, then exchange a brief parole with Vorontsov who would then come out and meet me at a meeting site at the entry archway to a Soviet block apartment building in Lenin Hills.

One additional note: Year of the Spy follows the stories of more than a dozen CIA officers, KGB officers, and Soviet agents. I am just one of those threads. In order for my story to blend in with the rest, the “Sellers” story is written in the same third person as every other storyline so as to maintain consistency. Also, this mirrors the way CIA operational reports are written, in which the officer writing the report refers to himself in the third person. I’m not sure how or why that style developed, but it was the standard way we reported things, and that may also have contributed to my decision to write it that way in Year of the Spy.

Oh — one other note before we start. You’ll hear reference to “identity transfer” which is a disguise technique in which one person takes on the identity of another in order to confuse and elude surveillance. In this case I would be taking ont he identity of “Harvey”, a neighbor. Harvey was a US Air Force Sergeant, ethnically a black American, who lived in my apartment building and who worked for the defense attache in a low-level job that kept him generally off the KGB’s radar. With Pentagon approval, he became an identity transfer “donor” — so I had a prosthetic mask that looked exactly like him and matching wardrobe (and we were a match height/weight wise) that I could use to appear to be him.

Following is the CIA-approved text of the chapter.

MARCH 10, 1986

As March 10 approached, the situation posed unique challenges for Krassilnikov. Vorontsov was in Lefortovo prison, and the phone that had to be monitored was in KGB Headquarters at Lubyanka. Someone else could monitor the phone and answer it – but would Sellers recognize that the voice on the phone was not Vorontsov’s and be forewarned? The only solution was to take Vorontsov out of Lefortovo under guard and have him answer the call. But would he be reliable? He had begun his period of detention in a “stupor” – and had never fully recovered. He was cooperating now, but could he be counted on?

Major Sergei Vorontsov, known to CIA by the code name COWL.

Then there was the matter of the meeting itself. Vorontsov’s confession was enough for a conviction, but it would strengthen the case to catch the CIA red-handed in a meeting with their agent, leaving no doubt that Vorontsov was in fact guilty of espionage. This required Vorontsov’s cooperation in putting the final nails in his own coffin. Would the broken KGB man play his part properly?

On March 10, Zaitsev and his team of Alphas prepared for the arrest. He expected it to be Sellers who came out to meet Vorontsov. As always, he had to contemplate every possible variation and prepare for it.

What if, for example, before actually getting to the site, the CIA man smelled an ambush and bolted? Surely Sellers would be hyper- vigilant and on the lookout for any hint of an ambush -- Vorontsov had missed several meeting opportunities and there could be little doubt but that the CIA was suspicious and half-expecting the worst. He might detect something before he was fully committed and at the actual meeting site. With this in mind, it would not be enough to rely running him down – Zaitsev had to make sure that every escape route had been studied, and there were enough team members on hand to cover all of them.

Beyond that, the personal characteristics and capabilities of the target had to be considered and accounted for in the planning.

Zaitsev recalled in an interview:

We knew that Sellers was a physically developed person -- every morning he did strenuous exercises, then took a very long run, and so the possibility could not be excluded that if he noticed anything amiss, he might take off running. Just in case, I decided to wear running shoes with my business suit, so that if it came to a chase I could compete for long distances.

But is should never come to that.

After seeing Vorontsov at the meeting site waiting for him, it was hard to imagine the CIA man would fail to approach. Even if he sensed that something wasn’t quite right – how could he abandon the agent? He would proceed with the contact. And once he made contact with Vorontsov, they would have him.

On March 10, while Zaitsev and the Alphas set up at the meeting site, Krassilnikov remained at a command post at KGB Headquarters in the room adjacent to the telephone that would ring and be answered by Vorontsov to trigger the meeting. Vorontsov had been brought from Lefortovo and was under guard in another room nearby. Krassilnikov listened via radio as surveillance tracked Sellers from the Embassy at 6:00 pm to Krutitsky Val, where he arrived at 6:25 pm. Upon arriving home, audio monitoring confirmed that Sellers and his wife had put on a video cassette and were watching a movie. The only sound coming from the apartment was the movie soundtrack.

By 8 pm there was no sign that Sellers had left Krutitsky Val.

Meanwhile, Vorontsov was moved into position at the telephone that was due to ring between 8:30 and 8:40 PM.

Krassilnikov called the observation post and went over the movements in and out of Krutitsky Val. Sellers’ car was still there. The movie was still playing in his living room. None of the names that had moved in and out of the compound were persons of interest. He checked on surveillance status of the other known CIA officers. All were accounted for.

There was nothing to do but wait.

Legendary KGB Counterintelligence Chief of the American Department, Rem Krassilnikov.

*****

Sellers left the Embassy normally a few minutes after six and drove straight home. Driving an established route from Embassy to home did not afford an opportunity to absolutely confirm surveillance, but he was confident they were there. At 6:25 he pulled into the K-Val parking lot and by 6:40 was settled with his wife on the couch, eating dinner and watching a video cassette with two movies on it. Then, as the first movie played, he slipped into the bathroom and quietly changed into the gear that would allow him to pass scrutiny as his neighbor Harvey. The gear included a prosthetic mask, hands, and wardrobe which would match what Harvey was wearing.

Outside, in the K-Val parking lot, the real Harvey was working on his car. It was a pattern that had been established over time.

Harvey tinkered with the engine, then drove out of the compound to test the repairs, then returned, then repeated this process. Each time he exited he ignored the militiaman and made a show of focusing intently on the dashboard, as if reading indicators there. Intermittently, he also went into his apartment, leaving the car running with the hood up, all as part of a pattern that had been established over time.

At precisely 7:22 pm Harvey entered his apartment.

Two minutes later, at 7:24 pm, Sellers as “Harvey” emerged, tinkered briefly with the car, then closed the hood and drove past the militia booth and out of the compound, mimicking Harvey’s established pattern of focusing on the dashboard indicators, his face averted as he drove past the guard.

Once out, Sellers spent thirty minutes satisfying himself that he was without surveillance. He then parked the car, changed out of the “Harvey” ID transfer gear and into a standard Soviet overcoat and hat. He then left the car on foot, carrying the ID transfer gear with him in a shopping bag which he later cached at a construction site, intending to retrieve it after the meeting. He also carried a briefcase with money for Cowl, a Moscow city map, and disguise materials that would allow him to change his look several times over the course of the run. A tape recorder with the ability to record up to three hours of conversation was wired into his jacket.

****

At Second Chief Directorate headquarters, Vorontsov with three Alphas guarding him sat by the phone. At 8:35 it rang, Vorontsov answered, and the parole was exchanged. The voice on the other end of the line sounded like Sellers, but the parole was very short.

Upon hearing that the call had been made, Krassilnikov again checked with the observation post at K-Val. Again he was assured that Sellers was still in his apartment watching a movie and no calls had been made from there. Krassilnikov doubted the report. But whether it was Sellers or someone else – the triggering call had been made, and a CIA officer was out on the street ready to meet with Vorontsov.

By 9:00 PM, Zaitsev and the arrest team were in position. There were more than 30 members, plus a photographer and two motion picture camera operators. Some were hidden in an apartment adjacent to the site; others were in a van parked a block away.

At 9:15 an observation post overlooking the meeting site reported that a man whose height and weight matched Sellers had walked through the site. On closer examination it was unclear whether he was Sellers or someone else. He wore glasses and a black fur chapka with long hair trailing out the back, and walked with a slight limp, none of which matched Sellers. He carried a briefcase and wore a black Soviet-made nylon jacket. The man entered an apartment building in the area.

At 9:20, at a different entrance from the same apartment block, another man exited. He wore a woolen ski cap, had short hair, and sported a full grey mustache, no glasses. He wore a blue Soviet-made nylon jacket and carried a briefcase. He walked through the meeting site and exited the area.

There were ten minutes to go.

The man in the nylon jacket and ski cap made his way away from the meeting site and was seen taking a seat on a park bench a block away with line of sight to the meeting site.

Sitting on the park bench, Sellers kept an eye on the meeting site while mentally he ran through all of the fifty or so questions that had been provided by Headquarters, and which he had memorized. They included one question that had seemed a joke when it came in: “What happened to Raoul Wallenberg?” Wallenberg was a Swedish diplomat who had saved thousands of Jews from extermination in Budapest during World War II. On January 17, 1945, when the Soviets had taken Budapest, Wallenberg had been taken to Moscow under Soviet escort, and had never been heard from after that. The question, it turned out, came directly from CIA Director Bill Casey, who had been with OSS in World War II. Strange as the question was, it created an eerie sense of history as the moment of the meeting approached. All of this, Sellers thought, is part of the continuum of great competition between ideologies and nations that extended back to World War II.

As he prepared, he remained conscious of his surroundings. Previously he had walked through the meeting site and had seen nothing; nor was there anything suspicious in his environment now. There were a few people about, but nothing like the troubling “ghosts” that had been present during his meeting with Eastbound two months earlier.

At 9:30 he got up and began walking toward the site.

He was dressed in a woolen ski cap, blue nylon jacket, and wore a droopy, greying mustache. His multiple changes in appearance had probably been unnecessary, but provided added insurance against bringing undetected surveillance to the meeting site. Now that he was about to meet Cowl, the final purpose of being in disguise was as insurance against the random chance there was someone in the area who could recognize Sellers—an Embassy employee coming home, for example, or an off-duty surveillant who lived in the area. If anyone like that happened upon him, Sellers was confident he would not be recognized.

As he approached, he saw what appeared to be Cowl arriving from the interior courtyard. He had the same bushy hair, same mustache, but as he got closer to him, the agent looked different. He had lost weight, was deathly pale, and the piratical swagger had been replaced by body language that was far less assertive—almost cowering.

Uh oh. Not good.

With a growing sense of fatalism, he took his eyes off Cowl to do one last sweep of the area. Were there any casuals who could be a threat? Anything else that looked suspicious? Any van parked strategically? Any construction trailer, such as the one Paul Stombaugh had seen at the Kastanayevskaya site just before his ambush?

There was nothing.

Cowl’s appearance was alarming. He’s here. You can’t just walk away.

There was no choice but to go forward with the meeting. Sellers approached Cowl.

He greeted the agent, and in response, Cowl grew wide-eyed and cowered against the wall, not speaking, and looking fearfully into the darkness beyond Sellers.

Here it comes.

Zaitsev quietly gave the order to move, and the scene exploded into a familiar carefully choreographed sequence that began with Zaitsev and three others physically grabbing the American. Zaitsev’s fears of a chase did not materialize – in fact, the American didn’t even look surprised, and did not resist. At six foot four inches he towered over the arrest team. Rather than resist, he behaved as if he had fully expected the arrest. He stood quietly, watching, as they grabbed for the briefcase he was carrying. Unlike Stombaugh, who had held resolutely to his materials for the agent, Sellers released the briefcase without a fight.

That’s Ziatsev on my arm and behind me, mostly hidden, is Valetin Klimenko, who was Krassilnikov’s deputy.

Two more grabbed Vorontsov and dragged him away.

A van and two KGB cars roared into the courtyard and more men got out, including Krassilnikov.

A hidden camera recorded the scene.

The American continued to stand quietly in the grip of Zaitsev and two other Alphas. Krassilnikov approached. He saw before him a tall man with graying mustache and a calm demeanor. He thought it was Sellers, but he wasn’t entirely sure. The height was right, but he looked substantially older than Sellers.

“We are from the committee of State Security,” he announced. “You are being detained for espionage.”

“I understand.”

No protest, no demand to call the Embassy.

Krassilnikov began going through the CIA man’s pockets and found the concealed tape recorder, which he pulled out. The microphone was sewn into the jacket collar with the cable running to the recorder, which was in an interior pocket. When Krassilnikov tried to remove the recorder, he had trouble separating the cable from the recorder, but eventually separated it and handed the recorder to the arrest team. He then began to reach into pockets, searching but finding nothing more than a few rubles. Usually the Americans carried their Diplomatic ID, but after searching the man’s pockets Krassilnikov found nothing.

Eventually Krassilnikov stepped back and nodded to Zaitsev. The Alphas loaded the man into the waiting GAI van. The van had benches along both sides, and a portable folding chair had been placed in the center for Sellers. Zaitsev and the Alphas surrounded Sellers and secured him, still holding both arms firmly, while Terekhov climbed into the passenger seat. Altogether there were a eight Alphas in the van, ensuring that all was secure.

The van rolled forward.

As the arrest team surrounded and immobilized him, Sellers flashed on the mock arrest he had endured during the Internal Ops training in Washington. This time, having learned his lesson at the hands of the FBI, he was determined that no detail of the scene would escape him. He noted everything about the team, their vehicles. He watched Vorontsov being taken away. He noted Krassilnikov and studied his features well enough to give a detailed description of him when it was over. He noted the command structure and became aware of Zaitsev as the head of the arresting team, and Terekhov, who appeared to be the lead investigator.

In the van, for several long several minutes no one said anything. Sellers sat quietly, with Alphas on both sides holding him firmly. One man had two fingers on his neck, taking a pulse. He was aware that Terekhov was watching him closely from the front passenger seat.

The van rolled through the streets of Moscow.

Gradually a look of suffused delight came over Klimenko’s features, and then he announced with an air of triumph, in English: “California’s not my home!” Sellers didn’t say anything. He understood the reference – it was to a song that the KGB would have heard frequently emanating from Sellers’ apartment.

Terekhov leaned forward, and reached for the mustache. He tugged at it. Nothing happened. One more tug – and this time it began to come off. Klimenko smiled triumphantly.

“Nu, Misha, eta vy!”

Michael, it’s you!

Sellers relaxed slightly, and one layer of the knot of tension in his gut eased. If they were only now figuring out who he was, then they hadn’t been following him around all night, which was a good thing.

The ride to Lubyanka continued.

As the van rolled through the quiet streets of Moscow, Klimenko made clear that he knew a great deal about Sellers, reciting for the others a complete litany of Sellers activities and interests, likes and dislikes. Was it idle chatter or purposeful? One thing for sure, Klimenko was sending to Sellers the message that he had been well and thoroughly studied during his time in Moscow, and that the KGB knew intimate details of his existence. It occurred to him that if he had personal foibles that he wished to keep hidden, this could be disconcerting. But no CIA officer in Moscow would be stupid enough to color outside the lines while under 100% surveillance coverage in Moscow. Every moment outside the safety of the CIA enclosure was on stage for the KGB – that was just how it was.

At one point Klimenko praised Sellers’ russkaya dusha – his “Russian soul” for his apparent love of art and music. Throughout Sellers remained quiet and listened, taking in every detail.

As he studied them, he came to the conclusions that the men in the van were definitely not “goons.” They were intelligent and professional in appearance and demeanor. Clearly the arresting group was a special, more sophisticated team. They looked at him curiously, without hostility, as if he were an interesting specimen or big game trophy. He felt the same curiosity for his captors in return. The shadow war on the streets of Moscow was always carried out at a distance. To be in such close proximity to one another was a rare opportunity to look into each others eyes and wonder what was there, and Sellers took full advantage of it.

Sellers felt sadness and frustration over the demise of Cowl. It was yet another indication that something had gone very wrong. But he also felt keyed up and adrenalized, challenged by the situation and fascinated to be in a van filled with KGB men headed to Lubyanka, the true belly of the Soviet beast. He realized that his arrest meant that he was now forever embedded in mutual CIA-KGB history. He knew he would be remembered within KGB for how he behaved.

He thought of Marti Peterson and her heroic shin kicks, and wondered if he should have reacted differently. But in her case, the raucous, noisy reaction had been purposeful, designed to warn her agent who might be in the area. Sellers had seen his agent marched away from the scene. There was no point in a useless display of resistance. From the moment the arrest started, his mission had changed from meeting Cowl, to learning as much as he could about what the KGB knew, and didn’t know, and he felt he could best do that by staying calm.

They reached the gates of Lubyanka, and the van pulled through, and with the team of Alphas holding onto him once again Sellers exited the van. He entered the yellow and brown building, and was taken to a holding room. Once there, as soon as his hands were free, he fished his diplomatic ID and driver’s license from his back pocket where Krassilnikov had missed it, and handed it to Klimenko, who took it from the room, then returned.

The room was small, with chairs lining the wall and a small table with mineral water and glasses. Krassilnikov was there, waiting.

He began by offering a glass of tea, which Sellers politely refused. There was no history of the KGB drugging detained CIA officers in Moscow, but common sense said it made sense to at least avoid any chance of being drugged at this early moment. Krassilnikov would later recall the moment as well:

I offered him a glass of tea – here, please, take a drink. You’re chilled, frozen – all this winter weather. But he wouldn’t accept. A glass of water? No, he will not.

Krassilnikov pointed to the mud which caked Sellers shoes and covered his pants up to ankle height.

“Did you get that climbing out of Krutitsky Val?”

A KGB photograph of me with Krassilnikov.

The K-Val compound had what was, at this time of year, a muddy moat between the parking lot and the fence. Did Krassilnikov think he had trudged through it and over the fence? In reality he’d acquired the mud on his pants elsewhere in his journey through the backstreets, courtyards, and construction areas of Moscow. If they thought he had waded through mud and climbed the fence of the compound, that meant they didn’t know how he had actually gotten out.

Does that mean they don’t have the mask? Interesting.

Obviously they had seized various disguise accessories in the briefcase, but none of that would explain how he got out of Krutitsky Val. If he had been dragging around undetected surveillance, then they would probably have recovered the cached mask and hands.

But then Krassilnikov would know he hadn’t climbed over the K- Val fence.

They don’ t have it.

Krassilnikov settled back, leaning against the wall, and smiled a half-shy, friendly smile.

“You’re a sportsman, aren’t you Michael? Did you ever play hockey?”

“No.”

“That’s right. American football was your game. But you go to hockey games here. What do you think of our style of hockey, compared to America?”

Sellers looked at the general. Did he really want him to talk about hockey? To what end? Sellers was of two minds about it. On the one hand, everything could be a trap, and to the extent there was a standard procedure, it was to say nothing except to demand, in English, for a call to be placed to the Embassy. On the other hand, moderate engagement had already yielded some useful information. Plus, there was the sense that sitting in petulant silence would signify insecurity and be an admission of defeat If he engaged with them, they weren’t in control, he was. He was still operating, still matching wits, still being an intelligence officer, not just a prisoner. If he clammed up, they won.

And so he engaged with Krassilnikov, all the time remaining acutely aware that the overt topic of conversation was nothing but a cover for the probing that was taking place beneath the surface. He had no problem discussing the two hockey systems, and it was easy to praise the Russian emphasis on speed, precision, clean play, and teamwork and lament the thuggish play of much of the NHL. There were nods and harrumphs of approval from Terekhov and the Alphas still in the room. He mentioned Soviet greats Sergei Makarov, Igor Larionov and Vladimir Krutov, and the goalkeeping of Vladimir Tretiak, and pointedly avoided mention of the 1980 “miracle on ice” US victory over the USSR at the Lake Placid Winter Olympics.

Krassilnikov listened and reacted favorably, then guided the conversation to basketball, where Sellers voiced a more pro- American opinion.

At one point Krassilnikov left, and was replaced by Klimenko, his younger deputy who brought with him a “bad cop” attitude that brought an end to any conversation. At one point, when neither Krassilnikov nor Klimenko were in the room, Sellers had an exchange with Zaitsev, who was there throughout and would recall the interaction in interviews many years later:

I was sitting across from him, and he was looking carefully looking at me, noticing that I’m in a suit with sneakers. Well, somehow it was awkward. I told him that thanks to him, I’d had to be prepared to run a race. But thank you, in the end I didn’t have to run.167

Krassilnikov returned, and got down to business.

“You know, Michael, this is going to be very bad for your career. You’ll be blamed.”

“No. It doesn’t work like that.”

“There is still time to put everything in order. It could be good for you.”

“Everything will be fine for me.”

Krassilnikov gave a slight shrug as if to say he didn’t expect Sellers to bite, but had to try. Then he left.

Terekhov had been watching the lengthy exchange and would recall it many years later in an interview:

[Krassilnikov] had a long conversation with Sellers. Well, I’ll give it to him that that Sellers had mastered the Russian language, he spoke quite naturally, I’ll give him that. Then at the end of it Rem Sergeyevich offered him a place in the sun, but he refused.

Another ten minutes went by.

With Krassilnikov gone, Sellers thought about Cowl. The KGB man had been a handful, but his coarse, piratical quality had been appealing in a quirky way. Would Vorontsov’s participation in the arrest spare him from execution?

He hoped so.

Some of the lesser KGB men around him began to ask questions—mostly about hockey, but also soccer and basketball. Sellers answered the questions they put to him. It was surreal to be having a casual conversation with them, but sports was a universal language and they were all, it seemed, sportsmen of one sort or another.

The thought randomly occurred to him – If you had been born in Russia, could you have ended up in one of those seats?

His immediate response: No way!

But on the heels of that: Are you really sure?

He liked to think he would have become a dissident, would have fought against the Marxist enslavement of society. But was that really a foregone conclusion? In America, his father had been an Army officer who had taught him to love his country and its values, and while he had done his share of protesting as a Greenpeacer, here he was, part of the establishment, engaged in the “peculiar service” of an intelligence officer for America on hostile soil.

What if the situation were reversed? It’s not a mirror image situation!

Yes, but . . . .

What if his father had been a Soviet military man, and he had grown up in the Soviet Union, being taught to love the rodina and respect at the very least the inherent nobility in the core idea of communism, with its celebration of shared endeavor, its negation of narcissistic individualism and careerism. What if he had grown up in a country that had been invaded by everyone from Genghis Khan to Hitler—a country where repelling outside invaders had been the defining experience – instead of in America, never invaded, protected by two oceans, home of the frontier mythology of the rugged individual? What if he had grown up being taught the ruthless unfairness of capitalism in America, the brutal exploitation of the working class in favor of the millionaires? As an American he’d been indoctrinated with one set of values since childhood – as a Soviet, he would have been indoctrinated with an entirely different set of values. Would he have rebelled against the state? Or become a defender of the motherland, possibly even becoming the same thing he was now, only for the other side?

On the one hand it was unthinkable – Sellers was irretrievably, irrevocably American and his loyalty to America was unshakable. But he also had a vivid imagination and instinct to empathize and see things from points of view other than his own. He had always been eager to experience other cultures, other languages, other ways of thinking. And now he needed to be careful because this intimate proximity to the opposition was sending him down an empathy rabbit hole . . .

The door opened.

It was Klimenko, Krassilnikov’s deputy. He held the door open and gestured for Sellers to exit. Sellers stepped past Klimenko, then strode down the hall without waiting for Klimenko to follow.

At the end of the hallway a door led to a conference room which evidently was the destination. Sellers knew from Marti Peterson’s saga, and those of other detained officers, that what awaited him was cameras, microphones, and evidence of espionage laid out carefully. They goal would be to capture him looking dejected and defeated. He had no intention of letting that happen. So as he and Klimenko neared the door, Sellers accelerated slightly, putting some distance between himself and Klimenko, then strode into the room alone and crossed in front of the camera to where Krassilnikov was waiting.

Everything was as he had expected it to be.

Krassilnikov stood behind a table on which were laid out all the pieces of spy gear that they had seized. Sellers quickly scanned the table, looking for the ID transfer mask and hands. To his relief and delight, the items were nowhere to be seen.

Good.

They didn’t have the ID transfer gear. It was another indication that they had not followed him—if they had, they would surely have the hi-tech prosthetics laid out with the other items.

A Soviet documentary shows Sellers striding into the room alone, ahead of Klimenko, walking across to the table where Krassilnikov waited. In a soft voice, Krassilnikov took charge.

Krassilnikov: Sit down. You are with the Committee for State Security. Give your name please.”

Sellers: You have my diplomatic card -- it’s right there.”

Krassilnikov: Yes, that was impounded at the time of your arrest during your spy meeting. And I believe all these items show very clearly what you were doing. Should I explain that or you understand it already?”

Sellers: Did you call -- ”

Krassilnikov: Yes, and they will come. . . But they’re very unhurried, these people in your embassy, when it comes to such affairs. They hurry to do other matters, but when they are needed to come to rescue failed spies, they are a little late. Now, I want to get back to this spy story about the arrested agent of the American Embassy. What else stands out is all these spy masquerade items you can see here. ….

Krassilnikov continued, performing for the camera:

First of all, I would like to draw attention to this selection of hats. Hardly one person needs all of them. Here’s the sports hats that Mr. Sellers was carrying about, and that he alternatively changed in order to turn into another person. And this one is a fur hat. People scarcely wear this kind of hat in America, especially taking into consideration the fact that on the back of the hat, with a far-reaching aim … the wig is attached proficiently. He definitely tried to appropriate somebody else’s identity. Right here, already being arrested, after he was taken to KGB Mr. Sellers unglued this mustache. It was simply glued to his face. These glasses -- here again two pairs of glasses without diopter which he was changing in order to mislead those he was wary of. Finally, I’d like to demonstrate this jacket. Right here in this pocket the agent of CIA was hiding a portable tape recorder. All this picture of spy masquerade clearly shows what methods are used today by American spies for spy operations in the USSR.

At the end, after the cameras were gone, he nodded to Klimenko, who left, then looked at Sellers.

“Very well. You will now be famous in the USSR and America.” He gestured to the items on the table. “Perhaps a career as an actor would suit you?”

“No thank you.”

Sellers wasn’t sure if he was being mocked or complimented. Krassilnikov offered his hand and Sellers shook it.

“Give my regards to Gospodin Murat. I know that, in addition to being your boss, he is also the coach of your Embassy’s broomball team. Tell him I will see what I can do about your participation in the broomball championship on Saturday. Perhaps departure from Moscow on Sunday will be sufficient.”

It was a strange courtesy. Sellers was the goalkeeper for the American team and there was no experienced backup.

“Thank you. I’ll tell him.”

With that, Klimenko entered with Stuart Parker, an American Services consular officer. A cameraman followed and briefly, for the cameras, Krassilnikov did what seemed to Sellers to be his best imitation of the Inspector Renault in Casablanca, claiming that he was shocked, shocked that a diplomat would be involved in spying. Parker listened patiently, signed a few papers, then he and Sellers walked out onto the streets of Moscow, which were just beginning to come alive for the day.

Sellers would be declared persona non grata and expelled. In spite of his cooperation, Vorontsov would be executed.

There would be additional fallout, however, in the form of an unexpected death associated with the Vorontsov arrest. KGB historian Oleg Klobustov explains:

[Vorontsov] worked in a very small office, where there was another colleague, a senior operative. And when . . . he learned that Vorontsov had been arrested and why he shot himself and he left a note: "I am guilty of nothing, but I cannot prove it." That is, he felt that it was his responsibility as human beings. Why? Two were sitting in the office, of course, working together. There had been calls, when the same Vorontsov was shooting up, interest in, and who is calling, that he pass and so on and so forth. And so he took that responsibility, what it really was not his fault.

Reading Klobustov’s words 30 years later, Sellers would experience a chill. An additional death to account for – and a strange parallel. This man had killed himself for sitting beside Vorontsov and suspecting nothing. Meanwhile, Sellers had sat beside Ed Howard and suspected nothing. Yet it had never occurred to him to feel such guilt.

Should he have?

Or was this a manifestation of the difference in the two systems – one that stressed individual responsibility, and one that de- emphasized the individual, and stressed the group?

In the same interview, Zaitsev had said that the KGB suspected Vorontsov might have an accomplice – that was why they arrested him the way they did, out of sight of his colleagues, and did not acknowledge his detention.

Now they were saying this colleague had felt despair over his failure to spot the traitor. But was that really it?

What kind of interrogation had he faced? What accusations?

“I am guilty of nothing. But I cannot prove it.”

Another death.