They called him by fanciful code names - Top Hat, Bourbon, Donald, Roam - and on the days when his latest cache of secrets
would arrive at CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, a CIA officer says, it was like Christmas. There was something for
everyone. The names of four U.S. military officers working as spies for the Soviet Union. Hard evidence of Beijing's deepening
animus toward Moscow, which President Nixon exploited to forge his 1972 opening to China. Technical data on Soviet-made
antitank missiles, which allowed U.S. forces, years later, to defeat those weapons when they were employed by Iraq during the
1991 Gulf War.
This intelligence trove was provided by General Dmitri Polyakov, a barrel-chested weekend carpenter and collector of fine
shotguns who served as a top officer of the Soviet military intelligence agency, the GRU. Polyakov began working for U.S.
intelligence in 1961, and during the succeeding decades he passed increasingly precious secrets, at blood-chilling personal risk.
The son of a bookkeeper, Polyakov was born in the Ukraine in 1921, attended military school, and won decorations for bravery as
an artillery officer during World War II. After the war, he studied at the Soviet equivalent of West Point before signing on as a
spy for the GRU.
DID YOU KNOW?
In Moscow he brazenly stole from the GRU stockroom a special kind of self-destructing film that he used to photograph secret
documents, as well as hollow, fake stones in which to conceal the film in meadows for pickup by U.S. spies. To signal his
handlers, he would ride the tram past the U.S. embassy and activate a miniature "burst" transmitter hidden in his pocket. During
postings abroad, he would pass information face to face: in the back alleys of Rangoon or among the bulrushes along the Yamuna
River in New Delhi, where his CIA contact would pretend to fish while a hidden recorder taped Polyakov's staccato military
briefing, punctuated by peacocks screeching in the background.
In an interview with Time last week, that CIA officer, who asked that he not be named, recalled how worried he felt when
Polyakov was suddenly ordered to return to Moscow in June 1980. You know, if anything happens, you are always welcome in
our country, the American began to babble, like a nervous lover. I hope the day will come when I can sit down openly with you
and have drinks and dinner in our country.
The Russian fixed him with steel-blue eyes and replied, quietly and evenly, Don't wait
for me. I am never going to the United States. I am not doing this for you. I am doing this for my country. I was born a Russian,
and I will die a Russian. But what will be your fate, asked the American, if your spying is discovered? The reply came in Russian:
Bratskaya mogila - a common, unmarked grave.
No one knew what became of America's perfect spy until January 1990, when the state-controlled Soviet newspaper, Pravda,
reported that on March 15, 1988, General Dmitri Fedorovich Polyakov was executed for espionage. CIA and FBI agents who
knew the Russian agonized over what mistake they might have made that resulted in his unmasking. Only recently did they learn
the truth. Aldrich Hazen Ames, a career CIA officer, was arrested in February and sentenced to life in prison after he admitted
taking $2.5 million from the KGB, starting in 1985, in return for secrets that included the identities of many Soviet and East bloc
citizens spying for the CIA. At least 10 of these people are believed to have been executed, one of them being Penkovsky.
DID YOU KNOW?
Of all the secret agents the U.S. recruited during the cold
war, says CIA director James Woolsey, Polyakov was the jewel in the crown.
In his early 30s, he was given his first assignment: the Soviet mission to the United Nations in New York City. There he directed
Soviet spies who worked without benefit of diplomatic cover. It was during a second tour at the U.N., in 1961, that Polyakov
sought contact with FBI counterintelligence agents in Manhattan, who dubbed him Top Hat and marveled at their good fortune.
"He was a big catch, and went on for a very long time," says James Nolan, formerly the FBI's top Soviet counterintelligence
specialist. "There aren't many who start out as medium-grade officers and rise to the rank of general."
Still, Polyakov's handlers found him an odd duck. He would not accept much money: no more than $3,000 a year, conveyed mostly
in the form of Black & Decker power tools, a pair of work overalls, fishing gear and shotguns. He asked for a lot of trinkets such
as lighters and pens, which he gave to other GRU officers who did him favors. Unlike most Soviet officers known to the FBI and
CIA, he drank and smoked little and was faithful to his wife.
Any suspicions that he may have been a Soviet plant were allayed by the quality of the information he provided. In the late 1960s,
while running the GRU's key listening post in Rangoon, Polyakov gave the CIA everything the Soviets collected from there on the
Vietnamese and Chinese armed forces. Rotated back to Moscow as head of the GRU's China section, he photographed crucial
documents tracking that country's bitter split with Moscow. A CIA specialist on Sino-Soviet relations drew on rich detail from a
Soviet source - whom he learned just last week was Polyakov - that enabled the analyst to conclude confidently that the
Sino-Soviet split would persist. The paper was used by Henry Kissinger, helping him and Nixon forge their 1972 opening to China.
Polyakov's promotion to general in 1974 gave him access to a cornucopia of intelligence beyond his immediate mission: for
example, a shopping list, several inches thick, of military technologies sought by Soviet spies in the West.
DID YOU KNOW?
It was breathtaking,
recalls Richard Perle, an Assistant Secretary of Defense for President Reagan. We found there were 5,000 separate Soviet
programs that were utilizing Western technology to build up their military capabilities. Polyakov's list helped Perle persuade
Reagan to press for tighter controls on Western sales of military technology.
By the late 1970s, CIA officers treated Polyakov more like a teacher than an informant. They let him call the shots about meetings
and dead drops. CIA technicians built him a special, handheld device into which information could be typed, then encrypted and
transmitted in a 2.6-sec. burst to a receiver in the U.S. embassy in Moscow. And Polyakov often copied documents using film that
could be developed only with a special chemical known to him and his handlers; if processed normally, it would come out blank.
Using such tradecraft, Polyakov obtained more than 100 issues of the classified version of Military Thought, a strategy document
produced monthly by the Soviet general staff. The periodical contained frank assessments by leading Soviet military strategists.
Said Robert Gates, a career Soviet analyst and CIA director: There were a lot of debates at the time over
Soviet military strategy and doctrine in terms of how their forces would be used in a war. Polyakov's purloined documents gave
CIA insights into how they talked to each other about these issues, whether they thought that victory in a nuclear war was possible.
The answer, thankfully, was no. Polyakov proved that Soviet military leaders were not crazy warmongers. They were as afraid as
we were. This insight may have prevented U.S. miscalculations that would have touched off a shooting war.
No one knows where Dmitri Polyakov is buried - or how he died. When sentenced to what Russians euphemistically refer to as
vyshaya mera - the highest measure of punishment - the condemned person is taken into a room, made to kneel, then shot in the
back of the head. It was part of the Stalinist tradition.