I am writing this a few hours after a momentous meeting in Zurich with Vladimir Orlov, whose name you may recognize as the last chairman of the KGB. I made an arrangement with him that I must explain to you, and I learned certain things from him as well, which I must tell you.
Because I am about to be killed. I’m sure of it. By the time you read this, I may or may not be dead, but I wanted you to know why.
As you know better than anyone, Snoops, money has never held an attraction for me, beyond what one needs for food and shelter. So I trust when you’re told that I was corrupt, an embezzler, and whatever else they may say about me now that I’m gone, you’ll know the truth. You know it’s nonsense.
But what you may not know is that as I write this, I’ve received a number of threats against my life, some of them hollow, some quite serious. They began (no surprise) shortly after I was appointed Director of Central Intelligence, when I took it upon myself to clean house, launched my foolhardy crusade to clean up CIA. I loved the place; I believed in the place. Ben, I’m sure you understand that the way no outsider can.
Something terrible is happening deep within the bowels of CIA. There is a small group that over the years abused the intelligence they were privy to in order to amass huge sums of money. I set out, from my first day as director, to unmask them. I had my theories, but I needed proof.
The atmosphere around Langley at that time was like a tinderbox, ready to combust at the slightest spark from a congressional investigating committee, or an enterprising reporter from The New York Times. There was a lot of open talk in the hallways about getting rid of me. Some of the old boys hated me even more than they used to hate Bill Colby! I happen to know that several highly placed, extremely influential Washington power brokers went to see the President to urge that I be replaced.
You see, there were rumors floating around of corruption on a breathtaking scale. I had heard tales of a small, faceless group of past and present intelligence officials known as the Wise Men, who met in conditions of extreme secrecy. These Wise Men were said to be involved in massive fraud. It was believed that they were using intelligence gathered by the Agency to make huge amounts of money. But no one knew who these people were. Apparently they were so influential, so well connected, they had been able to elude detection.
And then one day I was contacted directly by a European businessman-Finnish, actually-who claimed to represent, as he put it, a “former world leader” who had “information” that might be of interest to me.
Protracted negotiations were begun, long before I even learned that the person he represented was none other than the last head of the Soviet KGB, Vladimir Orlov, who was living in a small dacha outside Moscow and wanted to leave the former Soviet Union and go into exile.
Orlov, the intermediary let me know, had an interesting proposition for me.
He needed my help in saving Russia’s gold reserves from the hard-liners who would any day, he believed, unseat the Yeltsin government. If I would help him remove a massive quantity of gold-ten billion dollars!-he would be prepared to give me a valuable file he had on certain corrupt elements in the CIA.
Orlov, the intermediary said, had in his possession a file documenting, in extraordinary detail, massive corruption within the CIA. Vast sums of money amassed over the years by a small group of CIA insiders, making phenomenal money using intelligence gathered from corporate espionage around the world. He had all names, locations, amounts, records. Full evidence.
I, of course, agreed. I would have agreed to help him anyway-you know how badly I wanted to keep Russia from returning to dictatorship-but the lure of this file made his offer irresistible.
As it turned out, Orlov appeared in Zurich without this file-it had been stolen out from under him, a fact that made me nervous indeed. Initially, I suspected a blackmail attempt, but I deduced he was genuinely a victim. And having gone this far, I had to complete the deal.
But I needed help in making such an enormous transaction-help that originated outside the Agency. Removed from any possible taint of corruption. It was imperative, given the huge sum of money we were dealing with. Also, all the financial arrangements had to be handled completely off the books.
So I turned to the one Agency man who was now an outsider, a man whose personal integrity was above reproach: Alexander Truslow. It was the biggest mistake I ever made.
I made Truslow the joint owner of the account at the Bank of Zurich to which I moved half the gold. That meant that neither one of us could move the gold without the other’s consent. And the gold could be moved or sold only when the account was activated-a mechanism that was triggered by access by either party. If ever a problem arose, I figured, we were both protected from any blame. I could not be accused of grand larceny on a world scale.
The other half we arranged to be transshipped by container through Newfoundland, by the St. Lawrence Seaway, into Canada. Or, I should say, Truslow arranged this.
But now something frightens me deeply. I fear for my life. As you know, Ben, we have people at Langley who are really quite skilled at making a murder look like a natural death.
So I am not long for this world.
I have only very recently learned that Wilhelm Vogel, who is running for chancellor of Germany, is being controlled by an enormously powerful German cartel. They seek, secretly, to rearm and rebuild Germany. Their intention is to control not only Germany, but through it, a unified Europe.
Their partners are this group within the CIA. The arrangement, I am told, amounts to a peaceful division of spoils. The CIA element will, through fronts, control the CIA, and by extension the economy of the Western Hemisphere. The German cartel will get Europe. All will become enormously, even inconceivably, rich. It is a new, corporate neo-Fascism-seizing control of the levers of government during this fragile and uncertain time.
The leader of the Americans is Alexander Truslow.
And I am powerless to do anything about it.
But I believe I will soon have a way to stop it. There are documents to reveal. They must come out.
If I am killed, you two must find them.
To that end, I leave each of you a gift.
I left very little in my estate to pass on to you, which hardly pleases me. But now I’d like to bequeath to each of you a small gift-both of them gifts of knowledge, which, after all, is the most valuable possession.
For you, Snoopy, it’s a memento of a very happy time in your life, in mine, and in your mother’s. The real riches, as you’ll learn, are to be found in the family. This photograph, which I think you’ve never seen, always conjures up for me a very happy summer we three spent.
You were only four, so I’m sure you don’t remember much if anything of it. But I, a confirmed workaholic in those early days as well, was compelled to take a month off after my emergency appendectomy. I think perhaps my body was telling me to spend a little more time with my family.
You loved it there-you caught frogs in the pond, learned to fish, to throw a softball… You never stopped moving, and I’ve never seen you so happy. I’ve always believed that Tolstoy was dead wrong when he wrote at the beginning of Anna Karenina that all happy families are alike. Every family, whether happy or unhappy (and our family has been both) is as unique as a snowflake. I am allowed, my dear Snoops, to be sentimental and cornball once in my lifetime.
And for you, Ben, I give you an address of a couple who may or may not be alive by the time you read this. I fervently hope at least one of them is alive to tell you a very important tale. Bring this scrap with you; it will serve as your admission ticket, a passkey of sorts.
Because I believe what they have to tell you will relieve you of the terrible burden you’ve been carrying around with you for so long.