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A Sometimes Spy

by John T. Baker

(A reminiscence from a half-century ago. Some names have been changed to protect both the guilty and the innocent. Otherwise, it's all true and actually happened as related.)

Spy stories are supposed to be crammed full of glamour and intrigue, mystery and romance. Real life, however, rarely rivals fiction. During my eight years as an FBI Special Agent, I had many interesting assignments, but one stands out in my memory.

In the summer of 1947 I was transferred from San Francisco to Los Angeles. It was urgent, I was told, so I flew down alone to report for duty. I remember almost missing the plane, which had already pulled away from the gate, but after I flashed my badge (one of the few times I ever did that) I was permitted to dash out on to the runway, stop the plane by waving my arms in front of the propellers (how foolish can you get!) and climb aboard after the steps were lowered.

It probably wouldn't have mattered a whit if I had had to take the next plane, but I was young and eager and felt it important to meet the schedule I had been given. In Los Angeles I learned I was to be assigned to an extremely confidential espionage case which would require an assumed identity under another name.

The good news was that the Bureau had already found a house for us to rent in South Pasadena and would provide an automobile for our personal use. I was given the papers for the car, a "plain-Jane" 1947 Ford sedan, in my cover name. Returning to San Francisco, I brought my wife and infant son back to a new home and a new life.

For years I could not talk about what I did in Los Angeles, but the case has long been closed, there was considerable publicity about it later (including a book and a movie) and there is no longer any reason for secrecy. Still, however, I feel some constraint about going into too much detail but will try
to summarize the highlights.

A Hollywood movie producer of Russian extraction, Igor Guzov (a fictional name for the purposes of this narrative), it had been learned, had been recruited by the Russians several years earlier to act as a secret agent for them, primarily to make contacts and "front" for other agents. In return, the Russian government permitted his aged father to leave the Soviet Union and come to the United States.

The Bureau had followed these activities for some time and finally decided to try to "turn" Guzov and make him a "double agent." Recently they had confronted him and, after initial protestations of innocence, he had confessed and agreed to cooperate.

Here was where I came in. I would be assigned to Guzov, under an assumed identity, as an assistant, ostensibly to learn the film business but actually to act as liaison between him and the Bureau. As a precaution, he was not to know I understood Russian.

Over a weekend at a Santa Barbara resort I was introduced to Guzov and sat in at a series of briefing conferences with him conducted by the two agents in charge of the case, Guzov was told to continue his contacts with the Russians as usual but to keep the Bureau informed, through his new assistant (me), at all times of what he was doing. I would relay to him instructions as appropriate.

The following week I reported for work in Culver City at the Hal Roach Studio to a motion picture production company jointly owned and operated by Guzov and an elderly, highly respected Hollywood producer who was never suspected of implication in Guzov's covert dealings and, insofar as could be determined, had no knowledge or suspicion of such activities.

I was introduced to the staff as the nephew of a wealthy Texan who was interested in show business. My role was general assistant to Guzov in all day-to-day activities (in modern parlance I was a "gofer"), constantly at his side, driving him to and from appointments in my modest little Ford (which
sometimes caused raised eyebrows in opulent circles, but was accepted because that soon after the war new cars were still difficult to obtain).

I frequently accompanied Guzov on social occasions, including one memorable afternoon at Hillcrest Country Club when, during a round of golf, I rubbed elbows with Jack Benny and George Burns, engaged in a customary game of cards in the clubhouse. Tough work, but somebody had to do it!

The main activity in the studio at the moment was trying to put together a film of Victor Herbert's "Babes in Toyland," to star Ezio Pinza, the famed Metropolitan Opera basso. Script work, preliminary casting, financial budgeting and other details seemed endless. I got in on everything, even
writing lyrics for some of the songs. After quite a while, the project failed to come to fruition, principally because of a breakdown in negotiations with Pinza.

Guzov's contacts with the Russians during this time were mainly routine, involving discussions as to possible future activities. As far as I could tell, he faithfully reported them to me and I relayed them to the Bureau in secret meetings or in coded telephone calls.

In the late fall of 1947 I accompanied Guzov on a business trip by train (Santa Fe Super Chief) to Chicago and then to New York City, where he made preliminary contacts with new Russian agents.

Early in 1948 Guzov decided to go to Europe, ostensibly to explore the possibilities of making a film there but actually for closer contacts with his Russian "handlers." It was decided I should accompany him. We would be gone several months, so Phyllis moved back to Denver with Kent to stay with her folks while I was away.

In April Guzov and I again took the train to New York City, where both he and I had several meetings with Jack and Myra Soble, Russian sympathizers and abettors, much in the news later as part of the Rosenberg conspiracy ring. My contacts with them were strictly social, of course, (on one occasion Myra assisted me pack for our trip to Europe) but Guzov, so he told me, had several conversations with them about his projected Russian contacts overseas.

With Bureau-supplied funds I went shopping at Saks Fifth Avenue for a wardrobe and luggage appropriate to the fancy circles in which I would be traveling.

In late April we sailed - first-class - aboard the original Queen Elizabeth, refurbished and restored to passenger service after wartime duty as a troop carrier. I had nothing with which to compare it but to my unsophisticated eyes it seemed luxurious indeed. First-class passengers always "dressed" for
dinner. Thanks to Saks and the Bureau I was able to do likewise and felt quite secure, even smug, in my protective coloration A Guzov acquaintance, Jack ______ , was aboard and he and Igor spent the five and a half days' passage playing gin rummy, leaving me free to roam the spacious liner. I
forget the background of Jack (I once knew) but he was a sharpie and a con man of note and he and Igor were well matched.

We docked in Southampton, proceeded by train to London and checked in at the Savoy Hotel, a top-notch establishment well beyond my sheltered experience. Igor had a suite, of course, befitting a Hollywood celebrity. My single room, modest by Savoy standards, was large and well appointed and more than met my needs.

During the next few weeks Guzov made the rounds in theatrical and motion picture circles, exploring the feasibility of producing a film in England. Sometimes I accompanied him, sometimes not, but he always kept me fully informed, he assured me, of what he was doing. No specific contacts with the Russians occurred during this period.

Several times I was followed, I felt certain, as I shopped (primarily "window-shopping," as neither Bureau nor personal funds extended to expensive purchases) or engaged in sightseeing. I began to see familiar faces frequently wherever I went, mainly on the street but once, shortly after I had entered an antique shop in an out-of-the-way neighborhood, a fellow whom I was fairly sure I had noticed before burst into the shop, looked all around and then without a word left hurriedly. Checking on whom I was contacting?

I reported these incidents, in clandestine meetings, to the Bureau representative in London, who did not seem overly perturbed but suggested that possibly Scotland Yard had picked up some information about Guzov and was keeping an eye on him and, by association, on me.

I still don't know how much, if anything, the Bureau had told Scotland Yard about my mission but protocol would normally have dictated that local authorities be advised when visiting law enforcement representatives invaded their turf.

For whatever reason, after this initial period I never again was conscious of further surveillance. Maybe someone called off the dogs? Social contacts with Guzov were pleasant, including first-rank restaurants, theatre performances and one memorable weekend at Ascot Downs.

After a few weeks Igor received word, he informed me, he should go to Paris for special contacts with the Russians. We flew over and registered at the George V Hotel, an elegant establishment indeed. (On later visits we always stayed at the George V or the Plaza Athenee, another swank hostelry.)

It was during this time that alone one evening in the Crillon bar near the American Embassy I ran into Michael Forrestal, former Boulder classmate at the Naval Language School. Our exchanges after the initial greetings were quite guarded. I of course could not reveal what I was doing in Paris ("just a pleasure trip") and he seemed under some constraint himself. So we talked mainly about mutual friends at the Language School two years before.

After a few weeks in Paris Igor got word (I forget how) his Russian contacts would be delayed for some reason. He remained in Paris but I flew back to London where I could keep in closer contact with the Bureau. This time I stayed at the Cumberland Hotel at Marble Arch across from Hyde Park, less luxurious than the Savoy but also less expensive and quite comfortable.

Time began to hang heavy on my hands during the next two months. I made two or three more flying trips to Paris to get up to date with Igor. According to him there was still delay in making his planned contacts. I would stay in Paris for a few days and then return to London. Periodically I would meet
with the Bureau representative there, usually at night over a bottle of brandy, but progress on the espionage front seemed stalled.

To occupy myself I read a great deal, attended the tennis matches at Wimbledon, memorized many Shakespearean sonnets, some of which I still recall, at least in part, and wrote poetry about my loneliness.

Finally the Bureau decided there was nothing more to be gained for the moment by my remaining overseas, so I flew back to the United States. After an all-too-brief reunion with my wife and son, I was sent back to New York City, still in my assumed identity. My only orders were to call the New York Office of the Bureau daily for instructions.

This I did for a month. The only instructions ever received were "Call again tomorrow!"

The pattern of waiting resumed. I was staying at the Savoy Plaza Hotel at Central Park and the City teemed with attractions. I took in many baseball games at Yankee Stadium and Ebbets Field, visited museums and the great central library, saw some Broadway shows and got well acquainted with the
subway system.

Sounds idyllic, doesn't it? It had its pleasant aspects, to be sure, but the inactivity and suspense became more and more galling. Phyllis and Kent were still exiled in Denver and I longed to rejoin them.

Finally at the end of summer, instructions came. Things appeared likely to remain inactive for some time, so I was to be taken off the case and reassigned. I later learned that Igor had finally made his contacts in Paris and tentative plans had been discussed for establishing a television
production company in New York City which would serve as a front and cover for Russian agents and sympathizers. But all plans were to be put on hold until after the November presidential election, when Tom Dewey was expected to succeed Harry Truman. After the election more definite plans would be made.

I received a nice letter of commendation from the Director, Mr. Hoover, and was given my choice as to where I wanted to be reassigned. My answer was quick. Phyllis had grown up in Denver, her family and friends were all there, and I had been favorably impressed with the area ever since my Boulder days.

When I replied, "Denver," I was told it was the #1 office of preference on record and there was a long waiting list of requests for transfer there. Nevertheless, my wish would be granted. So Denver became my fourth office of assignment, following the three California offices.

Thus ended my involvement with this particular case. It later became active again and eventually concluded with the public identification of a number of Russian agents and the unmasking of several U.S. citizens who worked for the Russians. I was on notice for a while as a possible witness but was never called.

Igor Guzov became somewhat of a celebrity briefly and was made out to be a hero as a secret informer for the FBI. He wrote a book which was later made into a movie and did a brief stint on the lecture circuit.

Some eight or ten years later, after I had left the Bureau, I met Guzov one last time. It was at the airport in Amarillo, Texas, and he was in the company of Fred Waring, the orchestra leader. Both had just concluded local appearances, Waring at a concert and Guzov at a lecture.

Perhaps imprudently, I decided to confront my former associate. Walking up to him, I said: "Aren't you Igor Guzov?"

"Yes, yes I am," he said, pleased to be recognized.

"You don't remember me, do you, Mr. Guzov?"

As he hesitated, Fred Waring cut in. "You really shouldn't do that, you know! It's unfair for people to expect you to remember them."

"Ordinarily, Mr. Waring, I would agree with you," I said. "But me, he should remember!" And then I mentioned the name by which Guzov had known me.

"Bobby!" he said and embraced me. "Of course, of course!"

We had only a few minutes to talk before our planes departed and I was careful not to reveal my true identity, my residence or my current occupation.

Later I bought his book (I never saw the movie based on it) and read it with considerable interest, particularly, of course, the parts involving me. The book struck me as self-serving, magnifying his so-called patriotism in being a counterspy for the USA and minimizing his involvement with the Russians and his motivation for cooperating with the Bureau, namely, fear of exposure and the destruction of his career.

But then, of course, what else could be expected?

Many things in the book I could not judge as to accuracy or completeness because they were beyond my time frame.

A final note. I was never quite sure of how candid and straightforward Igor was in his dealings with the Bureau. It must be exceedingly difficult to serve two masters, and Guzov, I sometimes felt, was walking a narrow line trying to ingratiate himself with both parties. Again, this should not come as a surprise, I suppose.