Memoirs of a Counterspy: Through the eyes of a street-level counter-espionage operative

by Donald Bradshaw

Overview

Memoirs, a historical novel, covers the first 15 years of Don Bradshaw’s career as a raw, Army Counterintelligence Agent. During the course of his routine business, Don discovers his KGB nemesis, Ivan, and then follows his activities until their lives merge in Bangkok Thailand.

 

The journey through this portion of Special Agent Bradshaw’s life and his encounters with numerous questionable but talented characters, provides the backdrop for his Quixotic charges at the windmill, Ivan, and lays out the sequence of events, providing the groundwork for his personal and professional pitfalls and successes.

 

The anecdotes described herein will tell the story of Don’s attempts to rise above hierarchal constraints and the untimely, temporary reassignments away from “the action”.

 

In the end, the story requires the surprising cooperation of three separate US Government agencies to bring this episode to an end, and forms the basis for many more stories to come.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781452064727
Publisher:	AuthorHouse
Publication date:	09/07/2010
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
File size:	730 KB

Read an Excerpt

MEMOIRS OF A COUNTERSPY

THROUGH THE EYES OF A STREET-LEVEL COUNTER-ESPIONAGE OPERATIVE

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By DONALD BRADSHAW

AuthorHouse

Copyright © 2010 Donald Bradshaw
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4520-6471-0

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Chapter One

BACKGROUND - AN EARLY CURIOSITY.

I was born Donald Wayne Bradshaw in the small coastal town of Petoskey Michigan, located at the northwest tip of Michigan's Lower Peninsula on Little Traverse Bay. My brother Bob and I were virtually raised by our mother, as our father had passed near the end of WWII. Our single mom was a devout Christian, and we were obliged to attend Sunday school and Church every Sunday morning as well as two prayer meetings weekly on Tuesday and Thursday evenings - just as regularly as the mailman delivers mail. Young boys who attended our Sunday School and turned eight years old before the first day of June, were randomly selected to go to Summer Camp for two weeks during the summer, school vacation period. In the summer of 1949, I was still seven, but my brother Bob was selected to attend the coveted Camp Daggett summer camp. I was the unfortunate one to play alone during the long, long two weeks of his absence. I recall clearly how difficult that period was. It is my earliest recollection of being without my brother. Bob, a year and a half older than I, was always the slow-talking, slow-walking older brother, who possessed what appeared to be unending patience and common sense. Since our father was no longer with us, Bob automatically took the role of the senior male in our remaining family of three. I was completely lost without his knowledge, his supervision, and most of all, his companionship. Although, like most siblings, there were times when I thought he was a little too serious as he seemed to enjoy bossing me around a little too much. He was noticeably heavier and a head taller than I, and to argue with him meant only I would be the one to pay the consequences of combat. I had learned early on - sometimes it's just better to be non-confrontational.

We resided at 915 Kalamazoo Street, in an area dotted with small, 10-20 acre farms. It appeared most of the homes in our area were built by the same builder, in the same period, around the turn of the century. They all looked alike. As long as I could remember, the farm across Kalamazoo Street from our place had been empty. The home had been torn down for an extended period, leaving the foundation, and the sub-floor of the first level of a large colonial home. That sub-flooring had been covered with a heavy canvas tarp to prevent water seepage and rodent infestation. Scattered around the property were about 5 acres of apple trees.

Our own place was also an old colonial. The estate included a large garage-barn with two full floors and a full basement. The basement was made with stalls for a few cows and stanchions for two horses. The first floor — ground floor from the front — housed the garage and a tack room; and the second floor consisted of one-half living quarters which were never used, and a separate hay loft. A hay chute passed downward, through the garage area into the basement, and was probably used at one time for passing hay to animals in the basement. Our home and the garage-barn were perched twenty yards apart on the edge of the hill that sloped away toward our orchard. I recall two, large and very climbable Oak trees standing tall within a circular driveway that entered along the south side of the house. We kept a cow, and generally two sows, and a few chickens. Bob and I played with the animals, wild birds, worms, and anything else we could put our hands on. We seemed not to need toys.

But with Bob away for this two-week eternity, nothing seemed to capture or even deserve my interest. I sat on a bench in front of the garage-barn, gazing across the street toward the vacant farm. As my mind wandered, I recalled when Bob and I would make our annual early autumn trip into that old orchard, where we would fill our stomachs on green apples — and then we would suffer the penalty of 'the green-apple stomach'. Mom always knew what we'd been up to, but let us do it every year — I suppose as a harmless lesson. Soon now, Bob would be home, and again this autumn we would venture into Robin Hood's Sherwood Forest and steal apples from the rich.

Today was different though, as somehow without my knowledge - or permission - large truckloads of lumber had been delivered to the farm, and stacked neatly near the old foundation. Automobiles had arrived and carpenters were cleaning the foundation, measuring, checking brackets and mountings, in preparation, I assumed, for reconstruction. As I watched, my curiosity seemed to magically draw me in the direction of the unknown, and I found myself sitting on a stack of lumber, watching the carpenters going about their inspection duties, and the plumbers checking lead-ins and sealed water line joints. Yup, they're going to rebuild the old house. I knew it, and surprisingly enough, I didn't need Bob to tell me what was going on.

Unable to pay attention to anything else around me, I sat, transfixed at the well-organized group, trying to listen to their conversations, pretending that I was fully cognizant of what was happening, and of course that I was among the members of the supervisory board, making decisions.

Suddenly, without warning, I came out of my trance, to notice an old man sitting by my side. I mean, he was really old. My guess was that he was around a 65, or maybe a hundred. Just as I was beginning to wonder if he was too old to talk, he looked at me, smiled, and said "Hi Wayne".

That he knew my name was not at all a surprise. Mom had worked as a practical nurse since our father had passed, and there were many older folks in our church, and in the neighborhood who knew my brother Bob and myself. In those younger years, I had always been addressed by my middle name "Wayne".

When I asked him his name, he replied only "When you're my age, you'll know who I am".

I asked myself 'is this old guy OK? Is he speaking in riddles?'

Then I thought I'd take my elicitation another step, and brazenly asked "How old are you?"

He simply stated "When you know who I am, you'll know my age." He smiled again, and now I was beginning to think that perhaps he was just a little touched.

But, I smiled anyway, and we sat there together watching the construction workers decide that the foundation was sound. I looked at the old man from time to time, smiled, and he would smile back at me. Like I said, he was really old. The breeze gently tossed his white, thinning hair around his forehead and over his face, which seemed to have less wrinkles than it should. His smile revealed deeper wrinkles around his eyes, but they were not repulsive. His eyes were clear and grayish-blue. His bushy white eyebrows turned up in the middle. I knew he was kind.

After what seemed an eternity, he turned to me and asked "Wayne, do you like riddles?"

It was as though he had heard my mind! "Of course I do." I replied anxiously, "Do you have one for me?"

"I'll give you one, if you promise you'll never forget it; and when you solve it, you will think of me, - OK?" he asked.

"Okay!" I agreed readily. That wasn't much to ask for.

"Here goes", he started. "This is the riddle. "I am young, and I am old, and I am your brother's brother."

"Wow!" I said, "That's a hard one. But, I'll keep my promise." I then turned and called my brother's name, "Hey, Bob. Come here and listen to......" Suddenly, I remembered my companion brother was far away at Summer Camp. I stared momentarily at the men working in the construction area, and then turned back to speak to the old man again.

He was gone.

The writing of this book has taken several decades, as putting together a piece here and there, adding an article, or a description of a friend or acquaintance; and occasionally, the act of adding a memory from my past had to be placed on the back burner long enough for another episode or chapter of my life to unfold.

Near the end of the writing however, long after retirement, on a warm autumn afternoon, I stretched out in a canvas lawn chair on the second-level back deck of my home in Spokane, Washington. My feet were perched on the top rail, and I had just finished a cold beer - a rare but refreshing habit after spending an hour or so in the garden below. At this age, I no longer toil for hours in the garden, nor do I spend an inordinate amount of time on the continuing task of restoring my 1972 MG Midget in the garage. And, occasionally I may spend a complete day just contemplating doing those things that need to be done.

On this particular day, I was concentrating on a mass of white rabbit, poodle and polar bear-shaped cumulous clouds, contrasting with a clear, sky-blue backdrop. My lovely little wife, Chang-ping (Betty) was busying herself around the house. She had just finished watching a Chinese language TV mini-series involving some of the historical characters of the Ming Dynasty. The faint echo of Chinese flute music passed through the windows and across the deck to caress my ears. In the distance far across the view from my back deck and into the Rockies, I could clearly see the peak of Silver Mountain about 70 miles due east as the crow goes. The aroma of sweet-soy flavored sizzling pork with bitter melon provided a hint of the gourmet dinner of which I would partake in a few hours. I closed my eyes.

The dream took me to familiar surroundings — familiar to the extent that I seemed to have drifted into the zone well-known to my childhood. Looking around, across the street, I saw the old farm on which I had lived as child. The old Colonial stood proudly; almost majestically about 40 meters from the street along the south end of the front court, and a driveway entered and encircled two large, well-climbed oak trees.

But instead of walking toward home, I chose to move in the opposite direction and into the lot across Kalamazoo Street, where some reconstruction had begun. I watched the crew preparing their project, consulting blueprints and charts of the water lines and the original foundation plans.

I then recognized the young boy sitting on a stack of lumber near the construction.

At his young age of seven, he has no idea what is in store for his future. No idea what his life will entail or what adventures or misadventures he may encounter. He will have a wonderful life, full of joy, happiness, international intrigue, war, peace, and love. Occasionally, he may even feel the pangs of hate and sorrow. But most important of all - he will have fulfillment.

During his 12th year of school, he will compose a list of 50 items, entitled "Things to be Accomplished Before I Die". Some of the items on the list, such as: #6) 'learn at least two foreign languages', #7) 'travel to exotic, foreign lands', #19) 'fight in a foreign war', and #24) 'ride an elephant', will be easily accomplished during the routine achievement of his life's tasks; while others such as #34) 'be alone, in a cage with a lion' and #35) 'go over Victoria Falls', will be postponed to a more convenient time. Sadly, some of those items will likely never come to pass.

The young boy was so engrossed in every facet of the construction workers' duties that he was unaware when I first sat casually at his side. Finally, he turned and noticed me.

I smiled and spoke to him, "Hi, Wayne." ... I awoke.

Chapter Two

EXCERPT. THE BEGINNING OF THE END.

At 1127 Ivan glanced at his watch and then looked out the window in time to see Strübel pull into the parking lot. Habitually, Ivan glanced around the lot, searching for possible surveillance. He made note of a pair of businessmen entering the Motel office. Since they were driving a sub-compact, with luggage in the roof-rack, he dismissed them temporarily. He picked up the briefcase containing his well-prepared résumé and writing samples, and met Strübel at the door.

They shook hands enthusiastically, and walked to Strübel's car talking casually of the weather. Exiting to the right out of the motel, George Strübel drove toward Van Ness Avenue, and then turned left, away from downtown San Francisco and the location of his 'office'. Observing Ivan's sudden alertness, Strübel announced "I've got to make a stop along the way at a friend's place. I hope you don't mind."

"Of course not," Ivan relaxed.

The radio was playing "I left my heart ...", and Ivan was habitually humming along with the tune as they started across the Bridge. Then, without signaling, George turned off the exit to Treasure Island and made his way toward the safe site. As they approached, George noted a step-van parked adjacent to the garage, bearing the sign Ace Landscaping and Maintenance Services. Several green-coverall uniformed 'gardeners' were working in the immediate area. Security was in place. The garage door was open.

George pulled directly inside the garage and parked. He switched off the engine, and pulled the keys from the ignition.

This action was also to Ivan's surprise, but still allowing George some benefit of doubt, he asked. "So your friend allows you to use his garage?"

George Strübel did not answer directly, but instead said "You might as well come inside, Ivan. It's time to talk."

From out of nowhere two unidentified 'gardeners' appeared behind George's car. Ivan looked around.

"What's going on here?" he asked. "I demand you tell me what's happening!"

"Take it easy, Ivan." George suggested calmly. "We're only going to have a short discussion. Everything's under control now."

A gardener resembling The Incredible Hulk opened Ivan's door. His tight-fitting coverall uniform seemed to exaggerate his size and appearance. It was obvious to Ivan he had no choice. Walking from the garage to the house, Ivan looked around. In addition to the 'gardeners' on either side of him, he counted another eight. His heart was now pounding in his ears. "They are all over the place," he thought. "To cut and run would be futile." His mind was racing, trying to put everything in perspective; Ivan decided he wouldn't struggle at this point. He had already reached the conclusion that this was part of some conspiracy. His plans seemed to be coming apart — "What about Mom," he thought.

They entered the back door as one of the 'gardeners' went back to trimming hedges and raking the freshly mowed lawn around the safe site. 'Incredible' entered the safe-site with Ivan.

Ivan obeyed when asked to remove his shoes, and on request gave his jacket to Gaylord who hung it in the closet near the secured front door. Rad spoke to him in Russian, introducing himself only as "Richard". The fact that Rad spoke fluent Russian did not seem to relax Ivan in any way. He was introduced to Gaylord and then to me by our first names only. Looking directly into Ivan's eyes, I saw not the slightest indication that Ivan recognized me from our few near encounters in Bangkok. As I shook hands with Ivan, I noticed perspiration beading on his forehead, nose and upper lip. His hands were cold and damp. He was totally unprepared for confrontation.

Rad, Ivan and I walked into the sun room, where a small rectangular dining table had been arranged with four chairs. At one end of the table, several photo albums and a small Kodak Super-8 movie projector with a built-in, 12-inch viewing screen had been set up. Note pads and short pencils were placed at each setting. Three more chairs were placed in the outside corners of the room. The blinds had been opened and tilted slightly upward to allow ample lighting. I counted two miniature movie cameras partially obscured from view by the drapes that had been opened to the corners of the room. Through reflective plastic curtains I could clearly see the 'gardeners' outside doing their job. I knew they could not see us, but since they all wore ear phones resembling hearing aids, I assumed they were listening.

Gaylord entered the room with a coffee pot, a tray carrying 4 mugs and a heap of varied, fresh donuts, which he placed in the center of the table. When Gaylord left, Rad came back in and offered Ivan a chair at the end of the table, near the projector. Ivan was slightly taken aback at the apparent level of hospitality. When Rad offered donuts, Ivan raised his hand in polite refusal; but as Rad poured coffee, Ivan accepted. He waited until I had taken a sip from my cup, then took a quick drink and sat quietly. Gaylord came back in to take his seat at the opposite end of the table, facing Ivan. Rad and I sat on opposite sides. Rad, sitting at Ivan's right started the conversation.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from MEMOIRS OF A COUNTERSPY by DONALD BRADSHAW Copyright © 2010 by Donald Bradshaw. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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