Story on a Navy Spy - "A Friend" to the KGB (where have I heard that "a
friend" crap before). This man then was set up in a KKK in order to
work with the KGB. The damage this man did and his family of spies, was
nothing compared to the damage done by Jonathan Pollard another
"friend"????
Keep in mind the USS Liberty where in June of 1967 "our friend" Israel
bombed and napalmed this great ship whle our men lay dead and wounded on
its deck and the attempt was made to kill all aboard, by our "dear
friend" Israel.
OSaba
I will reproduce this page and if interested in refreshing memory on
Walker (assume this kid this John Walker who now calls himself "Lindh"
is another "friend").
Rest of story is interesting. This Al Qaida sounds more like the "AUM"
only the Al Qaida and Taliban were so poor compared to AUM who also had
scientists working with them. It is notable the KGB and Russians would
not permit this AUM to RE=ENTER Russian - did they go home to roost?
CONTENTS:
The Story
Book Titles
The Author
By the Same Author
Home
�
Confessions of A Spy is available from Amazon.com
�
See Crime Library Feature Stories on:
Aldrich Ames
The Cambridge Spies
Alger Hiss
The Rosenberg Conspiracy
Family of Spies: The John Walker Jr. Spy Case
continued...
�
At the turn of the twentieth century, Scranton, Pennsylvania, became
known as the Anthracite Capital of the World because it was located over
the largest deposit of coal ever discovered in the United States.
Immigrants from Wales, Ireland, Scotland, Germany, Poland, Italy, and
Russia deluged the booming industrial town, seeking jobs. Arthur
Scaramuzzo was among them, arriving in 1907, a 16-year-old boy from
Italy, with all of his possessions in one bag. He went to work in a
stone quarry and a year later asked the quarry's owner, Prospero
Gaetano, for the hand of his daughter, Angelina. She was only 14, but
the couple was married and their union would last 60 years, until their
deaths, one year apart.
The Scaramuzzos were modest and humble. They lived happily only a few
blocks from the church where they were married. But their daughter,
Margaret, known as Peggy, longed for a more exciting life. In 1932, she
was swept off her feet by a singer in a local band. James Vincent
Walker, who everyone called Johnny, had big dreams. His father's cousin
was a well connected Democrat and friend of Franklin D. Roosevelt. Peggy
and James were married in a secret, out-of-town ceremony on August 15,
1934. A month later, she gave birth to their first son, Arthur James
Walker. The fact that she was pregnant and her husband had felt trapped
into marrying her was kept quiet. Even Arthur didn't know until he was
an adult. It was the first of many family secrets.
Through his father's politically connected cousin, James Walker landed a
pencil-pushing job in Washington D.C. and Peggy gave birth to their
second son, John Anthony Walker Jr., on July 28, 1937. Although the
couple would have a third son, it was John Jr., whom she favored. Always
unsatisfied, the senior Walker quit his job and moved the family first
to New York City and then to Richmond, Virginia, where he became a
salesman for Warner Brothers. He spent weeks on the road, driving along
the East Coast pitching the studio's movies to local theater owners.
While he earned plenty of money, the family's home was hardly idyllic.
James Walker was a heavy drinker who beat his wife and brutalized his
sons. John Jr. grew up hating his father. At age 10, he daydreamed about
different ways to kill him.
After a spectacular car accident, James Walker lost his job and was
forced to declare bankruptcy. "Papa, we need someplace to live," Peggy
pleaded with her father in Scranton. He arranged for the family of five
to live in two rooms above a Scranton movie theater. James Walker stayed
for a while, but eventually abandoned his wife and children, leaving a
note on the kitchen table with no forwarding address.
Yearbook photo of Arthur Walker
While older brother, Arthur, was a good student and athlete -- he was
voted "most popular" when he graduated in 1952 -- John Walker Jr. went
down a different path. Caught burglarizing a gas station in 1955, John
was given a choice by a local judge: jail or the military. Arthur, who
had joined the Navy directly out of high school, convinced 18-year old
John to enlist.� "I loved the Navy and realized I was obviously
sharper than most of the other guys in it," he bragged later.
While stationed in Boston, John met Barbara Crowley at a dance. She was
19, one of seven children from a poor working class family, but despite
her impoverished background, she came across as haughty. John liked
that. They began dating and she soon was pregnant. Like his father, John
bit his tongue and married Barbara. Their first child, Margaret Ann, was
born a few months later. When the Navy moved them to Norfolk, Virginia,
John was assigned to work as a radioman on a submarine. Barbara soon
gave birth to another daughter, Cynthia, and then a third, Laura. While
John was advancing quickly through the submarine ranks, his marriage was
sinking. He preferred carousing with his shipmates to staying home with
Barbara and the kids. On the rare times that he was at home, he called
his daughters the "bitches." Desperate to keep him, Barbara got pregnant
again and on November 2, 1962, gave birth to a boy. John had always
wanted a son and planned to name him: John Walker the Third. But
Barbara, angry that John was at a baseball game with his pals when she
gave birth, named their son, Michael Lance Walker, to spite him.
The Navy's submarine fleet was being converted in the early 1960s from
an aged diesel flotilla into a modern nuclear armada and John was
assigned to the U.S.S. Andrew Jackson, one of the Navy's new nuclear
powered submarines. Its two-stage, 30,000-pound Polaris A-3 missiles
could hit a target 2875 miles away. One morning John was shown a Top
Secret report that contained a list of every U.S. nuclear target. He
would later admit that his first thought was: "How much would the
Soviets pay to get a copy of this?"
Arthur James Walker
In 1966, John's submarine was stationed in Charleston, South Carolina,
and he decided to go into business for himself. He opened a bar,
confident that his fellow sailors would soon make him rich by hanging
out there. His brother, Arthur, whose submarine also was based in
Charleston, loaned him cash to get started. But from the moment it
opened, his bar bled red. The pressure began taking a toll. John had a
series of sexual affairs and fought constantly with Barbara. Feeling
angry and rejected, she reached out to Arthur for emotional support and
soon began her own sexual affair with him. She would later claim they
were lovers for 10 years, even though Arthur was married, and he and
John frequently socialized together with their wives. John suspected
Barbara was cheating on him, but didn't realize it was with his own
brother.
Things got worse after the Navy ordered John to report to its Atlantic
fleet headquarters in Norfolk, Virginia. He and Barbara agreed that she
would stay behind with their four children to manage the bar. They lived
in a trailer behind it. He would drive home every chance he could. If
the bar weren't making money in a year, they'd sell it.
Walker's new assignment at fleet headquarters in April 1967 gave him
access to the Navy's most sensitive military communications. As the
watch officer in the radio message room, he oversaw communication
between headquarters and every U.S. submarine in the Atlantic.
It was a good promotion, but he was miserable. "My life sucked, really
sucked," Walker later recalled. "Barbara wouldn't let up. Nag, nag, nag!
Where is the money coming from? One night, I was sitting alone in my
room on the base cleaning my pistol. I loaded it and put it up to my
head. I held it there and a few tears ran, but I just couldn't do it."
Instead, he decided to steal a classified document.
The navy encrypted 99 percent of all its radio transmissions. Like the
other military services, it relied on the National Security Agency (NSA)
in Fort Meade, Maryland, for codes and the cryptographic machines that
it needed to decipher messages.
The navy changed its codes each day, this way, even if the Russians
were lucky enough to unscramble a radio transmission, they would know
the code only for twenty-four hours. Each month the navy supplied its
ships and submarines with the codes that it was going to use that month.
A rotor reader that decodes documents
These codes were called "keylists" and they explained how the various
dials, rotors, plugs, and wires on the NSA's cryptographic machines
needed to be set so they could encrypt and decipher messages based on
the code being used that day.
John stole a keylist for a KL-47 cryptographic machine, the most widely
used code machine in the U.S. military. He made a copy, slipped it into
his pocket and simply walked out of the radio room.
He left immediately for Washington D.C., a four hour drive.
The embassy of the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was located less
than four blocks from the White House. It was housed in a grandiose
stone mansion built at the turn of the century by Mrs. George M.
Pullman, widow of the railroad sleeping car magnate, but she had never
occupied the four-story, rectangular structure. Instead, it had become
the embassy for the last czarist family, the House of Romanov. John
parked several blocks away and had a cab drop him at an address one
block north of the embassy.
He walked down the sidewalk, passed the embassy's iron gate, paused, and
then continued walking down the street. He had lost his nerve. Mustering
his courage, he spun around and this time walked through the embassy's
front gate. He opened the front door and burst inside so quickly that he
startled the receptionist stationed there. "I need to see the man in
charge of your security," he stammered. Seconds later, John was escorted
into a small office where he was introduced to a stern looking Russian.
"I am interested in pursuing the possibilities of selling classified
U.S. government documents to the Soviet Union," he announced. "I've
brought along a sample." He handed the KL-47 keylist to the Russian. The
man asked John his name. "James Harper," John replied.
The Russian asked him for some sort of identification. John reluctantly
took out his military identification card.
"John Anthony Walker Jr.," the Russia read aloud. "Thank you.... Mr.
Harper."
John felt his face turning red.
The Russian left with the keylist. When he returned, he motioned for
John to sit down. "We desire the document," he told John. "We want more
such documents. We welcome you, dear friend."
The Russian, who was a KGB officer, asked if John was offering to help
out of political beliefs or for financial reasons?
"Purely financial. I need the money."
The KGB officer then began quizzing him: Was he married? Did he have a
drinking problem? Did he use drugs? John, who was nervous and in a
hurry, interrupted.
He explained that he was willing to sign a "life time contract" to
supply classified information, primarily NSA keylists, in return for a
monthly salary, "just like an employee."
The KGB officer had never had a spy ask for a regular salary. John
suggested $500 to $1,000 per week. The officer agreed and asked him to
prepare a "shopping list" of keylists that he could steal. They agreed
to meet in two weeks at a suburban shopping center.
John was to have a folded Time magazine under his right arm. "A man will
give you instructions about how to make a dead drop and arrange for us
to meet in Europe," the Russian explained.�
He then handed John an envelope stuffed with bills and lead him into a
hallway where he was instructed to put on a full-length coat and
broad-brimmed hat. As soon as he did, he was surrounded by a group of
large men and hustled into the rear seat of a waiting car, which then
sped out of the embassy grounds and spent the next hour cruising through
Washington's streets. John was let out in a residential area.
As soon as he was alone, he began counting the cash. "I knew I was about
to make a lot of money," he said later. "I was not going to be a failure
like my father...My financial problems were over!"�
�
�� ��
Copyright 2001, Pete Earley.� All Rights Reserved
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