The CIA knew he was furious and that he had flirted with handing over secrets to the Russians, but the agency never told the FBI. Only two years later, when a Soviet detector pointed them in Howard’s direction, did federal investigators start to close in on him. Before they could make their move, Howard made his.
The spy quickly realized he was being watched at his home in Santa Fe, N.M. So one day in September 1985, with his wife, Mary, at the wheel, Howard jumped from a moving car in the New Mexico desert. In the passenger seat, Mary, who had also been trained by the CIA, popped up a makeshift dummy clad in a Calvin Klein field jacket, a wig and a baseball cap. When she got back home in the dark, it appeared Howard was still with her. It was an old CIA trick, but by the time the FBI caught on, Howard (using his TWA Getaway card) was on his way to Helsinki and Moscow, where he was welcomed by the KGB and granted asylum.
Howard denies he gave secrets to the Russians or betrayed Adolf G. Tolkachev, America’s most valuable agent in the Soviet Union, a Soviet defense researcher who was caught and executed in 1986. But Howard’s wife reluctantly led FBI agents to $10,000 in buried KGB treasure in the New Mexico desert and gave the FBI signature cards to a Swiss bank account in which Howard had stashed upwards of $150,000.
From the time he surfaced in the Soviet Union six years ago, Howard enjoyed the Kremlin’s protection. He lived comfortably in a five-room dacha in Zhukova, a KGB village 45 minutes west of Moscow. A middle-aged couple cooked his meals and tended the garden, and 24-hour protection was provided. But behind his green, eight-foot fence with laser-beam security devices, Howard was a virtual prisoner: he could not go in or out without his guards opening the gates. As the Soviet Union broke up and Russia desperately sought U.S. assistance, Howard grew concerned that his keepers would sell him out. Last May he phoned me about a NEWSWEEK report that conservative Republican senators wanted Howard back in return for American aid to Russia. Howard didn’t want to become a pawn. And he wanted to be with Mary and his 9-year-old son, Lee, who had often visited him from their home in Minnesota but did not want to live in Russia.
So last December, Howard moved to Sweden on a six-month residence and work permit. He denies that he spied for Moscow in Sweden. “I would be the last person in the world to do that,” he told me. “Everyone knows who I am.” He moved into a house in an upscale suburb of Stockholm and set up a business called Weststar. He claims he imported timber from the former Soviet Union and exported consumer goods from Sweden. (“Clothing, perfume, jackets from Pakistan.”) His family joined him at Christmas.
Soon after, however, Howard learned that his dream of an idyllic life in neutral Sweden might not pan out. Four FBI agents–two from New Mexico, one from Minneapolis and one from London–slipped into Stockholm. They may have been tipped to Howard’s presence by Swedish authorities, or his phone calls to Minnesota. SAPO agents came calling at Howard’s home. “They asked me to meet with them. They said the FBI men were waiting in a car five minutes away.” Howard agreed to meet the FBI-but at his lawyer’s office in Stockholm. The renegade spy and the G-men met for one hour on Dec. 30. “Their basic pitch was ‘Come home or we’re going to make life hell for you in Sweden’,” said Howard. “I declined their invitation.”
On legal grounds, Howard felt reasonably secure. Espionage is considered a political crime in most countries; according to a Justice Department spokesman, a suspect cannot be extradited on spy charges from Sweden or any of the 103 countries with which the United States has extradition treaties. Nor, Howard claimed, was he concerned about being kidnapped, even though a recent Supreme Court decision could give the FBI authority to snatch him. “I didn’t worry it could happen in a stable, civilized country like Sweden,” he said. “Maybe in a banana republic like, oh, Panama.”
Still, through SAPO the bureau could continue to try to make Sweden an uncomfortable place for its most-wanted man. Relations between the two counterintelligence close. Some SAPO agents have been trained at the FBI Academy in Quantico, Va.Andas a trained spy himself, Howard could spot the signs that he was being watched: “I noticed my garbage started disappearing in Sweden and it wasn’t trash day.”
On Aug. 17 Howard’s lawyer received word that his client’s application for a long-term visa had been denied. Ironically, the immigration board said it had rejected Howard’s request “because of his past activities with the CIA.” To the neutral Swedes, a spy is a spy.
Three days later, on Aug. 20, Howard, his wife and son were headed for a day at the zoo. They never made it. Some 50 Swedish security police quietly moved into position around them. Two suddenly came forward to accost the fugitive spy, frisk him and hustle him into a gray Audi sedan, which sped off to the jail on Kungsholmen Island.
Howard says he was put through a lengthy interrogation. Even after the spy charges were dropped–there was no proof he’d spied in Sweden– the government made it clear that he was not welcome. If he stayed in the country, he was told, he would stay in custody. Howard chose to leave. Accompanied by his lawyer, and an escort of four SAPO agents, he was whisked to the airport. SAPO took no chances; Jorgen Almblad, its counterintelligence chief and the man in charge of the Howard case in Sweden, was there to make sure he got on the plane. In Moscow, Yuri Kobaladze, spokesman for the Russian Foreign Intelligence Service, said the American would be welcome to return and that the service would continue to provide housing and employment for him. He had “cooperated with the Soviet intelligence service” for many years, Kobaladze explained.
Washington was livid. A Justice Department spokesman warned Howard that he can run, but not hide. The fugitive spy would find no “safe haven”; he would be hunted down “in even the most remote corners of the earth. "
Howard was unperturbed. From the safety of his dacha, he called me again. How did he feel about his second escape from the FBI, I asked. “I’m getting tired of it,” he said. “I’ve been toying with taking my memoirs and turning them into a comedy adventure.” If so, the Bush administration is not laughing.
