The Search for the Manchurian Candidate
John Marks
2. Cold War on the Mind
CIA officials started preliminary work on drugs and hypnosis shortly
after the Agency's creation in 1947, but the behavior-control
program did not really get going until the Hungarian government
put Josef Cardinal Mindszenty on trial in 1949. With a glazed
look in his eyes, Mindszenty confessed to crimes of treason he
apparently did not commit. His performance recalled the Moscow
purge trials of 1937 and 1938 at which tough and dedicated party
apparatchiks had meekly pleaded guilty to long series of
improbable offenses. These and a string of postwar trials in other
Eastern European countries seemed staged, eerie, and unreal. CIA
men felt they had to know how the Communists had rendered the
defendants zombielike. In the Mindszenty case, a CIA Security
Memorandum declared that "some unknown force" had controlled
the Cardinal, and the memo speculated that the communist authorities
had used hypnosis on him.
In the summer of 1949, the Agency's head of Scientific Intelligence
made a special trip to Western Europe to find out more about what
the Soviets were doing and "to apply special methods of interrogation
for the purpose of evaluation of Russian practices." In other
words, fearful that the communists might have used drugs and hypnosis
on prisoners, a senior CIA official used exactly the same techniques
on refugees and returned prisoners from Eastern Europe. On returning
to the United States, this official recommended two courses of
action: first, that the Agency consider setting up an escape operation
to free Mindszenty; and second, that the CIA train and send to
Europe a team skilled in "special" interrogation methods
of the type he had tried out in Europe.
By the spring of 1950, several other CIA branches were contemplating
the operational use of hypnosis. The Office of Security, whose
main job was to protect Agency personnel and facilities from enemy
penetration, moved to centralize all activity in this and other
behavioral fields. The Security chief, Sheffield Edwards, a former
Army colonel who a decade later would personally handle joint
CIA-Mafia operations, took the initiative by calling a meeting
of all interested Agency parties and proposing that interrogation
teams be formed under Security's command. Security would use the
teams to check out agents and defectors for the whole CIA. Each
team would consist of a psychiatrist, a polygraph (lie detector)
expert trained in hypnosis, and a technician. Edwards agreed not
to use the teams operationally without the permission of a high-level
committee. He called the project BLUEBIRD, a code name which,
like all Agency names, had no significance except perhaps to the
person who chose it. Edwards classified the program TOP SECRET
and stressed the extraordinary need for secrecy. On April 20,
1950, CIA Director Roscoe Hillenkoetter approved BLUEBIRD and
authorized the use of unvouchered funds to pay for its most sensitive
areas. The CIA's behavior-control program now had a bureaucratic
structure.
The chief of Scientific Intelligence attended the original BLUEBIRD
meeting in Sheffield Edwards' office and assured those present
that his office would keep trying to gather all possible data
on foreign—particularly Russian—efforts in the behavioral
field. Not long afterward, his representative arranged to inspect
the Nuremberg Tribunal records to see if they contained anything
useful to BLUEBIRD. According to a CIA psychologist who looked
over the German research, the Agency did not find much of specific
help. "It was a real horror story, but we learned what human
beings were capable of," he recalls. "There were someexperiments on pain, but they were so mixed up with sadism as
not to be useful.... How the victim coped was very interesting."
At the beginning, at least, there was cooperation between the
scientists and the interrogators in the CIA. Researchers from
Security (who had no special expertise but who were experienced
in police work) and researchers from Scientific Intelligence (who
lacked operational background but who had academic training) pored
jointly over all the open literature and secret reports. They
quickly realized that the only way to build an effective defense
against mind control was to understand its offensive possibilities.
The line between offense and defense—if it ever existed—soon
became so blurred as to be meaningless. Nearly every Agency document
stressed goals like "controlling an individual to the point
where he will do our bidding against his will and even against
such fundamental laws of nature as self-preservation." On
reading one such memo, an Agency officer wrote to his boss: "If
this is supposed to be covered up as a defensive feasibility study,
it's pretty damn transparent."
Three months after the Director approved BLUEBIRD, the first team
traveled to Japan to try out behavioral techniques on human subjects—probably
suspected double agents. The three men arrived in Tokyo in July
1950, about a month after the start of the Korean War. No one
needed to impress upon them the importance of their mission. The
Security Office ordered them to conceal their true purpose from
even the U.S. military authorities with whom they worked in Japan,
using the cover that they would be performing "intensive
polygraph" work. In stifling, debilitating heat and humidity,
they tried out combinations of the depressant sodium amytal with
the stimulant benzedrine on each of four subjects, the last two
of whom also received a second stimulant, picrotoxin. They also
tried to induce amnesia. The team considered the tests successful,
but the CIA documents available on the trip give only the sketchiest
outline of what happened.[1]
Then around October 1950, the BLUEBIRD team used "advanced"
techniques on 25 subjects, apparently North Korean prisoners of
war.
By the end of that year, a Security operator, Morse Allen, had
become the head of the BLUEBIRD program. Forty years old at the
time, Allen had spent most of his earlier career rooting out the
domestic communist threat, starting in the late 1930s when he
had joined the Civil Service Commision and set up its first security
files on communists. ("He knows their methods," wrote
a CIA colleague.) During World War II, Allen had served with Naval
intelligence, first pursuing leftists in New York and then landing
with the Marines on Okinawa. After the war, he went to the State
Department, only to leave in the late 1940s because he felt the
Department was whitewashing certain communist cases. He soon joined
the CIA's Office of Security. A suspicious man by inclination
and training, Allen took nothing at face value. Like all counterintelligence
or security operators, his job was to show why things are not
what they seem to be. He was always thinking ahead and behind,
punching holes in surface realities. Allen had no academic training
for behavioral research (although he did take a short course in
hypnotism, a subject that fascinated him). He saw the BLUEBIRD
job as one that called for studying every last method the communists
might use against the United States and figuring out ways to counter
them.
The CIA had schooled Morse Allen in one field which in the CIA's
early days became an important part of covert operations: the
use of the polygraph. Probably more than any intelligence service
in the world, the Agency developed the habit of strapping its
foreign agents—and eventually, its own employees— into the
"box." The polygraph measures physiological changes
that might show lying—heartbeat, blood pressure, perspiration,
and the like. It has never been foolproof. In 1949 the Office
of Security estimated that it worked successfully on seven out
of eight cases, a very high fraction but not one high enough for
those in search of certainty. A psychopathic liar, a hypnotized
person, or a specially trained professional can "beat"
the machine. Moreover, the skill of the person running the polygraph
and asking the questions determines how well the device will work.
"A good operator can make brilliant use of the polygraph
without plugging it in," claims one veteran CIA case officer.
Others maintain only somewhat less extravagantly that its chief
value is to deter agents tempted to switch loyalties or reveal
secrets. The power of the machine—real and imagined—to detect
infidelity and dishonesty can be an intimidating factor.[2]
Nevertheless, the polygraph cannot compel
truth. Like Pinocchio's nose, it only indicates lying. In addition,
the machine requires enough physical control over the subject
to strap him in. For years, the CIA tried to overcome this limitation
by developing a "super" polygraph that could be aimed
from afar or concealed in a chair. In this field, as in many others,
no behavior control scheme was too farfetched to investigate,
and Agency scientists did make some progress.
In December 1950, Morse Allen told his boss, Paul Gaynor, a retired
brigadier general with a long background in counterintelligence
and interrogation, that he had heard of experiments with an "electro-sleep"
machine in a Richmond, Virginia hospital. Such an invention appealed
to Allen because it supposedly put people to sleep without shock
or convulsions. The BLUEBIRD team had been using drugs to bring
on a state similar to a hypnotic trance, and Allen hoped this
machine would allow an operator to put people into deep sleep
without having to resort to chemicals. In theory, all an operator
had to do was to attach the electrode-tipped wires to the subject's
head and let the machine do the rest. It cost about $250 and was
about twice the size of a table-model dictating machine. "Although
it would not be feasible to use it on any of our own people because
there is at least a theoretical danger of temporary brain damage,"
Morse Allen wrote, "it would possibly be of value in certain
areas in connection with POW interrogation or on individuals of
interest to this Agency." The machine never worked well enough
to get into the testing stage for the CIA.
At the end of 1951, Allen talked to a famed psychiatrist (whose
name, like most of the others, the CIA has deleted from the documents
released) about a gruesome but more practical technique. This
psychiatrist, a cleared Agency consultant, reported that electroshock
treatments could produce amnesia for varying lengths of time and
that he had been able to obtain information from patients as they
came out of the stupor that followed shock treatments. He also
reported that a lower setting of the Reiter electroshock machine
produced an "excruciating pain" that, while nontherapeutic,
could be effective as "a third degree method" to make
someone talk. Morse Allen asked if the psychiatrist had ever taken
advantage of the "groggy" period that followed normal
electroshock to gain hypnotic control of his patients. No, replied
the psychiatrist, but he would try it in the near future and report
back to the Agency. The psychiatrist also mentioned that continued
electroshock treatments could gradually reduce a subject to the
"vegetable level," and that these treatments could not
be detected unless the subject was given EEG tests within two
weeks. At the end of a memo laying out this information, Allen
noted that portable, battery-driven electroshock machines had
come on the market.
Shortly after this Morse Allen report, the Office of Scientific
Intelligence recommended that this same psychiatrist be given
$100,000 in research funds "to develop electric shock and
hypnotic techniques." While Allen thought this subject worth
pursuing, he had some qualms about the ultimate application of
the shock treatments: "The objections would, of course, apply
to the use of electroshock if the end result was creation of a
'vegetable.' [I] believe that these techniques should not be considered
except in gravest emergencies, and neutralization by confinement
and/or removal from the area would be far more appropriate and
certainly safer."
In 1952 the Office of Scientific Intelligence proposed giving
another private doctor $100,000 to develop BLUEBIRD-related "neurosurgical
techniques"—presumably lobotomy-connected.[3]
Similarly, the Security office planned to
use outside consultants to find out about such techniques as ultrasonics,
vibrations, concussions, high and low pressure, the uses of various
gases in airtight chambers, diet variations, caffeine, fatigue,
radiation, heat and cold, and changing light. Agency officials
looked into all these areas and many others. Some they studied
intensively; others they merely discussed with consultants.
The BLUEBIRD mind-control program began when Stalin was still
alive, when the memory of Hitler was fresh, and the terrifying
prospect of global nuclear war was just sinking into popular consciousness.
The Soviet Union had subjugated most of Eastern Europe, and a
Communist party had taken control over the world's most populous
nation, China. War had broken out in Korea, and Senator Joseph
McCarthy's anti-Communist crusade was on the rise in the United
States. In both foreign and domestic politics, the prevailing
mood was one of fear even paranoia.
American officials have pointed to the Cold War atmosphere ever
since as an excuse for crimes and excesses committed then and
afterward. One recurring litany in national security investigations
has been the testimony of the exposed official citing Cold War
hysteria to justify an act that he or she would not otherwise
defend. The apprehensions of the Cold War do not provide a moral
or legal shield for such acts, but they do help explain them.
Even when the apprehensions were not well founded, they were no
less real to the people involved.
It was also a time when the United States had achieved a new preeminence
in the world. After World War II, American officials wielded the
kind of power that diplomats frequently dream of. They established
new alliances, new rulers, and even new nations to suit their
purposes. They dispensed guns, favors, and aid to scores of nations.
Consequently, American officials were noticed, respected, and
pampered wherever they went—as never before. Their new sense
of importance and their Cold War fears often made a dangerous
combination—it is a fact of human nature that anyone who is
both puffed up and afraid is someone to watch out for.
In 1947 the National Security Act created not only the CIA but
also the National Security Council—in sum, the command structure
for the Cold War. Wartime OSS leaders like William Donovan and
Allen Dulles lobbied feverishly for the Act. Officials within
the new command structure soon put their fear and their grandiose
notions to work. Reacting to the perceived threat, they adopted
a ruthless and warlike posture toward anyone they considered an
enemy—most especially the Soviet Union. They took it upon themselves
to fight communism and things that might lead to communism everywhere
in the world. Few citizens disagreed with them; they appeared
to express the sentiments of most Americans in that era, but national
security officials still preferred to act in secrecy. A secret
study commision under former President Hoover captured the spirit
of their call to clandestine warfare:
It is now clear we are facing an implacable enemy whose avowed
objective is world domination by whatever means and at whatever
cost. There are no rules in such a game. Hitherto acceptable long-standing
American concepts of "fair play" must be reconsidered.
We must develop effective espionage and counterespionage services
and must learn to subvert, sabotage, and destroy our enemies by
more clever, more sophisticated, and more effective methods than
those used against us.
The men in the new CIA took this job quite seriously. "We
felt we were the first line of defense in the anti-Communist crusade,"
recalls Harry Rositzke, an early head of the Agency's Soviet Division.
"There was a clear and heady sense of mission—a sense of
what a huge job this was." Michael Burke, who was chief of
CIA covert operations in Germany before going on to head the New
York Yankees and Madison Square Garden, agrees: "It was riveting....
One was totally absorbed in something that has become misunderstood
now, but the Cold War in those days was a very real thing with
hundreds of thousands of Soviet troops, tanks, and planes poised
on the East German border, capable of moving to the English Channel
in forty-eight hours." Hugh Cunningham, an Agency official
who stayed on for many years, remembers that survival itself was
at stake, "What you were made to feel was that the country
was in desperate peril and we had to do whatever it took to save
it."
BLUEBIRD and the CIA's later mind-control programs sprang from
such alarm. As a matter of course, the CIA was also required to
learn the methods and intentions of all possible foes. "If
the CIA had not tried to find out what the Russians were doing
with mind-altering drugs in the early 1950s, I think the then-Director
should have been fired," says Ray Cline, a former Deputy
Director of the Agency.
High Agency officials felt they had to know what the Russians
were up to. Nevertheless, a careful reading of the contemporaneous
CIA documents almost three decades later indicates that if the
Russians were scoring breakthroughs in the behavior-control field—whose
author they almost certainly were not—the CIA lacked intelligence
to prove that. For example, a 1952 Security document, which admittedly
had an ax to grind with the Office of Scientific Intelligence,
called the data gathered on the Soviet programs "extremely
poor." The author noted that the Agency's information was
based on "second- or third-hand rumors, unsupported statements
and non-factual data."[4] Apparently,
the fears and fantasies aroused by the Mindszenty trial and the
subsequent Korean War "brainwashing" furor outstripped
the facts on hand. The prevalent CIA notion of a "mind-control
gap" was as much of a myth as the later bomber and missile
"gaps." In any case, beyond the defensive curiosity,
mind control took on a momentum of its own.
As unique and frightening as the Cold War was, it did not cause
people working for the government to react much differently to
each other or power than at other times in American history. Bureaucratic
squabbling went on right through the most chilling years of the
behavior-control program. No matter how alarmed CIA officials
became over the Russian peril, they still managed to quarrel with
their internal rivals over control of Agency funds and manpower.
Between 1950 and 1952, responsibility for mind control went from
the Office of Security to the Scientific Intelligence unit back
to Security again. In the process, BLUEBIRD was rechristened ARTICHOKE.
The bureaucratic wars were drawn-out affairs, baffling to outsiders;
yet many of the crucial turns in behavioral research came out
of essentially bureaucratic considerations on the part of the
contending officials. In general, the Office of Security was full
of pragmatists who were anxious to weed out communists (and homosexuals)
everywhere. They believed the intellectuals from Scientific Intelligence
had failed to produce "one new, usable paper, suggestion,
drug, instrument, name of an individual, etc., etc.," as
one document puts it. The learned gentlemen from Scientific Intelligence
felt that the former cops, military men, and investigators in
Security lacked the technical background to handle so awesome
a task as controlling the human mind.
"Jurisdictional conflict was constant in this area,"
a Senate committee would state in 1976. A 1952 report to the chief
of the CIA's Medical Staff (itself a participant in the infighting)
drew a harsher conclusion: "There exists a glaring lack of
cooperation among the various intra-Agency groups fostered by
petty jealousies and personality differences that result in the
retardation of the enhancing and advancing of the Agency as a
body." When Security took ARTICHOKE back from Scientific
Intelligence in 1952, the victory lasted only two and one-half
years before most of the behavioral work went to yet another CIA
outfit, full of Ph.D.s with operational experience—the Technical
Services Staff (TSS).[5]
There was bureaucratic warfare outside the CIA as well, although
there were early gestures toward interagency cooperation. In April
1951 the CIA Director approved liaison with Army, Navy, and Air
Force intelligence to avoid duplication of effort. The Army and
Navy were both looking for truth drugs, while the prime concern
of the Air Force was interrogation techniques used on downed pilots.
Representatives of each service attended regular meetings to discuss
ARTICHOKE matters. The Agency also invited the FBI, but J. Edgar
Hoover's men stayed away.
During their brief period of cooperation, the military and the
CIA also exchanged information with the British and Canadian governments.
At the first session in June 1951, the British representative
announced at the outset that there had been nothing new in the
interrogation business since the days of the Inquisition and that
there was little hope of achieving valuable results through research.
He wanted to concentrate on propaganda and political warfare as
they applied to such threats as communist penetration of trade
unions. The CIA's minutes of the session record that this skeptical
Englishman finally agreed to the importance of behavioral research,
but one doubts the sincerity of this conversion. The minutes also
record a consensus of "no conclusive evidence" that
either Western countries or the Soviets had made any "revolutionary
progress" in the field, and describe Soviet methods as "remarkably
similar . . . to the age-old methods." Nonetheless, the representatives
of the three countries agreed to continue investigating behavior-control
methods because of their importance to "cold war operations."
To what extent the British and Canadians continued cannot be told.
The CIA did not stop until the 1970s.
Bureaucratic conflict was not the only aspect of ordinary government
life that persisted through the Cold War. Officials also maintained
their normal awareness of the ethical and legal consequences of
their decisions. Often they went through contorted rationalizations
and took steps to protect themselves, but at least they recognized
and paused over the various ethical lines before crossing them.
It would be unfair to say that all moral awareness evaporated.
Officials agonized over the consequences of their acts, and much
of the bureaucratic record of behavior control is the history
of officials dealing with moral conflicts as they arose.
The Security office barely managed to recruit the team psychiatrist
in time for the first mission to Japan, and for years, Agency
officials had trouble attracting qualified medical men to the
project. Speculating why, one Agency memo listed such reasons
as the CIA's comparatively low salaries for doctors and ARTICHOKE's
narrow professional scope, adding that a candidate's "ethics
might be such that he might not care to cooperate in certain more
revolutionary phases of our project." This consideration
became explicit in Agency recruiting. During the talent search,
another CIA memo stated why another doctor seemed suitable: "His
ethics are such that he would be completely cooperative in any
phase of our program, regardless of how revolutionary it may be."
The matter was even more troublesome in the task of obtaining
guinea pigs for mind-control experiments. "Our biggest current
problem," noted one CIA memo, "is to find suitable subjects."
The men from ARTICHOKE found their most convenient source among
the flotsam and jetsam of the international spy trade: "individuals
of dubious loyalty, suspected agents or plants, subjects having
known reason for deception, etc." as one Agency document
described them. ARTICHOKE officials looked on these people as
"unique research material," from whom meaningful secrets
might be extracted while the experiments went on.
It is fair to say that the CIA operators tended to put less value
on the lives of these subjects than they did on those of American
college students, upon whom preliminary, more benign testing was
done. They tailored the subjects to suit the ethical sensitivity
of the experiment. A psychiatrist who worked on an ARTICHOKE team
stresses that no one from the Agency wanted subjects to be hurt.
Yet he and his colleagues were willing to treat dubious defectors
and agents in a way which not only would be professionally unethical
in the United States but also an indictable crime. In short, these
subjects were, if not expendable, at least not particularly prized
as human beings. As a CIA psychologist who worked for a decade
in the behavior-control program, puts it, "One did not put
a high premium on the civil rights of a person who was treasonable
to his own country or who was operating effectively to destroy
us." Another ex-Agency psychologist observes that CIA operators
did not have "a universal concept of mankind" and thus
were willing to do things to foreigners that they would have been
reluctant to try on Americans. "It was strictly a patriotic
vision," he says.
ARTICHOKE officials never seemed to be able to find enough subjects.
The professional operators—particularly the traditionalists—were
reluctant to turn over agents to the Security men with their unproved
methods. The field men did not particularly want outsiders, such
as the ARTICHOKE crew, getting mixed up in their operations. In
the spy business, agents are very valuable property indeed, and
operators tend to be very protective of them. Thus the ARTICHOKE
teams were given mostly the dregs of the clandestine underworld
to work on.
Inexorably, the ARTICHOKE men crossed the clear ethical lines.
Morse Allen believed it proved little or nothing to experiment
on volunteers who gave their informed consent. For all their efforts
to act naturally, volunteers still knew they were playing in a
make-believe game. Consciously or intuitively, they understood
that no one would allow them to be harmed. Allen felt that only
by testing subjects "for whom much is at stake (perhaps life
and death)," as he wrote, could he get reliable results relevant
to operations. In documents and conversation, Allen and his coworkers
called such realistic tests "terminal experiments"—terminal
in the sense that the experiment would be carried through to completion.
It would not end when the subject felt like going home or when
he or his best interest was about to be harmed. Indeed, the subject
usually had no idea that he had ever been part of an experiment.
In every field of behavior control, academic researchers took
the work only so far. From Morse Allen's perspective, somebody
then had to do the terminal experiment to find out how well the
technique worked in the real world: how drugs affected unwitting
subjects, how massive electroshock influenced memory, how prolonged
sensory deprivation disturbed the mind. By definition, terminal
experiments went beyond conventional ethical and legal limits.
The ultimate terminal experiments caused death, but ARTICHOKE
sources state that those were forbidden.
For career CIA officials, exceeding these limits in the name of
national security became part of the job, although individual
operators usually had personal lines they would not cross. Most
academics wanted no part of the game at this stage—nor did Agency
men always like having these outsiders around. If academic and
medical consultants were brought along for the terminal phase,
they usually did the work overseas, in secret. As Cornell Medical
School's famed neurologist Harold Wolff explained in a research
proposal he made to the CIA, when any of the tests involved doing
harm to the subjects, "We expect the Agency to make available
suitable subjects and a proper place for the performance of the
necessary experiments." Any professional caught trying the
kinds of things the Agency came to sponsor—holding subjects
prisoner, shooting them full of unwanted drugs—probably would
have been arrested for kidnapping or aggravated assault. Certainly
such a researcher would have been disgraced among his peers. Yet,
by performing the same experiment under the CIA's banner, he had
no worry from the law. His colleagues could not censure him because
they had no idea what he was doing. And he could take pride in
helping his country.
Without having been there in person, no one can know exactly what
it felt like to take part in a terminal experiment. In any case,
the subjects probably do not have fond memories of the experience.
While the researchers sometimes resembled Alphonse and Gastone,
they took themselves and their work very seriously. Now they are
either dead, or, for their own reasons, they do not want to talk
about the tests. Only in the following case have I been able to
piece together anything approaching a firsthand account of a terminal
experiment, and this one is quite mild compared to the others
the ARTICHOKE men planned.
Notes
The origins of the CIA's ARTICHOKE program and accounts of the
early testing came from the following Agency Documents # 192,
15 January 1953; #3,17 May 1949; A/B, I,8/1,24 February 1949;
February 10, 1951 memo on Special Interrogations (no document
#); A/B, II, 30/2, 28 September 1949; #5, 15 August 1949; #8,
27 September 1949; #6, 23 August 1949; #13, 5 April 1950; #18,
9 May 1950; #142 (transmittal slip), 19 May 1952; #124, 25 January
1952; A/B, IV, 23/32, 3 March 1952; #23, 21 June 1950; #10, 27
February 1950; #37, 27 October 1950; A/B, I, 39/1, 12 December
1950; A/B, II, 2/2, 5 March 1952; A/B, II, 2/1, 15 February 1952;
A/B, V, 134/3, 3 December 1951; A/B, I, 38/5, 1 June 1951; and
#400, undated, "Specific Cases of Overseas Testing and Applications
of Behavioral Drugs."
The documents were supplemented by interviews with Ray Cline,
Harry Rositzke, Michael Burke, Hugh Cunningham, and several other
ex-CIA men who asked to remain anonymous. The Final Report of
the Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect
to Intelligence (henceforth called the Church Committee Report)
provided useful background.
Documents giving background on terminal experiments include #A/B,
II, 10/57; #A/B, II, 10/58, 31 August, 1954; #A/B, II, 10/ 17,
27 September 1954; and #A/B, I, 76/4, 21 March 1955.
Footnotes
1. For a better-documented case of narcotherapy
and narcohypnosis, see Chapter 3. (back)
2.While the regular polygraphing of CIA career
employees apparently never has turned up a penetration agent in
the ranks, it almost certainly has a deterrent effect on those
considering coming out of the homosexual closet or on those considering
dipping into the large sums of cash dispensed from proverbial
black bags. (back)
3. Whether the Agency ultimately funded this
or the electric-shock proposal cited above cannot be determined
from the documents. (back)
4. The CIA refused to supply either a briefing
or additional material when I asked for more background on Soviet
behavior-control programs. (back)
5. This Agency component, responsible for
providing the supporting gadgets disguises, forgeries, secret
writing, and weapons, has been called during its history the Technical
Services Division and the Office of Technical Services as well
as TSS, the name which will be used throughout this book. (back)
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