It's no picnic operating an international espionage network that meddles in the affairs of many nations. In fact, it can get to be an awful headache. A lot of things can go wrong. For instance, your agents may off the wrong dictator, a well-planned invasion might founder in the bay or your agents may set up a government that tortures people, which is bad publicity. Worse yet, one of your agents may defect and start telling the world just what it is you do. In graphic detail. We're speaking, of course, about the Central Intelligence Agency, and in particular, about a certain ex--CIA officer named Philip Agee, who, after 12 years with the agency, has dedicated himself to spilling the beans on his former outfit. Now living in England, Agee recently wrote a controversial confessional, Inside the Company: CIA Diary, that has sold exceedingly well in Britain and Canada. Although CIA director William Colby vowed to try to prevent publication of the book here, Stonehill Publishing Company put out an uncensored U. S. edition last month. Anticipating such a move, Playboy dispatched Brad Darrach to Toronto to talk to the man who opened this intriguing can of worms and, in this month's exclusive interview, Agee opens a few more, naming names and generally laying bare just what the CIA does, and how, and why. As an added attraction, we've included several of what we in the mag biz refer to as sidebars by people such as John Marks, co-author of The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence, on The Company's proprietary companies; ex--Army secret agent Kenneth Barton Osborn on the CIA's infamous Phoenix program; and Fred Branfman, codirector of the Indochina Resource Center, on America's clandestine war efforts in Laos.
Playboy, August, 1975, Volume 22, Number 8. Published monthly by Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611. Subscriptions: In the United States, its possessions and Canada, $24 for three years, $18 for two years, $10 for one year. Elsewhere $15 per year. Allow 30 days for new subscriptions and renewals. Change of address: Send both old and new addresses to Playboy, Playboy Building, 919 North Michigan Avenue, Chicago, Illinois 60611, and allow 30 days for change. Marketing: Richard S. Rosenzweig, Director of Marketing; Emery Smyth, Marketing Services Director: Herbert D. Maneloveg, Director of Marketing Information; Nelson Futch, Marketing Manager; Lee Gottlieb, Director of Public Relations. Advertising: Howard W. Lederer, Advertising Director; Don Hanrahan, Associate Advertising Director; Jules Kase, Advertising Manager, 747 Third Avenue, New York, New York 10017; Chicago, Sherman Keats, Associate Advertising Manager, 919 North Michigan Avenue; Detroit, William F. Moore, Manager, 818 Fisher Building; Los Angeles, Stanley L. Perkins, Manager, 8721 Beverly Boulevard; San Francisco, Robert E. Stephens, Manager, 417 Montgomery Street.
No one under 18 admitted without a keeper: A pair of gorillas at the Sacramento City Zoo haven't gotten around to starting a family and zoo officials figure it's because the apes, born in captivity, don't exactly know how to go about it. So the zoo has invested in a sex-education film--starring several passionate gorillas who do know how to get it on--to give them the idea. So far, it hasn't worked.
At six feet and 225 pounds--broad-shouldered, narrow-waisted and heavily muscled, forked beard flowing from a gray-streaked rust mustache, thinning hair curling over his ears and collar--Korczak Ziolkowski looks like a cross between an artist and a truck driver. Which, in a way, he is, although it's a bulldozer--a 60-ton D-9 Caterpillar--that he drives in pursuit of his enduring dream, the chiseling of a granite monument to Chief Crazy Horse in the Black Hills of South Dakota. It's a job that has cost him 28 years of work, one failed marriage and assorted injuries--and one that, his critics charge, will earn him a fortune in tourist dollars even if, as they predict, he never finishes it.
On entering Arnie's (1030 North State Street, Chicago) in the Newberry Plaza, you're likely to be greeted by a dapper, cane-carrying gent slightly reminiscent of Jack Norton, the ultimate drunk who kept popping up in Hollywood Thirties and Forties flicks supporting a lamppost. Is this Damon Runyon character the Arnold Morton, former Executive Vice-President of Playboy Enterprises and now the proprietor of, as Arnie's PR release puts it, "Chicago's most unique dining spa"? No, he's just a colorful old-timer named Mr. Turtle who wandered into Arnie's one evening, was smitten by the restaurant's casually elegant, art nouveau--deco ambience and appointed himself a nonsalaried welcoming committee of one. Arnie's does funny things to people. The highly stylized decor (it's rumored to have cost over $1,000,000) is a prop man's dream come true. There probably hasn't been such an eclectic fusion of bronze statues, gaslight fixtures, tin ceilings, stained glass, gilded mirrors, exotic plants, bizarre murals and miscellaneous objets d'art since the Everleigh sisters opened their sporting house back in 1900. Surrounding a five-story atrium, the large, rambling restaurant consists of four areas: the bar, the garden room, the salon and the wicker room. (The latter is a Casablancan all-white room furnished with white wicker tables and chairs, suspended plants and accented by--yes--white neon sculptures.) Collegiate-looking waiters--many, in fact, are students--dressed in bow ties and sleeveless Argyle sweaters bustle about, and there's a small dance floor adjacent to the bar. (It's a sure bet that Arnie's musician in residence, Stanley Paul, will play As Time Goes By once during the evening.) The à la carte menu is more than adequate but not spectacular. If you're looking for Troisgros haute cuisine, keep looking; Arnie's food is good, if not imaginative, well prepared and nicely served. Avocado, sour cream and red caviar or the exceptional Icelandic trout in dill sauce are both worthy choices from the array of chilled appetizers. Arnie's specialties include Barbecue Chicken, Long Island Duckling and Roast Saddle of Lamb. Nothing too complex. Sirloin Steak Arnie's is broiled and topped with medallions of lobster and a Béarnaise sauce; the Steak El Forno, served with linguine, is broiled with parmesan cheese, butter and, as they say, a wisp of garlic. Fish dishes are limited but excellent: Dover Sole Meunière, Broiled Red Snapper and Filet of Whitefish with Dill Sauce. Dessert is a must. The cold soufflé Grand Marnier and chocolate mousse are both stellar attractions, and the brandy ice--sipped through a straw--has been compared to ambrosia. (We warned you that Arnie's does funny things to people.) Arnie's is open for lunch from 11:30 A.M. to 2:30 P.M. Monday through Friday. Dinner hours are from 5:30 P.M. to 11 P.M. Monday through Thursday. Friday and Saturday they close at midnight and 1 A.M., respectively. On Sunday, a munificent come-as-you-are Henry VIII brunch is served from 11 A.M. to 2:30 P.M. for a flat $5.50 per. Most major credit cards are accepted. Reservations are recommended (312-787-2299).
Soulwise, we are in the Year of the Chick. New stars are emerging (Minnie Riperton), old stars coming back (Shirley Bassey) and existing stars maturing into superstardom (Millie Jackson). Brightest among the newer stars is Betty Wright, whose fourth LP, Danger High Voltage (Alston), will probably be one of our favorite albums of 1975. There's not a weak cut on it. Betty's voice, which has the tough, smoking exuberance of the young Martha Reeves, melds with instrumental tracks that lie halfway between the contemporary disco-soul sound of Miami's TK Productions and the hard, happy, Gospel-tinged R&B of early Motown, with a soupçon of reggae thrown in for spice, and the results cook like crazy. There are three hit singles included--Shoorah! Shoorah!, Tonight Is the Night and Where Is the Love--which, alone, are worth the price of the record.
A teenage beauty pageant to pick California's choice as Young American Miss from 25 state-wide finalists is ostensibly the subject of Smile. Producer-director Michael Ritchie (who made The Candidate and Downhill Racer, still two of Robert Redford's best) has, in fact, created a funny, blistering attack on middle-American Philistinism as seen in the small town of Santa Rosa, which appears to be permanently blighted by a kind of inbred cultural smog. Though Ritchie and his scriptwriters occasionally overstate their points, the movie cheerfully demolishes every target in sight--and the satire is often savage. As stage director of the pageant itself--filmed with the on-the-scene accuracy of a TV special by cinematographer Conrad Hall--choreographer Michael Kidd deftly describes the job he's hired to do: "I take a bunch of nice high school kids and turn them into Vegas showgirls." Kidd isn't kidding. Neither is Bruce Dern, an ace character actor who seems to claim for his own every all-American male hang-up not previously patented by Jack Lemmon and Jack Nicholson. Playing "Big Bob" Freelander, a glad-handing used-car dealer who treats the annual pageant as if it were a religious crusade, Dern easily takes Best of Show. Barbara Feldon lends support as a former Young American Miss, now a sex-shy, civic-minded housewife who leaves her drunken husband at home with a fridge full of frozen TV dinners. Among the sprightlier misses are Joan Prather (as Miss Antelope Valley), Melanie Griffith (in real life, the daughter of Tippi Hedren) and Maria O'Brien (daughter of Hollywood's own Edmond O'Brien and Olga San Juan). In general, the girls are precocious. And that helps a lot when you're watching Maria, as a baton-twirling dervish whose superpatriotic routine about brotherhood could set Mexican-American amity back a hundred years. Or watching another hopeful Young Miss, who proves her talent with a desperately vivacious lecture on How to Pack a Suitcase. The humor is intentional, of course. Smile should make you laugh loud and long.
"Believe me, my loved one, children are what their parents truly expect them to be. If we can face the thought of our intended execution without terror, so then will they." With more hope than certainty, Ethel Rosenberg writes to reassure her husband, Julius, while both await death as nuclear spies for allegedly passing atomic secrets to the Russians. We would spare them, we decided, if they pronounced themselves guilty and ashamed; instead, they broadcast their innocence throughout the land, accused our Government of operating under a "paralysis of fear" and viewed their case as a "psychological offense against a free and reasoning mind." Thinking to free ourselves from the dangers of subversion, we electrocuted the Rosenbergs in 1953--an example of mass hysteria from which we have yet to recover. Now, better than 20 years later, the Rosenbergs' children have provided us with We Are Your Sons (Houghton Mifflin), a collaborative effort by Robert and Michael Meeropol--raised under an adopted name for the sake of anonymity. An uneven mix of personal recollection and polemics, their work rises above its weakest moments to create a convincing portrait of the Rosenbergs as warm, affectionate parents who exerted a massive effort of will to ease their young sons through their nightmare. Games were played during prison visits, nonsense rhymes composed. Still, nothing could prevent the boys from being shunted back and forth between unloving or incapable relatives, or from being taunted and abused at school, or from living as castoffs for a time in a dismal state welfare home. It is no small miracle of human survival that Michael and his younger brother emerged from their early chaotic experiences as sane men--embittered, passionately committed to proving their parents innocent, but still able to give and receive love. For that they thank the Meeropols, who took them in after the executions, allayed their worst fears about being exposed and allowed them their first chance at a normal upbringing. Today both are married and no longer feel compelled to disguise their true identity. They don't want to let us forget what they see as our inhumane treatment of their father and mother, but they speak here with an honesty and openness that helps balance the bombast. Meanwhile, our Government continues to maintain a secretive silence about the Rosenberg affair. FBI files on the case remain sealed, classified, unavailable--leaving us to suspect, along with the Meeropol brothers, that we have as much to fear from our protectors as from our enemies.
Tom Eyen, who created The Dirtiest Show in Town and Why Hanna's Skirt Won't Stay Down, has now aimed his devilish eye at Women Behind Bars. In this new "film for the stage," he reveals the crude truth behind the romanticized trash that emanated from Hollywood in the Fifties. Take one virgin, entrap her in a crime and toss her into a cell swarming with tough tarts, lecherous lesbians and a murdering grandmother and you have yourself a turn-on. The innocent is "raped by the system" and gang-banged by everyone else in the cast, meanwhile reveling in all the attention. From Eyen's point of view, those stiff old Warner Bros. melodramas avoided such weighty prison questions as where you find sex behind bars (answer: everywhere) and where you hide a chicken in jail (one cluck and it's a dead bird). The characters are cartoons, written and acted with broad slashes. But line up anyway for Pat Ast as a bullish matron, Sharon Ann Barr as a toothsome hooker, Helen Hanft as a brassy ball breaker and Mary-Jenifer Mitchell as the bride stripped bare by her sisters. No holds barred in Women Behind Bars, a screaming travesty, salted with low-down laughs. At the Astor Place, 434 Lafayette Street.
My wife and I have been together for three years. Our marriage, which at first seemed to have been made in heaven, has broken down completely. I've tried to get her to discuss our problems, but to no avail. She refuses to admit that we have any, and she will not go with me to see a counselor. Divorce seems to be the only answer and, frankly, I want it. My problem is this: Recently, I ran into my best friend's sister. It had been ten years since I'd last seen her and I found her very appealing. She knows I'm married, but she doesn't know my marriage is on the rocks. How do I declare my interest in her? She comes from a good family and is a nice girl. I don't want her to get the wrong idea--that I am just a dissatisfied husband seeking solace or that she would be the other woman. Believe me, I don't want to let her out of my life.--N. J., Burlington, Vermont.
Flinching under an almost daily assault of headlines accusing the Central Intelligence Agency of everything from domestic spying to foreign coups and assassinations (with an occasional submarine-raising scheme out of Jules Verne), Americans--and the rest of the world--may well wish for the more innocent era of 1929, when Secretary of State Henry L. Stimson abolished an early version of the U. S. intelligence service, noting with a sniff that "gentlemen don't read other people's mail."
John Marks, the 32-year-old co-author (with Victor Marchetti) of "The CIA and the Cult of Intelligence," is a graduate of Andover, Cornell and Vietnam, where he spent 18 months as a civilian advisor to the Vietnamese government. Back home in 1968, Marks was assigned to the State Department's Bureau of Intelligence and Research. In 1969, he became assistant to State's intelligence director and watched CIA operations from the point of view of a cooperating service. He was serving as an aide to Senator Clifford Case, a liberal Republican from New Jersey, when Marchetti asked him to collaborate on the book. Pursuing his fascination with the CIA, Marks, who works at the Center for National Security Studies in Washington, has recently been exploring the clandestine labyrinths of CIA economics. Outside the CIA, he is thought to be the world's leading expert on CIA cover organizations and secret corporations, which he discusses here.
The CIA's Quiet Little War in Laos, or What's Two Million Tons of Bombs Among Friends?
Fred Branfman, 33-year-old codirector of the Indochina Resource Center in Washington, D.C., has lived for four and a half years in Indochina, three and a half of them in Laos as a researcher and writer and as an educational advisor with International Voluntary Services. A graduate of the University of Chicago with a master's degree in education from Harvard, Branfman speaks Laotian, French, Swahili, Hebrew and some Thai and is married to a Vietnamese. The following article will form part of "CIA: The President's Secret Army," a book based on his research into America's clandestine war efforts in Laos.
Kenneth Barton Osborn is a 30-year-old political analyst who joined the Army in 1966 and spent about a year and a half in South Vietnam. He worked under civilian cover as a pacification officer but was actually assigned by Army Military Intelligence to operate nets of secret agents in the countryside near Da Nang. To strengthen his operation, Bart Osborn made a deal: CIA funds and technical support in exchange for his spies' information--which was, he later learned, fed into the CIA's infamous Phoenix program. His account:
In the fall of 1974, two months after Richard M. Nixon left the White House, a Federal judge in South Dakota pronounced what may become history's verdict on the U. S. Department of Justice in the Nixon years. The judge, Fred J. Nichol, had presided over the eight-month trial of the leaders of a group of American Indians who had occupied the town of Wounded Knee in the spring of 1973, a case in which he found "the misconduct of the Government ... so aggravated that a dismissal must be entered in the interests of justice."
I'm not sure how the idea of my writing these words came up. Did I propose it in a moment of insanity, never suspecting that I'd get a go-ahead? Looking back, I guess it was my own idea, but the realization of actually doing it didn't surface until a lunch date with the magazine editors, when, suddenly, amid talk of diets, Playmates and Julia Child, we were discussing my "story"--rather an incredible happening for a girl raised in a Catholic boarding school.
Well, Charley, here you are. Miami Beach, at last. You've worked on your tan. You've played the horses and the dogs. You've watched jai alai. You've made your calls and made your deals. You've played around with boats and water skis and tennis rackets and golf clubs. But now it's time to get something to eat, have some drinks, listen to some sounds, parade around in your fancy threads, boogie, rap, swallow some smoke, cruise a little and then--certainly by then it will be time to get laid.
Welcome to Snavely, Iowa (population 2067). It's a nice little town; nothing special, mind you, just your basic run-of-the-mill hamlet situated snugly in the middle of the state. Not much has happened in Snavely in the way of history. George Washington never slept here, although they tell us General U. S. Grant started a fight in one of our saloons some time ago. One day, Dillinger came through town on his way to Chicago and sampled a bowl of Elvira Larson's Yankee bean soup. (Paid for it, too.) The bowl is presently on display at the public library. Like we always say, you can't really judge a town until you've met the folks who live there. And we've got plenty of folks, from all different walks of life, living in Snavely. Why, we've even got ourselves our very own village idiot, although some folks claim we got two of them--the other one being the mayor. We've lived in Snavely almost 40 years now and we've seen our share of folks come and go. Mostly they go, but every once in a while somebody'll stake out a claim and settle down here, don't ask us why. There hasn't been much action in these parts since the day Homer Nesselbaum drove his brand-new Duesenberg right smack into the lobby of the First National Bank. But, like we said before, the best way to get to know a town is to know its people, so what we've done is compile a collection of pictures for your general edification depicting some of our more colorful citizens.
The house in the suburbs was roomy and had spacious grounds, but to Peter its major attraction was the fact that it was well equipped with security devices. As he explained to the real-estate agent, he had to make frequent business trips and was uneasy about leaving Teresa alone in their city apartment.
Your eyes tell you true--the lady's beauty is remarkable, her sensuousness unmistakable. Which is why you're looking at the most striking Playmate pictorial ever. How it came to be is a fittingly improbable tale of two newspapers, two women and four cities, of which London is perhaps the most important. It was there that Lillian Müller, a ship's engineer's daughter from Kristiansand, Norway--and, at that point in her life, a restless college student specializing in languages--spotted a newspaper ad placed by a modeling school. It appealed to a long-suppressed desire, with the result that instead of conjugations and declensions, Lillian began to study the ways and wiles of the successful model she soon became, tripping all over Europe to do TV commercials, book and magazine covers, fashion shots and pinups. It was one of the latter, in another London newspaper, that caught the sharp eye of Suze Randall, a former model herself, who'd switched to the other side of the camera a year before. Struck by Lillian's opulent beauty, and the professional possibilities of same, Suze got hold of her through an agent. Not only did the two women decide to do some pictures, they got on so well that they wound up rooming together. That benefited both Lillian, who was still something of a stranger in London, and Suze, who had the opportunity "to just shoot and shoot and shoot." Eventually, she took a sampling of the results to Victor Lownes, a London-based Playboy Vice-President. Lownes took a hard look at the pictures and immediately started dialing for a transatlantic operator. It wasn't long before Lillian and Suze were en route to Chicago, where Dwight Hooker shot her gatefold picture, and then on to Los Angeles, where they spent several weeks in our studio, working under the experienced eye of West Coast Picture Editor Marilyn Grabowski and staying at Playboy Mansion West in Holmby Hills. After Lillian's Playmate shootings were completed, she returned to Norway, while Suze stayed in Los Angeles to work as a free-lance photographer. At presstime, though, Lillian was waiting a bit impatiently for the visa that would enable her to fly back to L.A. She had done just about everything there was for a model to do in Europe, so she was headed for California--where, among other things, she hoped to get into acting. Suze Randall has no doubts about her friend's ability to make it big: "Lillian is an archetypal glamor girl, and somehow she seems to echo all the great beauty queens of the past. When we walked together in Los Angeles, she attracted so much attention I felt like a bodyguard. She's also very ambitious, and she works hard." Indeed. While she was modeling in Europe, Lillian confined her social life to weekends so she could concentrate on her work. And on the eve of her departure for America, she was nothing but optimistic about her chances of emulating the successes of Brigitte Bardot and Ursula Andress, who are among her heroines: "I always think I can do what I set out to do, and I keep on trying until I've done it. I'm always in a good mood." We trust that Lillian has managed to put you in a good mood. We couldn't be happier.
Now it can be told. How Henry Bech, the scarcely read yet oddly respectable American author, permitted himself, out of loyalty to a country of which his impressions were almost entirely whimsical, to be used by the State Department as a cultural emissary to whatever little nation it could think of; this was in the Cold War's slush season, the years (1968--1972) before the Soviet Union and the United States realized that, far from wishing to win the minds and the hearts of the Third World, they just wished it would go away.
The seasons aren't divided into four neat segments for city kids. Grass does not start growing through the concrete sidewalks at the vernal equinox and no birds sing. More often than not, winter slides into midsummer with hardly a pause. But we didn't need a harbinger or, for that matter, a calendar to know when spring arrived. It was the day the ices man showed up with his rickety cart and his lemon, orange and cherry water ice. Little did we know, as we greedily sucked the last drops from the folds of the paper cup, that gourmets considered this frozen mixture of sugar, fruit juice and water a big culinary deal; "the consummation of all that is delicate and good," in the words of Escoffier himself.
Each season is the beginning of a new world in the National Football League. Hope is both sustenance and narcotic for the entrepreneurs of the football business. Optimism is their religion. In mid-July, every owner, general manager and tub thumper in the league has a detailed list of logical reasons why his team will be much improved. Bold steps have been taken in the off season to seal leaky defenses; healed injuries and added skills will give new zip to bumbling attacks. Even the proprietors of last fall's 4--10 outfits speak guardedly of plans to take part in this December's play-offs.
Like some ghost battalion doomed to march across the same eerie battlefield for the rest of eternity, the members of the Oakland Raiders football team came drifting up the runway from the playing field. No one shouted. No one slammed the slick concrete walls. No one kicked or cursed. They simply moved in mute, lifeless agony, their ability to experience hurt or pain strangely dead. What had happened before had happened again.
Let me confess this to you. They killed baker as soon as we went in the door. They shot him twice in the chest: two men in business suits; pistols with silencers. Baker was a big man, but the bullets stopped him as if he had walked into a tree. I think he was dead before he hit the floor, but he lay there for a while with his legs thrashing and my son Chip, who had always thought a lot of Baker, pressed his small face against the front of my parka so he wouldn't have to watch.
Historically, the purpose of the grand jury has been to protect people against the abuse of government power. The American founding fathers got i9the idea from the British and inserted it into the Bill of Rights: "No person shall be held to answer for a capital or otherwise infamous crime, unless on presentment or indictment of a Grand Jury." The idea, simply enough, was to interpose a shield between the individual and the state to show that its desire to prosecute somebody is based on public interest, not political whimsy.