CIA Agents Spy, Die, Are Honored In Secret

ANONYMOUS STARS at CIA headquarters note the deaths of operatives. Their loved ones must mourn secretly. Their stories form a remarkable strand in the history of the agency, which is 50 years old today.

WASHINGTON - They arrived at CIA headquarters in Langley, Va., and, as instructed, they left their cameras and tape recorders at home. There would be no public acknowledgment that such a convocation had even occurred. Eventually, some were told, they might receive an edited transcript of the day's remarks, but only those portions pertaining to their loved ones.

Parents, widows and widowers, fatherless sons and motherless daughters - all took seats in the cavernous headquarters lobby. The guests faced the Wall of Honor, a field of black stars chiseled into a sheer white face of Vermont marble, flanked by the American flag and the agency's banner. There were 70 stars in all - one for each life lost.

An inch-thick plate of glass just below the field of stars held the Book of Honor, like some reliquary containing a splinter of the true cross. The book's cover was of black morocco goatskin, its rough-cut pages handmade and thick with rag.

On its pages were the 70 stars again, arranged by year of death. But only 29 stars had names beside them.

Some were overt employees of the agency. Others' covers had been so badly blown that no semblance of secrecy was left to protect. Among those listed were pilots who died testing the U-2 spy

plane, and William F. Buckley, a CIA station chief in Lebanon who was abducted, tortured and killed by terrorists.

The remaining 41 stars were nameless. For years, their identities have been among Washington's most poignant and intriguing mysteries. The Book of Honor provides no clues beyond the number of agents who died in a given year. There are no specific dates of death, no indications of where they perished or why.

Twin burdens of grief, secrecy

But there are, of course, the families they left behind. Pegge Hlavacek took her place in the front row, an arm's length from Acting CIA Director George Tenet. At her approach, he lowered his head in respect. Forty-seven years after her first husband's death, Pegge should have been an old hand at this, but fresh grief welled up in her throat.

Teresa Freedman, who had been widowed at 41, made the long drive from Fayetteville, N.C., to help commemorate her husband. There were more than a dozen others, each a story of loss.

"Here, before the memorial wall, we remember our agency family - the men and women who distinguished themselves by their valor, their patriotism and their commitment to this agency," Tenet said.

Tenet singled out four covert officers to be honored that day. Names behind the anonymous stars were read aloud. They were uttered slowly, in cadence. Two uniformed Marines stepped forward in precision and set an all-white floral wreath against the wall. There followed a moment of silence. Then "Taps" resounded through the marble foyer. In half an hour, it was all over. There was a brief and stilted reception, then the families dispersed to their distant homes, carrying with them the twin burdens of grief and secrecy.

`Unusual sacrifice'

Even in Washington, a city of monuments, the CIA's Wall of Honor stands apart. The FBI, State Department, and even Amtrak have their own memorials to those who died in the line of duty. The lowliest grunt has his place of honor on the Vietnam wall. Only the CIA remembers its dead with nameless stars.

The CIA's wall is a memorial to the agency's martyrs. It is also a monument to its culture of secrecy.

In truth, few within the CIA know the identities or stories behind all the stars. Such information is compartmentalized. "Most of the names didn't have any resonance with me," says former CIA Director Richard Helms. "I didn't know who they were. I wouldn't have necessarily known because, after all, I would be reading dispatches and telegrams from the field and they were always under a different name."

The dead sacrificed both life and identity. "It's part of espionage," says Helms. "You learn it from day one. You may ask yourself, `Why does anybody serve in a service like that?' Everything in the United States is about celebrity or recognition."

Can't keep condolence letter

For years when someone died, the CIA dispatched Ben DeFelice, former deputy director of personnel, to console family members and help them through the necessary paperwork. When the deceased died under cover, the procedure was complicated. A CIA veteran of 34 years, DeFelice was known for compassion. Still, he reminded the next of kin not to speak to the press or anyone else about what they knew.

DeFelice would draft a letter expressing the personal condolences of the CIA's director. It would be signed and hand-carried to the surviving spouse or parents. But because it was seen to pose a security risk and a potential embarrassment, the letter had to be read in the presence of a CIA officer and promptly surrendered back to him. Medals, too, were often held in custody.

Relatives can pay a steep price for the secrecy. In some cases, they have been lied to about the circumstances in which their loved ones died. Some have been forever tethered to bogus cover stories. They can't speak openly of their loss to friends or neighbors. Lack of closure sometimes passes from one generation to the next, a dour patrimony.

Circuitous logic

As it observes its 50th anniversary today, the CIA has shown a renewed interest in its nameless stars. But it does so within its uncompromising code of secrecy, built upon a circuitous logic: that only the few privy to such secrets are in a position to judge whether such strictures are necessary.

The agency's unwillingness to inscribe the names of its anonymous stars, particularly those dead 20, 30, even 40 years, contributes to a perception, among some family members, that the CIA is an institution mired in a bureaucracy classifies first and asks questions later - or never.

The families have no clout at Langley. The questions they ask often are just brushed aside.

The CIA declined to cooperate with this story.

Some relatives and friends who agreed to tell their stories can see no conceivable security concerns about what they know. Neither can many current and retired agency employees interviewed for this article.

Terrorists' bombs, machine-gun fire, snipers' bullets, plane crashes, land mines and torture have all added stars to the Book of Honor. The profiles that accompany this article are but a sampling. "The clandestine service calls for unusual sacrifice," says Adm. Stansfield Turner, CIA director 1977-81. "It is not just the anonymity but the lack of credit for what you do. People know you're Joe Jones. They think you're a second secretary or some other position in some government bureau, but you never get very high, you never get to be the top person. You are always under cover doing a different job, and to others who don't know what you're really doing, it appears you're not terribly successful."

Family and friends of the CIA's nameless stars know that what's true of a clandestine life can be doubly true of a clandestine death.