Casablanca: Declassified

By Glenn Cosh

Casablanca in the 1950s was a hotbed of secrets and intelligence gathering between the old world and the new. The hot war for the independence of Morocco and the Cold War between the United States and Russia were simultaneously being fought. The French were battling the Moroccan United Liberation Front, who sought independence from France. The United States had a nuclear-weapons presence in Morocco as a deterrent to the Soviet Union's aspirations during the Cold War. Set in the hypnotic vistas of North Africa and Europe, Casablanca: Declassified puts a human face on this confluence of powers and cultures, as it follows the exploits of individual American (CIA), French, Moroccan, and Soviet intelligence personnel (KGB), each jostling to get the upper hand in the high-stake games of diplomacy, international intrigue, suspense, spying, and romance. While two American airmen maintain complex nuclear weapons just below the surface, a Soviet spy network devises an ingenious way to infiltrate their base and gather intelligence on American nuclear capabilities. Meanwhile, the French attaché knows his nation's imperial days in Morocco are numbered, but along with his American CIA friend continues to use their charm in pursuit of an American jazz singer. Smoked-filled nightclubs, colorful Berber tribesman riding camels in the desert, unspoiled Casablanca beaches, postwar Italy and Germany, bar brawls in Gibraltar, Spanish bullfights, and airplane dogfights in the skies are just some of the dynamic landscapes of Casablanca: Declassified. Together, they offer a rare glimpse into the special and secret character of time and place that has been all but forgotten, yet whose legacy continues to reverberate to this day. For more great reads go to: www.drglennmcosh.com "An easy, enjoyable read which proves that times have not changed too much in the world of national conflicts and spying." -Emilia McCusker, Former Air Force Intelligence

• Language: English
• Publisher: Covenant Books, Inc.
• Release date: Feb 23, 2021
• ISBN: 9781636303093

Book preview

Prologue

Two military conflicts were occurring during the mid-1950s in the North African city of Casablanca: the Cold War between the United States and Russia, and the hot war between the French and the United Liberation Front of Morocco, who were seeking their independence. Following World War II and the Korean War, tensions between Russia and the United States escalated with both countries possessing nuclear weapons, and the United States now possessing the hydrogen bomb. Presiding over these weapons were President Dwight D. Eisenhower and first secretary of the Communist Party of the Soviet Union, Nikita Khrushchev. Delivering those weapons required large bombers with the ability to reach deep into Russia. Unfortunately, the largest bomber SAC (Strategic Air Command) had was the behemoth ten-engine Convair B-36 bomber, also called the Peacemaker, with an adequate range to fly into Russia. However, when carrying the forty-thousand-pound hydrogen bomb, its range was marginalized to strike deep into Russia from American bases. The United States negotiated with Spain, Morocco, Greenland, and the United Kingdom to allow us to build air bases in their countries to base those bombers. The four military bases in Morocco were negotiated with the French, despite the United States’ request that they be communicated to Mohammed V or that Morocco be consulted, but Paris refused on the grounds of 1912 Treaty of Fez; all caught between the military exigencies of the Cold War and the political demands of decolonization.

The four primary bases in Morocco included Nouasseur Air Base located outside of Casablanca, Sidi Slimane Air Base in the Rabat-Sale-Kenitra region of Morocco, Ben Guerir SAC Base north of Marrakech, and a Naval Air Station at Port Lyautey; along with an Air Force radar warning system along the Atlas Mountains. The squadrons of B-36 bombers rotated between those bases. The bases were protected by the F-86D fighter squadron. The nuclear bombs were maintained by a select group of airmen trained at Sandia Base in Albuquerque and Los Alamos, New Mexico. The classes were small with a mix of all branches of the military and all military ranks. Literally, an Army private could be seated next to an Air Force colonel. Because of the secrecy, there could be no notes taken from the classroom. Those airmen were thoroughly investigated by the FBI before being cleared for interim top-secret status. They were sworn never to mention what their duties were or the nuclear bombs they worked on. Behind the scenes, American CIA agents and Russian KGB agents dueled in a cat-and-mouse game of espionage.

Casablanca was a vibrant city of over three-quarter million people, with a mix of French expatriates, Arabs of Berber decent, and Sephardi Jews. In 1912, the French colonist signed the Treaty of Fez, becoming the protectorate of Morocco, Algeria, and Tunisia. Casablanca had a reputation of intrigue from the 1942 movie Casablanca, starring Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman. After 1952, France faced sustained United Nations criticism of its colonial policies in Morocco and Algeria. By 1955, the North Africa nationalist parties and the United Liberation Front engaged the French military in armed conflict, with French tanks and machine gunfire becoming commonplace around Casablanca. There were frequent rallies involving thousands of protesters and bonfires in opposition to the French. They wanted their independence from France, and having Sidi Mohammed ben Youssef, also known as Mohammed V, restored as sultan. During these conflicts, American servicemen from the bases were not targeted. This is the story of those men and women who were involved in the intrigue of these dueling wars.

Chapter 1

The necessity for security required the nuclear squadron assigned to Nouasseur Air Force Base, outside of Casablanca, to be located on the perimeter of the base. It was fortified with high fences and security towers. The majority of the large facility was an open maintenance bay area that accommodated multiple nuclear weapons. Located on the second floor were the offices of the squadron commander, Major Reilly, and the nuclear laboratory, which was the size of a large living room, windowless, excellent lighting, and walls bordered with the latest high-tech top-secret equipment. It was very sophisticated and technical. The equipment involved intricate and sensitive measuring devices designed to calibrate portable calibrating equipment utilized in evaluating the nuclear bombs stored at the other bases. It was the portable equipment that Sergeant Marley and Lieutenant Alan brought to the other bases to evaluate and calibrate their nuclear weapons. All nuclear weapon components were periodically tested for accuracy in the laboratory, rejecting those that failed the test. The laboratory was held to the highest scientific standards, maintaining appropriate humidity, temperature, and air purity.

With his fingers adjusting the barometric pressure meter, Alan asked, Marley, guess what I received from home?

Fruitcake? Marley replied while reaching for his manual.

Funny, no, actually a box of Babe Ruth candy bars from my sister, he said, knowing this would tease Marley.

Lieutenant, you’re pulling my leg, really?

No. Alan pulled two candy bars from his pocket, handing one to Marley.

Gee, thanks. What’s the occasion?

I’m due for a transfer to Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque, New Mexico, in eight months. I have an uncle living there.

You lucky guy, I still have nine months before getting back to the States.

As they both ravaged down their candy bars at their laboratory within the nuclear building, they were interrupted by their fellow airman calling for everyone to quickly come outside the building to witness a large swarm of locust. As everyone quickly evacuated the building, they were engulfed in a cloud of locust hitting the metal building and colliding with the airman.

Damn, they’re as big as cockroaches, came the response from most of the guys.

The high-pitch cacophony from the locust was eerie.

I’ve seen movies of locust plagues but never realized they were this intense, remarked Alan.

Marley added, They’re certainly of biblical proportions. As a kid, I remember our Sunday school teacher telling us about those plagues.

Marley, you don’t expect me to believe you were ever in church? Alan asked facetiously.

I know you think I’m a Goody Two-shoes, my parents were churchgoers, and so am I. Lieutenant, tell me you never went to church?

Church? You know damn well I’m Jewish; it’s called a temple.

Yeah, it’s the same thing, isn’t it?

Marley, sometimes I think you’re out to lunch.

Suddenly, Major Reilly’s sharp voice overshadowed the intensity of the locust.

Enough of this gawking, we’ve got work to do. Everyone back to their workstations. Pronto!

Marley followed his lieutenant back into their lab bay. The majority of the squadron space, aside for the major’s office, was where the nuclear weapons were serviced. That included mechanics for the mobile units to move the nuclear weapons about. Marley and Alan were the only military personal assigned to the laboratory. It was one of three such facilities the Air Force had to calibrate and maintain their nuclear weapons around the world. Marley enlisted right out of high school, hoping to be a pilot; however, he wouldn’t qualify for flight training until he was nearly twenty. Instead, the Air force sent him to Los Alamos, New Mexico, for eighteen months of top-secret training with nuclear weapons. He recalled his folks telling him how the FBI came to their town, questioning neighbors and family about his background for security reasons.

Alan, following college, joined the Air Force during the Korean War and decided to make the Air Force a career; as an officer with a chance for advancement and travel, it sure beat what his friends were doing on the outside. He too was assigned to Los Alamos for nuclear schooling where he first met Marley. Neither of them had steady girlfriends, so they were free to travel as they had opportunity to do so. They had authentic respect for each other, and a genuine friendship developed over months of working side by side on very complex nuclear equipment. Additionally, they enjoyed afterhours together, whether going to the beach or just hanging out. The uniqueness in their relationship involved the difference in their rank and physical appearance. Alan was an officer, slightly over six feet with dark wavy hair, while Marley an enlisted man and a couple of inches shorter with a blond military crew cut. When they were together privately, they addressed each other by their names. Around other military personnel, they would address each other by their respective military rank.

Chapter 2

CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) agent Stag was at his favorite watering hole, Rigs, a popular club hangout for the French locals and well-healed businessmen in Casablanca. The focal point within the club was the stage, which included a piano bordered by dark blue drapes. Facing the stage were dining room tables and chairs that could accommodate nearly hundred patrons. The bar, with surrounding bar stools, was adjacent to the entrance. Seated at the bar next to him was his friend Peter, the French attaché in Casablanca. The smoke was as thick as a London fog, burning the eyes of everyone at the bar. The sultry voice of the blues singer dominated everyone’s attention. Her long silk gown draped over her slender body. She had the face of an angel, with her pink cheeks and flowing blond hair. Her voice resonated with confidence.

Oh, mon Dieu qui est ce chanteur American? commented Peter, as he nudged Stag so hard he nearly knocked him off his bar stool.

Hold on, Peter, all you horny French can think about is romancing women—especially young American girls.

And why not? After all, Maurice Chevalier’s famous song was ‘Thank Heaven for Little Girls.’

Grinning, Stag responded, Peter you’re old enough to be her father.

Peter took a drag from his hand-rolled cigarette. The smoke in here is thick enough to blur any age difference. Anyway, what are you up to today?

Got word from headquarters that there’s a possibility of new KGB (Russia’s Committee for State Security) activity involving our Casablanca airbase, Stag whispered.

Headquarters—Washington? London?

Washington.

Must be something big. Peter put out his cigarette and squinted his eyes. I haven’t heard anything from Paris about it.

Frankly, Paris is more absorbed with the Moroccan rebels taking over your sovereignty here in North Africa than getting paranoid with the Russians. Stag nodded in agreement.

A bit incensed, Peter quipped, And why not? We’re the ones that invested in Morocco, especially Casablanca since 1912 with the signing of the Treaty of Fez.

Hold on, if it wasn’t for us Americans in World War II, Morocco, not to mention France, would still be under Hitler’s forces, Stag now shaking his finger at Peter.

You Americans are all the same, taking the credit for all the world’s triumphs. You seem to forget the other Allies defeating the Nazis including, Britain, Russia, and, yes, the French Resistance.

You’re right, Peter. I got ahead of myself. But you’ll agree that before the 1942 Allied (Operation Torch) invasion through Casablanca, the French Vichy forces were still fighting under German occupation, where I might add, Moroccan Jews faced significant restrictions.

Stag, that all changed when those Vichy solders changed their allegiance and then fought alongside the Allied troops. Not only that, you have to give credit to the Goumiers who fought the Germans in the mountains.

Sorry, I lost you there, who’s the Goumiers?

They were the indigenous Moroccan solders fighting the Germans.

Peter, this discussion is getting way too serious. Allow this American to buy this Frenchman another drink before we start World War III.

Better yet, buy me dinner and we’re friends again.

If it includes pizza, you’re on.

Raising his arm, Peter asked, "Serveur, one extra-large pizza for my friend and myself."

"Qui, attaché Peter, with your favorite pepperoni?"

Of course, covered with lots of oily garlic.

By now, Stag was laughing and patting Peter on the back, and responded with, There goes our chance of meeting our blues singer.

Peter, joining in with the laughter, answered, With all the applause she’s getting from her last song, we don’t have a chance in hell of getting within a mile of her with or without garlic on our breath.

Do me a favor, check with Paris and see if they have any new information on KGB activity in Casablanca.

Stag, sometimes you get under my skin, but you’re still my favorite drinking buddy, even if you are American. I’ll get back to you in a couple of days on the KGB issue.

Their attention was suddenly averted to the blues singer, the beads on her dress shimmering, even in the dim lit of the club, as she sang Hoochie Coochie Man.

I could listen to her all night, Stag said dreamily.

Stag, our pizza is being served. Better get a couple of extra napkins because this could get messy.

Holy cow, this garlic oil is thicker than the smoke in here.

Bon appétit, it smells delicious.

They both indulged in consuming the pizza in quick order.

Peter, I’ve got to get home to put that pizza to bed.

Chapter 3

Jules had been to Casablanca long before he joined the KGB. His stepmother’s brother owned a villa on the beach, just south of Casablanca. Back in the late twenties, he recalled spending his summers there, escaping the colder weather north of Moscow. He enjoyed going with his cousin to the Kasbah in Tangier. The boys were fascinated walking the old city, with its narrow streets, where the merchants would entice them with their silks and rugs, and hearing the cacophony of bells, chimes, and chanting that they never experienced before. Their friends back in Russia were fascinated listening to their tales from distant exotic places—especially about the dancing girls with their veil-covered faces and how they moved their bodies to the fast-paced music.

It was the barking of his dog, Link, that startled him from lapsing into those long-gone days before becoming a KGB agent. Now those free-living days of fun, laughter, and family were a distant memory. Since joining the KGB, his life was no longer his own; even his family became cautious talking to him, always suspicious that they would be reported to the agency.

Since his uncle with the villa passed away, he had no other personal contacts in Morocco—aside from his dog, Link, and his KGB veterinarian, Alex. Jules’s assignment was to gather American-troop movements throughout Morocco, the times when the gigantic B-36 SAC airplanes arrived and departed from the airbase in Casablanca, in addition to how many nuclear bombs were stored at the bases. The easy part was noting the arrival of the bombers that could deliver their payload of nuclear bombs into Russia. With 230-foot wingspan, each aircraft had ten engines—six pistons and four jets—with its six-story-tall tail, and could easily be seen miles from the airport. Similarly, American-troop movement within the several military bases throughout Morocco was easy to follow, especially with his contacts in towns adjacent to those bases. The challenging aspect of his job was keeping tabs on how many and what types of nuclear bombs each base possessed. In part, that was accomplished when he became friends with Lou, one of the American airmen working in the nuclear bay area on base. Knowing that few of the military personnel occasionally hung out at Rigs, it wasn’t difficult to strike up a conversation with one of them. On one occasion, Jules noted one airman bragging that he worked with nuclear bombs. This was exactly the individual who could help him get nuclear information for Russia. Finding a seat next to him, Jules offered in perfect American dialect, Hi, airman, let me buy you another drink.

What’s the occasion? the slightly drunk airman wearing military fatigues asked, finishing his drink.

My name is Jules. I’m an ivory dealer here in Casablanca. What’s your name?

Lou. I was just telling this Frenchman I work with nuclear bombs.

Yeah, I overheard. You must be really smart to work on them.

Yeah, I know a lot, Lou confidently said, while starting on a new beer.

Lou was an easy target to get information from the base. He was a mechanic from the same nuclear facility that Marley and Alan were assigned to, plus he was a braggart and heavy-drinking windbag. After buying him drinks and acting interested in his stories, Jules gained his confidence in befriending him. Jules told him he was an ivory buyer and fed him fictitious stories of traveling to the Belgian Congo, where he would pay poachers for illegal ivory. Over the course of the next several weeks, he asked to meet up with Lou and buy him drinks and dinner. During one of those alcohol-laden meetings, Jules knew the timing was right.

Lou, would you do me a favor?

Hell yes, what is it? Lou was on another bender, burping frequently.

I’m leaving for southern Africa for a couple of weeks to get more ivory.

No kidding?

Yeah, but I have a problem.

What’s that?

Would you take care of my dog while I’m gone?

Dog? What kind of dog is it?

Wolfhound!

Wolfhound?

Yeah, but not what you think. He looks more like what you Americans would call a mutt. His name is Link. Although he’s a big dog, he’s gentle, and doesn’t require a lot of attention. All I need is for you to take him to the base with you. He’s low maintenance, and I’ll give you a bag of his food.

"I had a couple of dogs when I was a kid. It shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, a couple of my buddies at the base have dogs too. They all get along together, freely roaming around in the bay."

That’s exactly where I want Link to be, Jules thought.

I’ll be leaving in two days. Why don’t I meet you here at Rigs tomorrow night, and after I get you some dinner, I’ll have you take Link with you.

Cool, it’s a deal. Thanks, Jules.

It’s me, and Link, that should be thanking you. Not only that, but I’ll bring back some ivory pieces for you.

You mean like the ivory bracelet on your wrist? Damn, that would really be cool.

Okay, I’ve got to call it a night. See you tomorrow night, Lou.

Same here, Jules.

Jules believed he might finally have gained access to the nuclear facility at the base. Moscow had been putting more pressure on him lately, especially with the cold war intensifying. Russia was desperate to counter America’s aggression with its large fleet of the B-36s, all capable of delivering the hydrogen bomb.

The next day, along with the KGB veterinarian, Alex, they tested the recording equipment that had been imbedded along the lower side of Link’s abdomen. With the dog’s long hair, it wasn’t visible. Having had the surgery six months ago, Link no longer licked the scar, nor was he aware that he was caring a small electronic device. The device was so sensitive it could pick up radiation from any nuclear bomb and could even pick up human conversation. All of this was collected on a sophisticated tape cassette, which had a two-week recording capability, timing it perfectly with the two weeks Lou thought Jules would be out of town. Link was trained to mill around machinery and recognizing mock bombs. The Russians were noted for their early research in dog genetics, behavior, and physiology, including social cognition. During World War II, when the Germans were invading Russia, the Russian army packed explosives around their dogs and trained them to charge German tanks, remotely setting off their explosives, not only killing the Germans but obviously the dogs.

Jules gently pet Link and fed him with treats while Alex activated the collection equipment.

Jules, quit petting Link while I’m downloading the information, Alex quipped in Russian.

Calm down, I’m hardly touching the dog. Besides, it’s only from the conversation we just had.

Alex looked up at Jules angrily. Look, I’m the veterinarian responsible for this dog, not you.

And I’m in charge of this program, not you. Without me getting Link on base, you wouldn’t be worth the space you take up.

Aside for the sound of Link panting, there was silence as the two men went to their separate bedrooms.

As arranged the following evening after dinner and drinks, Jules introduced Lou to Link.

Jules, he’s so friendly and big. Link licked Lou’s hand.

I told you he was. Here’s a bag of his dog food to take with you.

Gosh, he’s much bigger than the other dogs on base. I’ve never seen a dog with hair that long.

I told you he was a big mutt.

He sure is, as Lou continued to pet him.

Let’s put him in your car.

Jules took Link by the collar and walked him to Lou’s car where he assisted putting the dog food in the back seat, after clearing the area of empty beer bottles.

I’ll call you in two weeks, Lou.

Okay, Jules. I’ll be okay with Link. Don’t forget to bring me back that good ivory.

Damn, this guy is so greedy. I hope he doesn’t screw things up.

Chapter 4

The weather was slightly overcast when Marley decided to drive his little French Simca convertible to a seaside café overlooking the Atlantic Ocean, just south of Casablanca.