A Rare Insight Into The Life of Women In The CIA

In the dark, Liz Sudmeier could be anyone. She could be a bored housewife looking for an afternoon of amusement at the movies. With flat shoes, a calf-skimming skirt, and no make-up, she could pass for a teenager, the daughter of a diplomat, killing time after school. In her favourite dress and with a date on her arm, she could be a secretary enjoying a night out. With a hijab framing her dark hair and eyes, she blended in perfectly. There were no limits to her camouflaging skills. On this particular afternoon in Baghdad, Iraq, in 1952, Liz let the dark cinema enfold her in its shadowy secrecy. The film flickered in front of her, with the actors speaking rapidly in Arabic. One couldn’t help but admire the grand and beautiful movie theatre, with its large, curved doors and detailed mural paintings adorning the walls. It was a place where a person could spend hours comfortably curled up on the soft velvet seat. Liz let her hand run across the plush fabric until she reached the base of the seat. She pushed her fingers between the cushion and the frame. She kept her movements smooth and easy, careful not to attract notice. When she removed her hand, an envelope came out with it. She slipped it into her purse. She stayed only a minute more and then got up, her head ducked down as she left the darkness behind. She had just stolen Soviet secrets.

Emerging from the theatre she slipped into the bustling crowds of the Baghdad neighbourhood. The streets were lined with bookshops, cafés, museums, and nightclubs. Tourists strolled the boulevards, often remarking on how the city reminded them of New York, Paris, and other sophisticated capitals. The streets were diverse, with Turkish, Armenian, Indian, Afghan, and Egyptian populations living alongside a robust Jewish community, and westerners were everywhere. The architecture and culture, however, were like no other place Liz had ever seen.

Liz walked leisurely through the area, her pace matching that of the western tourists around her. Above them, the sound of lively conversation hummed, and the outdoor balcony restaurants were packed with customers leaning over the ornate iron railings. The exotic smell of Persian cardamom tea, brewed strong and served sweet, wafted down the thick columns that lined the avenues. They were nearing the royal palace, sitting right on the bank of the Tigris. As the tourists stopped to admire the grand beauty of the structure, Liz turned left and then slipped into what appeared like any other shop in the area.

Except it wasn’t. Liz had unobtrusively entered the CIA station in Baghdad, whose precise location was a closely protected secret. She was careful to enter the premises only when she was certain that no one had followed her. She cut switchbacks through the streets, using the crowded cover of tourists to ensure that no one was on her tail. It was critical that the station be shielded from curiosity and that her own cover and that of her spies were equally protected. Once inside the station, Liz began copying and then transmitting to Washington the top-secret documents she had just stolen. She was 36 years old, and although she had obtained none of the standard milestones laid out for women in the 1950s, such as a family, a house, and a career that did not involve risking her life, she was exactly where she wanted to be.

Liz had a different background than most of her male colleagues. She was born and raised on a reservation in South Dakota, had served in the military during WWII, and then joined the CIA where she worked as a secretary before clawing her way into officer training in 1950. She spent her first year with the agency in Syria, learning the ins and outs of espionage in the field. It had been as much an assessment as it had been training. The officers noted how quickly Liz caught on to the subtleties of their intelligence operations, her understanding of Arabic, and her ability to write reports. She got along well with her colleagues, finding easy camaraderie in the CIA station in Damascus. Before leaving for Baghdad, the group gathered around and toasted the newly minted officer.

Liz wanted, more than anything, to perform well in this field assignment in Iraq. Back in the States, the talk about women in the field was not complimentary. “Women can’t blend into their surroundings” was one argument overheard in officer training. “They’ll stick out like a sore thumb.” “How will they recruit their own agents?” asked another officer. “No man will want to report to them.”

Similar arguments were used to exclude people of colour. The CIA was expanding its presence across the globe, more than doubling the number of overseas officers from 2,783 to 7,014 in the first six months of 1950. Yet administrators failed to consider how diversifying its force of officers would benefit their operations. Fewer than 20 black officers worked at the agency altogether. Similar to their female counterparts, their contributions were often minimised, their worth in the field outweighed by racist recruitment policies.

Yet despite the prejudices, Liz possessed advantages in the Middle East that her male colleagues did not. When she opened her closet door, she saw a neat row of tailored dresses. Each one was symbolic of the spy network that she had built. Liz had entered the women’s dress shop in Baghdad pretending to be a housewife, and quickly made friends. She chatted about husbands, brothers, and sons, and although her conversation appeared casual to her new acquaintances, she was listening to their replies with rapt attention. When she learned that one woman’s husband was an engineer who worked for the Soviets, she turned on the charm, purposefully increasing their intimacy. Then, at great personal risk, she approached the man and convinced him to turn on his employers, betray their secrets, and work for the Americans. Few CIA officers had the kind of success in espionage that Liz earned. Her spy network, which kept expanding, delivered top secret blueprints for Soviet fighter jets, as well as a slew of other Soviet weaponry.

Liz’s value in Iraq escalated in 1958 when a military coup executed the Hashemite dynasty and seized control of the country. Immediately, westerners were being targeted and killed in the region and the CIA station evacuated. The lone CIA officer to stay behind was Liz Sudmeier. While her colleagues fled, Liz remained undercover to protect their spies in the country. At great personal risk, Liz gathered intelligence and transmitted it to Washington, ultimately preventing war in the region. Because of her bravery, Arthur Callahan, Liz’s station chief in Baghdad, nominated her for the prestigious Intelligence Medal of Merit award. Administrators in Washington were aghast. They immediately denied the request, insisting that no woman had ever been given the award previously.

It took four years for Liz to finally receive the high honour from the intelligence community. When she finally did so, in a simple ceremony, she held the bronze medallion in her hands for only a few minutes before it was returned to its vault within CIA headquarters. CIA officers did not get to keep their awards at home, the risk of discovery was far too great, and Liz knew that the next time her medal saw the light of day would be after her death. Like so many other women of the CIA, Liz served her country as an intelligence officer because she believed the work they were doing was essential to saving lives. Her career, and that of her colleagues, collectively known as the Wise Gals, offers proof that a diverse pool of intelligence officers is essential in protecting national security. During a time of extreme jeopardy, when the Cold War was poised to ignite, the Wise Gals were able to wield intelligence as a weapon for peace. Their careers hold a critical lesson for today, when once again, the world is entrenched in escalating conflict with Russia, and the actions of those in intelligence, invisible and unnoticed, may be essential in preventing world war.

Wise Gals: The Spies Who Built the CIA and Changed the Future of Espionage by Nathalia Holt (Icon books, €28) is out now.