EDWIN P. WILSON, THE SPY WHO LIVED IT UP
Published: September 22, 2012
- Part spy, part tycoon, Edwin P. Wilson lived large.
He claimed to own 100 corporations in the United States and Europe, many of them real and many of them shells. He had an apartment in Geneva; a hunting lodge in England; a seaside villa in Tripoli, Libya; a town house in Washington; and real estate in North Carolina, Lebanon and Mexico. He entertained congressmen, generals and Central Intelligence Agency bigwigs at his 2,338-acre estate in Northern Virginia.
He showered minks on his mistress, whom he called “Wonder Woman.” He owned three private planes and bragged that he knew flight attendants on the Concorde by name.
His preferred habitat was a hall of mirrors. His business empire existed as a cover for espionage, but it also made him a lot of money. He had the advantage of being able to call the Internal Revenue Service and use national security jargon to get the details on a potential customer. And if the I.R.S. questioned his own tax filings, he terminated the discussion by saying he was a C.I.A. operative on a covert mission.
“Being in the C.I.A. was like putting on a magic coat that forever made him invisible and invincible,” Peter Maas wrote in “Manhunt,” his 1986 book about Mr. Wilson.
For Mr. Wilson, who died on Sept. 10 in Seattle at 84, the adventure collapsed with his arrest in 1982 on charges of selling Libya 20 tons of powerful explosives.
Over the next two years, he was tried in four federal cases in four different courts, accused of, among other things, smuggling arms and plotting to murder his wife. He was sentenced to a total of 52 years in prison. He served 22 of them, mostly in solitary confinement. Then the dagger of fate took a strange twist.
After studying thousands of documents obtained under the Freedom of Information Act, Mr. Wilson and his lawyer went back to court and demolished the government’s case.
Mr. Wilson’s sole defense was that he had been working for the C.I.A., serving his country, when he sold the explosives to Libya. The prosecution’s case had rested on an affidavit by the C.I.A.’s third-ranking official denying that Mr. Wilson had been working for the agency at the time. An hour after being read the affidavit, a jury found Mr. Wilson guilty.
Two decades later, the evidence Mr. Wilson had collected convinced a federal judge in Houston, Lynn H. Hughes, that he had in fact been working for the agency and that the C.I.A. had lied.
“Because the government knowingly used false evidence against him and suppressed favorable evidence, his conviction will be vacated,” Judge Hughes wrote. He added, “America will not defeat Libyan terrorism by double-crossing a part-time informal government agent.”
In 2004, a year after the judge’s ruling, Mr. Wilson was released from Allenwood federal penitentiary in Pennsylvania. Since then he had lived in Seattle on a monthly Social Security check of $1,080. He died of complications from heart-valve replacement surgery, his nephew Scott Wilson said.
Up until his death, Mr. Wilson was still hoping to persuade two other federal courts to void his convictions on the other charges.
Edwin Paul Wilson was born into a poor farm family in Nampa, Idaho, on May 3, 1928. A member of Future Farmers of America, he had a newspaper route and sometimes supplemented his income by rolling a drunk, Mr. Maas wrote in “Manhunt.” He shipped out as a seaman before returning to earn a bachelor’s degree in industrial management from the University of Portland. He joined the Marines and served in Korea after the conflict there ended.
Flying home, he fell into a conversation with a passenger, who told him that he might like working for the C.I.A. The passenger did not identify himself, but Mr. Wilson wrote down a name and a phone number to call. The agency hired him in 1955. His first job was guarding U-2 spy planes.
In 1960, the C.I.A. sent him to Cornell for graduate studies in labor relations, which he put to use against Communism in unions around the world. In one assignment he paid Corsican mobsters to keep leftist dockworkers in line; in another, he released cockroaches in the hotel rooms of Soviet labor delegations.
In 1964, on behalf of the agency, Mr. Wilson started a maritime consulting firm so that the C.I.A. could better monitor international shipping. By nudging up costs and skimping on taxes, he multiplied his own income.
Mr. Wilson left the C.I.A. in 1971, at least publicly, to join the Office of Naval Intelligence. Again he formed companies in service of the government and took them with him when he left the government in 1976. He grew rich and lived lavishly.
Several years later, a top C.I.A. official asked Mr. Wilson to go to Libya to keep an eye on Ilich Ramírez Sánchez, better known as the Venezuelan terrorist Carlos the Jackal, who was living there. That led to several weapons deals. In one, a Libyan asked him to throw in a few pistols to send to Libyan embassies. One was used to kill a Libyan dissident in Bonn. “That I feel bad about,” Mr. Wilson told The Washington Post in a 2004 interview.
He also arranged for former Green Berets to train Libyan troops, and for airplane and helicopter pilots to work for Libya. There was speculation in news publications that he had contributed to the deaths of a dozen Libyan dissidents around the world. He later maintained that all of his activities had been done to gather information for the C.I.A.
Unknown to Mr. Wilson, investigators had been building a case against him since 1976, when Kevin Mulcahy, one of his partners, approached the C.I.A. and the F.B.I. with grave doubts about the legality and ethics of Mr. Wilson’s business dealings.
Lured by investigators to the Dominican Republic in 1982, Mr. Wilson was flown to New York and eventually indicted on various charges in federal courts in Washington, Virginia, New York and Houston. He was tried four times over the next two years.
In Washington, he was acquitted of charges that he had solicited assassins to kill a Libyan dissident. In Virginia, he was convicted of exporting weapons, including the one used in the Bonn killing, and sentenced to 15 years in prison and fined $200,000.
The New York case concerned a deal Mr. Wilson had tried to make with a fellow inmate, who was actually a federal informer, to murder two prosecutors, six witnesses and his own wife, the former Barbara Hagen, at $50,000 a head. Prosecutors said he had wanted to avoid paying a settlement in a divorce suit. They also said he had requested that the killer return her wedding ring to him, preferably attached to her finger.
Convicted in the murder plot, he was sentenced to 25 years in prison and fined $75,000.
In Houston, Judge Hughes appointed David Adler to handle Mr. Wilson’s petition. Mr. Adler had worked for the C.I.A. He said in an interview on Friday that the most convincing documents supporting Mr. Wilson’s contentions were records of communications among government lawyers clearly deciding to withhold evidence.
Asked why he thought they did it, Mr. Adler said, “There was such tremendous pressure to get a conviction.”
Mr. Wilson is survived by two sons, Erik and Karl, and a sister, Leora Pinkston. One of his last attempts at retribution was a civil suit he filed against seven federal prosecutors and a former C.I.A. official. In 2007, a federal judge dismissed the case on the ground that all eight had immunity covering their actions.
David Corn, the author of “Blond Ghost,” a biography of Theodore Shackley, the C.I.A. boss who had first sent Mr. Wilson to Libya, spoke of the essential paradox in Mr. Wilson’s story.
“They framed a guilty man,” he told The Washington Post. “I think he’s a terrible fellow who got what he deserved, but they did frame him.”
JEROME P. HORWITZ, CREATOR OF AZT
By PAUL VITELLO
Published: September 20, 2012
His wife, Sharon Horwitz, confirmed his death, which had not been widely reported until this week.
Dr. Horwitz never achieved much fame and did not earn a penny for making the AZT compound. The riches — billions of dollars eventually — went to the drug company that tested it, patented it and, in 1986, won federal approval for it as the first treatment proven to prolong AIDS patients’ lives.
Dr. Horwitz told interviewers that when AZT (short for azidothymidine) had failed as a cancer drug, he literally put it away on a shelf in disappointment and moved on to explore other ideas, never bothering to patent it.
To console himself, he half-kiddingly told colleagues at Wayne State University’s cancer research center in Detroit that AZT and several similar drugs he had developed were “a very interesting set of compounds that were waiting for the right disease.”
That set of compounds not only proved useful 22 years later in combating full-blown AIDS, it also defined a new approach to attacking disease by stealth.
Dr. Horwitz called the family of compounds he and his colleagues had developed “dideoxythymidines.” All were synthetic forms of components of DNA known as nucleosides, a building block of genetic material. The researchers had injected AZT into cancer cells, hoping it would act like a Trojan horse to hinder cell growth by confusing the DNA’s real nucleosides.
The stealth approach did not work against cancer, but it provided the foundation for the development of antiviral drugs now used in treating the human immunodeficiency virus, as well as hepatitis and herpes.
“It would be hard to put a number on how many lives have been saved because of these three drugs,” said Nathalia Holt, an AIDS research fellow at the Ragon Institute of Massachusetts General Hospital, M.I.T. and Harvard. She referred to AZT and two other compounds that Dr. Horwitz created, known as didanosine and stauvidine. “They form the basis for the antiviral therapy we use today.”
AZT collected dust on the shelf until the mid-1980s, when public awareness of the growing death toll from AIDS prompted a widespread search for treatments. Along with thousands of other drugs being tried in laboratories, the pharmaceutical company Burroughs Wellcome asked the National Cancer Institute to determine whether AZT might be effective in treating people with AIDS.
When a group of scientists financed by the institute found that it was effective, the drug company filed for and received a patent. (The company later became GlaxoSmithKline in a merger.)
The approval of AZT for treating AIDS made Dr. Horwitz briefly famous. Newspapers wrote about him and “ABC World News Tonight” profiled him as a “Person of the Week.” But for Dr. Horwitz, the publicity was soured by the loss of potential income — both for him and for his research center — because of their failure to secure a patent.
Dr. Horwitz told interviewers that Burroughs Wellcome had donated money to the Karmanos Cancer Institute, the research center affiliated with Wayne State, to establish a chair in his name. But the gift — $100,000 — was not enough to cover the cost of an endowed professorship. He said the size of the gift, given the profits earned, made him angry for a while.
But he got over it, he said. “If I was ever bitter, it’s long since passed,” he told The Chronicle of Higher Education in 2005.
Jerome Phillip Horwitz was born in Detroit on Jan. 16, 1919, one of three children of Louis and Belle Horwitz. His father was in the wholesale poultry business. He received his bachelor’s degree in chemistry at the University of Detroit in 1942 and a master’s degree there two years later. He earned his Ph.D. in chemistry in 1948 at the University of Michigan.
After working in the field of rocket fuel science at the Illinois Institute of Technology, he became a cancer researcher in the mid-1950s at the Michigan Cancer Foundation and a professor at the Wayne State Medical School. (The Cancer Foundation was renamed the Barbara Ann Karmanos Cancer Institute in 1995.) He remained with those institutions until retiring in 2005.
One of his last projects involved developing drugs for treating solid tumors. The research led Wayne State to obtain a patent, which it licensed in 2003 to a pharmaceutical company. While clinical trials were taking place, the company paid the school a hefty licensing fee, which it shared with Dr. Horwitz. At 86, he received the first royalty check of his career.
Besides his wife, his survivors include two daughters, Carol Kastan and Suzanne Gross, and five grandchildren.
“He never did it for the money,” Ms. Horwitz said. “He went into science because he wanted to make a difference.” After a pause she added, “He also went into science because he didn’t want to go into the poultry business with his father.”