by Ted Allbeury
“I’ve got some good news for you, Colonel.”
The old man nodded but said nothing.
“We’re trying to negotiate an exchange with Moscow. You for one of our own men.”
When Abel still made no reply Nowak said, “Are you OK, Colonel? Are you feeling all right?”
The old man looked at the American. “I saw a few reports of this in the newspapers some weeks ago.” He half smiled. “The young pilot was mentioned. A Mr. Powers, yes?”
“Yes.”
The old man shrugged. “I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it.”
“Why not?” The Russian pursed his lips. “Experience. Experience of Moscow and experience of Washington. It’s a piece of propaganda.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Moscow have made no move to suggest an exchange. Why should they? I have kept silent. And I shall remain silent. So what do they gain?”
“That’s a bit cynical isn’t it?”
“Not cynical. Just realistic.”
“And Washington?”
The old man sighed. “You think after all the trouble you people went to to have me convicted that they’re going to trade me for a pilot who embarrassed you all, from Eisenhower down?” He shook his head. “No way, my friend, no way.”
Nowak smiled. “I think you’re going to be surprised, Colonel.”
“No, sir. It’s you people who are going to be surprised.”
“How come?”
“Because I won’t agree to the exchange myself.”
Abel saw the shock and surprise on the American’s face and despised him for his naivety.
“And one more thing, my friend. The pieces in the newspapers. The pleading by the pilot’s parents are propaganda too. One more stick to beat the Soviets with. The hard-hearted men in the Kremlin.” He shook his head. “You won’t get me to join in the charade.”
“I swear to you—there’s no charade. It’s a genuine attempt to release you and Gary Powers.”
“Whatever it is—count me out. I shall not co-operate.”
“You don’t have any choice, Colonel,” Nowak said quietly.
Abel smiled coldly. “Even your own media will condemn you and the European press will have a field day. The American State Department sending back a Russian who asks for asylum.”
“You mean you would actually do that?”
“You can rely on it, my friend.”
“But why?”
“Think about it. Work it out very carefully. And remember what we tell our new KGB recruits: when you’ve looked at every possibility and it still won’t fit—then try the impossibilities.” Abel stood up. “I’d like to go back to my cell.”
Shapiro and Macleod were sitting in the VIP lounge at the airport when the girl came over to say that Macleod was wanted on the phone. He was away for about ten minutes and when he came back he told Shapiro of Nowak’s meeting with Abel.
“Would you people let me talk to him?”
“Why? Do you think you could make him change his mind?”
“I’d like the chance to try.”
“We’d better tell the desk that you’re not taking this flight.”
Back at the CIA’s HQ at Langley, Shapiro hung around trying to hide his tension as Macleod consulted his colleagues. It was almost an hour before Macleod came back.
It had been agreed that he could interview Abel, but it was obvious that it had been a reluctant agreement. It was conditional on him not mentioning or even hinting at the inclusion of Phoenix in the proposed exchange. He would be flown to the Atlanta Penitentiary by military plane the next day. Nowak would go with him but they had agreed that he could see Abel alone.
A local CIA officer had driven them to the prison and Nowak had introduced Shapiro to the Prison Warden and then left him.
“He’s got a cell of his own, Mr. Shapiro. You could talk to him there or in the visitors’ room. You’d be alone in either place.”
“Would you have any objections to me talking to him in the open air, the recreation area maybe?”
“Can I ask you why?”
Shapiro sighed. “You know his background, Warden. He’ll take it for granted that any inside place is bugged. I’d like him to feel free to talk. It could be important.”
“We’ve got a sports area. You could talk to him there. He’s not violent and he’s a bit too old and too rational to try and escape. How long do you think you’ll need?”
“About a couple of hours maybe.”
“I’ll get one of my men to take you there and somebody will bring him out to you.”
“Thanks for your co-operation.”
“You’re welcome.”
Shapiro sat on a wooden bench at the far side of the sports field and took off his jacket as the sun beat down. He had tried to make notes the previous evening of what he would say to the KGB colonel but there was nothing to write down. He had no idea of what he should say. And why should the Russian be more influenced by talking to him rather than Nowak? But the thought of the man in the Gulag camp haunted him. He had had no peace of mind from the first moment when he learned that Phoenix was missing. It was as if history was repeating itself. Then he saw a uniformed prison officer open the wire-mesh door at the far end of the sports field. Shapiro watched as the tall lean figure of the man in the outsize suit came through the open gate. He was almost a hundred yards away. It wasn’t until he was twenty feet away that Abel recognised the man who was sitting on the bench.
30
Sir Peter Clark’s cottage was on the outskirts of Petersfield. Its grounds were no more than one acre but they gave onto the village cricket ground which in turn sloped upwards to a wooded hillside lined with beech and oak. Shapiro and Morton had been waved to wicker armchairs with cushions while Sir Peter sat on a rustic bench that was green with age and weathering. In an odd way their chosen drinks expressed much of their individual characters. Shapiro was drinking whisky, Morton locally brewed beer and Sir Peter was sipping from a glass of milk.
“Tell me again, Joe. It was before my time. Why did you think …” He paused, sensing that he was beginning to build a sentence that implied either blame or criticism, “… remind me of the circumstances.”
Morton, sensing Shapiro’s confusion, said, “We had to make sure that the minimum number of people knew of what was planned. The only people involved in the decision were Joe, myself and Sir Mortimer who was D-G at that time. And even he was told only of the general outline. We gave him no details of names or background on the plan itself. All we were concerned with was that if things went wrong at some stage—and there was a political rumpus—at least he would be forewarned.”
“Did he tell the PM?”
“He didn’t tell us. My belief is that he did.”
“And there was no come-back from him?”
“Not that we knew of.”
“Go on …” Sir Peter nodded towards Shapiro as he looked at Morton, “… let Joe speak for himself, Hughie. It’s only between the three of us even now.”
“The Americans have made a big gesture, Sir Peter.” Shapiro shrugged. “In appreciation of the past information that has come from Phoenix. They have authorised me to negotiate an exchange—Colonel Abel for Phoenix. But that exchange will be top-secret. So far as the public are concerned Abel will be exchanged for the U-2 pilot, Gary Powers. I’d like your authority to go ahead with this.”
Sir Peter looked towards the village cricket field, then at Morton, and finally at Shapiro.
“You’ve been almost obsessed about this problem of Phoenix, ever since the news first came through. Why, Joe?”
“Because I’m responsible for what has happened to him. I recruited him. I planned his training and his whole set-up. I owe it to him to do anything—anything—I can to get him back.”
“You explained to him the risks honestly and fairly?”
“Yes.”
“And you told him what we always tell undercover people
, that we should not be able to help them if they were caught. That we should deny their existence and any knowledge of them?”
“Yes.”
“And this kind of situation has happened before. A dozen times even in my time as D-G, yes?”
“Yes.”
“And in half those cases we played it by the book and in time we got them back.”
“It took years in every case. The information we have is that Phoenix is seriously ill in Kolyma Camp. One of the worst of the Gulag camps. He’ll just die there if we don’t do something positive.”
“Do you feel even the smallest suspicion of guilt that you may not have really laid it on the line with Phoenix?”
“No. But I feel a hell of a lot of guilt that I recruited him in the first place.”
“You’ve recruited scores of men in your time, Joe. You always took it in your stride. Why this sudden concern for one man?”
Shapiro looked exasperated. “I can’t understand why this offer by the Americans isn’t being grabbed with both hands.”
“Oh, but it is. You have my authority right now to go ahead in an attempt to negotiate an exchange. All that concerns me is that you seem to be rushing things. You’re always so careful, so professional. I don’t want you to risk making things worse than they already are.” He paused. “And I’m concerned about you too.”
“In what way, Sir Peter?”
“We’ll have a talk when this is over. Meantime—use any resources or help that you need. And the best of luck.”
When Shapiro had left, Morton said quietly, “What’s worrying you, Peter?”
Sir Peter shrugged. “I don’t know, Hughie. Just things that don’t hang together properly.”
“Like what?”
“With hindsight it seems to me that when we decided to hand over the Lonsdale business to Five that Shapiro didn’t mind. Normally he’d have fought like a tiger to keep it. I think that was because this Phoenix business was on his mind.” He looked at Morton for a moment. “He went off to New York without mentioning what he had in mind—about the exchange I mean. Just gave the impression that it was a routine liaison meeting. That’s not like Shapiro. I didn’t say anything just now, but I didn’t like it.”
“Anything else?”
“There’s something that’s changed Shapiro in the last few months. It reminds me of a report I saw on him when he was in Germany after the war. Said he was a loner and not suitable for high-level direction.”
“But that’s exactly what he’s been doing for the last ten years—co-ordinating our activities against the KGB. And he’s done it very well.”
“Remind me—how old is he?”
“This is his last year. He retires at the end of December.”
Sir Peter stood up, stretching his arms. “I’ll put him up for something in the New Year’s list. Forget what I’ve been waffling about. It’s probably me, not him, that’s out of step.”
31
Max Lutz was the Berlin lawyer who always negotiated exchanges on behalf of the Soviet Union. He was in his early sixties. Wealthy, successful and sophisticated, he had acted for the Russians for twenty years. Apart from being a very successful lawyer he was a shrewd negotiator and had been a colonel in the Wehrmacht who had served in the Afrika Korps under Rommel, and later, in Europe, on the staff of Army Group “B” under Field Marshal Modl.
One of the advantages of indirect negotiations had been that Lutz had established himself as an intermediary rather than a negotiator. This meant that bluffing and haggling were totally unacceptable. If either party turned down an original proposal then both parties were given one more opportunity to make a fresh proposal. If either party declined the second proposal the negotiations were over. There was no third chance. And Lutz would never participate in the future in any negotiation concerning any of the prisoners named in a rejected proposal. He maintained that men’s freedom and lives were at stake and he would not be party to anything that could be construed as raising the hopes of a man or woman and their families and deliberately dashing these hopes. He was not a member of the Communist Party nor any other political party or group. He genuinely had no interest in politics. SIS had negotiated with Lutz half a dozen times over the years and respected the German’s honesty and impartiality. Lutz was seldom told by either side the importance or otherwise, or the significance, of the prisoners concerned. They were names on a list and their priorities were not his concern. That was for their captors and countrymen to decide.
Two telephone calls to Berlin and a couple of days waiting and the call had come back setting up a meeting. The first meeting place was to be at Shapiro’s hotel.
It was raining when Shapiro landed at Tegel. There was nobody to meet him and not even the head of station in Berlin had been informed of his visit. He took a taxi to Kempinski’s and booked in under the name Macnay with a Canadian passport.
The desk phoned him an hour later. There was a Herr Lutz to see him. He asked them to send him up.
Herr Lutz was tall and thin and elegant. And he shook hands as if he really meant it before sitting down in the proffered armchair.
“So, Mr. Macnay. A good journey, I hope.”
“Fine, thank you. Would you like a drink?”
“Maybe after we talk, yes. First business and then the schnapps.” He shrugged and smiled. “As my countrymen always say, ‘Schnapps ist Schnapps und Arbeit ist Arbeit.’ ”
“How do we start?”
“Perhaps you show me some identification first?”
Shapiro got up and walked over to the briefcase on the bed. He handed Lutz an SIS ID card and a letter that stated that he was authorised to discuss the possible exchange of prisoners on behalf of Washington and London.
Lutz studied them carefully and as he handed them back he reached in his pocket with his other hand and offered Shapiro a photostatted page which included his photograph and a statement in Russian, German and English that confirmed that he was authorised to discuss all matters concerning exchanges of prisoners with foreigners on behalf of Moscow. Lutz smiled as he slipped the paper back in his pocket.
“My clients in Moscow were surprised that you had contacted me.”
“Why is that?”
“They wonder who you have who is sufficiently important to warrant a meeting.”
Shapiro smiled. “That sounds like the opening move of a professional negotiator decrying the other party’s goods.”
Lutz looked shocked. “I assure you, Mr. Shapiro …” He smiled. “I can call you Mr. Shapiro I hope …” Lutz paused until Shapiro nodded and then went on. “It is no such thing. There is no question of bargaining in these cases. If my clients are interested they will say so immediately. I assure you. We talk as intermediaries with the possibility of arranging something to both of our clients’ mutual advantages.”
“So why are you surprised at our request for a meeting?”
“As you know, I am only called upon to act when the negotiations are … shall we say … concerning significant exchanges. There are other contacts and other systems for discussing the exchange of people of less significance.”
“So why the surprise?”
“Quite genuinely my clients know of nobody in your hands, either officially or unofficially, who they could classify as being of high significance.”
“I’m representing United States interests as well as British interests.”
“Ah, yes—of course.” Lutz leaned back in the armchair, relaxed and satisfied. “Tell me who you had in mind to offer my clients.”
“I’d like to do it the other way around. May I?”
“By all means.”
“You have an Englishman named Summers. Captain John Summers. He is in a special section in one of the Gulag camps.” Shapiro looked at a card he took from his jacket pocket. “Gulag number 704913.” Shapiro watched Lutz’s face carefully as he said, “We had in mind suggesting an exchange with a man who calls himself Gordon Arnold Lonsdale. We believe that
he is a Soviet citizen. It seems that his wife might be named Galyusha and that she lives in Moscow with their two children.”
Lutz put on his glasses and looked at his list again. After a few moments he said, “He is in Wormwood Scrubs prison, yes?” He looked up at Shapiro. “Sentenced to twenty-five years’ imprisonment.”
“That’s the one.”
“He has two associates. They call themselves Kroger or Cohen. Would they be included?”
“I’m quite sure that they could be part of a deal.”
Lutz shifted in the chair and looked towards the window then back at Shapiro.
“This is the first of these exchanges that you’ve been involved with, Mr. Shapiro, is it not? At least, the first when you did the negotiating.”
“Yes.”
“But they briefed you on how we go about it?”
“What particular aspect were you thinking of?”
“Long long ago, nineteen forty-seven or thereabouts, we did the first deal. We took nearly a year and by the time the year was up your man—an American—had died. And Moscow’s man—a Czech—had escaped.” He sighed. “Both sides agreed that if exchanges were to be made in the future we didn’t haggle like Armenian carpet-dealers. We said, right from the start, what we wanted and what we would offer in return. If that was not possible then one further offer. If that was not acceptable we shook hands and it was over. We never discuss those people again. Ever. It became an unwritten, unofficial rule of the game. We could tell our superiors or not, as we chose. They would learn one way or another that we were not hagglers, not stooges. But intermediaries. You understand?”
“I think so.”
“So we stop playing games with one another …” He paused, “… and I set a good example, yes?”
Shapiro half-smiled. “Please do.”