by Ted Allbeury
“OK. The man my friends in Moscow would like to exchange for your man calls himself Reino Hayhanen. His real name is something else. He is half-Finnish, half-Russian and at the moment he is protected by the CIA.”
Shapiro sat down facing Lutz. “OK. No bargaining, Herr Lutz. The CIA will not exchange Hayhanen for anybody. That is absolutely certain.” Shapiro paused for a moment. “Is there anyone else that your friends have in mind?”
“Make me an offer, Mr. Shapiro. Show me that you understand what we are here for. Tell me who you put on offer for your man.”
“Colonel Rudolph Abel. He is serving a thirty-year sentence in jail in Atlanta, Georgia.”
For a few moments Lutz was silent, then he said, “Quite frankly, you surprise me.”
“Why?”
“I seem to remember reading that the parents of the young pilot had been in contact with the Soviet Embassy in Washington to suggest an exchange. Their son for Colonel Abel.”
“I don’t think the American government feel that that is a fair exchange.”
“But why should they prefer an Englishman instead of an American?”
“We have asked for their collaboration and they have agreed.”
Lutz smiled and stood up. “You must be very tired after your journey or I’d suggest that I go to my office a couple of blocks away and talk with my clients. And then come back and talk with you.”
“I’d be very happy to do that. I’d like to get it settled, one way or another.”
Lutz stopped with his hand on the doorknob. “That’s something we didn’t discuss Mr. Shapiro. What if my clients can’t find their way to co-operate?”
Shapiro shrugged. “That would be the end of the matter so far as we were concerned.”
“You wouldn’t be prepared to go ahead with the rumoured exchange of Abel for the American pilot?”
“No.”
“May I ask why not?” Lutz said softly.
“As I said earlier. It’s a grossly uneven exchange—a senior KGB officer for a young plane pilot. It’s not on, Mr. Lutz. I’m sure your clients will realise that.”
It was almost midnight when Lutz returned. He wasted no time. As he sat down he said, “My people’s reaction was not entirely what I hoped for.” As he saw the grim look on Shapiro’s face he shook his head. “No great problem, Mr. Shapiro. In fact, general agreement but with two sets of conditions. Conditions that I think you will find acceptable.”
“What are the conditions?”
“Let me give you the situation as it now is. The case of your man Kretski—Summers—there is no problem. He can be exchanged.” Lutz shrugged. “The problem of course was Hayhanen. The hardliners in the KGB would obviously like to get their hands on such a man. A man who betrayed his trust in every possible way.
“Then we come to Powers, the pilot. He is no longer of any interest to Moscow. He was tried and sentenced publicly. He confessed. He served his purpose. He can be released too. That would allow the exchange to be made public.
“So we come to Colonel Abel. An honourable man who has behaved as we should expect a Soviet citizen to behave who fell foul of—shall we say—antagonistic authority.”
Lutz leaned back in the chair. “So, reluctantly, the exchange you ask for will be accepted. Provided …” and Lutz wagged a monitory finger, “… provided we can agree on the two sets of conditions. Condition number one I imagine is no real problem. It is what you want as much as my friends do. I refer to complete secrecy. Not just at the time of the exchange, but permanently. No hints in the press. No books, no articles about a spy who came in from the cold. You know what I mean?”
“Of course. Both sides have a vested interest in keeping it secret.”
“And complete denial if there should ever be questions from the media or in Parliament or Congress?”
“Definitely. No problem. What’s the second condition?”
“The second condition is just an act to show good faith.” He paused. “If at some time in the future we should want an exchange for Gordon Lonsdale and the Krogers it would be seriously considered.”
“You know the problem that arises from that?”
“I can think of one—but you tell me.”
“My people could perhaps visualise some innocent British subject being arrested in Moscow and accused of espionage just to effect an exchange for Lonsdale and the Krogers.”
Lutz shrugged. “I can only assure you, my friend, that that is not likely to happen. My people are not all that concerned about Lonsdale’s fate—or the Krogers’ for that matter.”
“OK.” Shapiro nodded. “I agree to both conditions.” He paused. “How can we arrange the details of the exchanges? Dates, locations, et cetera.”
“How long are you prepared to stay on in Berlin, Mr. Shapiro?”
“If it pushes things along I’ll stay however long it takes.”
32
Soon after the midnight head count at the Atlanta prison two men showed the release note to the Warden. Half an hour later prisoner number 80016–A was roused from his sleep and told to dress. Rudolph Abel dressed slowly and meticulously and then walked with the two FBI agents to the waiting car.
The Delta jet took off promptly at 2 a.m. and at 5.30 a.m. Abel was taken into the federal detention house on West Street, New York. Throughout the next day, Wednesday, the prisoner was kept out of the way of anyone who could possibly recognise him, apart from the agents guarding him.
Twice, a time was set for his departure, and twice it was cancelled, but on the Thursday afternoon the clearance came through. The car holding Abel was the middle car in a three-car convoy heading for McGuire Air Force Base. When they drove into the base Abel and the two agents transferred into a station wagon which drove down the runway right up to the waiting plane.
It was a big Super-Constellation transport plane usually at the disposal of a USAAF general. Spacious and comfortable, its curtains drawn. The crew waited confined in the cockpit until 6 p.m., when they were given orders to take off. Neither the captain nor the navigator had any idea where they were heading for. But once they were air-borne they were told that they were on a secret mission and their destination was Wiesbaden. But they were not told who they were carrying on board or any details apart from their destination.
Just the fact that Moscow had agreed to Abel’s return made the controllers of the operation especially cautious. With the cynicism of their trade they had considered the possibility that Moscow’s previous indifference to having Abel back could be because he was out of favour. The possibility that Abel’s restlessness could be because he was, in fact, apprehensive as to his fate now he was on his way back made them search him again thoroughly to make sure that he had no means in his clothes or on his body of committing suicide.
It was six o’clock the next morning when the plane landed at Wiesbaden. There was a technicians’ meeting because of a fault in the aircraft’s radio system that required servicing. The curtains around the passenger seats were drawn so that the repairman could not see Abel and his guards.
The repairman reported that the radio wasn’t serviceable, it would have to be replaced. Just over two hours later the plane was edging into the control pattern of the Berlin Air Corridor. For the last half-hour of the two-and-a-half-hour flight to Berlin the plane was under surveillance by three squadrons of MiG fighters. It was 3 p.m. when the plane landed at Tempelhof. The US Provost Marshal was there and one of the military police cars drove Abel and his escort to the US Army Base.
Abel spent the night in a small, grim cell clad only in pyjamas, watched over continuously by a double guard who were changed every two hours. His escorts slept as badly as Abel did but in the comparative comfort of a private house.
At 7.30 the next morning, Saturday February 10, Abel was driven to the Glienicke bridge. The car and its escorting vehicles pulled up at the entrance to Schloss Glienicke and there were officials already there, including two men busy with walkie-talkies. Then, on
a signal from one of the men with radios, the two CIA men walked with Abel to the bridge itself. At the bridge they stopped and Abel was handed a document signed by Robert Kennedy as US Attorney-General and John F. Kennedy as President. The document commuted Colonel Abel’s sentence and granted him an official pardon on condition that he never re-entered the United States.
The Glienicke Bridge, with its sandstone piers and approaches, spans two small lakes, and is used solely as a crossing-point for the occupation forces. At the other side of the bridge Gary Powers stood with his KGB guard. Abel was asked to take off his glasses so that the other side could confirm his identity. When both sides had signalled their satisfaction that the man displayed by the other side was their man, Abel was told that he was free to cross the bridge.
Picking up his two cases he walked forward, passed Gary Powers just before the demarcation line. Neither acknowledged the other and the transaction was over.
In Washington the lawns of the White House were sprinkled with snow. In the Blue Room Lester Lanin and his orchestra were playing for the guests at a going-away party for the President’s brother-in-law and sister. At two o’clock several top government officials discreetly left the room and an hour later Pierre Salinger, the President’s press secretary, announced the repatriation of Abel to the Soviet Union and Gary Powers’ release to the US authorities. Neither at the party nor in the press room was any great interest aroused by the event.
Joe Shapiro climbed awkwardly into the front passenger seat of the ambulance and told the driver to start. The streets of Brunswick were already crowded with people going to work and traffic, and it was almost an hour before they were approaching the border-crossing at Helmstedt. Trails of mist swirled across from the woods on each side of the road.
Already there was a long queue of cars. Not at the usual crossing-point barriers but nearly a quarter of a mile from the frontier post. At the temporary pole barrier Shapiro showed his ID card and the operational order to the Field Security sergeant. The sergeant checked them carefully and then waved to the military policeman who raised the counter-weighted pole.
At the normal control point the ambulance stopped again and Shapiro climbed down. He could see the grey Soviet Army field ambulance at the pole on the far side. From the back of the British ambulance two men got down. One was an SIS doctor and the other was Hugh Morton.
The three men walked to the white painted control post and Shapiro lifted the phone, speaking slowly and distinctly in Russian. He listened for a moment and then hung up. He nodded to the other two and the barriers of both sides of the crossing control lifted slowly.
The two ambulances rolled forward and stopped. The rear doors of both vehicles were opened and latched and two Soviets in civilian clothes eased a stretcher down the sloping metal runners. A KGB man in major’s uniform waved Shapiro over. Shapiro looked at the face of the man on the stretcher then back at the KGB man. They exchanged a few words, the officer nodded and Shapiro signalled to the doctor to come over. They rolled the stretcher to the British ambulance and waited for the ramp to lift it into the back of the ambulance. When it had been latched in place, Shapiro spoke to the driver then got in the back of the ambulance, followed by the doctor and Morton. As the rear doors were closed Shapiro looked at the doctor.
“Well?”
“He looks in a pretty bad way but I’d need to examine him before I pass any comment.” He paused. “Will you pass me that clamp?”
The doctor adjusted the drip and then Shapiro banged on the back of the driver’s cab and the ambulance turned slowly and headed back up the road to Brunswick.
Shapiro looked across at the doctor. “Is what you’ve got at the house enough? Or should he go to hospital?”
The doctor shrugged. “Joe. If what I’ve got at the house isn’t enough there’s nothing else at the hospital that can do better. Not at this stage, anyway.”
The big house was in five acres of its own grounds and a room on the ground floor was equipped with all the paraphernalia of a mobile operating theatre and pharmacy.
The doctor and his assistant, masked and sterile, cut the sweat-sodden clothing from the man’s shrunken body. No attempt had been made by the Russians to alleviate or hide his condition. Not even a wash or a bandage to give a better impression.
Slowly and gently the doctor checked over the body and the head of the man who lay there with his eyes closed, barely breathing, his teeth clenched tight as if he were resisting pain. Twenty minutes later the doctor gave his instructions to his two assistants and left them to their work.
In the small ante-room he joined Shapiro and Morton. He pulled up a chair and sat down looking at them both.
“In lay terms he’s suffering from exhaustion, starvation and various wounds. He may have broken bones or internal injuries but until he’s in a suitable condition for a proper examination I can’t be certain.”
“What’s it add up to, James?” Shapiro’s face was grim.
“Now I’ve looked him over, I’m more hopeful. With a transfusion, a clean-up and a controlled feeding regime a week will make a big difference so far as his body is concerned.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means that I’ve no way of diagnosing what his mental state might be.” He paused. “It doesn’t look good. He’s in coma and shows little or no response to the preliminary neural tests—I’m afraid you’ll have to be patient and I’ll keep you in touch with his condition.”
Shapiro looked at Morton. “I’ll stay here with him, Hughie. You get back to London. They need you and there’s nothing you can do here that I can’t do.”
The doctor interrupted. “If you’ll excuse me I’ll get on with my job.”
When the doctor had left Morton said, “What do you think? Will he make it?”
Shapiro sighed heavily. “If you mean will he live—yes. I’d put my last dollar on it. But if you mean more than that—” Shapiro shook his head. “I don’t know. He looks bad to me. He’s going to need a lot of psychiatric help. You’d better warn them back in London.”
Morton stood up. “Get some rest, Joe. Get some sleep. Don’t dwell on it. Give it time. You’ve got to be patient.”
By the end of a week Shapiro was really worried and had asked for a second opinion and Morton sent over a neuro-surgeon who checked over the doctor’s notes and examined the patient. When he saw Shapiro afterwards he confirmed that the physical diagnosis was correct.
“Physically he’s recovered remarkably well. The broken ribs and the bones in his hands we can deal with in a few weeks’ time. But the central nervous system has taken a lot of punishment.” He paused. “As you know he’s no longer in coma. But his hearing is negligible and although there seems to be no damage to the vocal chords he doesn’t speak. He can see all right but at the moment he is literally both deaf and dumb. And I suspect that that is psychological—trauma. That’s going to take quite a time to treat. And it may or may not be curable. I just don’t know.”
“How long will it take to find out?”
“Months rather than weeks.”
“And to cure?”
The surgeon shrugged. “I’ve no idea. It could take years. But on the other hand he could recover overnight. Not from anything we can do. Just mother nature doing her stuff. Spontaneous healing.”
“And that’s all you can say?”
“I’m afraid so. But if it’s any consolation I should think that he will be fit enough to get up and walk around—with help—in a matter of days. He’s got an amazing constitution, that chap.”
Five days later there was a vast physical improvement. The man called Phoenix had put on weight and his ribs and hands had been strapped and the X-rays showed that the bones were knitting together satisfactorily. He walked slowly and uncertainly but without a stick or any other aid. The washed-out pale blue eyes stared rather than looked, and his mouth was always shut tight, the teeth clenched and the muscles taut at the sides of his mouth. But there was no visi
ble response to the words or sounds. Sometimes Joe Shapiro reached out and gripped the man’s heavy forearm as they sat in the spring sunshine in the garden. The flesh was firm and warm but there was never any reaction.
Part Three
33
The man named Johnny had paid for a meal for them both and Josef felt uncomfortable in the hotel restaurant in his cheap, drab clothing, but Johnny didn’t seem to notice. They were drinking their coffee when Johnny said, “Did you see in the paper that Lenin died yesterday?”
Josef nodded. “Yes, I saw it.”
“What difference will it make?”
The young man shrugged. “The fight will be out in the open now.”
“Between who?”
“Stalin, Trotsky, Zinoviev and maybe Rykov.”
“And who will come out on top?”
Josef laughed. “Lenin?”
“I don’t understand. Lenin’s dead.”
“Trotsky is finished, Stalin will cash in on Lenin’s reputation, Lenin will become a kind of Bolshevik saint, and the others will go along with Stalin.”
“I heard rumours that Lenin had recommended that Stalin had become too powerful and should be removed from the Central Committee.”
The young man looked at him for long moments before he replied. “You’re not a journalist are you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“Only people right inside the Party know anything about rumours like that.”
“There are a lot of rumours going around about the Bolsheviks. Lenin was poisoned was one I heard. There were plenty of others too.”
“Yeah. But yours wasn’t a rumour. It was the real thing. And you know it was. A journalist isn’t going to get information like that.”
Johnny smiled. “You’ve got a sharp mind Josef. They must have taught you well in Moscow.”
“Maybe.”
“What are you going to do now you’re back?”
“Anything that will keep me alive and let me spend my free time making them pay for what they have done to me and my family.”