“Jernigan is being moved from Lefortovo Prison. He will arrive here shortly. Forgive the delay. It was unavoidable.”
Howard Jernigan was a low-level staffer at the American Embassy who was in reality a CIA officer, running agents inside the Ministry of Defense, and one who was a staff member in the Central Committee. He had provided invaluable information for three years, but his usefulness was at an end. His agents had likely already been dealt with in the traditional Soviet manner.
“No apologies necessary,” Nixon said. One couldn’t very well conduct a spy swap and welcome the second-ranking man in the American FBI at any of the three Moscow airports that handled civilian traffic, Sheremetyevo, Domodedovo and Vnukovo; too much danger of being spotted. If word of this leaked, the consequences would be severe, especially in an election year.
“Your car is waiting,” Fedorov said, motioning Nixon to a black Chaika limousine parked in front of the van. A KGB guard opened the door. Nixon looked at Simmons, the senior agent in charge with a lantern jaw and graying crewcut.
“Rules are that you should ride with us,” Simmons said. A second black van had been brought for the FBI’s use.
“I think we can dispense with protocol this once,” Nixon said. The Soviets were many things, but not so stupid as to detain or murder the head of America’s counterespionage program in the heart of Moscow. A certain amount of trust was involved here. Nixon slid in the back seat first, with Fedorov following.
“This is a most historic occasion,” Fedorov said as the car began moving. “It’s a shame that the world will never know of it.”
“I prefer it that way,” Nixon said. “Obscurity provides freedom.” He’d always worked behind the scenes, in the shadows, ever since being assigned to counterespionage back during the war. As a younger man, he’d flirted with the idea of politics, even winning the position of student body president at Whittier College. Although he’d delivered on his sole campaign promise—allowing dancing on campus—he had found the high exposure disagreeable. He was awkward, ill-at-ease in large crowds, denied at birth the natural grace of the athletes who made up Whittier’s only social club, the Franklins. Nixon had formed his own society, the Orthogonians, or “Square Shooters,” who posed for their school photos in open-necked shirts, not tuxedos. Since then, he’d found a way around the Franklins who glided through life with nary a care, the Hisses and Kennedys who snorted at the Dick Nixons and the other Square Shooters of the world.
“True,” Fedorov said. “But for how much longer? We hear rumors about your superior’s health. And his immediate successor has been incapacitated by a stroke for years.”
“I saw Director Hoover just before I left,” Nixon said. “He was in good health.” Too good, he added ruefully to himself. Hoover was 77, had run the Bureau since Coolidge was President, and would be carried out of his office in a box. No President dared cross him. Truman and Kennedy had both considered firing him, but Hoover had too many inconvenient secrets tucked away. Those secrets sometimes found their way out, as secrets will, and aided in sinking Kennedy’s re-election bid in 1964.
Rockefeller had mused about firing Hoover just after his re-election in ’68, but backed off. Rocky, like Kennedy, had secrets of his own, and left the unhappy task to his successor. Whoever won in November, be it Humphrey, Jackson, Kennedy, Romney, or Scranton, would avoid the confrontation. Only Wallace seemed to have the balls to fire Hoover, but the country wasn’t ready for a hard-line segregationist in the White House. Until then, Nixon’s iron butt would serve him in waiting for the inevitable.
“There are others who would probably be better placed to become Director,” Nixon demurred.
“You are too modest, Mr. Nixon. I know something of power struggles in large institutions,” Fedorov said wryly. “I was on the Central Committee when the Army faction tried to oust Khrushchev in ’58, and again when they succeeded in ’64. Nothing ever goes as planned. The battle goes to he who shows daring and guile.”
“Very true,” Nixon said noncommittally. He was uneasy sharing so many inside details of the Bureau with a Politburo candidate member. But he knew that Fedorov was correct. Clyde Tolson, Hoover’s longtime aide, was still Associate Director, but in name only after his stroke in ’64, and was in no shape to run the Bureau. None of the assistant directors had been at the Bureau longer than Nixon, and none had worked harder and delivered more successes. He could handle his only rival, Mark Felt.
“It does depend on how the election goes,” Fedorov said. “President Rockefeller may be inclined to appoint you, but what of those who would succeed him?” The question was more than rhetorical, Nixon knew. William Scranton, the incumbent Vice-President running to succeed Rockefeller, would no doubt appoint him in Hoover’s stead. Nixon had been careful to cultivate that relationship.
The Democrats were a different story, having had the Bureau in their sights since the early ‘60s, and their suspicions had only been confirmed by the COINTELPRO documents stolen two years ago. The editorial boards of the New York Times and the Washington Post had been outraged by the Bureau’s targeting civil rights leaders like King and Evers, even though Truman and Kennedy had been the big offenders and Rockefeller had cancelled the whole thing in ’67 over Hoover’s objections.
“The FBI is merit-based. No President would dare appoint a director with no experience in law enforcement. It was easier back when I started out,” Nixon sighed, changing the subject awkwardly. “I only had to worry about catching gangsters, not who won elections. That was 1937, right after most of the big gangsters like Dillinger and the Barkers had been put away, but that was before the war.”
“A not unexpected manifestation of capitalism,” Fedorov said, and Nixon caught the hint of a smile that told him it was a gentle, friendly jibe and not the start of a Marxist-Leninist diatribe. “However, awareness of politics is a requirement for survival in the Soviet Union.” Nixon knew that Fedorov had been a young Party official in the Ukraine in 1937, arriving after Stalin’s famine. He had survived the Great Terror that had sent tens of thousands to unmarked graves, because he’d been able to navigate treacherous political currents, much as Nixon had done in the late ‘40s by bringing down Alger Hiss on espionage charges.
“Let me tell you about the time I was in the Chicago Office, during the war,” Nixon began. Fedorov listened as Nixon described the capture of two Nazi saboteurs during the early months after America’s entry into the war. Nixon had been on the team that apprehended Herman Neubauer and Herbert Haupt before they could sabotage defense plants and railroads. That case had brought Nixon to Hoover’s attention, and was the point at which his star began to rise. His next assignment had been as SAC in the Denver Office, before being assigned to the New York Office where he had met Whittaker Chambers, who had led him to Hiss.
Fedorov recounted his time in Kiev when the Germans invaded, and how he had fallen back with the rest of the Red Army. He had survived Stalingrad, another fact in the briefing books. Hearing the tales of door-to-door combat, though, engendered within Nixon a great deal of respect for his Soviet counterpart.
“We’ve had common enemies in the past,” Fedorov said. “We have a common enemy now. That should give hope for the future.”
“China,” Nixon said. “I’ve often wanted to travel there.”
“No,” Fedorov shook his head slowly. “Our common enemy is the threat of mutual annihilation.” Outside, the countryside was a blur in the darkness. The limousine crossed the Ring Road that surrounded Moscow. Traffic at this hour was light, but the car cruised down the center lanes, specially reserved for Party and government officials.
The motorcade whizzed past the large blocks of apartments on the outskirts of Moscow, built in the 1960s. They were large, gray, and impersonal. “You know,” Nixon said, “in America, our workers earn enough to buy their own houses with their own land, with modern furnishings. A color TV, nice furniture, a kitchen with all the modern appliances like a stove, a refrigerator, eve
n a radar range—”
“The banks own the mortgages on the houses,” Federov chided him. “As for the modern conveniences, they are merely distractions which create a decadent attitude among your workers. Nonetheless,” Fedorov added slyly, “in ten years, we shall catch and surpass you in producing such trinkets for our workers.”
“I thought Chairman Khrushchev said True Communism would be achieved by 1980,” Nixon shot back.
Federov again shrugged. “They’ve revised the latest Five Year Plan.” He turned back to watching Moscow at midnight. “We should be there in a few minutes.”
Red Square came into view, the lighted onion domes of St. Basil’s Cathedral standing like a beacon, across the vast brick expanse from the Kremlin walls and Lenin’s tomb. The motorcade passed them, heading for Dzherzinsky Square and the Lubyanka Prison.
The Lubyanka was a massive Baroque building with a yellow brick façade; before the Revolution it had housed the All-Russian Insurance Company. The old joke was that the Lubyanka was the tallest building in Russia, since one could see Siberia from its basement. Henderson, though, wouldn’t need to worry about Siberia.
The motorcade passed through the gate, and Nixon could see the Detsky Mir store across the square. It was a cruel irony, Nixon thought darkly, that placed the biggest children’s toy store in Moscow within shouting distance of the nation’s most notorious prison.
The Volga sedan in the lead halted in front of the building. KGB and FBI agents spilled from the lead car and the vans behind. The flurry of activity took Henderson and Nixon to the massive fortress-like wooden doors.
Inside, the Lubyanka was a typical turn-of-the-century office building, with light green walls, uncarpeted parquet floors, and large globes hanging from the ceiling to provide illumination. The first floor was lightly inhabited at this time of night; a few doorways were lit.
Fedorov guided him to a metal cage elevator. “The office is on the third floor,” he said, and closed the door behind Nixon and two of his FBI escorts. Federov turned a lever, and the elevator ascended quickly. Arriving at the third floor, Federov opened the door, and led Nixon down the empty corridor to their destination. He brushed past the reception area, which was deserted, and knocked on the large wooden door. A muffled voice called in Russian, and Federov responded in kind. He swung the door open, and motioned for Nixon to enter. He did so. Only Federov came with him; the FBI escort stayed outside.
The office was cavernous, with a high ceiling, mahogany-paneled walls, oriental carpets on the floor, embroidered sofas, and tall windows. On the wall hung the obligatory portraits of Lenin, Marx, “Iron Feliks” Dzerzhinsky, the first head of the Cheka, and Leonid Brezhnev. A huge wooden desk sat at the far end, clear except for a battery of telephones.
“Associate Director Nixon, Yuri Vladimirovich,” Federov intoned. The tall, scholarly man with thinning gray hair and thick wire-rimmed spectacles stood and came around the desk to greet Nixon.
“Welcome to Moscow,” said Yuri Vladimirovich Andropov, Director of the KGB, in perfect, accented English. The briefing books had been equivocal on whether or not the Chief spoke English, as some journalists had rumored. “I appreciate your accepting my invitation.” Andropov’s dark suit, Nixon noted, was well-tailored in a Western cut, unlike the ill-fitting ones that made Soviet diplomats and agents conspicuous in the US; the striped tie was silk with a gold tie bar. A red Party pin adorned his lapel.
“It was difficult to resist,” Nixon said, truthfully.
“I trust your flight was not too strenuous,” Andropov said. “If you need to wait until tomorrow—”
“No,” Nixon shook his head. “Not at all.”
“Would you care for a drink?” Andropov asked.
“No, thank you,” Nixon said.
“A wise decision,” Andropov said wryly. “Always negotiate on a clear head. If only more of our comrades would heed such advice. Please,” Andropov swept his hand to the overstuffed chairs in front of the desk, “have a seat.” Andropov sat behind the desk. Nixon eased into the overstuffed chair, leaned back, and crossed his legs.
“There is a phrase from some of your mystery novels,” Andropov said. “I suppose you’re wondering why I called you here.”
“I have a fairly good idea,” Nixon replied.
“I have spared your President Rockefeller a good deal of embarrassment with our little exchange,” Andropov said. “One can imagine the humiliation that would result. It would no doubt have a good deal of bearing on your election.”
“It would,” Nixon said, warming to one of his favorite topics.
“There will be no record of Henderson’s transport here?”
“He had a wife, but few other family members,” Nixon said. “The cover story was an automobile accident. The car caught fire, so the funeral was closed-casket. No one has asked any questions. Not even the New York Times.”
“Fortunately,” Andropov said with a smile, “I do not have the same concerns with Pravda. So,” he leaned back and folded his hands, “how do you see your Presidential election shaping up? I have analysts at the USA-Canada Institute who give me reports, but I would like the view from someone who is close to it all.”
“I try to remain nonpolitical because of my position,” Nixon said. It was an odd question, but he warmed to the topic quickly. “But, Senator Jackson has been quite open in his criticism of the President’s détente policy, and the Strategic Arms Limitation agreement that is before the Senate. He’s running close to Senator Humphrey, who favors it. Humphrey should be running farther ahead, since he was the Vice-Presidential candidate in ’68. The Oregon and Nebraska primaries are coming up, and then California is a month away. Humphrey’s a good bet to win them, but California is close. A revelation like this would hand it to Jackson. He’d ride it into the convention in St. Louis, and then run against Scranton in the fall, claiming that Rockefeller’s been soft on Communism, that he’s selling us out to the... to you. It helped to do in Kennedy in ’64. So Scranton would have to up the ante.”
“Very astute,” Andropov said. “Our scholars at the USA-Canada Institute came to the same conclusion. The consequences of such a victory by a hard-liner would be a setback in our relations.”
“Undoubtedly,” Nixon said. “The trade agreements, the grain purchases, even the cultural exchanges, all off the table. If he won, Jackson would find cause with the hawks in the Republican party in Congress to push through an increase in the defense budget, shelve the arms limitation treaty, increase the aid and advisers to Laos, the Philippines, and boost aid to Israel.”
“And, of course, you realize that the Politburo will not take any of this well,” Andropov replied. “We will be forced to upgrade our nuclear forces, boost our military spending, increase our aid to the anti-imperialist and anti-Zionist forces around the world, and we both know what the result will be. At worst, we may only have delayed mankind’s date with destiny ten years ago in Cuba.”
Nixon shook his head. “Cuba,” he said ruefully. “Cigars are fine, but the way the Cubans yank around the State Department is amazing. I favored invasion in ’62, to settle it once and for all,” Nixon said firmly. “The Cubans have thrown up more oddballs and scoundrels than any other movement. We rounded up a bunch in ’63, down in New Orleans. Even lost a couple of agents when one of them, a little punk named Oswald got trigger happy when my men came to arrest him. We caught a few more trying to break into Democrat Party headquarters four years ago. I traced it back to the CIA.”
“If your forces had invaded Cuba,” Andropov said severely, “Neither of us would be sitting here. We placed tactical nuclear missiles on the beaches, with orders to fire when the first amphibious units landed.” Nixon was shocked, silent. “I should remind you, of course, that that is a state secret. Your President Kennedy was wiser than he knew in resisting calls for invasion.”
“Of course,” Nixon said.
“You perhaps begin to see our dilemma,” Andropov said, leaning forward. �
��The confrontation between our two nations is bound to last for a long period of time, in historical terms. Just as we must recognize your interests abroad, so must the United States come to terms with the interests of the Soviet Union, and that these two will not always coincide.”
“Such as spreading your revolution?”
Andropov shook his head. “Stalin renounced world revolution in favor of socialism in our country long ago. The next decade will require us to re-build socialism at home. But,” he pointed a finger at Nixon, “we are not the only revolutionary nation spreading its principles abroad. We call it socialism, you call it ‘The Spirit of ’76.’”
“Our interventions are always defensive,” Nixon shot back. “Yours are designed to prevent people from being free—like Czechoslovakia in ’68. Or Poland in ’56. And Hungary.” The last was a sharp barb, designed to lance Andropov, who had overseen the brutal repression of Imre Nagy’s “New Course” away from Stalinism and his withdrawal from the Warsaw Pact.
“The Philippines?” Andropov countered. “Nicaragua? The Bay of Pigs? Vietnam? I didn’t ask you here to debate foreign policy, Mr. Nixon. We’re not diplomats. Let us accept that our countries will be at odds for decades to come. This does not have to lead to war, however.”
“Fair enough,” Nixon said.
“I am head of the Committee for State Security,” Andropov said. “You are the second-in-command, for now, of the American equivalent of my agency.”
“There’s no equivalence,” Nixon bristled.
Andropov held up his hand. “Hear me out. We occupy unique positions in our governments. We monitor internal affairs, combat crime, and also have a role in counterespionage. Our two governments appear to be unable to stabilize the inter-nation situation. We both want something, but we aren’t likely to get it from the normal channels.”
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