Freedom Bridge: A Cold War Thriller (4 page)

Chapter 8

A
leksei Andreyev was surely the most devious person Kiril had ever known. To deal with him was to encounter wheels within wheels, never knowing what was artifice or distraction, propaganda or disinformation. What Aleksei had just revealed despite his apparent drunkenness . . . was it an act? Why tell Kiril a state secret of the highest order? Did Aleksei have an ulterior motive? Was he using Kiril in some way? Would Aleksei have him followed to see if he ran to his friend Stepan with such explosive intelligence? Was Khrushchev’s Machiavellian plan even true?

So many possibilities, Kiril thought. How could he arrive at any definitive conclusions? He needed to be alone. To think.

After a lunch of black coffee and pirogi stuffed with cabbage, Kiril took a bus to the hospital. Luckily, there were no operations scheduled for the day. He had Dr. Yanin’s surgical section to himself.

He sat in his cubicle-sized office and processed the morning’s events, the questions he had just raised. He realized how important it was to preserve what he had just learned from Aleksei. But how?

His first impulse was to write an account of the entire episode in longhand. He vetoed the idea almost immediately. Such a report would be lengthy, cumbersome. Worse, if it fell into the wrong hands, it could turn into a death warrant.

Better to take advantage of his retentive memory and fall back on a number of key words to jog it, he decided.

He pulled out some note paper and wrote “April” on the chance that someone might read the note paper in English. Then “20” for the date—deliberately misleading; Kiril had been at Aleksei’s office five days earlier. He followed up with seven key words: Andreyev, U2, summit, walkout, leverage, Berlin, nuclear. It was meager fare, but enough to feed his memory, which in turn would permit him to recite almost verbatim his conversation with Aleksei.

As he stared at the notepaper he’d just used, he realized it was cheap Soviet stock. What if it were destroyed in handling? If, say, the ink ran? His eyes wandered absently around the room and came to rest on the microfilm version of a patient’s chest x-ray clipped to some medical report.

He leaped out of his chair. As small as his handwritten list of words was, he could render it much smaller with the microfilm machine that he’d used countless times. He went to work reproducing the list onto two tiny negatives, each roughly the size of half a fingernail.

One microfilm for me. The other for you, Stepan
.

Next, a crucial last step. Where to hide
his
copy?

He sat back and lit a cigarette. He would need a place that was both secure and readily accessible. He was idly fingering his Zippo lighter when he cracked a smile.

Step one, he thought, and went about removing the lighter’s working parts—windscreen, flint-holder, flint, wheel, wick—leaving him with a metal shell from which he removed the alcohol-soaked cotton. Taking a wad of unused cotton, Kiril wrapped it around the microfilm, inserted the cotton back into the shell, and replaced the working parts.

Step two. He walked down two flights of stairs and into a hospital storage area filled with old furniture. Piled high were desks, chairs, bookcases, all with an overlay of dust and the overpowering odor of mildew. Climbing carefully over wobbly wood and metal, Kiril wrapped his cigarette lighter in a rag and placed it in the back of a drawer whose desk looked like it had been there since the time of the Czar.

Chapter 9

F
earful of being followed by KGB agents working for Aleksei, Kiril waited a few days before contacting Stepan. Their meeting place was a bath house’s blue-and-gold-tiled steam room at dawn as soon as the facility opened.

“The microfilm could be our passport
out of the Soviet Union,” Stepan whispered. “When I think of the risk you’ve taken . . . ”

“What you’re about to do is a lot riskier,” Kiril said soberly.

“When I get to Potsdam, I’ll tell my American diplomat friend the whole story.”

Kiril frowned. “But will it be in time to save the U2?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But even if the information comes too late, Khrushchev’s orchestrated charade will be exposed. The Communists will lose their leverage regarding Berlin, and, later on, the nuclear negotiations.”

“Let’s hope so. Can we run through the rest?”

“Here’s how it works,” Stepan said. “Once my friend helps me defect from Potsdam, he gets the CIA to exfiltrate
you
from the Soviet Union—probably from Leningrad to Finland. Like I said, that’s how it should work. And it
will
work, Kiril.”

Kiril couldn’t tell if Stepan’s flushed face was from the steam or from sheer excitement. “Better get dressed,” Kiril told him. “Then meet me at the lap pool.”

Kiril was wearing a terrycloth robe by the time Stepan got there. They sat on a bench. There were no patrons at this ungodly hour. Kiril had counted on that. He opened a paper bag and pulled out two cheese sandwiches. He kept one and handed the other to Stepan. “Careful how you open yours, Stepan” he warned. “Mine really
is
a sandwich. Yours has—”

“Microfilm, wrapped in a tiny piece of cellophane,” Stepan whispered, as if he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“It’s time for you to leave,” Kiril said reluctantly. “I’ll kill another half hour in the lap pool.”

“Right.”

They started to shake hands and ended up in a bear hug.

“Be safe, my friend,” Kiril said, and forced himself to look away.

The minute Stepan left, Kiril was filled with foreboding. Sliding into the lap pool, he traveled the length of it with a ferocious overhand stroke. He kept up the pace for half an hour.

But utter exhaustion did not erase his premonition of disaster, nor the nagging questions that followed in its wake.

Disaster for whom?

For you, Stepan?

For me?

For both of us?

Chapter 10

A
t precisely 7:00 P.M. on April 30, 1960, Paul Houston entered the noisy pre-conference reception in Potsdam, East Germany.

Not surprisingly, Moscow red had been transported
ad nauseam
to East Germany’s grand Cecilienhof Palace, he thought drily. Red walls. Red gilt-trimmed chairs like the ones in the main conference room upstairs. Red tablecloths on buffet tables.

Clusters of solicitous East German waiters were circulating with drinks. A handful of civilian and military officers—American, British, and French—mingled with three Soviet officers.

Two of the three Soviets were dark and squat like sawed-off tree trunks. The third was a rotund blond with round metal-rimmed glasses. All three men were resplendent in uniforms that looked as if they’d come from the costume department of a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta.

“. . . May Day toast to
another
memorable Potsdam conference!” the blond Russian enthused in English. “Gentlemen, the past few months have not been in vain. Negotiations over wider American, British, and French access to Berlin have become snarled, yes? Never mind. By this time tomorrow, our leaders will have untangled the snarls. Harmony prevailed at Cecilienhof Palace sixteen years ago. It shall prevail again! As a good hunting dog grabs hold of his quarry, our great leaders shall grab hold of our doubts, our disagreements . . .”

Finally, glasses were raised, putting a welcome end to the Russian’s melodramatic monologue.

Houston had little patience for the usual Soviet Orwellian refrain. The original Potsdam conference in 1945 had eased world tensions.

Sure it had
.

It had established the principles for a lasting peace.

Right
.

How anyone could respond to the notion that the first Potsdam conference had
accomplished
anything but politically motivated turmoil was beyond him. Not in the face of postwar Germany as it was carved into four occupation zones: American, British, French, and Soviet. Certainly not in postwar Berlin, which currently sat in the middle of East Germany, and was subjected to the same Four-Power division.

What
had
been accomplished, thanks to wily
Uncle Joe
Stalin, as FDR had affectionately called him, was West Berlin’s untenable position after being locked in—surrounded by the Communists.

Needing a break from the bombast, Houston went outside and walked briskly down a long paved driveway bordered by close-cut grass and hemmed in by sculpted bushes.

Halfway down the driveway, he turned around and took in the architectural excesses of “Schloss Cecilienhof.” Erected between 1914 and 1917 for Germany’s Crown Prince Wilhelm and his wife Cecilie, it had the look of a metastasized English Tutor country house: red-tiled roofs, 6 courtyards, 55 carved brick chimney tops, and more. More of everything.

Because Houston knew the palace’s history, the same thought came to mind whenever he saw Cecilienhof:
What a waste!

Construction was to have been completed in 1915. Delayed due to the outbreak of World War I the year before, it was not until August 1917 that the Crown Prince and his bride were able to move in. A year later, the prince and his father were forced into exile. Cecilie had stayed on but was forced to flee from the approaching Red Army in February 1945.

Five months later, Cecilienhof Palace was once again refurbished—this time for the Potsdam Conference that had taken place fifteen years ago, between July 17 and August 2, 1945.

Houston pictured the men who had met at the round table in the conference hall. Winston Churchill, and later Clement Attlee, Joseph Stalin, and Harry Truman. He recalled the world-shaping events that had been agreed upon here . . . Churchill’s and Truman’s July 26, 1945
Potsdam Declaration
, which insisted on Japan’s unconditional surrender. Later, their partially successful attempt to bring the Soviet Union into the war in Asia.

The cast of characters had certainly changed this time around, he reflected. Former General of the Army Dwight D. Eisenhower. Nikita Khrushchev, the “
Butcher of Ukraine
.” Harold Macmillan, the Conservative Party son of an American mother. Charles de Gaulle, leader of the World War Free French.

In spite of everything else on his mind, Houston had to admit he was looking forward to the conference.

* * *

Houston and Brodsky had slipped through the raucous partiers by different routes. A quarter-moon had just begun to cast its dark gray light on the ornate grounds of the palace. Dense foliage and hedge-like bushes would provide excellent cover for the two men.

Outside, Houston hurried down a couple of steep steps. Trees were turning into silhouettes. A tall form stood in the shadow of a hedge.

“Stepan?” he called out softly.

A hand gripped his. “Hello, Houston.”

It was the old joke between them. Brodsky liked greeting him by his last name—the name of an American city he hoped one day soon to see for himself.

When Paul Houston offered Stepan a cigarette, Brodsky automatically went for his cigarette lighter. It didn’t work. Houston held out a match, wondering why Brodsky had cracked a smile as he slipped his cigarette lighter back into his pocket.

As soon as they were well away from the palace and securely surrounded by trees, Brodsky turned to Houston. “You know how long I’ve wanted to defect, Paul. But always, your CIA came up with excuses for not helping. I won’t go into the litany. For one thing, it’s too painful.”

“For me too,” Houston confessed.

“I know. I’m going to tell you a story. What your CIA and your State Department choose to do with it is up to them. But I’ll tell you now—‘upfront,’ as you Americans like to say. In return for what I have, I want my freedom and I want it now.”

Houston looked at him intently. He had never heard Stepan sound so uncompromising.

Brodsky spelled out the whole story, and then held up his lighter. “Here’s the deal, Paul. I keep the microfilm in my lighter until you tell me your people will go for it—my freedom in exchange for high-level intelligence. And not just mine. Someone else’s.”

“Someone who’s still in the Soviet Union?” Houston said skeptically.

“My closest friend. We go back a long time. He risked his life to get the microfilm—and not just to help me. He’s wanted to defect as long as I have. Every day he remains in the Soviet Union, his life is in grave danger. So tell your people it’s me now, my friend as soon as possible—from Moscow to wherever your CIA can exfiltrate him. Maybe from Leningrad to Finland?”

Houston looked uncomfortable. “Getting you out is hard enough, Stepan. But someone else who’s still in Moscow? That’s a tall order.”

“Try to imagine what it’s like to be an exile in your own country,” Stepan said softly. “My friend and I have felt that way all our lives. I cannot—I
will
not—abandon him.”

“Something just occurred to me,” Houston said. “If the Soviets shoot down the U2, giving Khrushchev a good excuse to walk out tomorrow morning—how can your film prove the Russians intended to blow up the summit even
before
it began?”

Stepan smiled. “Don’t take this personally, but my friend was one step ahead of you. The microfilm contains a date stamp.”

A look of fierce determination crossed Houston’s face. “I’ll try tonight by secure line. What worries me is that I’m dealing with bureaucrats. They have a certain mindset.”

“Meaning?”

Houston shook his head in disgust. “They’re shortsighted. Pragmatic. They have a tendency to play it safe in this era of so-called good will with the Soviets. ‘Moscow is edgy,’ they keep telling me. ‘We’ve seen too many defections to the West lately’.”

Brodsky paled.

“First things first,” Houston said, gripping Stepan’s arm. “Keep the lighter while I work on getting you out of here. Then we’ll see about your friend.”

Chapter 11

T
he next morning—May Day in Potsdam, East Germany—the summit began early.

Dwight Eisenhower, Nikita Khrushchev, Harold Macmillan, and Charles de Gaulle sat at a large square conference table, their military and civilian staffs seated behind them. Microphones had been placed in front of each participant. On a green felt tabletop were arrayed the usual pitchers of water, glasses, pads, pencils, and the like. Each of the four men had large ring binders nearby. Translators were out of sight.

The agenda and considerable preparatory work with the foreign ministers of the other countries had been completed well in advance by the American Department of State. Essentially there were two issues literally on the table. Foremost was the fate of Berlin. Was it to remain divided, militarized? The second issue involved a much-discussed nuclear arms treaty that was to be the subject of a subsequent summit.

As the four world leaders shuffled papers and the audio technicians tested sound levels and recording equipment, high in Soviet airspace pilot Frances Gary Powers’ supersonic U2 had been detected. A Soviet air defense general ordered the attack. His fighters were ordered to engage in suicidal maneuvers by ramming the American U-2 if there was no other way to bring it down.

Initial interceptions failed. Powers was up too high for the fighters, his U2 out of range.

Until it was hit by a surface-to-air missile.

Powers bailed out of the crippled aircraft even though, to avoid being taken alive, he’d been supplied with a poison-tipped needle hidden by CIA spooks in an American silver dollar. Contrary to strict orders, Powers didn’t use it.

At about 5:00 P.M. during the summit’s afternoon session, an aide approached Khrushchev and whispered in his ear. As he listened attentively, his face reddened. Suddenly he erupted from his chair and began shouting in Russian. The translators could barely keep up. To everyone not in on the act—and not all of the Soviets were—Khrushchev’s bombast seemed legitimate.

It virtually wrote the script for what Soviet Ambassador Dmitri Zorin would reiterate later that day in New York City.

The Soviets had Francis Gary Powers. And to the chagrin of the American intelligence establishment, they had not only Powers but also considerable wreckage from the super-secret U2 aircraft.

“Since our partnership in the Great Patriotic War with the countries represented here, too often Western hostility has blunted my country’s good intentions!” Khrushchev bellowed. “I have just been informed by Moscow that the imperialist United States has violated Soviet airspace and spied on our socialist nation. The purpose of this summit was to resolve important problems concerning Berlin and nuclear annihilation. Yet behind our back, the United States has been flying over the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics. Why? To take photographs of our defenses against imperialist subversion and aggression.”

President Eisenhower’s face was impassive. CIA at Langley had received a coded flash cable in the middle of the night from Paul Houston, warning that the Soviets would try for the U2, and that if they succeeded, would use it as an excuse to walk out of the summit.

Having readied himself for that possibility, Khrushchev’s bluster had no effect on Eisenhower, who had readied himself for that possibility.

Charles de Gaulle smirked, although it was not clear why or at whom.

Harold Macmillan tried to suppress a smile. Those who noticed figured that MI-5 or MI-6 had put him in the picture.

Khrushchev continued his rant. “We have your man, ‘Proudest’!”

Eisenhower suppressed a smile over Khrushchev’s mispronunciation of
Powers
.

Khrushchev raised a plump fist. “In the name of the Soviet Union, I demand an apology from the President of the United States.” He glared at Eisenhower. “I demand assurances that nothing like this will ever happen again.”

Looking Khrushchev squarely in the eye, Eisenhower said, “You won’t get an apology from me.”

Khrushchev and the rest of his delegation stormed out.

Chaos. Three of the Four-Power delegates were ushered out by their security personnel. Staffers packed. Reporters rushed for telephones. Limousines pulled up in front of Cecilienhof Palace.

Houston went into the bar for a stiff drink.

Stepan Brodsky joined him. “That was quite a show,” he said.

“Wasn’t it, though?” Houston said soberly, staring into his drink. “I got through last night to the CIA. Thanks to your information, President Eisenhower had advance notice.”

“I’m glad, Paul. Any news about me and my friend?”

When Paul Houston looked up, Brodsky shuddered inwardly. Houston didn’t have to answer his question—not with that ravaged face, those bloodshot eyes. “Last night I had a long-shot chance that my government wouldn’t turn me down,” Houston said tonelessly. “But after what happened here today— I’m so sorry, Stepan, and so damn helpless.”

Brodsky squeezed his shoulder. “You better get going, Paul. The limousines have already pulled up in front of the Palace. I’m expected outside too.”

They abandoned their bar stools and headed for the exit.

When Houston was a few steps ahead, Brodsky called after him. “I want you to know something, Paul. Working with you these last few months has been like having a small glimpse of all the things I’ve missed in my life. Thank you for that.”

Houston paused to answer . . . and walked on. He could not trust his voice.

He was waiting outside when he next caught sight of Stepan, who had stopped to speak with Ernst Roeder, an East German photographer friend of his.