Inside the trunk was my seat pack. In it, among other easily identifiable items, was the American-flag poster, with “I am an American…” printed on it in fourteen languages, including Russian. It seemed useless to deny it. I nodded and the conversation around me suddenly grew very animated. Fortunately it didn’t seem hostile. Rather they appeared to be congratulating themselves on having made such a prize catch.
The road was muddy, either from spring thaw or recent rains, and we bounced and slid over the ruts. It was important that I think clearly, decide what my course from this point should be.
The problem: I was completely unprepared. I presumed that once it was known I was missing a cover story would be issued. Unfortunately, no one had ever bothered to inform us pilots what it would be.
I decided that when questioned I would say I had been piloting a weather plane, en route from Pakistan to Turkey, when my compass had gone out, and that apparently I had accidentally flown in the wrong direction. I doubted that they would believe me; I was over thirteen hundred miles inside Russia; but it was all I had to work with.
We were totally unprepared for the crash possibility. I could not speak Russian, had no one to contact. In the four years I had worked for the agency, only once had I received instructions on what to do in the event of capture. And that, brought out by my own questioning, had been the single remark of the intelligence officer: “You may as well tell them everything, because they’re going to get it out of you anyway”
I was damned if I was going to do that. Although not sure how, or if, I could manage it, there were some things I was determined to keep from them at any cost.
After driving for about thirty minutes we came to another village, larger than the first, with paved streets. Later I learned that I had landed on a large state farm. The second village was its headquarters; the building to which I was taken was the Rural Soviet. Pulling in front of the building, one of the men went in and brought out a man in uniform, whom I assumed to be a policeman. Making me stand alongside the automobile, he made a cursory search, finding and keeping my cigarettes and lighter, but missing the poison pin.
Taking me to one of the offices in the building, they indicated I was to undress. This time the search was more thorough, even the seams of my clothing examined.
On completion, they kept the pressure suit but gave me back the outer flight suit. While putting it back on, I casually ran my hand down the outside of the pocket. And felt it. Again they had overlooked the pin.
Several of the men in the office wore military uniforms. As one took down the statements of the men who had apprehended me, another tried to question me in German. I shook my head. Apparently no one spoke English.
A doctor arrived, to my surprise a woman, about thirty. She checked my heartbeat and pulse; noticing some scratches on my right leg, she painted them with antiseptic. When I indicated I had a headache, she gave me two small pills that looked and tasted like aspirin.
Perhaps I imagined it. Perhaps I was so desperate for some hopeful sign that I created it in my mind. But I was sure the look she gave me was sympathetic, as if she understood my predicament and wished she could help me.
Individually and in small groups people began arriving bearing pieces of equipment or wreckage from the plane. I could see English lettering—manufacturers’ names, maintenance instructions, serial numbers—on some of them.
I cringed inside. One man was carrying a reel of seventy-millimeter film.
What little credibility my cover story possessed disappeared at that moment.
As the people came in, some took out small cards and proudly showed them to the officers. There was much examining and comparing. It was only a guess, but I thought they must be Communistparty membership cards, the lowest numbers perhaps indicating their owners having been party members longer than the others.
During all of this I seemed to be largely forgotten.
But I knew that was wishful thinking. There was also much telephoning. I didn’t have to speak the language to surmise the subject.
After we had been there about two hours, I was escorted out of the building and placed in a military vehicle similar to, but a little larger than, the U.S. jeep. In the front seat were a military driver and civilian. I was in the middle of the back seat, between an officer and an enlisted man. Across the lap of the latter was an automatic weapon with a huge clip. It could have been a carbine but looked more like a submachine gun. He kept his finger in the trigger guard. A second car followed. Once on the road, a third car joined the procession.
Had my flight proceeded uninterrupted, I would have been about two hours from Norway.
Our destination was Sverdlovsk. From the flags, banners, and crowds on the street, it was obvious something was being celebrated. Not until then did I recall the date and remember that May 1 was a Communist holiday.
The building in front of which we stopped—three story, with a severe stone façade—was unmistakably a government building, and would have been recognizable as such in either the United States or Russia. I was taken to a busy office on the second floor. There was no mistaking it, either. Although there were no bars on the windows, and some of the men wore military uniforms, and the others wore civilian clothes, they were far more authoritative and sure of themselves than any of the people previously encountered. They were police of some kind, presumably KGB. At this time I knew nothing about the KGB, other than its initials and that it was some form of Russian secret police. Later I would learn a great deal more than I wished to know. Its full name is Komitat Gosudarstvennoi Bezopasnosti, or Committee for State Security; it is the current descendant of the Cheka, NKVD, and MVD.
These men were professionals. There was another search. And this time they didn’t overlook the pin.
The man who found it, however, one of the civilians to whom the others seemed to defer, didn’t seem greatly interested. Examining it cursorily, he slipped it into his briefcase.
I was determined to keep that briefcase within sight.
My ears were still ringing. I stuck my finger in one and shook my head, trying to stop the buzzing.
One of the men reached over and slapped my hand down.
It seemed uncalled for and made me mad, although I tried not to react.
A few minutes later I tried to clear my ears again, and again he knocked down my hand. Then I realized they were probably worried that I had a poison capsule in my ear and was trying to get at it.
From their careful examination of both my person and my clothing it was obvious they expected to find some sort of poison on me.
“Are you an American?” one man asked.
Hearing English for the first time startled me. I admitted I was.
Apparently he was the only one who spoke the language, as he acted as translator whenever any of the others asked questions.
His English was very poor.
As convincingly as possible, I explained how I had lost my bearings and had flown over the border by mistake.
It was obvious they didn’t believe a word of it.
I hadn’t really expected that they would. Evidence indicated otherwise. As they brought in items from the wreckage, I had spotted my maps, which I’d hoped had been destroyed in the crash of the plane. Most hadn’t. There were even maps I hadn’t known were aboard, duplicates someone back at Peshawar had thoughtfully stuck in my pack or on the plane. My route, from Pakistan to Norway, was clearly marked on the set I had been using for navigation. And, from what I could see of them, these seemed to be intact.