From there I was taken to a large room where some dozen people were waiting. A few wore uniforms, but most were in civilian clothes. There was no doubt they were “big shots.” It was interesting how you could distinguish rank, even when never mentioned. I was seated at one end of a long table; a different interpreter and two other men sat alongside. The others remained behind me, out of sight.
There were no harsh light in my eyes, the chair was not uncomfortable, but the interrogation atmosphere was unmistakable.
What was my name? My nationality? My parents’ name? My birthplace? What was my military rank? Why had I flown over Russia? On whose orders was I carrying out this act of aggression? What type aircraft had I been flying? Was I alone, or were there other planes? What people was I to contact if I went down? What was my takeoff point? Where had I intended to land? How many times had I flown over Russia?
The tactic I had decided upon was simple. When questioned, I would tell them the truth.
Up to a point. And with definite limitations.
Should the question concern something I was sure they already knew (such as my route, which was on the maps), or something they could easily find out (such as the commanding officer of Detachment 10-10), I would tell them the truth. Establishing a foundation of truthfulness on little things, I could risk lying on the big ones.
The limitations were also important. Although I was prepared to admit having made a number of border-surveillance flights, which were not illegal, I intended to maintain this was my first overflight. If I could convince them of this, vast areas of questioning would be cut off: where the other flights had originated, how many there had been, where they had gone, their intelligence objectives. As a further limitation, I decided to stress, in whatever ways I could, that I was only a pilot, not an intelligence agent or spy, paid only to fly a plane along a certain route, flipping switches on and off at points designated on the map; that I was unfamiliar with the special equipment carried in the plane; nor had I ever been told the intelligence results of my border flights.
As for the “special” missions, I had no intention of mentioning them, knowing that this information could be far more damaging to the United States than any other I possessed.
There was no denying they had captured a U-2 pilot. This didn’t mean he had to be particularly knowledgeable or experienced.
My tactics were improvised. No one had briefed me on how to handle such a situation. And I was not at all sure they would work. But I had to try. Too much was at stake to do otherwise.
“Why was this flight flown so close to the Summit meetings? Was this a deliberate attempt to sabotage the talks?”
That caught me off guard. The Summit hadn’t even crossed my mind.
I replied that I was sure the flight had nothing to do with the Summit, that had the United States wanted to wreck the talks they needed only not to show up, that sending an airplane over Russia was certainly a roundabout method.
From the way they repeatedly returned to that question, it was obvious someone was obsessed with this explanation. I could make a fairly good guess who.
They refused to believe this was not one of the purposes of the flight.
Just as they refused to believe I was not military.
“At what altitude were you flying when your flight was terminated?”
This was, as far as I was concerned, one of the most important questions they could ask. Having already given it a great deal of thought, I replied, “At maximum altitude for the plane, sixty-eight thousand feet.”
This was not one, but two, lies.
The maximum altitude of the U-2 was highly relative. Stripped down, it could reach heights greatly different from those it reached when it carried a variety of equipment and a full fuel load. Sixtyeight thousand feet was not the maximum altitude for the plane in either case.
Nor was it the altitude at which I had been flying during this particular flight.
It was an arbitrary figure I had chosen, close enough to my actual altitude to be credible, I hoped; far enough away so that if the overflights continued, and the Russians used it as a setting for their missiles, they would miss their targets.
This was my greatest fear: that we might resume the flights.
Following the crash of the C-130 in 1958, the Communists had returned the bodies of six men. There had been no mention of the eleven others known to be aboard.
The United States knew the C-130 had been shot down, but they would not necessarily know what had happened to me. Should the Russians choose to say nothing, the agency might well conclude I had developed engine trouble or, considering number 360’s fuel-tank problem, run out of fuel and crashed unnoticed in an isolated area.
After a time, hearing nothing, they might well resume the overflights.
Should they do so, I did not want my fellow pilots to end up as I did.
It was important that they believe me. This was the main reason I decided to answer their questions rather than remain silent. Despite instructions of the intelligence officer (“You may tell them everything because they’re going to get it out of you anyway”), all my service training inclined me toward silence.
Yet, as I was well aware, it was a dangerous gamble. It was possible their intelligence had already ferreted out the exact altitude. I was inclined to doubt this: this was one of the most closely guarded secrets of the U-2. Even more dangerous were their radar plots. Everything depended on their accuracy, or rather, lack of it. Previously we had felt their height-finding radar was inaccurate at the altitudes at which we were flying. If we were wrong, they would quickly pinpoint the lie.
The alternative made the risk imperative.
My interrogators were, unfortunately, professionals. From their set expressions I couldn’t tell whether they believed me or not.
I was exhausted. As the questioning continued, I had to watch my answers, weighing each carefully to make sure not to make a slip. Just the use of the plural rather than the singular—“overflights” instead of “overflight”—could give away everything.
The biggest problem with lying, I realized, is that you have to remember your lies.
Yet I discovered something else that worked to my favor. Each question and each answer had to be translated. And this not only eliminated the possibility of a barrage of rapid-fire questions, it also gave me extra time, time in which to think, to try to determine the direction of the line of questioning and, if possible, prepare myself.
Also, so long as I didn’t do it too often, I found I could interrupt the interrogation, by asking questions myself.
Could I see a representative of the U.S. Embassy?
Not permitted.
The Red Cross?
Not permitted.
Looking around, I suddenly realized that the man with the briefcase had left the room. I had been afraid of this.
Immediately I told the interpreter to warn him to be extremely careful with the pin.
One of the men hurried out to relay the message.
I knew that on closer examination the secret of the pin would be discovered. But I didn’t want it to be found through a pricked finger and an accidental death. My situation was bad enough without adding a killing.
And I didn’t want to be responsible for the death of any human being, KGB or not.
The man who appeared to be in charge of the interrogation was middle-aged, heavyset, puffy-faced, wore glasses. Later I learned he was Roman A. Rudenko, procurator-general of the USSR, and that following World War II he had been chief prosecutor for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics in the Nazi war-crimes trials at Nuremberg.
After about three hours the questioning took an unexpected turn. Rudenko offered me a cigarette. I accepted, noticing it was a Chesterfield. He then asked me if I had ever visited Moscow before. I told him no.