“I don’t see what all this has to do with me,” George protested quietly.
“Well,” Dmitri said with a little smile, “a father is a father. I mean, if I were in your place I would want to help him. At least to die peacefully. It’s possible I could be in a position to help him.”
“Then do so.”
There was a pause, like the rest period between rounds of a fight.
Yakushkin replied simply, “It doesn’t work that way.”
“What the hell are you driving at?”
Dmitri refilled George’s wine glass and then spoke in friendly, reassuring tones.
“Please, Keller, if you think I’m going to ask you to commit espionage, you’re sorely mistaken.”
“But you do want me to do something,” George insisted.
“Yes. Something perfectly legal. It is simply a matter of unblocking the logjam of your government’s bureaucracy. We have been trying for months now to obtain a piece of equipment —”
“Which, I suppose, you would like me to steal,” George interrupted.
“No, no. This is a small device that we are trying to buy. Do you hear me?
“And you want me to push them?”
“ ‘Push’ is too strong a word,” the diplomat replied. “I would prefer to say ‘gently nudge.’ Look, all I want you to do is satisfy yourself that the Taylor RX-80 is of no military value. Take your time and give me a buzz when you’ve checked it out. Anyway, I’ve had a very pleasant evening.”
“Yes, George replied, trying to keep his psychic equilibrium. “Thanks very much.”
In his Memorandum of Conversation to the FBI referring to his second meeting with Dmitri Yakushkin, Cultural Attache at the Soviet Embassy, George Keller wrote succinctly:
I tried to recruit him. He tried to recruit me.
Game ended in a scoreless tie.
But in fact, in the days that followed, George was haunted by thoughts of the father whom he hated. And by thoughts of that same father lying in agony in a Budapest hospital. Whom he could no longer hate.
After three days and nights he was still in an anguished quandary. The thought even occurred to him that the Russians might be bluffing. For all he knew, his father might be hale and hearty in some elegant resort for Party officials. How could he be sure?
Dmitri Yakushkin had anticipated this. On the fourth morning, when George went downstairs to get the mail, he found a large manila envelope that had been delivered by hand.
It contained two chest X-rays and a short note from the diplomat:
Dear George,
I thought these might be of interest.
ANDREW ELIOT’S DIARY
September 30, 1973
I’m scared that something’s terribly wrong with George Keller. He called me this afternoon and asked me, since I’m active in alumni affairs, whether I knew any good doctors in the Washington area.
I was puzzled for several reasons. Why did he ask me, a layman? And why didn’t he ask some friends of his who live in his area?
He explained that it was something really serious and had to be kept confidential. Of course, I said that I would try to help him but I’d need some details, like exactly what
At first he gave a very strange answer. He needed someone “very trustworthy.”
This made me think that George might be having some kind of nervous breakdown. I mean, I know those high-security guys are under tremendous pressure.
But, no. What he wanted was the name of the best
This really upset me. Why did he need a cancer specialist? I didn’t feel I had the right to ask.
I just told him I’d make some discreet inquiries among my medical friends and call him back. Then he quickly insisted that
At this point the operator interrupted to say that his three minutes were up. He shoved in some more coins just to say he’d call the next day at exactly the same time.
Naturally, I immediately contacted the alumni office and asked one of my old buddies who works there to have the computer try to find what George needed (without using any names, of course). I soon found out that a classmate, Peter Ryder, was now a professor of oncology at Johns Hopkins, in nearby Baltimore.
Though I was worried about his health, something else also disturbed me.
Why did he call from a pay phone?
Peter Ryder, Professor of Oncology at Johns Hopkins Medical School, startled George by his greeting.
“
“I don’t understand. Why are you speaking Russian to me?”
“Gosh,” said the tall, balding physician, unable to conceal his disappointment, “don’t you remember me? I sat right next to you in Slavic 168. But I guess in those days you were too busy listening to the lecture to notice anything else, huh?”
“Uh, I suppose so,” George said distractedly. “Do you think we could go somewhere private and talk?”
“Yes, of course. You said you had some X-rays. We can look at them in my office.”
George clutched the manila envelope as he followed the white-coated specialist down the corridor. Even when the door to Ryder’s office was closed, he would not relinquish the photographs.
“Doctor,” he said in confidential tones, “there’s something I must explain to you first.”
“Please call me Pete,” he insisted.
“Well, Pete, you know that I work for the State Department. These X-rays are of a security nature.”
“I don’t follow you, George.”
“They are of a high-ranking Communist leader and were smuggled out under great secrecy. I need to be sure that there will be no written report of this conversation. And I won’t be able to explain why I need the information.”
“That’s okay,” Ryder replied. “I’m savvy enough to guess it’s important for you guys to know how healthy the big shots on the other side are. Anyway, you can count on my discretion.”
