“Yes.”
The old man shrugged. “I didn’t believe it. I still don’t believe it.”
“Why not?” The Russian pursed his lips. “Experience. Experience of Moscow and experience of Washington. It’s a piece of propaganda.”
“How do you make that out?”
“Moscow have made no move to suggest an exchange. Why should they? I have kept silent. And I shall remain silent. So what do they gain?”
“That’s a bit cynical isn’t it?”
“Not cynical. Just realistic.”
“And Washington?”
The old man sighed. “You think after all the trouble you people went to to have me convicted that they’re going to trade me for a pilot who embarrassed you all, from Eisenhower down?” He shook his head. “No way, my friend, no way.”
Nowak smiled. “I think you’re going to be surprised, Colonel.”
“No, sir. It’s you people who are going to be surprised.”
“How come?”
“Because I won’t agree to the exchange myself.”
Abel saw the shock and surprise on the American’s face and despised him for his naivety.
“And one more thing, my friend. The pieces in the newspapers. The pleading by the pilot’s parents are propaganda too. One more stick to beat the Soviets with. The hard-hearted men in the Kremlin.” He shook his head. “You won’t get me to join in the charade.”
“I swear to you—there’s no charade. It’s a genuine attempt to release you and Gary Powers.”
“Whatever it is—count me out. I shall not co-operate.”
“You don’t have any choice, Colonel,” Nowak said quietly.
Abel smiled coldly. “Even your own media will condemn you and the European press will have a field day. The American State Department sending back a Russian who asks for asylum.”
“You mean you would actually do that?”
“You can rely on it, my friend.”
“But why?”
“Think about it. Work it out very carefully. And remember what we tell our new KGB recruits: when you’ve looked at every possibility and it still won’t fit—then try the impossibilities.” Abel stood up. “I’d like to go back to my cell.”
Shapiro and Macleod were sitting in the VIP lounge at the airport when the girl came over to say that Macleod was wanted on the phone. He was away for about ten minutes and when he came back he told Shapiro of Nowak’s meeting with Abel.
“Would you people let me talk to him?”
“Why? Do you think you could make him change his mind?”
“I’d like the chance to try.”
“We’d better tell the desk that you’re not taking this flight.”
Back at the CIA’s HQ at Langley, Shapiro hung around trying to hide his tension as Macleod consulted his colleagues. It was almost an hour before Macleod came back.
It had been agreed that he could interview Abel, but it was obvious that it had been a reluctant agreement. It was conditional on him not mentioning or even hinting at the inclusion of Phoenix in the proposed exchange. He would be flown to the Atlanta Penitentiary by military plane the next day. Nowak would go with him but they had agreed that he could see Abel alone.
A local CIA officer had driven them to the prison and Nowak had introduced Shapiro to the Prison Warden and then left him.
“He’s got a cell of his own, Mr. Shapiro. You could talk to him there or in the visitors’ room. You’d be alone in either place.”
“Would you have any objections to me talking to him in the open air, the recreation area maybe?”
“Can I ask you why?”
Shapiro sighed. “You know his background, Warden. He’ll take it for granted that any inside place is bugged. I’d like him to feel free to talk. It could be important.”
“We’ve got a sports area. You could talk to him there. He’s not violent and he’s a bit too old and too rational to try and escape. How long do you think you’ll need?”
“About a couple of hours maybe.”
“I’ll get one of my men to take you there and somebody will bring him out to you.”
“Thanks for your co-operation.”
“You’re welcome.”
Shapiro sat on a wooden bench at the far side of the sports field and took off his jacket as the sun beat down. He had tried to make notes the previous evening of what he would say to the KGB colonel but there was nothing to write down. He had no idea of what he should say. And why should the Russian be more influenced by talking to him rather than Nowak? But the thought of the man in the Gulag camp haunted him. He had had no peace of mind from the first moment when he learned that Phoenix was missing. It was as if history was repeating itself. Then he saw a uniformed prison officer open the wire-mesh door at the far end of the sports field. Shapiro watched as the tall lean figure of the man in the outsize suit came through the open gate. He was almost a hundred yards away. It wasn’t until he was twenty feet away that Abel recognised the man who was sitting on the bench.
30
Sir Peter Clark’s cottage was on the outskirts of Petersfield. Its grounds were no more than one acre but they gave onto the village cricket ground which in turn sloped upwards to a wooded hillside lined with beech and oak. Shapiro and Morton had been waved to wicker armchairs with cushions while Sir Peter sat on a rustic bench that was green with age and weathering. In an odd way their chosen drinks expressed much of their individual characters. Shapiro was drinking whisky, Morton locally brewed beer and Sir Peter was sipping from a glass of milk.
“Tell me again, Joe. It was before my time. Why did you think …” He paused, sensing that he was beginning to build a sentence that implied either blame or criticism, “… remind me of the circumstances.”
Morton, sensing Shapiro’s confusion, said, “We had to make sure that the minimum number of people knew of what was planned.
