Last Call for Blackford Oakes

by Buckley, William F. ;

  Next to him was Philby. His demeanor was anything but furtive. He looked not directly at Blackford, but immediately above him, as though he were interested in examining a beguiling piece of art. He was a tall, well-built man, his hair a white-gray, matching his suit, and he was wearing a tie that, Blackford thought, was—could it be? The tie of a Cambridge graduate? Was there a special Cambridge tie for a graduate who had betrayed his country? If so, there must be a shortage of them, Blackford reflected: Philby, Burgess, Maclean, Blunt, Cairncross. Were there others?

  All eyes turned to the entrance as Jutzeler came in, followed by a visibly nervous Lindbergh Titov, his collar open, his eyeglasses clutched in his hand, his eyes examining everything in the room, left and right. Behind him was Dr. Valeria Mikhailov, a blonde and sturdy northern type, self-assured, wearing black pants, a white blouse, a red vest, and pearl earrings. She was carrying a large handbag, one end of a manila folder protruding. A very small old man was next, perhaps in his early eighties. There was a solemnity in Judge Waldstein’s manner that suggested there would be no trifling with him. He was followed by an interpreter.

  They took their seats and straightened their papers on the table. Herr Waldstein looked about, as if in search of a gavel. Finding none, he tapped his water glass with his pen, looked down at his notes, and began to speak. “We are here, in this informal, indeed quite novel, convocation, in order to permit Professor Lindbergh Vissarionovich Titov, of the Moscow Radiological Institute, to deliberate his future. He has requested this special forum so that he can fully examine the alternatives. On my left,” he gestured, “are Soviet representatives who will make the case for his return to Moscow. Their identity is known to the U.S. representatives, who will make the case for Professor Titov to stay in the West—whether in Austria or the United States would be for him to decide.

  “I note that it was Dr. Titov who asked that the deputation advocating asylum should be made up of Americans, not Austrians. That choice, and others, were his to make.

  “We will begin the proceedings following a schedule suggested by Dr. Titov and submitted to both parties. There will be statements, followed by questions and cross-questions. Dr. Titov may interrupt the proceedings at any point. The advocates, however, will need to be recognized by the chair before interrupting to ask questions or make comments.

  “We will hear first from Dr. Kirov, a distinguished professor of medicine, and a colleague of Dr. Titov’s of long standing. Professor Kirov.”

  Kirov fumbled with his chair getting to his feet.

  “There is no need to stand. You may speak seated.”

  He sat down again.

  Kirov recited for a full five minutes the history of his association with Titov, beginning when they were both students at Moscow University, Titov under the special supervision of the renowned Nikolai Sokolov; continuing through their professional careers, Titov’s as a researcher with brilliant insights into the world of radiology.

  “We, loyal sons of the Soviet Union—my colleague Comrade Martins is not a native of our motherland, but a distinguished Englishman who elected many years ago to leave the West, to find haven and purpose in the Soviet Union. He traveled east, as I hope my old friend Linbek Vissarionovich will, on reflection, resolve to do.

  “Dr. Titov has made demands—requests—having to do with professional matters. The Education Ministry has examined these and found many of them reasonable, and if Dr. Titov elects to enumerate these, we are prepared, Your Excellency, to respond to them one by one. I believe my time is up.”

  Waldstein: “Dr. Titov, do you have any questions at this point?”

  “Well, yes I do. And I say this to my old friend Vladimir Spiridonovich: How would I know that if such reforms as you approved were to go into effect, they would not be rescinded later—a month later, or two years later?”

  “Dr. Kirov, would you answer that question?”

  Blackford’s hand pressed down on Gus’s forearm. “No comment,” he directed in a whisper.

  Kirov said that the good faith of the commitments of the Ministry of Education and Research would certainly bind everyone involved to such reforms as were agreed upon.

  Titov nodded and returned the chair to the judge.

  Waldstein looked over to his right. “Mr. Windels, you are taking the floor in place of your senior colleague?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, and I shall be speaking in Russian to Dr. Titov.”

  Waldstein nodded.

  Gus introduced himself as a foreign service officer especially familiar with the Soviet Union, inasmuch as he had been born in the Ukraine and had lived there through his fourteenth year. The United States, said Gus, had a single interest in these proceedings. It was to make it known to Dr. Titov that if he sought asylum, the U.S. government would pronounce him qualified to have it.

  He spoke for some minutes on the subject of other Soviet citizens who had undergone experiences similar to Titov’s. Not long ago, he said, one such was Svetlana Stalin herself. No one was more familiar than she with life and practices in the Soviet Union. These—life and practices in the Soviet Union—were affairs for the government of the USSR to decide upon, but Dr. Titov might wish to weigh, in his deliberations, the experience and resolutions of Svetlana Stalin, and also of the ballet dancers, the whole lot.

  “We are not here, Your Excellency, to argue the merits of life in the West. It is for Dr. Titov exclusively to weigh these. We are of course willing to answer, or try to answer, any questions he puts to us. Our mission is to assure him, quite simply and directly, that if he chooses to immigrate, we will honor his decision and act upon his claim for asylum.”

  “Professor Kirov, do you have any questions?”

  Kirov whispered to Philby.

  “I yield to my associate, Comrade Andrei Fyodorovich Martins.”

  Philby spoke in measured tones. “Is it not true that in the past, Soviet citizens who have moved to the West have been harassed, isolated, removed from normal life? I give the example of Anatoly Golitsyn. I will quote a letter he wrote to his sister in Odessa, which came to our attention.”

  He quoted the letter in which Golitsyn complained that he had been forced to live in a remote corner of New York State and forbidden to travel except with the permission of the FBI.

  “Your comments, Mr. Windels?”

  Blackford spoke up instead. “Your Excellency, the letter just now quoted by Mr. Martins was written by a defector who feared for his life. It was only with the purpose of protecting him from retaliation by agents of the Soviet government that he was subjected to such restrictions as requiring permission to travel.

  “It is so, Your Excellency, in both environments. The British diplomat Harold ‘Kim’ Philby published his memoirs in 1968—My Silent War, the book was called—and spoke of restrictions on his life in Moscow, including the requirement that he receive permission to travel.

  “We should add this point, Dr. Titov”—Blackford was looking now not at Waldstein, but at the bald, attentive man at his side. “Golitsyn and Philby were spies, men engaged in espionage. They changed loyalties, and thus were, hypothetically, special targets of retaliation. You, Dr. Titov, if we have been accurately informed, do not aspire to life as a secret agent. Our understanding is that your intentions would be simply to pursue your profession. Such have been the resolutions, we have been told, of Dr. Valeria Mikhailov, seated at your side, who also sought asylum, and has not been restrained in any way in her life in Austria—again, if we are correctly informed.”

  The faces of the Communist delegation were frozen.

  There was a pause. Waldstein asked Dr. Titov if he had any questions.

  Yes, he said, he did. His wife and son were evidently detained in the Soviet Union. “They were to arrive five days ago. And I have heard nothing from them. I wish to ask Professor Kirov, or Comrade Martins: Why have they not been released?”

  The two men spoke to each other in whispers. Kirov was pleading his own views, but clearly Phi
lby prevailed, and Kirov would be the spokesman of the position arrived at.

  When Kirov addressed the meeting, he looked away from Titov as he said his words. “The matter of other concerns and demands by Dr. Titov necessarily rests as simply one more demand, which cannot be addressed individually, needing to be considered alongside answers to the whole question.” Kirov fixed his eyes on his notes.

  Titov addressed the judge. “Your Honor, if my question is not answered satisfactorily, instead of in doublespeak, we cannot proceed with this exercise. I request a suspension of this forum until I have considered the implications of what Vladimir Spiridonovich has said. My old friend Vladimir Spiridonovich.” Titov looked, his eyes moist, down at the floor.

  “You have the right to suspend, indeed to terminate, these proceedings. Do you wish to schedule another session?”

  “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “We will, then,” the judge looked down at his notepad, “meet tomorrow, at the same time as today, following the same procedures. The order of withdrawal from this chamber will be as specified.”

  He got up, followed by Titov and Mikhailov and the interpreter. Oakes led Windels and their interpreter out through the back door. The Russians went out the front.

  CHAPTER 61

  The next day, Judge Waldstein began by saying that the deadlock reached in the closing period the day before would continue unless the parties could agree to a procedure. “I suggest that Dr. Titov agree to put off any reference to reunification with his family on the understanding that after other matters are dealt with, that question of reunification will then logically be faced.

  “If this is agreed upon, we can proceed. If it is not agreed upon, I do not see how we can go forward. If we put the family reunification in abeyance, it can be done with the understanding that unless that question is resolved to the satisfaction of Dr. Titov, all other agreements are canceled.”

  There was a stir in the room. Titov whispered briefly to Valeria.

  “This motion,” Waldstein continued, “will require that the parties present here consult among themselves. There are rooms upstairs. The first room on the right is reserved for Dr. Titov. He can consult with Professor Mikhailov there. The first room on the left is reserved for the Soviet delegation. The adjoining room, for the U.S. delegation. I will remain here and make myself available to anyone who wishes to consult with me.”

  A half hour later, Valeria Mikhailov reported to Waldstein that Titov was prepared to proceed on the understanding the judge had specified.

  A knock on each door established that the others were also ready to proceed.

  There followed an hour’s discussion, during which, using his notes, Titov enumerated his specific complaints when at work at his institute. Several demands were dealt with acquiescently by Kirov. Two of them he said he would need to consult with Moscow about before conceding.

  For almost the whole of the subsequent half hour, the parties stalled on the question of the freedom, asked for by Titov, to send to scientists abroad, on his own motion, research developed at his institute. Kirov said that he had been “instructed” that a high-level committee of the Ministry of Education would need to weigh any proposal to share research.

  Time was spent on just who would participate in such a committee, and a few names were mentioned. It was embarrassing to Titov when Martins gave the name of Kirov as manifestly qualified. Titov proceeded as though he had not heard the nomination.

  By about three o’clock, the fatigue of all the parties was palpable. But Waldstein wanted them to get as far as they could. There had been nothing at all for Blackford and Gus to contribute, except to answer questions about the nature of censorship in the United States. Blackford admitted that scientists in America at work on secret projects could not simply share their research with anyone else. “But that would not apply to medical research.”

  “What about medical research with military implications?” Waldstein asked.

  Kirov broke in. “I will not ask Dr. Titov directly, in this forum, to opine on whether his research has military implications. But it would seem obvious that, however tangentially, it does. This may be one reason why Dr. Titov traveled two years ago to Hiroshima.”

  Everyone looked up at Titov.

  “Those of you who are not informed in medical science,” he said, pointing his finger first at Waldstein, then at Blackford, “cannot know that research of almost any kind can have military uses. Stopping quickly the loss of blood is thought a purely medical expedient. On a battlefield it can be a critical military asset.

  “But with your permission, Judge Waldstein”—Titov’s impatience broke through—“notwithstanding the earlier agreement, I must insist that unless I am reunited with my family, I will no longer discuss any subsidiary matters.”

  Waldstein sipped from his water glass. He saw that Martins’s hand was raised for recognition.

  “Yes, Herr Martins.”

  Philby cleared his throat. “I am instructed to advise Dr. Titov that his wife and son will under no circumstances be released from the Soviet Union. There will be family reunification only if Dr. Titov returns to the land that raised him, educated him, and furnished him with the equipment that made possible his research.”

  Titov turned pale. He looked at Valeria. Blackford’s low hiss of frustration could be heard by Gus. Kirov’s face was again turned down to his notes. Philby was silent. Everyone was silent.

  Waldstein sipped again at his glass of water. He addressed Peter Jutzeler, seated by the entrance door. “Herr Jutzeler, we shall have to adjourn. I shall not reconvene this meeting until you request me to do so after hearing from Dr. Titov and from the Soviet delegation that they are prepared to proceed. If United States participation is required in formulating an agreement, you are to so advise Mr. Oakes.”

  He rose.

  CHAPTER 62

  Late in the afternoon, Blackford called Jutzeler, using the telephone number he had been given. Blackford had spent an hour at the embassy, conferring with Ambassador Grunwald and then, on the secure line, having a long exchange with Director Webster, who in turn had spoken with the secretary of state and the national security adviser.

  “I have a proposal I need to communicate to Dr. Titov,” Blackford said to Jutzeler, “and it’s going to require spending a while with him. Can you take us—Windels and me—to him?”

  “Yes. At least, I think I can. Before I say yes finally, I must call Waldstein. I want to … make sure that it is not explicit—or even implicit—that neither of the parties may talk privately with Titov, even in my presence. Where will you be?”

  “What I have in mind to communicate cannot be done in your presence. Inform Judge Waldstein that, reciprocally, we will raise no objection to a private meeting between Dr. Titov and the Soviet delegation.”

  “Very well, I understand. Again, where will you be?”

  “I will be in my hotel room with Windels for a half hour. Then we will go to the dining room. But we’ll leave word that we are expecting a call.”

  “I will try to get through to you before dinner.”

  He did, and Oakes and Gus met with Titov and Valeria at their selected restaurant, near the Schwarzenberg Palace.

  Soup and wine were served, and Blackford set forth his proposal.

  Titov’s soup grew cold while, for twenty minutes, he listened attentively to Blackford and exchanged quick reactions with Valeria. Finally, he asked Blackford to give him an opportunity to confer privately with Valeria.

  “Of course. But I think Gus and I will order something to eat while you deliberate. Maybe you should do the same thing?”

  “Is that medical advice?” Titov asked with a smile. Gus interpreted. Feigning offense, Blackford observed huffily that he was able to understand a phrase that basic without the help of an interpreter.

  “It is something of a gamble, but we can hold out hope,” Titov concluded, when the four conspirators joined up for coffee.

  Valeria, when
she and Titov were at a separate table, had said she thought Blackford’s idea was surely worth attempting. “There is an element of cowardice in these bullies. It disappoints me that Kirov seems so humble, so subservient with that Martins creature. But we can count on the KGB giving final authority to the man closest to a KGB turn of mind, and that would certainly be Andrei Fyodorovich Martins.”

  Titov used the restaurant telephone to call Jutzeler. Jutzeler called Waldstein, who got word to the other parties that they would convene again the following day. Same time, same procedures.

  The heavy spring rain and strong winds confused the regimental drill devised by Jutzeler, as the principals coped with umbrellas and raincoats and hats. Blackford found himself distressingly close to body contact with Philby, bound for their separate entrances. But all was soon in order, and Judge Waldstein recognized Titov.

  Titov said that he had thought through the negotiations they had had in this room and had resolved what would be his principal decision. He had conferred with Mr. Oakes on such compromises as might then be made in which the United States would concur. “My decision, Judge Waldstein, is to petition the United States Embassy for asylum and to emigrate to the United States to pursue there my calling as a radiological researcher.”

  Philby looked over at Kirov, but Kirov’s head did not move.

  Titov went on. “I will expect the Soviet Union to deliver my wife and my son to me here in Vienna. I would request, also, that they bring me two filing cabinets. I grant permission to copy everything to be found in those cabinets.

  “I further agree, and would execute such an agreement with all attention given to legal enforcement, to communicate any future developments in my work to the Moscow Radiological Institute, including 75 percent of any commercial value that derives from any work I do in the next ten years.

  “I further undertake to avoid any publicity that would otherwise attach to my departure for America. I would not meet with the press or grant interviews. I would pledge, again for ten years, not to pronounce a single word of criticism of the Soviet government, not to join with any other emigrant in any public protest of any policies undertaken by the Soviet government.