The question was put all through the following day also.
Meanwhile a certain German export merchant named Peter Scheuner sat in the Waldorf-Astoria on tenterhooks. From time to time his telephone bell rang. The callers were FBI agents who informed Thomas by code words that the operation was still continuing without success. Each time Thomas replaced the receiver with a sigh.
This situation changed abruptly on June 21 at 4:35 p.m. Once again the telephone bell rang. A deep voice said: "Zero."
Thomas, electrified, sprang to his feet. "Where?" was all he said.
The voice answered: "3145 Riverside Drive. Dr. Willcox."
Twenty minutes later Thomas Lieven stood in Dr. Ted Will-cox's little consulting room. The doctor was an elderly man who had set up practice in a poor quarter of New York.
He held a photograph in his hand and said: "Of course I remember this man, if only because well-dressed people so seldom come to see me."
Well, there at last you made a mistake, you super-agent of the Soviet Union, thought Thomas. You visited a doctor living as far away as possible from your own place. I understand why. And yet it was wrong. Dr. Willcox continued: "He came to see me in the afternoon of June 16, and I vaccinated him. Then I handed him a so-called International Epidemics Pass, such as is required by travelers to Europe, for instance." The old doctor limped across to his card index cabinet and turned
up his notes for June 16. He drew out a card. "The man's name was Martin Collins. According to his birth certificate he was born an American citizen on July 7, 1910, in Manhattan. The number of the certificate was: 32027/7/71897."
At a quarter-past Thomas Lieven and a permanent member of the FBI staff obliged two officials in the Manhattan registry of births to work overtime. After a long time one of them came shuffling back, blew the dust off a yellowed registration card and growled: "Martin Collins ... Collins, Martin— what's the meaning of that twaddle? Didn't you say 32027/7/71897?"
"I did," Thomas nodded.
The official looked up at him. "Then listen to me. Birth Certificate 32027/7/71897 was issued on January 4, 1898, for a certain Emilie Woermann, who died on January 6, 1902, at the age of four. Of pneumonia."
Thomas glanced at the FBI agent, saying quietly: "Now we have the fellow."
[11]
A brass plate on the door read:
EMIL ROBERT GOLDFUSS
Outside the door in question, on the top floor of the huge apartment block at 252 Fulton Street, stood two men. It was 7:06 p.m. on June 21, 1957. One of the men drew a pistol from his shoulder holster and released the safety catch. The other drew an old-fashioned gold repeater out of his pocket. "That's funny," said Thomas Lieven. "It's only just seven and I'm terribly hungry." The FBI man banged on the door, stepped aside and leveled his revolver.
The door opened. A lean man in a blue painter's smock, holding a palette in his hand, stood on the threshold. His winning smile radiated sympathy and intelligence. With a glance at the agent's pistol he inquired: "What's this for, sir? Is it a joke? An ad? Or a gift?"
"Mr. Goldfuss or Mark or Collins," said the FBI man, "or whatever you like to call yourself, you're under arrest."
"Who's arresting me?"
"The FBI."
"My dear sir," said the other in a friendly tone, "you can't arrest me. I haven't committed any punishable offense and you haven't a warrant."
"Oh, yes, we have, Mr. Goldfuss," said Thomas, taking a step toward him. Thomas's features also bore a winning smile.
"Who are you?"
"A friend of the family," replied Thomas. "I mean the FBI family. I must tell you, Mr. Goldfuss, that a warrant for your arrest was drawn up several days ago. We only needed a decent excuse to fill in on the form. Yesterday we found a very nice one. A false birth certificate."
Two men suddenly appeared from the floor below and two others from the attic.
Thomas said: "We brought these dear friends with us because we know, of course, that you're not only a charming forger of birth certificates."
"Oh? What else am I, then?"
"Probably the best agent the Soviet Union ever had," Thomas Lieven rejoined with a smile. "And I never pay undeserved compliments."
Goldfuss smiled back at him. The two men looked at each other in silence for a long moment.
The studio apartment was immediately searched. The FBI men found the birth certificate in the name of Martin Collins, papers in the name of Goldfuss, $3545 in cash, a steamer ticket to Europe in the name of Collins, booked for July 1, 1957, and a powerful short-wave transmitter of the Halli-crafter type, standing quite unconcealed between two pictures.
The FBI men helped Mr. Goldfuss to pack a small bag. Thomas noticed that in the process he threw away a few obviously used paper handkerchiefs. When Thomas retrieved these crumpled flimsies from the wastepaper basket, Goldfuss turned as pale as a corpse. Thomas smoothed out the handkerchiefs carefully. A few dark spots, no more noticeable than fly specks, were visible.
"H'm," grunted Thomas. Twenty years of secret service in the most various countries at the constant risk of his life had left him extremely observant.
Two days later sensational news broke in the United States. The most dangerous Russian agent of all time had been apprehended. Microfilms which he had hidden in used paper handkerchiefs revealed the complicated code he used, his true name and his true history.
He held the rank of colonel in the Russian secret service and had been able to work as a spy in the States, undisturbed and unsuspected, for ten years. His name was Rudolf Ivano-vich Abel.
By the evening of June 23, 1957, teleprinters were tapping out information of his arrest and its importance to the newspaper offices of five continents, all over the world. Even during the following days and weeks the exploits of Colonel Rudolf Ivanovich Abel continued to reach the headlines. The world learned a lot about him, but by no means all.
The world never learned, for instance, of the luncheon to which one cheerful gentleman and two solemn gentlemen sat down on August 17, 1957, in a luxurious log cabin situated among the idyllic wooden slopes of the state of Maryland.
MENU
Calf Kidneys in Champagne
Larded
(Pineapple (Dessert
MARYLAND, 17 AUGUST 1957
Lieven's kidneys in champagne Made even big shots think again.
Calf Kidneys in Champagne
Remove the fat and skin from two calf kidneys, cut them into cubes, fry them for three minutes in very hot butter. Season with pepper and salt. Bring them to the table in a chafing dish over a spirit lamp. Pour a small glass of cognac over the kidneys. Light the flame. Put it out with champagne. Add one cup of sliced mushrooms, braised in butter, and a tablespoonful of chopped parsley. Reheat the whole but do not boil. Fill into individual tart shells made of unsweetened puff or short pastry.
Larded Pike
Rub the cleaned fish with pepper and salt, sprinkle it with lemon juice and leave it to stand one hour. Dry well. Lard on both sides with strips of fat bacon. Place in a fireproof dish with the back of the fish toward the top. Baste with brown butter and place in a preheated oven. Bake the fish,
without turning it, for about half an hour, basting frequently and adding slowly sour cream mixed with a little cornstarch. Serve in the same dish.
Pineapple Dessert
Line a large, flat glass dish with sponge fingers. Pour pineapple juice over them. Cover with a layer of slightly sweetened whipped cream. Fill to the top with pieces of chopped pineapple and preserved morella cherries. Serve very cold.
"Gentlemen," cried Thomas Lieven cheerfully, "why so solemn?" He was looking at J. Edgar Hoover, chief of the United States FBI, and the deeply bronzed, forty-year-old James B. Donovan, whose hair was already a dazzling white. Donovan was to defend the master spy Abel in the forthcoming trial.
Thomas had just emerged from the kitchen. He was carrying a tray with a big saucepan and all sorts of utensils on it. As he put down the tray
and lit a spirit lamp standing on a side table near the laid luncheon table itself, he answered his own question. "Well, you're probably both so solemn because you're remembering your wartime experiences when you were always getting in each other's hair as the chiefs of two competing espionage outfits. Isn't that it?"
It looked as though he had scored a bull's-eye. Hoover grunted and Donovan cleared his throat irritably. The latter had in fact been in charge during the war of the famous Office of Strategic Services. He and his men had on several occasions been in conflict with Hoover's FBI.
Thomas placed the saucepan on the spirit lamp. He announced as cheerfully as ever: "Please be seated, gentlemen. In prudent anticipation of your mood I have ventured to dream up and prepare a first course calculated to calm nerves, elevate minds and raise spirits."
He moved the saucepan to and fro over the flame of the lamp. The saucepan contained little cubes of veal kidney, lightly grilled. "I hope this dish will bring us nearer to our objective."
"What objective are you talking about?" Donovan growled suspiciously.
Thomas answered with circumspection, as he poured cognac over the kidneys: "The interests of both your client and the United States of America."
Hoover glanced at Donovan. "Abel will go to the electric chair, that's certain. We've more than enough evidence against him."
Donovan shrugged his shoulders. "I shall be interested to hear, just the same, how you're going to prove that my client is a Russian spy."
Thomas shook his head. "Such a pity. Such a waste of a unique talent. Lamentable, really lamentable."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean it's lamentable to think of a man like Abel being grilled on the chair."
"I should be obliged if you'd be a little more tactful just before lunch, Mr. Scheuner."
"I beg your pardon. But really my heart bleeds. Abel is not only gifted. He is a genius."
"Oh, come now!"
"It's true, Mr. Donovan. Might I remind you that during the war you tried to operate in Switzerland on behalf of the Office of Strategic Services? Within six months the Swiss tracked you down and deported you. But Abel worked for ten years in the States without being spotted."
"Never mind the hot air." Donovan glanced at Hoover. "I know you people are after something. You can't suggest it to me officially. So come around to the back door. Now then, out with it!"
"And now the champagne," said Thomas Lieven, pouring the wine in question into the heated saucepan. Immediately an extraordinarily stimulating and most promising odor of well-being began to circulate.
"Aaaahhh!" murmured Hoover, leaning back in his chair. Even Donovan's nervous features relaxed in a brief smile.
"You see," said Thomas. "It's working already." Busy at the side table, he went on casually: "The FBI is holding back the weightiest pieces of evidence against Abel. He won't be sentenced to death."
"To what then?"
"I beg your pardon?" Thomas wrinkled his forehead censoriously. "Mr. Donovan, I'm surprised at you! Surely you wouldn't begrudge your client a few years more of life?"
"Don't twist my words about! It was Mr. Hoover who said Abel would have to go to the electric chair."
"According to the law, yes," Thomas replied, as he handed around portions of his delicate first course. "But suppose the FBI had its own plans for the future of your client?"
"What would happen then?"
"Well, then of course there would be alternatives to the death sentence. Penal servitude for life for thirty years perhaps or for twenty or for ten . . ."
"What about the evidence for the prosecution which Mr. Hoover mentioned?"
"Evidence can be held back, in part at least. The most damaging part. But for heaven's sake start eating, Mr. Donovan. Your kidneys will really be getting cold."
Abel's white-haired defense counsel began to eat mechanically. Then he glanced up at Thomas with narrowed eyes, still chewing. "And what good would it do you if you . . ." Something went down the wrong way and he had to cough. Thomas clapped him on the back solicitously.
"There you are, you see. I wanted to tell you a moment ago, but I hadn't got the courage. I thought it would be impertinent to draw the attention of a man of your standing to such a thing."
"To what thing?" Donovan groaned, red in the face and gasping for breath.
"To the inadvisability of speaking with one's mouth full," rejoined our friend modestly. "But I think you're all right again now."
James B. Donovan laid down his knife and fork, compressing his lips. His voice sounded as would that of an icicle, if an icicle could speak. "Let's drop this cat and mouse business. Give me a straight answer. What would the the FBI get out of holding back the most damaging evidence against Abel and so saving his life?"
Thomas looked at Hoover. "Won't you answer that question, sir?"
Hoover muttered something incomprehensible and bent low over his plate.
"Well done," said Thomas. "I'm always left to answer the most awkward questions and I enjoy it. I can tell you then, Mr. Donovan, that in all probability the FBI would then have the chance, sooner or later, to save the life of an American agent."
"An American agent?"
"Mr. Donovan, I'm really most awfully reluctant to poke about in the internal organs of the American secret service, but after all you yourself were at one time a member of the club, weren't you? And in those days, toward the end of the
war, you did help to build up a counter-intelligence service against the Soviet Union—or didn't you?"
James B. Donovan did not reply.
"I don't blame you for doing it," said Thomas with a wink. "After all, it was your job. That's true enough ... no one could consider it paradoxical for you of all people to defend a Russian spy today."
"I felt it my duty to do so. The law might as well prove its objectivity."
"Oh, no blame should be attributed to you at all," Thomas declared indulgently.
"I presume that every country has its news service," Donovan went on in a slightly vexed tone.
"It must never be caught, that's all," Hoover mumbled, still bending over his plate.
"Just so," said Thomas. "All the same I can already foresee the day—simply on the theory of probabilities—when the Russians will catch an American agent. It might really happen, don't you think? Do take some more kidneys, gentlemen." He served them with elegant gestures. "For example I have heard that the secret service has for some years been sending out special aircraft which don't only photograph the clouds over foreign countries."
"That's a mere rumor, utterly without foundation, of course," said J. Edgar Hoover, still without lifting his head.
"Of course, of course," said Thomas quietly. Donovan had suddenly begun to listen very intently. "The Soviet protests against violations of Russian air space are also of course entirely without foundation."
Hoover looked up, winking one eye. "The aircraft concerned are always on meteorological duty and deviate from their lines of flight by chance."
"Obviously. But what would happen if one of those—ahem —meteorological pilots were shot down by chance?" Thomas inquired.
Donovan said slowly: "I know those meteorological aircraft. They could never be shot down by anti-aircraft guns. They fly much too high."
"The non-existent may come to exist. Apart from that I hear that there have now been for some time rockets which can be very accurately aimed. If such a rocket shoots down such an American meteorological pilot in Russian skies and he survives and is tried and is a meteorological pilot whom Mr. Hoover would be happy to see again, wouldn't it then be
a pity if Mr. Abel had already departed this life? A corpse is no use as a bargaining counter, gentlemen."
"Really, Mr. Scheuner," said J. Edgar Hoover in a strangled tone. "Your cynicism goes too far."
"Your pardon, gentlemen. I was really only speaking of a possibility, a pure hypothesis."
The lawyer said with great deliberation: "And suppose none
of our meteorological pilots ever gets shot down?"
"There now," said Thomas affably. "I see that at last we understand each other, Mr. Donovan. I could well imagine that Mr. Abel, out of sheer gratitude, might decide to change fronts and work for the American secret service."
James B. Donovan gave J. Edgar Koover a steady look. "Is that also your opinion?"
"You heard what Mr. Scheuner said. I have nothing to add."
The lawyer turned a deep crimson. "Who on earth do you think I am, Mr. Scheuner? Who do you think my client is? You're dropping pretty broad hints, aren't you?"
"Oh," said Thomas modestly. "I'm only building castles in the air, Mr. Donovan. That's all."
"My client will never agree to any such arrangement," James B. Donovan exclaimed.
[12]
On August 24, 1957, a certain Peter Scheuner visited the warden of the prison where Abel was being held. He had obtained permission from the highest quarters to talk to Rudolf Ivanovich Abel alone. The warden himself conducted this obviously Very Important Person through endless corridors to the interview room.
When they entered, they saw Abel standing in a smart civilian suit behind a barrier of finely meshed wire netting. He eyed Thomas gravely. The warden waved his hand at the guards in the room. They followed him out. The heavy iron doors closed.
Thomas Lieven and the Russian spy stood watching each other in silence, through the wire netting, for quite a time. It was very still in the room. Then Thomas began to speak.
We do not know what he said and we do not know what Abel answered. Abel never talked about it. Nor did Thomas. Their interview lasted forty-nine minutes.
The trial of Rudolf Ivanovich Abel began on September 26,
1957. His honor Judge Mortimer Byers presided. The hearing was for the most part public.
Abel had made sure, by a trick, of securing the services of one of the best lawyers in the United States. When he was requested to name his defense counsel, he explained: "I have no money. The $3545 found in my apartment are not mine. And I can't expect anyone to defend me for nothing. I therefore request the Court to provide me with an attorney."
The trial had unprecedented features. The accused was permitted to move freely about the building, to take his meals with the jury in the canteen and to talk to reporters. On the other hand Judge Byers ordered: "None of the thirty-eight witnesses is to enter the court for the purpose of hearing the whole course of the trial until he has given his evidence."
The Monte Cristo Cover-Up Page 49
