Marco Polo, If You Can

by William F. Buckley

  It was a few minutes after ten when the door at 427 West Street of the Federal Detention Center opened in response to the buzzer. Umin strode in to the big receiving desk. The lieutenant at the desk looked up and thought to himself, Oh my God. Him.

  Umin, a portly, hairy man with an elegant mustache, always wore black, a striped shirt, and his Phi Beta Kappa key. He was followed by an acned assistant carrying his briefcase. Outside the building, a congregation of reporters and photographers, spotting Umin, instantly began to photograph him, but he had said he would return presently to conduct a press conference.

  “Lieutenant,” said J. Daniel Umin, drawing on his cigar, “bring me somebody important.”

  The lieutenant bristled, but was hardly surprised. “What is your business, sir?”

  “I demand to see my client, the latest victim of American fascism, Mr. Hans Steiner, the distinguished artist.”

  The lieutenant had been briefed: anything to do with Hans Steiner was to be referred instantly to an on-duty assistant U. S. Attorney. There would be one on the premises around the clock.

  “You’ll have to talk to Mr. Lichtenstein,” the lieutenant picked up the telephone and dialed a number.

  “Tell him to hurry up.”

  The lieutenant spoke into the telephone. In a few minutes a slim young man wearing glasses and a rumpled brown suit and carrying a clipboard emerged from the elevator. He approached Umin. “I’m Steve Lichtenstein.”

  “It is of no interest to me who or what you are. I am here to see my client, Mr. Hans Steiner.”

  “Mr. Steiner has a court-appointed attorney who has advised him of all his rights. Inasmuch as Mr. Steiner has not discharged Mr. Johnson, my answer to your request is: Mr. Johnson is Mr. Steiner’s attorney of record.”

  “Young man,” said J. Daniel Umin, chewing his cigar, “have you by any chance ever read the Constitution of the United States?”

  Lichtenstein ignored him and began to walk back toward the elevator.

  “Stop!”

  Lichtenstein turned. Umin snapped his fingers. His aide opened a briefcase and took out a telegram. Umin snatched it. “This telegram was delivered a half hour ago. Assuming you can read, you will see that it is quite straightforward.” The assistant U. S. Attorney took it and read:

  “J. DANIEL UMIN TELEPHONE PLAZA 2–1220. DESIRE YOU TO ACT AS MY ATTORNEY BEGINNING IMMEDIATELY. NEED URGENTLY CONSULTATION. PLEASE DISMISS COURT APPOINTED ATTORNEY. HANS STEINER.”

  It did not surprise Lichtenstein that Umin was in the act, but it considerably surprised him that he had gotten into it quite that fast. He inspected the telegram.

  “When was this delivered?”

  “It was not delivered. It was telephoned in. I sent my clerk to the Western Union office for a copy.”

  Lichtenstein decided to consult with the U. S. Attorney. “I’ll have to check on this, Mr. Umin.”

  “I will wait five minutes, after which I will file to vacate the arrest on the grounds that my client is being denied his constitutional rights.”

  While Lichtenstein went upstairs, J. Daniel Umin went out and delivered an impromptu press conference to the reporters on creeping American fascism, the revival of McCarthyism, the senility of Eisenhower, and the repeated rejection by the U.S. of peaceable initiatives by the Soviet Union.

  Back in his office Lichtenstein dialed the number where, he was told, his superior Howard Trent would be at this hour. He told him what had happened.

  “We could play around a bit,” Trent mused over the phone, “waste a few hours, but what the hell. Umin was meant for this case. But this will give us a chance to test Steiner’s reflexes. Obviously he didn’t send the telegram. Go into his cell and ask him, ‘Have you made a request for another lawyer?’ Just that, see what he says. Call me back.”

  Lichtenstein went to the carefully guarded eleventh floor. There were three barriers, of men and of steel, between the elevator and the little cell in which Hans Steiner sat on a wooden chair, reading a book. Any instrument by which he might have committed suicide had been taken from him, his shoelaces included. As additional precaution, in the empty cell opposite, the cell door open, a police official sat, charged with constant visual monitoring of all of Steiner’s movements. The officer rose to admit Lichtenstein into the cell. Lichtenstein motioned that this wasn’t necessary.

  “Mr. Steiner,” he said, talking through the bars, “I’m Steve Lichtenstein, the assistant U. S. Attorney. I’m in charge of this case until relieved. Did you initiate a request for any other attorney?”

  Hans Steiner, still sitting, put his book to one side. He hesitated.

  “Would you be more specific?”

  “Have you asked for any attorney in place of Mr. Johnson, your court-appointed attorney?”

  It became clear that Steiner’s reflexes were in excellent condition. He replied, “I managed to get word to a friend to retain a suitable lawyer for me. Can I assume he has arrived?”

  Lichtenstein knew the game was up. “I’ll advise you in a few minutes.”

  He reported the conversation to Howard Trent, who groaned. “Okay okay. They can have an hour. Get a written statement discharging Johnson and appointing Umin.”

  Five minutes later, J. Daniel Umin walked triumphantly into the corridor. “The Nazis had more civilized prisons,” he sniffed. “Open the door,” he wiggled his cigar. Lichtenstein would have liked, more even than professional advancement, to have poked J. Daniel Umin in the nose. But who then would care for Steve’s widowed mother?

  “He’ll have to sign an order discharging Johnson and appointing you.”

  “Very well,” said Umin, nodding at Steiner. Steiner studied his expression, and then accepted the paper from Lichtenstein, signing his name.

  “Him”—now Umin pointed to the police officer, who after opening Steiner’s cell door had resumed his seat opposite. “Him. That creep. Get him out of here.”

  “No, Mr. Umin. The sergeant’s orders are to maintain Mr. Steiner in sight at all times. He will not be able to overhear your conversation.”

  Umin sensed that this wasn’t one he would win. So he motioned with his cigar that Lichtenstein was to remove himself.

  Umin then went to the far corner of the bed. Sitting on it, he was cheek by jowl with Steiner.

  Umin reached into his pocket, and brought out several 3 x 5 cards. On the first was typewritten: “Instructions to defend you came to me from Ottawa, telephone 613-Central 2-4232, Willi.”

  Steiner read the card and nodded.

  Umin flashed the second card. It said: “You are to decline to answer any questions by any body on any subject. The next card contains my telephone numbers, name, office, and home address. I will leave that card with you. When interrogated, about anything except what you want to eat, point to the card and demand my presence.”

  Steiner nodded and pocketed the card.

  The fourth card he handed over with a pencil.

  Neatly typed was:

  “We must have the following information immediately. 1) Did you mail the Protocols? 2) Did the FBI get them? If not, 3) Where are they?”

  Umin sat while Steiner moved his pencil about the card. Without looking at it, Umin put it back in his pocket. He brought out the final card:

  “I will make an appointment for tomorrow. You will have all resources working for you. Now I must go.”

  He rose. “You,” he said to the sergeant. “Open the door.” To Steiner he whispered, “Good night, comrade.”

  It was dawn in Moscow, and Shelepin was talking to Malinovsky, who, however, was not entirely attentive, the bottle of vodka having been emptied. While Shelepin reminisced, Malinovsky dozed. But then the door opened with a bang. Malinovsky awoke with a start. Speranski was very nearly breathless.

  “In answer to your questions, Aleksandr Nikolaevich, 1) Klaus did not have the opportunity to dispatch the Protocols. 2) Klaus has reason to believe the FBI did not come upon the Protocols. 3) The Protocols are in Kla
us’s studio.”

  “Where in his studio?” Shelepin asked, almost in a whisper.

  “In the Encyclopaedia Britannica. On the page that gives the biography of Marco Polo.”

  CHAPTER 21

  The relatively inconspicuous American Air Force base at Atsugi, fifteen miles east of Yokohama, was being used among other things for general reconnaissance flights along the South China Sea, and there had been occasional light penetrations over China. The U-2 detachment there, formally under NASA, was ostensibly engaged in high-altitude meteorological work even as its sister detachments, flying out of Peshawar in Pakistan and Adana in Turkey, used the same cover story. No aircraft had ever before taken the route that Rufus, after considerable consultation with area experts, had laid out for Blackford. The question Rufus had asked them was, at root, simple: “If you were the chief of staff of the Armed Services of the People’s Republic of China and coveted knowledge of Soviet military arrangements along Russo-Chinese borders, where would you route a preliminary reconnaissance flight, on the understanding that the maximum range of the photographic ‘vehicle’ was four thousand miles?” The primary question was whether to fly along the northern border of Outer Mongolia (officially an “independent” country—“The People’s Republic of Mongolia,” actually a satellite state) or south of its border, on the grounds that effective military control of Mongolia by the U.S.S.R. really made this the relevant geopolitical frontier.

  The decision was to go north. Piecemeal intelligence already in hand hinted that there was no significant Soviet military activity within Mongolia, where military arrangements along the southern border were at least informally familiar to the Chinese. By contrast, the 1,500-mile-long border to the north was utterly unfamiliar. The route would take Blackford across the Sea of Japan, south of Vladivostok, over Harbin in Manchuria to Zabaykalsk, at which point the borders of the Soviet Union, Outer Mongolia, and China join. Thence he would follow the frontier, heading west over 1,300 miles of border. He would develop his engine trouble in the area of Alma-Ata, where the dizzyingly high mountain ranges would exclude any possibility of landing to the south, outside Russian territory (as though he’d get a friendlier reception from the Chinese!). The hypothetical flight plan called on him to dip south at Alma-Ata, overflying Kirghizia and Tadzhikistan, to safety at Peshawar. The radio signals had been collected, and neat and graphic charts laid out, together with the running instructions governing the operation of the camera. It would be a considerable, but by no means heroic, enterprise, requiring the pilot to be in the air approximately six hours and forty minutes.

  Blackford arrived in Tokyo on D minus 5 and was met at the airport and driven to a small suite of rooms kept for visiting dignitaries by Colonel Robin Sharples, who headed the detachment. Colonel Sharpies had been put in charge of assembling navigational information for the Marco Polo flight. He had not been informed of the ulterior purpose of the flight, or that it was designed to come down over Russia. Arrangements had been made at Peshawar to radio Atsugi news of the arrival of Flight 1107, as it had been designated, nine hours after takeoff, which would result in a routine “mission completed” check going into the relevant dossier. “The commanding officer in Peshawar was quietly instructed not to inquire into the meaning of the fake signal he was to send. As a trained operative of the CIA, he accepted his instructions matter-of-factly.

  On D minus 4, Blackford took up the aircraft that had been designated for his mission. It was free of any external markings, painted entirely black. He headed south and for an hour or so attempted to tease out of the aircraft its distinctive mannerisms. He found nothing idiosyncratic in its movements, and after the hour regularly required to accustom himself to the tight oxygen suit he found himself relaxed, in fact serene. He made a lazy turn, brushing by the northern islands of Okinawa, then over toward the southern island of Kyushu. He passed over Nagasaki, and closed his eyes in a gesture of piety. From there he could easily see Hiroshima, across the Suo Sea. Then Osaka and, a half hour later, he was down. An assistant helped him to remove his helmet. He checked in at Communications.

  There was a telegram for him. SEE YOU TOMORROW. SINGER. He felt a flush of pleasure. He had experienced acute loneliness since arriving in Japan. Intuitively the other fliers, officers, and officials sensed that “Sandy”—that was the whole of the name given him—was on an offbeat mission. It was known when he would fly out (the meteorologist approving), and that therefore he would be around for only a few days. Accordingly, no one took aggressive social initiatives, which in any event he would not have welcomed. One day he spent in Tokyo, mostly walking about, revisiting buildings and museums he had seen on previous visits.

  He devoted his spare hours to writing. He wished to compose a personal memoir of Michael Bolgiano, to give to Maria, whose devastation on learning of Michael’s death had very nearly paralyzed Blackford. He had seen her alone twice since giving her the news, and had already sensed that her life with Benni was over. Blackford told her that Michael, before, his accidental death, had discussed his mother’s letter with him. For Michael’s own sake, Blackford stressed, she must not reveal to Benni that she had any knowledge of the real purpose of his visits to New York. She promised, but also told Blackford that whatever happened to Benni (she supposed that, at the convenience of the authorities, he would be led off to jail), she had decided to associate herself with the Sisters of the Holy Child Jesus. She thought herself too old, and perhaps unsuited, formally to join the order, she said, but since her retirement she had worked as a volunteer, and she was prepared now to propose to the sisters that she live on the premises of the convent and assume a greater share of the administrative work. “You don’t have to worry about me, Mr. Blacky”—as she had always insisted on calling him—“because I don’t spend any money. Besides, I have my savings from when I worked, and social security.” Blackford didn’t tell her that, in due course, she would be receiving the life insurance the Agency pays to the next of kin of those who die in the line of duty. She said she harbored no bitterness toward Benni—he had always been an idealist, and his early commitment to the Party had apparently survived all that he knew or had read about since the war. At the same time, she found she could only with intense self-discipline endure his company. Blackford would now, in his memoir, disclose the truth, giving Michael’s mother an accurate account of those final hours. He need not disclose to her the chronology, which would give her grounds to suspect her son might be alive but for her letter. He could, and would in some detail, let her take pride in her son’s heroism. It was better, he knew, that she should have those details after she had effected her separation from Benni.

  Singer materialized at noon, greeted Blackford happily, but asked only one favor: that he be permitted to sleep, to recover from the endless flight traversing ten time zones. Blackford gave him the second bedroom in the suite and told him he had ordered dinner served right here in their quarters. “Whatever celebrating I’m going to do, I’m going to have to do tonight. Because tomorrow I’m not even allowed to drink coffee. I gotta go—I mean, Singer, I gotta not go on Thursday, for about nine hours. Two hours’ pre-pressurization, before the plane takes off, but all suited up; and then the duration of the flight. If I had to travel all the way to Pakistan, I’d probably have to start drying out tonight to effect that much continence. But I don’t. Go to bed. I’ll pummel you awake at seven.”

  And it required that Blackford do exactly that. Singer was doggedly asleep, even six hours after diving into bed. But following his shower and a drag on his beloved cigarette, Singer was relaxed, speaking in those long, rounded sentences Blackford had remarked when he first met him in London. Singer had been married ten years and was now divorced. He was very sentimental in his occasional references to Ruth, whose alcoholism had proved beyond the capacity of Singer either to cure or to endure. There were no children; Singer, at fifty-five, was happy in his work and entirely serious about it. His avocation was the study of Russian history, and
he had taught himself the language, achieving—or so Blackford had been told by a Russian defector who had worked with both of them—an extraordinary fluency for someone who came so late to the language. Blackford wished he could borrow that facility for the next—what? Five days? Ten days? Ten weeks? Ten years? The question always quietly uppermost in his mind: how long? Rufus, at their last meeting, of course sensed this, and there had been a moment when, instead of the routine handclasp, Rufus drew him close and gave him a quick, embarrassed hug. Turning then his back to Blackford, who was on his way out of The Quarters, Rufus said huskily, “I’ll see you again, Blackford, you can count on that. I don’t know when, but soon.” It was characteristic of Rufus (everyone always assumed that he was motivated only by his professionalism) to dispatch Singer all the way to Tokyo, to see Blackford off, so to speak. Blackford could think of no other reason, really, why Singer was seven thousand miles from home.