Marco Polo, If You Can

by William F. Buckley

  “You give us Oakes, we give you Steiner.”

  “Ah,” the muscles in Menshikov’s face tightened. “But Oakes is under sentence of death. Steiner has not been proved guilty.”

  “Mikhail, my comments on that, as a lawyer, are very simple: Anybody condemned of anything in the Soviet Union may, or may not, be guilty. If there is a correspondence between conviction and guilt, it is purely coincidental. My other observation is that Hans Steiner is guilty as hell and the probability is over-whelming that you personally know all about it. As a matter of fact, you probably sat here giving him instructions.”

  “Oh, Dean, you are making this so very difficult.”

  “No, Mikhail—but why don’t we agree that we just won’t talk about ‘guilt’ or ‘innocence’? We’ll talk about a human being you’re in a position to deliver to us, and a human being we’re in a position to deliver to you.”

  “Well of course, Dean, I will certainly relay your message. I don’t know how long it will take.…”

  Acheson had been carefully briefed. “We don’t care how long it takes. It can take six months, for all we care. But—and I mean this, Mikhail—no execution.”

  “My dear Dean, I am hardly in a position to dictate to the Soviet courts what to do.”

  “No, you’re not. But Khrushchev is.”

  Menshikov permitted himself a fraternal laugh. Acheson left the Embassy at 3:30, having declined an invitation to sample a new vodka. He could not reasonably have predicted that he would be there again—same room, same host, same hour—at 3:30 the following day, pursuant to an imperative telephone call.

  “The response from Moscow,” Menshikov said, once again pouring tea, “has come to me with quite unprecedented speed. It is the consensus of the Presidium that the matter of the two spies—I mean, your spy and our alleged spy—has proved a major distraction, coming as it has on the eve of the Paris summit. The authorities are prepared to make the exchange on two conditions.”

  Acheson groaned. “What?”

  “The first is that the exchange be effected immediately.”

  Acheson said nothing.

  “The second is that your Justice Department issue a public statement to the effect that the evidence against Steiner was insufficient to proceed to trial.”

  “As to one: Agreed. As to two: No.”

  Menshikov raised his hands in an attitude of despair. “What a pity! It might have been so clean.”

  “No no no, Mikhail. It would be the opposite of ‘clean’ the way you propose. Because the United States Government is not in a mood to compromise American justice in order to repatriate one American.”

  “But Dean, why do you care?”

  “Because,” Acheson spoke with exaggerated deliberation, “in our country our institutions depend on the integrity of their operations.” He had no sooner said this than, as a lawyer, he regretted having done so. But, of course, too late. Menshikov pounced:

  “Oh? Like the integrity of the CIA? Like sending airplanes over the Soviet Union to watch the little clouds fly?”

  Acheson attempted a recovery. “How you aim your intercontinental ballistic missiles is a legitimate matter of interest to the United States—and certainly indispensable to the survival of our institutions.”

  “Ah, Dean. Dean, no wonder you are such an expensive lawyer. I would hire you in one minute to defend me!”

  “You’d be a lot better off with me than with the ‘distinguished’ Dr. Valerian Ryleyev. Really, Mikhail, you should know that it does not impress the American public to learn that the Soviet’s renowned thirst for justice caused them to go to the length of recruiting, in order properly to defend Blackford Oakes, the same brilliant advocate who defended the Nazi war criminals.… You know, Mikhail, I live out the evening of my life with the nightmare that the Soviet Union will one day discover the art of public relations.”

  “You are very funny, Dean.”

  “Where do we go from here?”

  “I am authorized to proceed.”

  “On what terms?”

  “Condition one.”

  “Granted. Do you have a plan in mind?”

  “I do.”

  “This is Thursday. I propose that at eight-thirty A.M. next Wednesday, May eleventh, you arrange to deliver Hans Steiner to the western end of the Glienicker Bridge in Berlin. At the same time we will deliver Blackford Oakes to the eastern end. Both parties will then advance to the international border in the center of the bridge. A representative of our government will satisfy himself as to the identity of Steiner. A representative of your government will identify Oakes. The prisoners will be exchanged.”

  Acheson paused for a moment. “That’s pretty fast, but I suppose we can arrange it. A couple of details, Mikhail. We would furnish Steiner with a nolle prosequi, but together with a court order to which he would consent. Under that order he is forever barred from coming into the United States. Should he ever do so, the prosecution can recommence.”

  “Agreed. We would want a similar signature from Oakes. If he is caught in the Soviet Union, his death sentence is immediately reinstated.”

  Acheson ruminated that this would severely limit Mr. Oakes’s professional flexibility. “Agreed, but we attach a further corollary condition, namely that you continue to decline to disclose the identity of the prisoner.” Menshikov began to question the condition, but Acheson interrupted. “Any failure to do so would mean that he would be hounded to death by the press in the United States. If that were to happen, the existing rhetorical hostilities would continue, defeating your purpose in expediting the transfer.”

  Menshikov paused. “I was not given instructions on that point.”

  “It is a requirement,” Acheson said.

  “I shall relay your request.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “You will know by the time you reach your home. Now we have a requirement. As you will have assumed, we have communicated directly with Steiner through his lawyer to ask him if he consents to the proposed arrangement. He has agreed, but there are two conditions.”

  “What are they?”

  “He wishes, first, to liquidate his savings account and to carry the proceeds with him in Swiss currency.”

  “Agreed.”

  “And he wishes at least an hour or two in his old residence in order to collect his personal effects. For instance, he has a very extensive library on the history and technology of the camera.”

  Acheson affected to give this request serious consideration. He had decided on the approach of innocent candor.

  “Hm. I suppose there’s probably a negative or two floating around there he didn’t get around to sending you.”

  “Come on, Dean, we agreed we would not waste time on matters of guilt or innocence.”

  “All right,” said Acheson. “Now here’s another one for you.”

  “Yes?”

  “That mouthpiece you retain. Mr. J. Daniel Umin. He is to absent himself from the scene. He is to be discharged by Steiner before that prison door opens. With a nolle in his hand, technically Steiner doesn’t need a lawyer. If he wants a formal discharge, get him one. We do not want Umin to striptease his way to the airport for the benefit of the press.”

  “I shall have to persuade Steiner. He has become very attached to Umin.”

  “Fine. We’ll sweeten the deal. You take Umin to East Berlin and promise to keep him there.”

  “All right, all right. I shall have to discuss the matter directly with Steiner. This means that you must instruct the people at the Federal Detention Center to let me get through to him.”

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning at eight.”

  Acheson rose. “Here’s my home telephone number. Let me know tonight if we have a deal. Don’t be late. There are a lot of logistics to take care of if we’re going to meet your deadline.”

  Menshikov shrugged his shoulders. “How can I guarantee? It is midnight in Moscow. I will do the best I can.”
>
  “I’ll settle for that,” said Acheson rising. “Talk to you later, Mikhail.”

  They shook hands and, picking up his black derby, Acheson went to the door.

  CHAPTER 24

  On May 5, at noon—or he supposed it to be noon, because the guard had slid the tray through the slot at the bottom of the door moments before—Blackford pounded on the door of his cell. He did so using the aluminum tray, the slurpy contents of which he had emptied into the open toilet. He would need to make a great deal of noise at his end in order for just a little bit of noise to come out at the other end of the soundproofed door. He beat the tray regularly, over the windowed rectangle of the door. He did this for five minutes, until he was wet with perspiration. Then he heard the lock turning and drew back, hoping to catch his breath. By the time the heavy door was opened he was seated on his bunk. The guard, apparently on orders, had summoned the major who spoke English and had given Blackford the copy of Time magazine at the trial—could it have been only a week ago?

  “Major, I demand to see Ryleyev. My mathematics is rusty, but if I can still count to seven, I am supposed to be executed tomorrow morning at dawn. Now, we won’t turn this into a seminar on Soviet justice, but my attorney hasn’t been here for five days, when I signed the appeal, and I haven’t heard a single word from him. I haven’t heard a single word from the American Embassy, and I’m not going to put up with this crap any longer.”

  “What do you propose to do about it.… McKINLEY?”

  “I … I wish to write out a personal testament.”

  “I think we can provide you with writing utensils.”

  “I may have something to say that would interest Soviet authorities.”

  The major’s face brightened. “I think we can arrange to take you back to the conference room. But we would expect you to be more cooperative than during that first week.”

  “What’s the trouble? Shortage of electricity in the ‘conference’ room? Prods not working?”

  “I can see that your attitude has not changed.”

  “My attitude has—evolved. I wish, as I say, to make a few declarations. But before doing that, I would have to speak to Dr. Ryleyev.”

  The major looked hard at Blackford. He had not shaved his face since the trial, and it was now bearded, his facial hair blonder than the hair on his head. His voice, though it had something of the old spring, was that of someone near to desperation. The major knew the changing timbre of men’s voices. He had himself led—how many? two hundred? five hundred?—down that last staircase in the cellar, to the corner section. No one who had ever been led there returned. And the executioners and guards were not talkative. Still, somehow all the prisoners had an exact and highly accurate idea not only of the staircase and the cavernous room to which it led, but an exact picture of the equipment—the coffin at the end of the room, the crematorium opposite, the drain on the floor, the spigot and big black hose to wash away the counterrevolutionary blood, and the eyehook through which the prisoner’s manacles were strung, to save the guards the need to hold down the prisoner while staying clear of the bullet’s trajectory. Overhead was a crossbeam. During the twenties the prisoners were hanged, but that took too long. Socialist efficiency required more expeditious executions, and it was said, in the gallows humor that made its way about, that any executioner who consumed more than three minutes from the time the cavern was entered to the time the coffin was wheeled out to the crematorium would himself be executed. The major reasoned there was little to lose in forwarding McKINLEY’s request to Shelepin.

  “You will hear from us.”

  “I will hear from you within one half hour, or you can forget the whole thing. And another thing, major, I don’t merely want something to read, which is how I usually put it to you. I require something to read. I don’t care if it’s a Sears and Roebuck catalogue, though I suppose that would be counterrevolutionary in these parts. Bring me something in English. I know there’s a library exactly two floors from here. How do I know? I’m a convicted spy, right? That’s how I know. Bring me … a novel by Jane Austen … some Shakespeare … the Bible … Gone With the Wind. I never read Gone With the Wind, and how can anybody die without reading Gone With the Wind? Bring me The Brothers Karamazov. See how you’ve broadened my tastes? Bring me Lenin’s Last Will and Testament—” But the door had quietly shut, and Blackford was talking to himself.

  He lay on his bed and thought furiously. Then he got down on the floor and did fifty more push-ups. How many did that total, that day? Five hundred? Somehow they helped. Then he brushed his teeth, for the fifth time. Then he knelt beside his bed, and prayed. How clamorous, he thought, must have been the prayers from this building, over the years. Did God shroud the Lubyanka with a silencer, so that nothing could reach His ears from this encephalophonic misery hole? He declined to believe this. He prayed: What, Lord, was happening? What should he do? How could he put them off? If only for another week. Perhaps till the summit. That would be just ten days down the line. He knew Rufus wouldn’t let Ike just forget the whole thing. And they did have Klaus. Old Klaus had to be worth something to these guys? But, Lord, I’ll leave the details to you. Please let me out of here. I’ll do what I can to stall. But I don’t have a plan—

  He heard the door opening, rose, and assumed his regular position on the bunk. It was Dr. Ryleyev. He sat down on the stool by the toilet.

  “Goddammit, Ryleyev, where in the hell have you been?”

  “I have been attending to your appeal, McKINLEY.”

  “What’s the word?”

  “The Supreme Court has not granted a commutation.”

  “Does that mean … tomorrow?”

  “If the Supreme Court, or Chairman Khrushchev, does not act.”

  “What are their—office hours?”

  “A commutation could come down right up until the moment of—”

  “Like, five fifty-nine A.M.?”

  “That is correct. There is instant telephone communication with the commandant.”

  “Now listen, Ryleyev. I’ve said I’d go to the conference room and talk a little. If I do, will that get me a commutation?”

  “That depends on what you tell them.”

  “What specifically do they want to know?”

  “Everything.”

  “I don’t know everything.”

  “You know more than you have told us.”

  “So now it’s ‘us.’ I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”

  “I am an officer of the court. And a Soviet patriot.”

  Blackford elected not to take up the invitation to a polemical exchange.

  “Well, I’m going to strike some terms. I’ll tell you a lot about the U-2 you don’t know. My terms are: commutation to … ten years.”

  “I will relay your offer, and return.”

  An hour later, the door opened and the major, two guards, and Ryleyev accompanied Blackford out of his cell. The major stared at the prisoner. He had shaved his beard. His hair was brushed. His stride and manner had something of the old jaunt. He sighed. Well, they would soon know.

  At the end of the table, as before, sat the squat, bald colonel with the decorations. No new one, Blackford observed. Hadn’t tortured enough extra people since a month ago, he guessed. The major indicated the chair Blackford was to occupy.

  Blackford had decided to take the initiative. Somewhat to the colonel’s surprise, Blackford began the conversation. “Well, Dr. Ryleyev, do you have my commutation?”

  Ryleyev looked up at the colonel, requesting, by that gesture, permission to reply directly. The colonel nodded.

  “The representative of the Supreme Court instructs me that a commutation would be given only after receiving your full confession and evaluating it.”

  “Then take me back to the cell.”

  There was conversation in Russian, including a telephone call by the colonel.

  Ryleyev spoke again. “The authorities are willing to defer your execution by
one week, pending their evaluation of your confession. At the end of the week, if your confession proves useful you will receive your commutation. Otherwise, the sentence will be carried out.”

  One week. Blackford thought. One precious week. Might make all the difference. That would take us to the eve of the summit. Unlikely they’d execute him the weekend before.…

  “All right, let’s see the one-week commutation.”

  Ryleyev spoke to the colonel. Blackford repressed a smile. Of what use was a piece of paper promising anything? But it must have a psychic leverage of some sort. After all, the colonel was now arguing, which showed there was a reluctance to issue it. Again the colonel was on the telephone. His instructions were apparently explicit because he said simply “Da.… Da.… Da.… Da.…” Then he reached into his briefcase and brought out a form. Filling it out, he handed it to Ryleyev, who read it and then passed it to Blackford at his side. Blackford looked at the form. It was printed, and, below, signed. The colonel had only filled in a couple of blanks.

  “Translate it for me, Ryleyev.”

  Ryleyev adjusted his glasses. “It says,” he pointed to the printed portion, “‘By order of the Supreme Court of the Soviet Union, the capital sentence decreed to take place on [“May 6, 1960” had been written in] the convicted prisoner [“McKINLEY”] is deferred until [“May 13, 1960” had been written in].’” There followed the signatures, and the inevitable stamp.

  Ryleyev picked up the form. But Blackford snatched it from him, and to the considerable bewilderment of all present he folded it neatly and inserted it into the shirt pocket of his prison garb.

  “Proceed,” the colonel said, in Russian, and now Blackford talked to the interpreter, and to the two stenographers.

  He had decided on a strategy. He thanked the good Lord for Rufus, who had told Blackford the direction the “minutes” of the National Security Council would go with respect to U-2 flights.

  And so, in halting tones, blurring here and there a detail, Blackford painfully and slowly reconstructed the activities of the U-2 detachments out of Turkey and Pakistan, of the routes they had taken, the pictures they had developed, the extraordinary clarity of their work, the known placement of Soviet missile battaries, the general layout of the Tyura Tarn intercontinental ballistic layout … He consumed an hour and a half. The colonel and the major could hardly suppress their excitement. Tea and cakes were brought in, and three books in English. Blackford complained of hoarseness and fatigue. But anyway, he said, he had come to the end of the story. The colonel barked into the telephone and then told the stenographers to go, to make their transcripts. The colonel’s agitation was understandable. He did not know that he was hearing what his superiors had been reading over the preceding five months from the minutes of the National Security Council executive committee.