10.1 The Spy Who Came Out of Nowhere

Two muscular men escorted Tyler Friesen up the stairs two floors above to a small office room with dark green walls and one wall finished in white. He was placed on a chair two metres from a rustic little desk with three black telephones, a thick red book, a brass table lamp and a wooden organiser-type penholder crammed on the top. Three wooden chairs placed beside the table and a metal relief of Lenin on the wall, two red flags of crushed velvet with golden fringes stretched to display the emblems and two corners knotted together. One of the flags contained the Emblem of Soviet Union: globe, red star, hammer and sickle. The other displayed the bust of Lenin: Communist Emblem. The KGB shield badge, sword and red star, made of bronze hung on the righthand side of the wall. Other banners hung on the walls and a bust of Lenin placed on a cabinet by a corner. Electric circuits exposed with little green lights and even a red pipeline rigged through this room.

On the following day after he was questioned by an unknown MVD officer, a sergeant major in green coat, black visor with green crown and red piping, approached with a new set of clothes and a blue overcoat shortly after he was served breakfast in a tray in his cell. This youthful starshina identified himself as Juri though he spoke few words, “Get ready!” and shoved a shaving kit. Water from the tap was extremely cold, the lights were out though he managed to get ready and carried his diary.

He was driven in the GAZ van to the Saratov base where an Antonov ‘Coke’ waited with its blades spinning. He climbed from the rear door to come across a full flight of soldiers. He was taken aback feeling alienated and sat in the back row next to the starshina. Another decorated officer climbed and the flight took off heading northwest towards Moscow. They landed at Chkalovsky base after a two-hour flight and he was transported in a UAZ military van with a long antenna sticking out of its rear window.

From there, wherever it stopped, Sergeant Major Juri dismissed and two strong men took over. Tyler eyeballed around amidst the buildings and he could not tell where he was. He tried to remember the broad street they passed, a black wall abreast the pavement and again the black wall as the vehicle turned around the corner. Those two men wore tight-fitting T-shirts who ushered Tyler in through a door to a hall that remained empty and passed him a snack of cakes and a beer. His diary removed.

Three men entered the room. One of them was an officer in green coat and blue trousers. The other was elderly and a more senior officer wearing a grey coat. The third person wore a dark red jacket and a scarf knotted around his neck. He carried a manila folder and he took the middle seat. Meanwhile, their utterances in Russian filled the green little room.

“I’m Nicolai Alexandrovich Yakov,” said the man in red coat with dark hair combed well, dark brows and facial features quite distinctive. “Captain Friesen! Do you like flying?”

“Yes sir, I do,” replied Tyler.

Their faces lit up, they glanced at one another in comprehension and the grey coat smeared himself with a smirk. “Are you an aeronautical engineer?”

“No sir,” replied Tyler.

“Who are you working for?”

“Nobody. I am independent.”

“CIA! Pentagon!”

“No. None.”

“Lockheed, perhaps!”

“No.”

“Do you work for the United States Air Force?”

“I was a pilot. I retired in September 1958.”

“And what do you do for a living?”

“I’m a writer.”

“Married?”

“Yes.”

“We all want you to go home, don’t we!” And the two officers nodded with expressionless faces. “Tell me, Captain Friesen, what are you doing in Armenia?”

“On vacation,” and that didn’t go too well.

“No, no, Mr Friesen,” he chuckled, “You bear too much evidence. Why do you want to go to Georgia?”

“I want to see that place.”

“With these addresses! Someone sent you there to look for a cargo shipment of rutile ore in Armenia. Tell us, who was it?”

“Nobody.”

So far, he seemed to be in business to ask these questions like a professional. Then the flare on his face disappeared and tried to explain, “Maybe, you don’t want to talk about the rutile ore and tell us what is going on in Area 51. We have methods that will make you talk, Mister Friesen. We have scopolamine.”

Tyler wasn’t impressed.

Yakov dug his fingers into the holes of the penholder and he was not too good at it. He picked a handful of paper pins as thick as half inch nails and continued to say, “This! With a carpenter’s tool of choice, preferably a one-pound hammer, they can nail them in between your teeth.” And the two thick guys behind Tyler grinned.

He thought this kind of interrogation took place in the basement of the KGB building in Lubyanka Square. Since he was on the third floor, those nails won’t go into his mouth. It makes no difference as these psychopaths always come up with a twist and brilliant ideas. They do enjoy these things. Tyler said, “You made your point very clear. I will talk. I have nothing to hide.”

Yakov remained pale, “Who sent you?”

“Howard Turner,” replied Tyler Friesen.

“You are telling a lie!”

“General Howe.”

“Who is General Howe?”

“A friend of mine.”

“Where does he work?”

“Pentagon.”

“What does he want?”

Tyler Friesen told him that Jair Sivils fled with two million dollars and the General assigned him to look for a clue on his tour. His trip was arranged and paid by a Howard Turner. There was nothing he fear to lose.

“Does this Turner know where you’ve been?”

“Yes.”

“Where does he live?”

Tyler Friesen told him.