7.4 Lights Outside Stavropol

“Mister Tyler Friesen!” he was called for an interview at an inner office.
The green coat with a sissy voice rose from his chair behind a desk. He was a tall man who was bending over under the roof inside the cockpit on the flight.
“Good afternoon! Mr Friesen, please sit down!” he came forward to lean on the desk and folded his arms. He was a warrant officer with ‘ПВ’ on his shoulder strap of the Border Troops, probably from the headquarters in Tbilisi located at the airport.
“Good afternoon! Where am I?” he enquired.
“Soyuz Sovetskih Socialisticheskih Respublik,” his deeper voice whizzled softly with his tongue against the hard palate and every word recognisable.
“Yes, but where in the USSR?”
“Saratov,” that came surprisingly shrilly, “Mister Friesen, what are doing in Armenia?”
“I’m a writer. I want to write.”
“Why do you want to go to Georgia?” asked the Senior Warrant Officer.
“I want to see the country,” replied Tyler.
“Why do you carry this gun?” he picked the Colt from the table.
“That’s a souvenir from my grandfather. I always carry the gun with me. His name is engraved on it.”
“Patrick E Friesen,” he read the name, “This is a very special Colt .45 made in Hartford, Connecticut. And you come from Connecticut!”
“That’s right.”
“Mr Friesen, these beepers are cheap CIA stuff. And this listening device is too big for your pocket. Your shaving kit is interesting. It comes with key casting tools to duplicate keys by making an impression on putty and casting a mould. Your pens contain pins and other little tools. Maybe your wristwatch has a camera. What’s more interesting is your aftershave. Unscrew the base and you find two bundles of banknotes. Fifteen-thousand United States Dollars. And that is not all. We found an Irish passport in the sleeve of your diary,” officer straightened, “So, who are you working for?”
“I don’t work for anybody.”
“Is it the CIA?”
“No.”
“You are a spy, Mr Friesen.”
Tyler shook his head, “I’m a writer.”
“If you don’t want to talk, we can share nothing with you. Spies have been tested in the Soviet Union. Gary Powers who flew a U-2 espionage plane was shot down in Soviet airspace by an S-75 Dvina missile.”
Tyler wasn’t impressed.
“These photos. Where did you get them?”
“A friend passed them to me,” Tyler said, “I was looking for good hotels to stay.”
He turned on a heel holding the package in his right hand, “Don’t lie to me! I am trying to help you here. I will ask these questions and you will answer honestly. I did not say you did anything wrong. You have a passport, a visa and thirty-five days to expire. Though, you entered Hungary and we don’t have a hundred thousand Russian people in Budapest. We can forget that. Mr Friesen, where did you get these photographs?”
“Why am I here if I didn’t do anything wrong?”
“Because we want to ask you why you want to go to Georgia. Now that you’ve said it’s about sightseeing, I heard you. We want to find out why you are after a cargo of rutile ore. Where did you get these addresses?”
Tyler replied thoughtfully, “Alexey Giorgashvili left his address book on the dinner table in the restaurant at Hotel Nemzeti. I took the pictures.”
The officer sighed dubiously, “I will check on it.”
“Yes, please.”
“Well, Mr Friesen, my side of the pursuit. We do know you are shipping bulk loads of rutile ore through Armenia to the United States. They flew an Albatross to Lake Sevan from Port Pahlavi in clear breach of the Soviet airspace but we did not stop you. We observed. We know you wanted the ore to build your spy planes like the one shot down. When activities began in Groom Lake, we were very suspicious. In fact, with the first infrared image of a mysterious silhouette of a plane sitting in the middle of the desert caught by one of the Soviet satellites, we were curious to find out what was going on in Area 51. Now we have physical evidence,” he paused, “And if I may add, we also do know most of the silhouette images we get of a large number of planes out there are dummies made of cardboard. They scoot them inside the hangers before a satellite flyover. They even cook them, I mean to say, they fire up heaters near imaginary engine locations to make it look like planes that just landed. Absurd! You really do believe we are fools…some kind of an ignorant breed!
“Now it brings to the subject I want to discuss with you and that you will share with me. Your President, in his campaign, announced the existence of the SR-71, a highly sophisticated strategic reconnaissance airplane. I want you to share with me the technicalities of the SR-71. Where is the aircraft?”
“I never heard of it,” uttered Tyler.
“It has flown. They’re flying test flights. They are weaponizing it against the Soviet Union. You heard your President?”
“No sir, I never heard. I don’t listen to politics. I am a retired air force pilot. I retired in 1958.”
The warrant officer stood aghast.
“I never heard anyone mention an SR-71. Sir!”
“Mister Friesen,” he slowly stepped back to his seat and paused to stand, “I am trying to help you. If I go back empty-handed and report nothing to my comrades, I’m beginning to think you’ll be tried like Gary Powers as a spy. In his case, he exists to the CIA. On your case, you don’t exist to them anymore.”
“You can’t hold me like this!”
He sat down on the chair, “You know everything, Mr Friesen. I will answer your question. We did not try to stop your shipment. We don’t know who did.”
“I will take your word for it obviously but I want to make a call to the American Embassy right now,” Tyler Friesen demanded.
“If you came across any other officer, it won’t be easy on you. You can keep your diary. Rest of your things will stay. I’m afraid to say your camera is broken during the inspection. I will see you on Tuesday.”
Four gvardiya took him out and placed him in a cell and locked behind bars at the outpost. Tyler never knew the name of the praporshchik who happened not to show up again.