Operation Overflight (47 page)

While in The Pound I saw McAfee, my father's attorney, and asked him about the two-hundred-dollar fee demanded for an interview with Kennedy. McAfee refused to identify the person, however. He would say only that it was someone in the White House. I had no choice but to leave it at that.

From The Pound I went to Milledgeville, Georgia, to pick up Barbara. By this time I had decided to accept the CIA's offer, at
least until such time as I could make up my mind as to what I wanted to do.

I had been in Milledgeville only a short time before I sensed a strong hostility toward Barbara there. She explained it was because she was a “celebrity”; people resented her fame. But I felt something else on coming into contact with residents: pity, not for Barbara but for me. It was as if everyone knew something I didn't and felt sorry for me. I didn't like that a bit. Fortunately, our stay was brief. On returning to Washington, we found an apartment in Alexandria and I went back to work for the CIA, grounded in the first nine to five job I've ever had in my life.

Since my return I had received a great deal of mail, some sent in care of my parents, but much of it directed to me at the CIA. Of several hundred letters, only a few were critical. Most were warmly congratulatory. I heard from friends not seen since boyhood, pilots I'd last seen in the service. The majority, however, were from people I had never met, many from mothers who had prayed for my release. And there were some surprises, among them a letter from Cardinal Spellman, thanking me for coming to his defense during my trial.

As surprising were the large number of offers to buy the rights to my story. On reporting to work at the agency there was a whole sheaf of telegrams and urgent telephone messages. One book publisher, wasting no time on preliminaries, offered a flat $150,000 advance.

Thus far my side of the story hadn't been told. Because of national security, I realized it might be years before some aspects could be made public. However, there was much that could—no,
should
— be known, if for no other reason than to avoid repeating the same mistakes in the future. For mistakes had been made, bad ones. The U-2 incident was an almost classic textbook case of unpreparedness. Too, the story told the American people was heavy with lies and distortions. This seemed a good way to set the record straight. I made inquiries within the agency as to whether there would be any objection to my writing a book about my experiences. I realized it would take some time for the request to travel up the chain of command, but was prepared to wait.

At the same time, I also asked if I could write to my former cellmate. The answer came back quite promptly. Negative. It would look bad if anyone found out you were writing someone inside Russia.

Though I abided by the decision, it was less for this reason than another. I didn't want to cause Zigurd any trouble. And there was just a chance that by writing to him I might do so.

Admittedly, my previous experience with the agency had spoiled me. I had been part of a select, smoothly functioning team of experts who had a job to do and did it, with a minimum of fuss. As such, I had seen only glimpses of the actual organizational structure of the CIA. They were enough, however, to convince me that things had now changed.

By this time both Dulles and Bissell had left, the latter offering his resignation as deputy director of plans just seven days after my release. Bissell had survived the U-2 episode, but not the Bay of Pigs, becoming just one of the scapegoats for that tragic fiasco. Controversy over it was still raging within the agency. The plan had been good but poorly executed. It never would have worked. Kennedy was responsible for its failure by withdrawing air support. Kennedy had never authorized air support in the first place, therefore couldn't have withdrawn it. So the arguments went.

Although a year had passed, everyone still seemed to be searching for someone else on whom to pin the blame.

Maybe I was naïve. Maybe it had always existed without my noticing it. But politics now seemed to dominate the agency, almost to the exclusion of its primary function, collecting intelligence. Everything had to be justified, especially in the light of how it might appear in the press. Decisions were avoided because of possible backlash if they proved wrong (though this was not new to me with my military background). Concern appeared to be less with what the facts were than with how such information would be accepted. And it takes little insight to realize that when intelligence is shaped to be what its recipients want to hear, it ceases to be intelligence.

In part, I was witnessing a vast organizational shake-up, due to President Kennedy's vow to restructure the agency following the failure of the Cuban invasion. In a world of secrets, the least kept was that John McCone, although an astute businessman—according to the General Accounting office, his California shipbuilding company had turned a hundred-thousand-dollar investment into forty-four million dollars during World War II—knew little about intelligence. He was a political appointee, and, I now learned, Robert Kennedy's personal choice as successor to Dulles. According to rumor, he was not the first choice. Although I found it difficult to
believe—it has since been brought out in other accounts—Robert Kennedy had apparently wanted to take over as director of Central Intelligence, in addition to being attorney general, the idea being scotched because it would have lent fuel to the argument that the Kennedys were attempting to create a dynasty.

If true, it would provide another possible explanation for the story that he had wanted to try me. Powers could be made a symbol of the failure of the old order.

Maybe the shake-up was long overdue. Maybe the CIA had acquired too much independent power and needed to be brought under closer control of the President. I only knew what I saw— bureaucratic chaos. Divided loyalties. Jockeying for favor. A half-dozen people doing jobs previously done by one. Paperwork increasing at such a rate that one suspected the task of collecting intelligence could be dropped, with the paperwork alone sufficient to keep everyone occupied.

Undoubtedly only a portion of this was due to McCone. Perhaps what I was witnessing was simply that the CIA, having outgrown its youthful exuberance, was suffering the middle-age spread that seems to be the lot of most government agencies.

Admittedly I saw only part of the whole picture. But it bothered me.

Another thing also bothered me. Even within the agency many people were unsure of my exact status: had Powers been cleared, or hadn't he? The people at the top knew, but hadn't let the word filter down. I encountered no animosity, but I did find a great deal of puzzlement. The CIA clearance, with its evasive wording, had raised almost as many doubts as it had laid to rest.

My attitude toward this remains today much as it was then. I knew what I had and hadn't done. I did not feel I had to clear my name. Nor did I feel I had to justify my conduct to anyone. People would have to accept me as is. Those who couldn't, I wasn't interested in having for friends. Fortunately, over the years the former have predominated.

Yet this did not mean that I was happy at having been placed in this position.

I enjoyed my work with the training section because I felt it was important. The tricks the Russians used in their interrogations, the difficulty of improvising a workable cover story, the decision of how much to tell and how much to withhold, how to avoid being trapped in a lie, how best to cope with incarceration—these were only a few of the problems we explored. I also read the accounts
of other prisoners, pointing out where my experiences differed or were the same. And I consulted with the people in psychological testing to give them clues as to what to look for in screening certain covert personnel.

It was satisfying work—later I learned that a number of my suggestions had been incorporated into the training program for certain personnel—but I was also aware that it was temporary, something to do until such time as I could make some decisions. Not all of them concerning my future employment.

Nothing had changed with Barbara, except to grow worse. Again there were the suspicions: unexplained absences from the apartment; charges on the phone bill for long-distance calls I thought were in error but had been made to an unfamiliar number in Georgia; constant pleading to be allowed to go back there for a visit, although, estranged from her mother, she could never provide a good explanation for the necessity of such a trip. And the certainties: bottles under the bed, in closets, in dresser drawers. One night in April, following a familiar argument, in which I insisted that if she couldn't stop drinking by herself she would have to have medical aid, she swallowed a whole bottle of sleeping pills. I rushed her to the hospital, just in time.

Following her recovery, I tried to get her to remain in the hospital for treatment of her alcoholism. But she refused; she still would not admit she was an alcoholic. I had hoped this close call would bring her to her senses, make her realize she needed competent help. It didn't. Upon her release the situation remained unchanged. In May she simply packed a bag and returned to Georgia.

On returning from a trip to the West Coast, I stopped in Phoenix to see some friends. While deplaning I was paged to contact TWA for a message. Few people knew my itinerary; so I knew it was something out of the ordinary. Checking with TWA, I was given a local number to call; on calling it, I was given still another number, this one in Washington, D.C. The CIA agent who answered informed me that Barbara and a male companion had been in some kind of trouble at a drive-in restaurant in Milledgeville. Refusing to leave when asked to do so by the management, they had caused such a scene that police had to be called. By some means, word of the incident had reached the CIA. The situation had been resolved, but the agency felt I should know what had happened.

On arriving in Milledgeville, I laid down the law. She had to have medical help, had to leave Milledgeville, and had to stop
seeing certain people, including her male companion. I was going back to Washington, I told her; if she wanted to accompany me, it would have to be under those conditions. Otherwise I was going alone and would take whatever action I deemed necessary. Believing this was just another empty threat, Barbara chose to stay in Milledgeville.

In August I returned to The Pound, ostensibly for a visit but really to think things through. When I did, I was forced to admit there was no helping Barbara, not without her agreement; that in continuing the marriage I was only holding onto the shell of what was and what might have been; all else was ashes—had been for a long time. Before returning to Washington, I took off my wedding ring.

Georgia was still my legal residence. Not long after this I returned to Milledgeville to consult an attorney. While there I asked the questions avoided since my return. The answers confirmed my worst suspicions while in prison. But now it no longer mattered. I filed suit for divorce. The decree became final in January, 1963.

In May, 1962, I was given verbal permission to write the book. I was not informed as to who made the decision, but I was sure the request had gone all the way up to McCone, since no one else would be willing to take such responsibility.

Consulting with an attorney, I went through the offers, finally deciding on a joint proposal advanced by the publishing firm Holt, Rinehart and Winston and the
Saturday Evening Post
. Negotiations began and had reached the contract stage when, in early July, I was informed, again verbally, that upon reconsideration it had been decided that a book at this time would not be advantageous either to me or to the agency. While they could not forbid me to publish the book, they strongly suggested that I not do so.

Word had filtered down through several levels. However, it was clear that the decision to grant permission had been vetoed by someone higher up than McCone. That left few possibilities.

A good amount of time and money had been spent on the negotiations, and a number of people inconvenienced. I didn't like that. Neither did I appreciate the implication that I might be adversely affected if the truth were told.

Yet I also felt something else, something perhaps only a person who has spent time in prison can fully comprehend. I was deeply grateful to the agency and to the government for effecting my release. They could just as easily have left me in prison until May 1,
1970, had I lived that long. In a sense, each day of my freedom before that time I owed to them.

That that freedom was to be qualified, however, that silence was the price I would have to pay for it, was not a pleasant realization. Especially when I suspected that the chief motivation behind the decision was political, the fear that what I had to say might embarrass the agency.

I spent the weekend of the Fourth of July trying to decide what to do.

On July 6 I wrote the following letter:

Dear Mr. McCone:

Recently there has been communicated to me your views concerning my intention to publish an account of my personal experiences preceding, during, and after my imprisonment by the Russian government.

While you have been correctly informed that I have been negotiating with interested publishers with a view toward publishing my personal account, I wish again to dispel any doubts concerning my initiating these negotiations without prior consultation. The invitations to discuss the publishing of my experiences were received from various publishers both before and immediately upon my return to the United States. These invitations were directed not only to me but to various agency officials, including yourself. I made no effort to discuss these offers until I had been advised that there was no objection on the part of the agency or the government to my doing so. While I did not expect any encouragement in this matter, I am distressed that I was misled in believing there was no objection.

I understand now that you are of the opinion that in view of the public acceptance of the presentation of my account to the Senate Armed Services Committee, any further effort by me to comment in extenuation of my experiences would only result in possible injury to the agency and to myself.