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Barely maintaining airspeed, Belenko slid the MiG-25
downward through the seemingly interminable darkness of
the clouds, each second of descent diminishing the chances
of success and survival. He watched the altimeter...,
600 meters .... 500 .... 400 .... 300.......
I'll pull up at one-fifty if I'm still in the clouds. Any
lower would be suicide.
At 250 meters, the world lit up; he was under the clouds
and could see ... an airfield. It was not the base of Chitose
he sought but the commercial airport at Hakodate, ninety
miles to the southwest. The runway was shorter by a third
than any on which he had ever landed a MiG-25, and he
knew it would be impossible to stop on the field. But maybe
he could keep the plane and himself largely intact.
He banked steeply to the right, turned about 260 degrees,
and began his approach toward the south end of the
runway. Then, within seconds, he had to make an excruciating
choice. A Japanese airliner, a Boeing 727, was
taking off, right into his flight path. The gauge showed
empty, and he could not be sure that he had enough fuel
to circle again for another approach. If the fuel ran out
and he lost power during another turn, the aircraft would
plummet straight down like a twenty-two-ton boulder and
[110] smash itself into mostly worthless pieces. If he continued
his approach, he might collide with the airliner, and the
range between it and the MiG-25 was closing so rapidly
that neither the commercial pilot nor he would have any
margin for a mistake.
No, I cannot do that. I was not born to kill those
people. Whatever I think, I do not have that right. Better
one life than many.
He jerked the MiG into the tightest turn of which it was
capable, allowed the 727 to clear, dived at a dangerously
sharp angle, and touched the runway at 220 knots. As he
deployed the drag chute and repeatedly slammed down the
brake pedal, the MiG bucked, bridled, and vibrated, as if it
were going to come apart. Tires burning, it screeched and
skidded down the runway, slowing but not stopping. It ran
off the north end of the field, knocked down a pole, plowed
over a second and finally stopped a few feet from a large
antenna 800 feet off the runway. The front tire had blown,
but that was all. The tanks contained enough fuel for about
thirty more seconds of powered flight.
Belenko was conscious of no emotions: no sense of
triumph, no relief at being alive. There was no tune for
emotion, just as there had been no time in the air.
Get out! Protect the aircraft! Find the Americans! Act!
Now!
He ripped off his oxygen mask, unharnessed the parachute,
slid back the canopy, and climbed out on the whig.
The plane had come to rest near a highway, cars were
pulling over, and motorists hopping out with their cameras.
Schooled for years in secrecy, drilled to understand that a
MiG-25 represented one of the most important state secrets,
Belenko impulsively reacted as if he still were in the Soviet
Union.
You may not do that! This aircraft is absolutely secret!
The taking of pictures is strictly forbidden! Stop!
Unable to communicate by words, he whipped out his
pistol and fired into the air. In Japan the possession or discharge
of firearms is a grave, almost unheard-of-crime, and
had he detonated a small bomb, the effects on the onlookers
would not have been more traumatic. They immediately
[111] lowered their cameras; some took out the film and tossed it
on the ground before him.
A procession of three cars drove slowly down the runway
and halted prudently out of pistol range. Two men got
out and approached warily, holding high a white flag. They
kept pointing and gesturing toward the pistol until he put
it back in the holster. Only then did one of the Japanese
come close enough to talk. Belenko jumped off the wing to
meet him.
"Do you speak English?"
"Nyet."
The Japanese waved to his companion, a very elderly
little man, who walked forward and addressed Belenko in
pidgin Russian. "Pistoly, pleezy." Belenko handed him the
pistol. "And knify, too." He surrendered the knife protrading
from a flap pocket of his flight suit. "Follow us,
pleezy. Do not wolly."
Near pandemonium reigned in the airport terminal as
crowds of people strained and shoved to see, to try to touch
this exotic being who so suddenly and unexpectedly had
landed in their midst from another world. When Belenko
entered, a Japanese stood by the door, holding a handsome
aircraft manual open to a page displaying a drawing of a
MiG-25. Grinning and nodding his head rapidly, he held
out the manual before Belenko, as if to ask, "Am I right?"
Yes, nodded Belenko. The man put down the manual,
grinned more broadly, and clapped.
Within ten minutes after Belenko landed, the Japanese
had summoned an official who spoke Russian superbly. Although
he introduced himself as a representative of the
Japanese Foreign Office, Belenko suspected that he was an
intelligence officer. In the office of the airport manager
Belenko gave him the note he so laboriously had attempted
to write in English precisely for an occasion such as this.
"Who wrote this?" the Japanese official asked.
"I did."
"Good! Now, tell me how it happened. Did you lose
your way?"
"No, I did not. I flew here on purpose. I am asking political
asylum in the United States. Conceal the aircraft,
[112] and place guards around it at once. Call the Americans
immediately."
As soon as the official translated, the other Japanese
started cheering, and some danced about the office. "All
right! All right!" the official shouted.
"Would you mind writing down in your own words again
just what you have told me?"
"I will do that gladly."
"Follow us," they said, and Belenko did so, pulling his
jacket over his head to avoid being photographed by the
newsmen who had flocked to the scene. Through a narrow
corridor they hurried outside to a waiting car, which sped
them along back streets to the rear entrance of a hotel.
An interpreter and two security men stayed with Belenko
inside the hotel room while two sentries stood guard outside
the door. They presented him with new underwear, a
kimono, and shoes, packed away all the clothes he wore,
and suggested he take a shower.
They must think I smell bad. That's right, everything
smells so clean here.
A dinner of eight different dishes - meat, fish, poultry,
vegetables, and rice - was served in the room. All the
tastes were new to Belenko, and all delicious. "I heard you
have very good beer in Japan," he said hopefully.
"Thank you, but in the present circumstances, we cannot
allow you any alcohol." Although the Japanese did not tell
him, the Russians were already accusing them of drugging
a lost Soviet pilot, and they were fearful of lending the
remotest substance to the allegations.
Another representative of the Japanese Foreign Office, a
poised, confident, and well-dressed man in his thirties,
visited the room about 9:00 P.M. In fluent Russian he
asked Belenko to repeat the details and purpose of his
flight. Having done so, Belenko instructed, "Take my parachute
and clothes, and drop them in the sea to make them
think there was a crash."
"I am sorry; that is quite impossible. The news is everywhere,
all over the world. Now the Russians are demanding
that we return you and your plane. But we will not return
you. You do not have to worry. You will be very safe, and
[113] we will do all you have asked. It will take a while became
of red tape. Have you heard this phrase 'red tape'? There
are bureaucrats everywhere."
"Yes, I know about bureaucrats."
"Tomorrow you will go to Tokyo. For your security we
will use a military plane."
"I am ready."
The Japanese shook hands and rose to leave. "You cannot
realize how great an incident you have created for
Japan, the Soviet Union, and the United States. We are
under the greatest pressure from the Russians. But we will
not deliver you to them because that would be contrary to
our law and our democracy. Do not worry."
He is sincere. That is what they mean now. But what if
they cannot stand the Soviet pressure? No, I believe him.
I must believe him.
He slept poorly and noticed that the security men sitting
on the other bed were replaced about 2:00 A.M. Early in
the morning they brought him a suit; the jacket fitted, but
the pants were too small. They sent out for another; the
pants fitted, but were too long, and the jacket was far too
large. There being no more time for fittings, the Japanese
fetched some scissors and shortened the pants by six
inches. Attired in pants that now extended barely to his
socks, a drooping coat, a funny hat that was too big, and
dark glasses, he looked very much like a clown.
They exited through the hotel kitchen into an alley, but
swarms of reporters and photographers had anticipated
them. The security men bulled through the journalists, hustled
him into a car, and raced away with the press in
pursuit. Approaching a large intersection, the official Japanese
cars maneuvered until they were five abreast, then at
the intersection dashed away in different directions, confusing
the press as to which should be followed. By a
circuitous route, Belenko arrived at a garbage dump outside
town, and a helicopter swooped down. In thirty seconds
he was flying away.
The helicopter set down at the Chitose base next to a
military transport whose engines were running, and as soon
as Belenko and his escorts boarded, it took off. Because of
[114] noise in the plane, designed to carry freight rather than
people, conversation was difficult, and during most of the
flight Belenko gazed in solitude and marveled at the Japanese
landscape. Every inch of arable land, even precipitous
slopes, appeared to be meticulously cultivated. Towns and
villages looked neat and orderly. Nowhere was waste or
spoliation visible. The whole countryside looked to him
like a beautiful and lovingly tended garden.
How paradoxical the world is. The Japanese have little
land, few resources. But look what they have done with
them. I can see for myself.
At the airport outside Tokyo another horde of aggressive
photographers and reporters blocked their way, and camera
flashes momentarily blinded Belenko. Again, security men
shoved through the mob, and they sped away in a convoy
of cars, pursued by the journalists on motorcycles. The
chase astounded Belenko. The security officers and police
were communicating with radios smaller than their hands,
activated, he guessed, by the same kinds of transistors the
Russians had to steal from the Japanese to equip MiGs.
The reporters also had the little radios and were tracking
the motorcade by monitoring the police frequencies.
How can this be? Why, if this happened in the Soviet
Union, the KGB would catch those journalists and send
them to the camps for espionage.
The official cars swerved to the curb, and a Japanese
jumped out and ran to a telephone booth to make a secure
call by landline. After he returned and they drove off, the
interpreter explained. "We are so sorry, but it has been
decided that we must take you to a prison. We have no
other place where we can guarantee your security. At the
moment the prison will be the safest place for you in
Tokyo."
By means similar to those employed in Hakodate, they
eluded the pursuit at a traffic circle, the cars peeling off
down different streets, and about ten minutes later they
entered a naval compound. "There is an American here
who wishes to speak with you."
The Dark Forces. I'm going to meet the Dark Forces.
What will they be like? What will they do with me?
The American, dressed in a three-piece gray suit, a white
[115] shirt with a button-down collar, a striped tie, and black
shoes, stood up and offered his hand when Belenko entered
the office of the base commandant. He was slender, had
sandy hair and a fair complexion, and wore glasses. "My
name is Jim, and I represent the United States government,"
he said in flawless Russian. "It is a pleasure to meet
you and an honor to inform you that the President of the
United States has granted your request for political asylum.
You have nothing to worry about. As soon as the necessary
bureaucratic procedures are completed, you will fly to the
States. It won't be long.
"Do you have any questions or requests? Is there anything
you would like to say?"
"No. I understand everything."
"All right. Take good care of yourself. I will see you
soon, and we will be able to talk more freely later."
Somehow Belenko had expected more, something dramatic,
even epic, and he was vaguely disappointed that his
first encounter with an American had been so simple, almost
casual.
The Dark Forces, they seem very peaceful. Maybe they
are just being clever in a way I don't know.
Repeatedly apologizing for the character of his lodging,
the Japanese exerted themselves to make Belenko feel comfortable
and welcome. They laid mattresses on the floor of
his cell, brought pillows, sheets, and blankets, wheeled in
a color television set, gave him a chess board, invited him
to work out in the gym or use the steam bath. They emphasized
over and over that the guards, who would stand by
him every minute of the day and night and even accompany
him to the bathroom, were his protectors, not his
captors. And that evening they served him a multicourse
dinner that was the best he ever had eaten.
Thinking that a banquet had been especially prepared
for him, he asked who the chef was. The Japanese said they
simply had ordered the food from a common cafe across
the street from the compound.
"Really!" Belenko blurted. "I heard you were all starving
over here."
After dinner he luxuriated in the steam bath and, for the
first time since strapping himself into the cockpit at
[116] Chuguyevka, he relaxed. His two guards were beaming
when he emerged, clad in a silk kimono and sandals. Exhausted
as he was, he craved exercise and started toward
the gym, but they tugged at his sleeve and pointed him
back toward the cell. Someone had procured for him a
half-liter bottle of cold Japanese beer. It was even better
than its reputation. He slept profoundly even though the
guards kept the cell and corridor fully illuminated throughout
the night.
The second morning in Tokyo the Japanese dumbfounded
him with an announcement that he would have to
stand trial for breaking their laws. He could not quite believe
what was happening as they led him into an office of
the prison, where a robed judge greeted him with a formal
statement, translated by an aged interpreter.
"You are accused of breaking the laws of Japan on four
counts. You illegally intruded on our airspace. You entered
our country without a visa. You carried a pistol. You fired
a pistol. How do you plead to these charges?"
"Well, I did all that."
"Why did you disturb our airspace?"
"I did not have a donkey to ride here. The aircraft was
the only means of transportation available to me. This
means of transportation will not permanently damage your
airspace. The aircraft moves through the air without harming
the air." The interpreter giggled during its translation.
"Why did you not have a visa?"
"If I had requested a visa, I would have been shot."
"Why did you bring with you a pistol?"
"The pistol was a required part of my equipment; without
it, I would not have been allowed to fly."
"Why did you fire the pistol?"
"To keep away people who I feared might damage something
of great value to the rest of the world."
"Are you prepared to sign a confession admitting your
guilt to these crimes?"
"If that is what you want."
"It is my judgment that this is a special case and no
punishment is warranted. Do not fear. This will not interfere
with your plans."
Having satisfied the requirements of the legal [117]
bureaucracy, the judge smiled, shook hands with Belenko, and
asked the interpreter to wish him well.
During the judicial proceedings, a package and note had
been delivered to his cell: "It was nice talking with you. I
will be pleased if these books help you pass the time. With
best regards, Jim."
The package contained two books: a collection of the
works of Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn and The Great Terror by
Robert Conquest, both in Russian. Anyone caught reading
either in the Soviet Union could expect a minimum prison
sentence of three years. Drawn by the lure of the forbidden,
Belenko read curiously at first, then passionately,
then as a man driven and possessed. He read through the
day and into the night, and he trembled often as he read.
The words of Solzhenitsyn reeked and shouted of the
truth, the truth he long had seen but the fundamental meaning
of which he never had fully comprehended. He had
seen the village Solzhenitsyn recreates in Matryona's
House, the mean, hungry, desolate, cockroached-infested,
manure-ridden, hopeless village. Although Solzhenitsyn was
describing a village of the 1950s, Belenko had seen the
same village in 1976; he had seen it at Chuguyevka; he had
seen it at the village beyond the fence of the training
center where he studied the MiG-25. He had seen the zek
in One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich. He had seen
him just last spring on the road from the freight terminal
to Chuguyevka. In fact, the dying Ukrainian exile he had
picked up had looked just like Ivan Denisovich.
The Great Terror unveiled for Belenko the full dimensions
in all their horror of the Stalin purges, wherein at
least 15 million people - children, women, men, Party
faithful and heroes, loyal generals and intelligence officers,
workers, peasants - were starved, shot, or tortured to death.
Never had he read a book which so meticulously documented
every stated fact by references to published
sources, mostly Soviet sources, brilliantly collated to convey
a message of overwhelming authenticity. All of Khrushchev's
calumnies about Stalin were true, just as the millions
or billions of deifying words previously uttered and printed
about him were lies. But Khrushchev, Belenko now realized,
had let loose only a little of the truth.
[118] Caring for neither food nor drink, he read and reread
well into the early morning of his third day until he was
sure, sure that one quest of his life had ended in fulfillment.
All his intellectual life he had detected symptoms of a
sickness in Soviet society, signs that something was fundamentally
wrong. They proliferated, overpowered, and ultimately
drove him away with the conclusion that the illness
was incurable. Yet he never understood the underlying
cause; he never discerned any logic or pattern in all the
failures, stupidities, cruelties, and injustices he observed.
Now Solzhenitsyn, a Russian studying Soviet society from
within, and Conquest, an Englishman, analyzing it from
without, independently and in separate ways gave him the
understanding for which he always had quested.
The perennial shortages of virtually everything the
people wanted and needed, the enduring backwardness and
chronic failures of agriculture, the inefficiencies of the factories
were not really the fault of individuals or local
bureaucrats or Khrushchev or Stalin, as the official explanations
variously claimed. Neither was the maintenance
of a rigidly stratified society under the name of a classless
society, tyranny under the banner of freedom, concentration
camps under the label of justice. Even the ghastly
pogroms ordered by Stalin and the ridiculous, ruinous economic
policies of Khrushchev were only superficially their
fault.
The cause of all lay within the Soviet system itself. Dependent
for survival on tyranny, it inevitably spawned tyrants,
gave them sway, and could tolerate within the body
politic no antidote to their excesses or errors. During his
twenty-nine years under the system, life always had been
essentially the same because the system was the same. And
whatever cosmetics might be applied to alter its appearance
before the world, however repression might ebb and rise in
intensity, the system always would yield essentially the
same results.
If everything they said about communism, about themselves
was a lie, then maybe what they said about the rest
of the world also was a lie. Maybe there is hope. Anyway,
I am free of it forever.
But by midmorning Belenko had cause to wonder
[119] whether he really was free of it. The bright young Foreign
Office official who accompanied him from Hakodate came
to the prison, and the concern manifested by his face and
words caused Belenko concern.
"The Soviet Union is exerting enormous pressure on us.
They do not believe that you are acting voluntarily. They
are accusing us of keeping you by use of force and narcotics,
and we have been put in a very difficult situation.
They are trying desperately to take you back.
"Now you do not have to do this. It is entirely your
choice. But it would be a great service to Japan if you
would meet with a Soviet representative and disprove their
accusations, prove that you are acting out of your own
desires."
"What will happen if I refuse?"
"We will advise the Russians that you have refused and
continue to protect you until you leave for the States."
"All right. I do not want to do it, but I will do it."
"Thank you very much for your courage. I know how
hard this will be for you. It also will be dangerous for you,
and I want to make you aware of the dangers.
"They will try immediately to establish ultimate psychological
contact with you, to make you feel that you are lost
and they have come to rescue you and take you home,
where you belong. They will exploit your relatives and
probably bring appealing letters and messages from them.
They will try to dominate and control the conversation and
confuse you.
"But you have the right to interrupt and say whatever
you want. The meeting will be brief, as brief as you desire.
You may leave whenever you wish. The main point is to
prove that you are acting voluntarily. Just tell the truth.
"If you weaken and say you want to go back, we cannot
help you. But if you adhere to your desires, we will stand
by you. So will the Americans."
The Japanese that afternoon further revealed the gravity
with which they anticipated the confrontation by taking
Belenko into a conference room for a detailed rehearsal.
They pointed to a table behind which the Soviet emissary
would sit and another fifteen yards away where Belenko
would sit. Three security guards would protect him, and
[120] one would stand on either side of the Russian. If he drew
any kind of weapon or attempted to move toward Belenko,
he would be struck down instantly. Again they stressed that
he could depart at any tune and pointed to the door
through which he should leave whenever he wanted.
A big redheaded American, with a commanding presence,
deep baritone voice, and a strong handshake, visited
Belenko the next day, a couple of hours before the confrontation.
Although he said nothing about the imminent
meeting, his purpose probably was to reassure Belenko,
and he succeeded.
"Tonight you fly to America. We have your tickets; all
arrangements are made. You, of course, will not fly alone.
Someone will be waiting for you at the plane. Is there anything
I can do for you? Do you have any questions?"
"No questions. I am ready."
The waning afternoon sun cast a dim light and shadows
from the trees rustling in the wind outside danced in the
conference as Belenko entered. A KGB officer, who posed
as a first secretary of the Soviet Embassy in Tokyo, behaved
just as the Japanese predicted, jumping up and starting
his spiel before Belenko sat down.
"I am an official of the Soviet Embassy, and I want to
tell you how much all your comrades sympathize with you.
The Soviet government as well as everyone else knows
that what happened was not your fault. We know that you
did not voluntarily land your plane in Japan, that you lost
your way and were forced down. We know that you are
being held in a Japanese prison against your will and that
the Japanese have drugged you with narcotics. But even if
there were a mistake on your part, and we know there was
not, but even if there were, I can assure you on the highest
authority that it is forgiven; it is as nothing. I have come
to help you home, back to your own people, to your loving
wife and son, to your relatives. They have been able to do
little but weep since your misfortune, and your adoring
wife, Ludmilla, is inconsolable. Even your beautiful little
son, Dmitri, young as he is, cries at life without his father.
"All your relatives, your wife, your father who served
our Mother Country so heroically, your mother, your aunt,
[121] who was so kind to you as a child, have joined in sending
a collective letter to you."
How could they get them together so quickly, from the
Donbas, Siberia, the Far East? It's preposterous. And I
don't care anyway.
As the KGB officer started to read the letter aloud,
Belenko stood and looked him in the eyes with unflinching
contempt. "Wait a minute," he interrupted. "I flew to Japan
voluntarily and on purpose. I am here voluntarily and because
of my own desires. Nobody has used force on me or
given me any kind of drugs. I on my own initiative have
requested political asylum in the United States. Excuse me.
Our conversation is ended. I must leave."
"Traitor!" shouted the KGB officer. "You know what
happens to traitors! One way or another we will get you
back! We will get you back."
The Japanese official presiding over the meeting switched
off the tape recorder and told the Russian, "You may
leave."
Belenko stepped into the anteroom and unrestrained
jubilation. The dozen or so Japanese gathered there cheered
him, hugged him, slapped his back, and bumped into each
other in eagerness to shake his hand. "You were magnificent;
we are proud of you," said the Foreign Office
official who had asked him to meet the Russian. "You will
have a wonderful life in America. It is a great country
made up of people from all over the world." Handing
Belenko a bottle of Stolichnaya vodka, he said, "We would
like you to take this with you to America as a present from
your Japanese friends."
When I first saw them, I thought they were funny. Their
talk sounded like the chirping of birds. In a way they are
like Chechens. If you understand them, you see they are a
remarkable people, very strong people. They have been so
sincere and kind to me.
"No, I want to drink it now with my Japanese friends."
Paper cups were brought, and the Japanese manfully
downed the vodka to which they were unaccustomed. Its
intoxicating effects soon changed their grimaces to laughter,
and they bade farewell to Belenko in high spirits.
[122] "Remember, you are always welcome back in Japan. And
next time we will show you Tokyo."
They left the prison in darkness and drove to the airport
in another heavily escorted motorcade; police swung open
a gate, and the car sped across the runway to a Northwest
Orient Airlines Boeing 747. Inside, Jim, the Embassy
officer, led Belenko into the coach section, and nobody paid
any particular attention to them. As they took off, Jim
patted him on the shoulder. "You're on your way."
As Belenko had never seen a wide-bodied jet, its quietness
and size amazed him, and he felt as if he were in an
opulent theater. The number of flight attendants and their
attentiveness to the passengers also surprised him.
After the 747 leveled off at 39,000 feet, Jim said, "Okay,
let's go to our room." The first-class lounge on the upper
deck was reserved exclusively for them and a huge, fierce-looking
man whom the U.S. embassy officer introduced as
a U.S. marine. The captain admitted Belenko to the flight
deck and for nearly an hour, with Jim interpreting, answered
his questions about the 747, its equipment and life
as a commercial pilot. Belenko simply did not believe that
only three men could manage an enormous plane, though
they carefully showed and explained how they could.
The rest of the crew is hidden somewhere. But if it's their job to fool me and impress me, I'll let them think
they've succeeded.
Neither did he believe that the dinner - caviar, smoked
salmon, smoked trout, soup, salad, filet mignon, potato
balls, asparagus, fruit and cheese, strawberries and ice
cream, white wine, red wine, champagne - was normal
first-class fare on an international flight.
They are just putting on a show for me, no matter what
Jim says.
However, he did believe and was moved by the stewardesses
who after dinner came singly or in pairs to speak briefly to him.
"We are proud to have you aboard Northwest and in our country."
"I want to congratulate you. You have done a great thing."
"You are very brave. I am proud to meet you."
[123] One stewardess, a pretty, freckle-faced pixie, had no words. She only took off her stewardess' wings, pinned them on him, and kissed him on the cheek.
Belenko kept wondering when the Dark Forces in the
person of Jim would begin his interrogation, until Jim made clear there would be none. "You must be utterly exhausted,
so just relax and sleep as much as you can. You have nothing to worry about. Your first problem will be to learn
English. But you'll master it quickly, and you'll have an accent which all the girls will think is cute. You have a
great future ahead of you. You'll see."
After the lounge lights dimmed and Jim, though not the
marine, dozed off, Belenko thought not of the future but of the past. Had he done right in fleeing? Had he done right
in refusing to go back? Would his relatives be better off if he returned? Who would suffer? He tried, as was his wont,
to analyze and answer logically.
Even if they did not punish me, and they would punish
me, but even if they did not, what could I do back there to change things? I could do nothing. Can I do anything in
the West? I don't know. Maybe. Could I help my relatives?
If I could not help them, if I could not have good relations with them before, why now? Will they be hurt? Not my
father, my mother, my aunt. The KGB will find I have not seen them for years. Ludmilla and Dmitri? No; her parents
have enough influence to protect them. Who then?
The Monster and his superiors; the political officers; the KGB. Well, they deserve it. No. No matter what happens
I have done right. I do not want to live anymore unless I am free.
Despite the certitude of his conclusion, an amorphous malaise troubled him.
All right, what's your trouble now?
Reviewing and ordering his recollections, he isolated and identified the cause. It was the echo of harshly shouted words: "One way or another we will get you back."