Francy Powers Jr. - Spy Pilot - Francis Gary Powers, the U-2 Incident, and a Controversial Cold War Legacy

With the pilot consistently insisting he had not experienced any mechanical problems and had been hit at “maximum altitude”—the definition of which reflected the cat-and-mouse game played by the CIA—such a scenario required an additional leap: He had purposely descended to a lower altitude, which meant he had sabotaged his own mission in order to defect. Even after his show trial and incarceration, the possibility of such an explanation lingered.

In this context, Oliver unwittingly contributed to the swirling doubts concerning his son. The American public was left to draw its own conclusion about the August 27 report, and many no doubt assumed the pilot had spoken in some sort of code to his father, letting him in on a secret. This was a bell that could not be un-rung.

And yet Oliver made the connection that eventually sent him home.

In the years after his unsuccessful defense of the KGB spy Rudolf Abel, James B. Donovan continued to press forward with an appeal. In this the onetime naval commander, OSS official, and associate counsel to the Nuremberg tribunals, who was now consigned to the much-less-glamorous life of a New York lawyer who specialized in insurance cases, believed he was doing his duty. He never doubted his client’s guilt. But because he believed in American justice and the message it sent to the rest of the world, Donovan believed Abel—who went by several different aliases and refused to give the government his real name—deserved the most vigorous defense possible, even if such high-mindedness in the age of the Red Scare struck some of his friends as unnecessarily noble. Anonymous phone calls and letters to his Brooklyn home branded him a “commie lover.” 18

The publicity of the case helped Donovan land the Democratic nomination for the US Senate in 1962, but the baggage of representing a Soviet spy at the height of the Cold War was too much to overcome, especially against popular incumbent Jacob K. Javits, who beat him by more than 1 million votes.

Before the US Supreme Court, Donovan argued that the government violated Abel’s Fourth Amendment rights against unreasonable search and seizure when the Immigration and Naturalization Service, armed only with an administrative warrant, detained him and worked in concert with the FBI to search his room at Manhattan’s Latham Hotel. Even without the Cold War implications, the case emerged as a closely watched test of Fourth Amendment protections.

Abel, who eventually settled in for a long stay at the Atlanta Federal Penitentiary, once asked his attorney what would happen if his conviction was overturned and he was granted a new trial and an eventual acquittal. By this time the accused and his lawyer had developed a mutual respect, but Abel harbored no illusions about Donovan’s sympathies. He understood the representation was all about the larger principle, so he was not surprised by the answer. “If all my work is successful,” Donovan said, “I may have to shoot you myself.” 19

On March 28, 1960, the US Supreme Court upheld Abel’s conviction. The vote was 5 to 4. “The nature of the case, the fact that it was a prosecution for espionage, has no bearing whatever upon the legal considerations relevant to the admissibility of the evidence,” Justice Felix Frankfurter wrote in the majority opinion. 20

None of the justices could yet understand how the narrow margin would enable a defining moment of the Cold War.

By the time Powers tumbled out of the sky thirty-four days later, and with Abel staring at another twenty-seven years of hard time, Donovan’s suggestion of a future spy trade was mostly forgotten.

Somehow Oliver learned about the idea, resurrecting it in a letter to Abel:

June 2, 1960

Dear Colonel Abel,

I am the father of Francis Gary Powers who is connected with the U-2 plane incident of several weeks ago. I am quite sure that you are familiar with this international incident and also the fact that my son is being currently held by the Soviet Union on an espionage charge.

You can readily understand the concern that a father would have for his son and for a strong desire to have my son released and brought home. My present feeling is that I would be more than happy to approach the State Department and the President of the United States for an exchange for the release of my son. By this I mean that I would urge and do everything possible to have my government release you and return you to your country if the powers in your country would release my son and let him return to me. If you are inclined to go along with this arrangement I would appreciate your so advising me and also so advising the powers in your country along these lines.

I would appreciate hearing from you in this regard as soon as possible.

Such a trade was complicated by various factors, including one rather big problem: Although an East German woman who purported to be his wife was anxious to get him back, the Soviets insisted they had never heard of Abel. But Oliver started the dominos tumbling. One thing led to another… and twenty-one months later, Washington dispatched Donovan to East Germany to negotiate an exchange, which required several days of back-and-forth with Alexandrovich Schischkin, a high-ranking KGB official; Abel’s “wife”; his lawyer; and the East Germany attorney general.

At 8:20 a.m. local time on Saturday, February 10, 1962, the American pilot walked toward the middle of the Glienicker Bridge, which spanned Lake Wannsee, separating Potsdam, part of East Germany, from West Berlin. He was accompanied by two Soviet officials. In his hands he carried the suitcase, containing some clothes, his diary, a rug he made in prison, and the souvenirs purchased on his behalf. It was cold, and he was wearing a heavy coat. Approaching from the opposite direction was an American delegation leading Rudolf Abel.

Joe Murphy took a long look at Powers.

About two weeks earlier, inside the new CIA headquarters in Langley, Virginia, John McMahon, who eventually became deputy director, stopped by Murphy’s office. They were getting Powers out, and they needed someone to identify him. “You’re it.” Murphy arrived in West Berlin via Frankfurt the previous Monday and helped make the preparations, including how and where to hide Abel.

Washington feared the news leaking out. While the bureau of prisons prepared to fly Abel to West Germany, Murphy went to work arranging to keep him overnight at a nearby US Army base while awaiting the exchange. Because the base employed a large number of German civilians, the commander picked up the phone and ordered a subordinate to give all the Germans Friday off. He didn’t say why. With the circle closed, the secret held and the small party convened at the bridge without drawing any attention.

Murphy knew Powers well.

“Right away, I knew it was Frank,” he said.

Before he could say anything, Powers called him by the wrong name. “Oh, hey, Charley!”

“Nope. Try again.”

Recalling the scene, Murphy said, “I knew what he was thinking. The guy who replaced me [as the security officer at Incirlik] was named Charley. Frank got confused, which was understandable. There was no reaction from the others. They were relying on me, and I had no doubts.”

Looking back on the moment, Powers said, “I knew that I knew the man, but I called him by the wrong name.” 22

After going through several security questions—including the name of his dog—the trade was delayed while Donovan waited for a phone call about Frederic Pryor.

Pryor, a twenty-eight-year-old American who was pursuing a doctorate at Yale, spent about two years freely moving between West Berlin and East Berlin while studying economics at the Free University of West Berlin. One day in September 1961, after the wall went up, he crossed into the eastern zone to attend a speech and visit a colleague. He could see the border crossing was becoming too dangerous. Being a foreigner allowed him to move between the zones, but the show of force and the fear of the unknown unnerved him. He decided to tell his friend that they needed to abandon their joint project, which concerned the textile industry.