19.1 Water Gate Inn

TWA Flight 705 from Heathrow touched down at 13:25 at John F Kennedy International Airport, originally known as Idlewild and renamed on 24^th December 1963. Tyler Friesen was greeted by his wife and two kids on the tarmac. John Adams was there with a group of FBI agents, immigration officers and three representatives from the foreign mission. There seemed to be a group of reporters waiting for him and John Adams briefed him on the spot what to say and not to say. While in Ankara, Tyler Friesen had undergone a medical checkup and Tyler was in good health. Still, John Adams insisted that he should stay at a hotel in Washington DC for a week in confinement. He learnt Howard Turner was shot dead in office over phone conversations he had with John Adams.

“Washington?” cried Tyler Friesen.

“Yes, close to our Head Office,” said Adams, “It’s now an FBI investigation. New York departments will see you today and tomorrow.”

From there they climbed on the waiting cars and drove around the wing-shaped building of Terminal 5 to the front of the TWA Flight Center on Idlewild Drive and met the reporters by the entrance beside one of those Y-shaped piers.

“Captain Friesen, do you feel better to be back?” one of the journalists began.

He replied, “I am glad to be back with my family. It took me a while but I’m doing alright.”

“Why did you go to Eastern Europe?”

“I was there to write a book.”

“Is it true you’ve been to Siberia?”

“Yes, I spent most of the time in Siberia.”

“Are you a spy?”

“I’m not a spy.”

They pounded with all sorts of questions while the cameras kept rolling and flashes burning. It was aired on television.

One of his colleagues from New York Post asked “What actually happened to you, Mr Friesen?” He was the reporter who informed The Washington Post about Tyler Friesen gone missing in East Europe.

“Thank you, Kevin. I was going to go to Georgia from Armenia. I have a visa but the border troops ignored it. It was a mistake.”

“What were you doing all this time in exile?”

“Exile!” cried the reporters.

“Of course, I was in exile in Siberia. I took a job of teaching kids at school,” Tyler responded

“Teaching! What kind of people are they?”

At that point John Adams intervened and called an end to the press conference. They were ushered to the cars and driven out of the herd.

From 14^th to 16^th April, his family stayed at The Statler Hilton on 7^th Avenue. Two busy days interviewed by the NYPD, immigration officers and Assistant Director J F Maelon of the FBI Field Office in New York.

On Saturday, he was flown out of New York City to Washington DC and accommodated at The Mayflower, one of the largest hotels in the District of Columbia with three luxurious gold doors facing the 17^th Street NW and a grandiose interior. He was shown to a spacious Premier King Guestroom to spend a week alone and sit interviews with John Adams.

Soon, he became aware that some of the floors were undergoing renovation and this hotel currently was not as costly as one might think. Another scary thing he learnt in a couple of days was that the great man, or the Director of the FBI, had lunch here every working day.

Tyler Friesen sat down with a cup of coffee and a bunch of newspapers to take a glance. Headlines read of heavy bombings in Vietnam and protests around the country, including Washington DC. A space race between the Soviet Union and the United States narrated about the enduring successes of the Luna and Gemini programmes. And the final journey of JFK – his casket was flown on a C130 transport plane across the Atlantic and buried at sea. Another bulletin read of a new leader who emerged in the Soviet Union by the name of Leonid Brezhnev.

John Adams knocked on the door. He came with a box of items to conduct his interview. “Good morning, Captain Tyler Friesen! How do you do?” Adams produced the box files with ‘AIRLIFT’ written on its spine that he picked from Tyler’s place in Westchester. He returned the ‘Lodestar’ manuscript, “Turner left it in his drawer.”

“Thanks,” Tyler quoted, “All free men, wherever they may live, are citizens of Berlin,” he did not complete the statement, “I left this with Howard Turner to find an editor and a publisher. Please, sit down! Would you like a vodka, Mister Adams?”

“Call me John. Let’s try that Russian vodka! They say mad men drink vodka.” Adams settled comfortably, “What is the connection to Turner?”

Tyler picked a Smirnoff from the fridge and sat down with two glasses. “He fixed me up. A false passport, other gadgets, installed the Colt inside my typewriter.”

“Who sent you?”

“General Howe.”

“Allan Howe! Is that the one you took a picture with, in Berlin, in your folder?”

“That’s the guy.”

“Well, Mister Friesen, I wish to remind you that you have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney…”

“What the heck is that! I’m here to talk. After you hear what I have to say, you will be in for a shock.”

“Alright, I want to hear the whole story.”

“I heard from Minister Ram and the KGB that our guys from the College and the Pentagon are leaking state secrets to the Russians.”

“Mr Friesen, I’m going to record you on tape.”

“Do whatever you please, just call me Tyler.”

“Right, Tyler, how did it start?” he pressed down the two buttons together to record his voice.

“General Howe sent me to find the whereabouts of Jair Sivils and what happened to the last shipment of rutile ore.” Tyler Friesen told the story. He produced the report and the photographs presented by Minister Ram of Bradley and Gumper along with foreign counterparts in various meetings in different parts of Europe.