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.
I will, therefore, accept your feeling on this subject, and although I am not persuaded by the logic thereof, I will abide by your desires not to publish a book on my experiences at this time. I would be less than candid if I left the impression that I am taking these steps willingly. I am not, however, unmindful of the great effort which was made by the government to obtain my release from imprisonment, and am most grateful for this interest in my behalf. Accordingly, I am advising those publishers with whom I have been negotiating and who have shown an active interest in publishing my experiences that I will not entertain any further consideration of their offers.
I had been muzzled. It was only then that I began to have doubts whether the story would ever be told.