Swimming to Antarctica_ Tales of a Long-Distance Swimmer - Lynne Cox [100]
“Oh, sorry. Did you twist your ankle?” he asked, studying my face.
“No, I’m okay,” I said.
“Good. I must have slipped on some mud—so clumsy of me. You’re really all right? Have a nice day,” he said, releasing my arm and collecting his umbrella.
It didn’t occur to me then that this was anything but an accidental meeting—not until later that day, at the airport. Before my flight home, I went into the rest room and noticed a heavyset, kind-looking blond woman following closely behind me. As I headed for the gates, I suddenly realized I had left my book on the sink and returned to retrieve it. When I entered the rest room, the blonde was just leaving. A look of shock crossed her face, and she turned quickly and walked the other way.
On December 22, 1986, a man who identified himself as Dave Beiter called me. He said he was with the FBI and asked if he could come to my home that afternoon to talk with me. He said because of security concerns, he could not discuss on the phone why he wanted to meet with me.
Before he entered the house, Beiter, a compact man with very short salt-and-pepper hair, showed me his identification card. He followed me inside and sat down in a chair beside me, and for the next twenty minutes we talked about everything from dogs to scuba diving. All the while I kept thinking, What’s this all about? Finally I just asked.
He cleared his throat, shifted forward in the chair, then leaned back in a practiced relaxed and open position and said, “We understand that you visited the Soviet consulate. Could you tell me the purpose of this visit?”
This surprised me. It had been more than six months since I’d been to San Francisco. So I explained the Bering Strait project to him. He listened, although it seemed as if he already knew about it. He began asking a series of questions: Whom did you meet with? How did you contact Mr. Terehkin? What did you discuss? He asked if I had any friends, family, or other contacts in the Soviet Union. Then he asked a question that perplexed me. He wanted to know if I had visited the Soviet Union or if I had any Soviet friends. No, I told him. And then I asked him if I could ask him some questions. He seemed surprised, but he nodded and smiled.
“How did you know that I visited the consulate?” I asked.
“I’m sorry. I’d like to tell you, but I can’t. It could jeopardize our way of getting our information,” he said.
Then I remembered what had happened to me after visiting Mr. Terehkin at the Soviet consulate: the man from the café, the other athletic man who bumped into me, and the woman at the airport. Suddenly I wondered if these events were somehow connected.
“Why are you asking me these questions?”
“We want to make sure that you aren’t being pressured by the Soviet authorities to do something you wouldn’t ordinarily do,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“You’ve heard of the KGB, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve read a lot of spy thrillers,” I said.
Beiter grinned. Then his voice deepened and his expression became serious. “There have been certain circumstances in the Soviet Union where people were forced into situations that were beyond their control. They don’t realize it at first—they’re only trying to help a friend or family member—but suddenly they find themselves in way over their heads.”
“Cloak-and-dagger stuff,” I said.
He nodded his head slowly, making sure I understood. “We just don’t want you to find yourself in that situation.”
“You know, I have to be in contact with the Soviets if I’m going to make this swim. Are you saying that the FBI doesn’t want me to do this?”
“No, not at all,” he said. “This