The Attach

The military attache serves one basic purpose: legalized spying. Cloaked, up to a point, by his diplomatic immunity, he goes to cocktail parties, parades and factories, gets local generals plastered (unless they get him plastered first), and ranges through the countryside with notebook, camera and a blank expression.

For reasons unknown, the Russians had permitted four Western military attaches (three American, one British) to ride the Trans-Siberian Railway all the way from Moscow to Khabarovsk, headquarters of the Soviet Far East military command. It was the first time in two years that any foreigners had been allowed on the 2,300-mile stretch from Irkutsk to Khabarovsk, which runs straight through what is presumed to be Russia's new belt of atomic plants and missile sites. Presumably, by taking careful note of such clues as power lines, spur tracks and freight-car types, a trained military observer could get an excellent idea of precisely what kinds of installations were where. And presumably the four Western attaches did precisely that--and more.

When the attaches reached Khabarovsk, Russian security police broke into their hotel rooms, held them prisoner for six hours, finally allowed them to proceed on their way to Tokyo--after confiscating what Moscow claimed were more than 900 photographs and 26 notebooks packed with "intelligence data on railway stations, bridges, tunnels, radar installations, airfields, locations of military detachments and other objectives of defense significance."

Amateurs. Somewhat lamely, both Washington and London denied "the validity of the charges," accused Moscow of a "flagrant violation" of the rules of diplomatic immunity. In answer, both Izvestia and Pravda started printing the military secrets the officers were accused of uncovering--for example, a badly overexposed photograph of "twelve rocket carriers for intercontinental missiles."

Along with the evidence, purportedly extracted from the 26 notebooks, came snickers. The Western agents, charged the Soviet press, were so "amateurish" and "clumsy" that the whole train knew they were spies--despite their rather incredible claim that they were Olympic athletes bound for Tokyo. They never left their compartment unguarded, refused to fraternize with their fellow passengers, and, weighed down with long-lens cameras, they ignored the conductor's admonitions not to take pictures out of the windows. At one station, jeered the Moscow press, they were so busy shooting a siding full of military boxcars that they almost missed their train as it pulled out.

Coincidence. Washington and London squirmed but kept silent. Scarcely anyone noticed the remarkable coincidence of dates between the police action at Khabarovsk and the opening--and mysterious dismissal--of the New York trial of Soviet Spies Aleksandr Sokolov and "Joy Ann Baltch" (see THE LAW). There were many other theories as to what had happened: local police had been overzealous; Moscow had deliberately trapped the diplomats; the Russians had found a new way to destroy effective agents--publicity and ridicule.

Then, as inexplicably as it opened, the attache case seemed closed. "The Russian side is not interested in inflating this case," announced the Kremlin with airy hauteur. So saying, it allowed the four military men to return to their posts--even though their heads were still presumably crammed with intelligence data that could best be checked out in Moscow. After all, if the cocktail circuit failed them, they could always refresh their memories by reading Pravda and Izvestia.

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