BILL LOFGREN EXPOSED!
©Excerpt from Boris Korczaks' book.
It was on the TV news early one morning, repeated by the main Danish papers, [1]Politiken. Bill was all over the news exposed as an American spy. They wrote that Bill Lofgren was an American intelligence officer with very strange Arab connections and that the State of Denmark would not tolerate acts of espionage within its borders.
Bill became a wreck overnight.
He started growing a beard and was hiding in his rented house in Sorgenfri, seven miles from Copenhagen.
Eventually he had to come out to go back home.
The next day he called me and asked me to come to his house.
I saw that he was already packed and only a few most personal items were lying around in total disarray.
We sat there on his boxes and drank Bourbon from paper cups. It was Wild Turkey and I hated the smell of it.
It reminded me of the homebrew Polish peasants made out of sugar and beets.
Bill did the talking.
He claimed to be flat broke, and according to him could not even buy his favorite Carlsberg beer.
I went to my Audi and drove to the Kobmands[2] store and bought him a case of beer.
We talked for a while and I thought that suddenly Bill was acting like a friend, which he had never done before.
He needed something and it had nothing to do with our official relationship. I was right.
You see Boris; I have to leave Denmark in a hurry. Of course, you know why.
I nodded my head and said. - It happened to you before a few times Bill. They kicked you out of India, Lebanon and Greece. It is somewhat strange for a super-spy like you.
He did not answer, or perhaps did not hear me.
He got up from a large box he sat on and started pacing around the floor.
Bill was obviously getting hysterical.
I hated when he became like that. It happened many times before for all different reasons, sometimes for no reason at all.
He was pacing from the wall to the windows, with week-old stubble on his chin and wore no shoes.
To the staccato of his bare feet on the floor, he kept repeating constantly, -My life can be in danger. He repeated this sentence already ten times.
His voice reached a high-pitched tone and I knew that he was frightened shitless.
What can happen to you? – I asked.
He did not answer so I continued my monologue.
You have diplomatic immunity so Danes won’t touch you.
When it comes to Soviets, well I do not believe they would like to screw around with the U.S. government and shoot an American diplomat, and here in Denmark we don’t have any terrorists who could shoot you.
Don’t fucking say it! — Bill’s voice sounded almost soprano.
Say what?—I asked.
Don’t say the word – shoot - for Christ sake.
He reached for another bottle of beer and emptied it in a few big gulps, then wiped his lips and grasped the sleeve of my jacket.
I am very low on cash and I promised Joan to buy some of the antiques we saw in [3]Valby. You think you might help me with it?
…and what do I get out of this deal? – I asked, because Bill was obviously expecting more from me than he ever delivered.
I will make sure that all the things that are coming to you from the Agency will be of the best kind. You know, the house, furniture, school. You will be living like a fucking king. Besides, I will pay you back every penny as soon as I can.
I don’t expect to live like a fucking king, Bill. I only hope the agency keeps its word. – I looked at Bill and he sat there with half closed eyes, clenching a beer bottle in his hand, ready to promise anything.
I will help you. – I said. Noticing that Bill was falling asleep, I silently left the house.
I picked him up the next day from his house in Sorgenfri and drove to Copenhagen.
We shopped in small antiques places selling old chests, tables and wardrobe furniture. All the pieces we bought were very old and had the markings of Old Danish masters.
Fourteen thousand bucks poorer we left the place and went to the Adams Transport office.
Bill signed the papers and arranged for crating and shipping of the antiques to the U.S.
A week later, he sold his Chevy Nova to someone in the Embassy and called me from downtown to pick him up.
I drove through Norre Farimagsgade[4] and spotted him standing behind the polse vogn[5].
He held a hot dog in his hand and the beer in another.
Bill looked even worse that a few days before.
His shirt was showing signs of not being changed and he reeked with sweat.
He took a seat in my Audi and immediately adjusted the seat to the lowest position.
Are you going to take a nap? – My sarcasm was well addressed, but he did not answer and we drove with Bill in a horizontal position all the way to Sorgenfri.
I am leaving tomorrow. – He said when we entered the house.
Just one more thing, you will have to drive me to Strandvejen and meet a new case officer?
OK. – I said and wondered if driving around with Bill belonged to my duties as an access agent.
I drove fast and passed Lyngby aiming straight at Northeast. Bill seemed to be asleep but he turned to me and said: I want to ask you for a great favor. - Bill was not through asking for favors and I was getting annoyed.
What is it this time? — My voice probably sounded unpleasant and Bill noticed it.
His name is Jack. Good guy, older than I am. He has his ideas about stuff and I do not know him so well. There are no secrets that you could not tell him about, but one.
What is it Bill?
I just don’t want you to tell him about this woman in Greece that I visited a few times. You know I am married and Joan is jealous like hell.
I had my doubts how jealous could she be.
I thought you didn’t like this Greek woman. You always called her [6]skata, didn’t you?
Just don’t.
OK. – I said as we drove along Lyngbyvejen.
How many skeletons are in Bill’s closet? – I thought, turning to Strandvejen.
Occasionally Bill would come to my store to make a few phone calls, usually to Athens. When finished, he would leave a 100 kroner bill on my desk. Sometimes it covered the cost, sometimes it did not.
I’ll bring you big birdie – I overheard once or twice Bill talking to someone on the other side.
The big birdie stuff bothered me a bit, so the next time he came to make a call I pressed a button and recorded the whole conversation.
The other voice was female. She had a heavy east European accent but otherwise spoke excellent English.
She kept asking about a book of sorts and Bill kept promising to get it to her.
Whom do you call Bill? – I asked him one day.
Between the two of us, Boris, this is a girl I met in Athens. Thelw na tin gamisw[7]. I knew she is a kargiola[8], but so what. Fuck it Boris, the completely Goddamn world is a one-cluster fuck.
She studied Russian in Moscow, - he proceeded – and lives now in Greece. If my wife finds out, she will kill me. You know how it is.
Do you speak Greek? – I asked.
Not much, just a few words. Do you?
I did not answer. It was not Bill’s business.
Ti mano popi sekone rroosooza pootanis[9]. – I thought, but did not say it.
I knew a few funny expressions in Greek, but hardly spoke it.
I was still thinking about this big birdie, but I never asked Bill.
I thought that Bill was not really acting professionally, but again, it was not my business.
My monthly phone bill indicated the girls’ name was Marika Prokopiou and from the conversation they had, I understood she was married to Alexander Zaitsev.
It sounded Russian enough to get me interested.
I checked with Janis, my good friend in Athens, and she told me that Alexander Zaitsev was a military attaché with U.S.S.R Embassy, in a rank of a major. Janis was a British Correspondent in Athens for years and knew everybody and everything.
Strange as it was, I thought it might be our mole in the Soviet Embassy.
Bill obviously had some very weird contacts.
I was thinking about all this while we drove to see Jack.
Jack stayed in a little hotel with the windows overlooking the Sund and a thin line of the shores of Sweden.
We shook hands and had a beer or two.
I left both of them in the hotel to let them talk things over that I was not supposed to hear and sat in my car.
I turned the stereo on and lit a cigarette.
There were a few cars in the parking lot.
Most were Danish registered, a few German tags and there was nothing suspicious about any of them.
Then out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a Mercedes pulling into the yard.
It hesitated which spot to choose and pulled into the farthest one, right under the oak tree.
I extinguished my cigarette and checked my Beretta Brevetata.
Two sinister looking men sat there without opening the windows and observed the hotel entrance.
From my car phone, I dialed the number and asked for room twenty-seven.
Jack picked up.
Let me talk with Bill. – I said.
A moment later Bill came to the phone.
You have a tail. – I said.
Of course, I knew it will put Bill into an attack of hysteria and it did.
Who are they? – Bills voice was shaking.
Why don’t you come down and ask them yourself. They are sitting there under the tree in a Mercedes and don’t even hide too much.
There was a moment of silence and Bill choking from fear asked -
Could you do something?
Like what? Do you want me to chase them out with a fire extinguisher? It wouldn’t be polite.
Please! – He was begging and I got great satisfaction knowing that he was sitting there in a sweat.
I hung up promising to call back in ten minutes.
Six minutes later a car that was parked two spaces farther down caught fire, I threw the spray bottle under the car next to me, turned the key and drove away.
I parked on the opposite corner and watched the fire trucks pull in.
The Mercedes disappeared and the fire fighters started extinguishing a minor car fire with their hoses.
Then I called Bill again.
He came out of the hotel and crossed Strandvejen, blocked already by the cops.
He got into my car and we slowly drove away, taking side streets to avoid the barricades.
Bill was sitting there in my car and did not even thank me for getting his ass out of a jam.
Next day Bill left and I started working with Jack."
*Bill, in case you wanted to know why this website came into existance; it's because you and the Agency went to bat for a KILLER but you left my dad (Boris Korczak ) out in the cold! RSK*