 I was a communist for the FBI. Starring Dana Andrews and an exciting tale of danger and espionage. I was a communist for the FBI. From the actual records and authentic experiences of Matt Severick, come many of the incidents in this unusual story. Here is our star Dana Andrews as Matt Severick, who for nine fantastic years, lived as a communist for the FBI. For nine years, I studied the communist picture at close range. What I saw, I hated. What I learned, I'll never forget. For instance, there was a time when the red picture was deceptively attractive. Then I held it up to the light. What did I see? This story describes it for you. In a moment, listen to Dana Andrews as Matt Severick, under cover man. This story from the confidential file is marked, double exposure. Listen to this, from your daily paper, page two, news item. The Russian government stunned the world today with its latest goodwill gesture. Four American journalists, traveling across Europe, applied for permission to visit Moscow. This morning, that permission was granted. The Iron Curtain was lifted to admit the quartet of Americans to a limited guided tour of the communist capital. Sure, sure, you read it, and you wondered why. The whole free world wondered why. But the commies understood. Even the commies 6,000 miles away from the Kremlin understood. A master stroke, a touch of genius. I'll match our red propaganda experts against those misguided American truth seekers at any time. Any time at all, eh, swedic? Swedic. Oh, sure, comrade Adair, any time. You don't seem overly amused by all this, swedic? No, I'm not. Please, then? I think it's self-defeating. Ah. An interesting viewpoint, eh, comrade? Our leaders in Russia let the four Americans in. But if those Americans aren't permitted to leave... Ah. Those four foolish truth seekers are honored, yes. They'll be shown every part of Moscow, from the sunny side of the street, of course. And they'll be sent home to tell the world how Russia welcomes inspection by its severest critics. Oh. I... I guess I had the wrong idea. You did indeed, comrade. All right, you are. Our guests will see only the big red welcome mat. Not what lies under it. What are you doing, swedic? Well, yes, it's... Now, let me in. Sure, come on in. Is, uh, there's no one here? Oh, I said I was alone. What's wrong with you? All right. Listen to me. There's trouble. Uh-huh. Those Americans who visited Moscow, those newspaper people. What about them? They've left Moscow. They arrive in New York Thursday. I know that. Who's in the papers? Typical bourgeois. Erickson. Grateful swine. Stop muttering and make sense, will you? No, sir. Grateful swine. Stop muttering and make sense, will you? They were whined dying, shorn through the Kremlin palaces, invited to labor camps, taken to farms, factories, shorn every phase of a great proletarian dictatorship. But they insisted on seeing prison camps. Prison camps. Uh-oh. Even that wasn't denied them. But after they left the prison only hours, after they had left the country hours, mere hours after being flown out of communist territory, the camera was found. Camera? Were they permitted? The miniature American camera, obviously used by one of those newspaper people, hidden under clothes or something, to take pictures of the prison. And the prisoners? I see. Some of those inmates are citizens of the democracy's static. If those pictures reach the American press, if those prisoners can be identified, there'll be an international incident that... A steady comma. Take it easy. If they've got the film, it's too late for us to do anything. We've got to. How? The national board has ordered it. One of those Americans must have a role of film hidden somewhere. We've got to find it. Sure, sure. Nothing to it. We are sending you to New York, Svetik. Me? Why? Here. You'll use the name Matson, Charles Matson. You'll pose as a special officer of the customs department. You'll meet the plane at the airport. Wait a minute. Hold on a minute. It's got to be done, Svetik. How can I convince the customs office that I'm... These papers. Oh, I see. Pretty impressive. Forged but complete, thorough. All the credentials you'll need. Other details will be handled by our comrades in New York. But I... I don't know anything about customs. You have one job, Svetik. One. Find out which of the four journalists has the film. And if I can't get the film? Find out which one has it. If you do that much and can do no more, the party will see the proper action is taken from there. Vika, this is Red. Hi, how's... Take this down, will you? Okay. I'll be in New York Thursday. My name will be Charles Matson. I'll be a special officer of the U.S. customs office. And I'll have forged government papers to prove it. What's it all about? One of those journalists who went to Moscow took pictures he shouldn't have taken, shots that might identify some political prisoners. Wow. We can send an agent to meet the plane and plane the film. If the Reds find out the FBI knows about it, they'll suspect a leak. Well, then we'll get it another way. So will the Reds. They got goon squads polishing up their brass knuckles for the occasion. Matt, stay out of it. That phony credential stuff is too tricky. I wouldn't be able to cover for you. Hmm. Well, I have no choice. It's party orders. Oh, place sick. Disappear. Leave town. Hmm. New York Thursday morning, International Airport. Efficiency can be an insidious thing when commies are involved. You get to hate their competence. You despise their attention to details. My comrades had cleared the path for me all right. I arrived to find that Charles Mattson, special customs officer from Washington, was expected. The Reds had seen to that. My phony credentials were accepted. The Reds saw to that, too. Even the big trans-oceanic plane arrived right on time as if to cooperate with the commies. The four passengers were escorted directly to the customs office, despite the moans and groans of the waiting reporters. I interviewed them one at a time. First, Mr. H.J. McKenzie, a wealthy publisher of a large chain of newspapers. Of the four, the most influential and the most indignant. What do you think we are, Mattson? Smugglers, jewel thieves, opium dealers? My apologies, Mr. McKenzie. We have to pass on all photographs. Photographs? What about our stories? Our news releases. Does the immigration office want to correct our grammar, too? I'm sorry, Mr. McKenzie. It's important that you check any photos or films with us. If you took any pictures during your visit in Moscow, I suggest that you... Oh, you suggest to me. Young man, as far as I'm concerned, your presence here, your very attitude, suggests an infringement of my rights as a citizen. This idiotic rigmarole is a blatant violation of freedom of the press. Okay. Now, if you'll give me any photos or undeveloped films... You've already ransacked my suitcases, poked and picked at everything in my trunks, intruded upon my privacy, thrashed me like a common pool hall hoodlum. You found no film, and still you're not satisfied. Would you like me to open my pores for your inspection? No, Mr. McKenzie. You may shut your pores and go now. Number two is Walter Wilson, veteran foreign correspondent for the Atlantic News Service. Now, what's this peak-and-poke routine all about, Madsen? Who's hiding what? Just checking for photos or undeveloped film, Wilson. Here, sit down. What happened to your foot? It broke an ankle. Only way I could get my editor to bring me home is to break an ankle. My first look at the USA in three years, and I got to waste it on you. Sorry, I'm more interested in your first look at Moscow. So is my editor. I'd like to file my story before those other three characters do. No photographs, no film? Yep, plenty. Try and find it. I did. I checked everything you own. No luck? No. You're overpaid. A dozen feet of home movies tucked in the lining of my snuggies. Okay, Wilson. Goodbye. If you'd let me out that back door, I could file my story before the other... Nothing, Doe. I'm handicapped, bum-foot. I walk slow. Just walk out the door you came in, nice and slow. Numbers three and four in the group were Anita and John Dwight, owners and publishers of a small Midwestern weekly. I'm sorry, my husband can't be more cooperative, Mr... Watson. Yes, they took John right to the dispensary, you know. Yes, I'd hope you'd be feeling better by now. That food poisoning is so disagreeable. The trip didn't help it a bit. Poor John has such a sensitive stomach, you know. Your luggage has been checked, Mrs. Dwight. And John? It's being examined right now. Tell me, did you take any photographs while you were in Russia? Oh, no, they wouldn't permit cameras. Any unauthorized photographs. We're looking for any undeveloped film you might have taken while... Still? Yes. I see. You know, Mr. Manson, if John and I did take any pictures, we took them as working reporters, not as tourists. I realize that. If you were to confiscate them, you'd be depriving us of our livelihood. I can't emphasize that enough. If I don't confiscate them, a comic goon squad will deprive you of a lot more than your livelihood, Mrs. Dwight. If you or your husband do have any film... Trying to frighten me, Mr. Manson? Yes, you have good reason to be frightened. If I have the film at it. Now, let's not be coy, Mrs. Dwight. The FBI and the State Department can perform a much more constructive mission with those pictures than you can. It's not a matter of free press. It involves the freedom of prisoners being held illegally by the Reds. No way. I see. I didn't... That film may cut away a lot of barbed wire. It may cause an international incident. Or it may make you a victim of commie violence. Really? I had no idea that... Now, if you have the film, Mrs. Dwight, I... Dwight, over there, officer. Mrs. Dwight, would you mind leaving the room a moment? What do you think you're doing, Mackenzie? Mrs. Dwight? If you please, madam. Thank you. There now. Mr. Mackenzie, this office happens to be... Manson, I just had the most interesting telephone conversation with your boss. My...my boss? Yes, the director of the customs office downtown. Strange thing, Manson. Your boss never heard of you. My boss is in Washington, Mackenzie. The customs office has no officer here or in Washington. It's named Manson. They and I have good reason to consider you a fraud, Manson. An imposter. It...it had better be a very good reason, Mackenzie. The customs office is checking with the FBI now. This officer is to hold you here until the FBI agent arrives. A matter of national security, Manson. You understand, of course. Security. To Dana Andrews, starring as Matt Severick. An eye was a communist for the FBI. And the second act of our story. Forged credentials, false name, phony job. The Reds had rigged it all so I could serve the party like a good little comrade. But I was trying to use the situation to serve the FBI. And now, now I was being served. Served right to the wolves. Sit down, sit down, Manson. Whatever your name is. You're very kind, Mr. Mackenzie. The FBI man should be long shortly. Yeah. You know, Mackenzie, I happen to be a representative of the United States government. My credentials are very much in order. Very official and very acceptable. May I see them? No, you may not. If you want to see them, you'll come with me. In fact, all four of you glorified tourists will come with me. We're awaiting the arrival of an FBI. Wrong. We're awaiting no one. We're going down to the FBI office right now. You're forgetting something, Manson. The policemen at the door. Yeah, remember this. One of you four passengers has a role of film that's a threat to our national security. Officer, put these papers over, will you? Ah, those official credentials you mentioned. Sit up and sit down, Mackenzie. Put these over, officer. Then escort us down to the FBI office, will you? Right now. It was big talk, sure, big and hollow under the circumstances. But maybe it would get us out of there in a hurry. Maybe it would get us down to the FBI office just a little faster. I was about to be exposed as a phony. Not much I could do about that. But that role of film, it hadn't been found yet. One of these four people still had it. At least in the FBI office it would be safe from the hands of comers if we could get out of the airport. I'm sorry, gentlemen. Our friends have been detained on official business. Mr. Matson, I just... I'm sorry, we haven't much time. My name is Barry. I'm foreign editor of the Atlantic News Service. You'll have to excuse us, Mr. Barry. Hank, Hank Barry! Wilson, I've been looking all over for you. How are you, Hank, boy? It's been three years since I've seen you. Yeah, and all I ever get from you is an expense account statement design. I'm sorry, fellas, but we've got to look great, Wilson. You'll find? Say, what's that for? Huh? Oh, all the cash. Busted the ankle. We'll have to break up this fraternity meeting, fellas. What's it all about, anyway? Why all the official hope is focused? Say, there's McKenzie. Now, how about a statement, Mr. McKenzie? My apologies, gentlemen, but I don't give statements to rival newspapers. Are any of my employees present? Forget it, McKenzie. We're leaving. Now, right now. Oh, Matson, these guys have been here since... Right now, Wilson. All of us. Now. We took a cab down to the FBI headquarters, a strange group, each suspicious of the other for different reasons. I was scared, scared stiff, about to be exposed as a fraud, a forger, a traitor, perhaps, intent upon sabotaging government security measures. We awaited in the reception room for a small eternity. At long last, we were told that the FBI officer would see us in a few minutes. He was still in conference with the director of the customs office. Subject? Me. We were waiting. The world ended and began a dozen times, and still we waited. Wilson dozed. Mrs. Dwight seemed overly interested in a six-month-old magazine. McKenzie grummed his fingers on the arm of his chair incessantly. I encountered my heartbeats. They seemed to echo and thunder from every wall in the room. Mr. Mattson, Mr. McKenzie, will you come in, please? Well, high time I take. Sit down, gentlemen. Well, thanks. My name is Beaker, Mr. Mattson. I've been transferred here recently. Temporary assignment. Oh. Why? I see. Mr. McKenzie, I'm sorry to have kept you waiting so long. That's perfectly all right, sir. It's for a good cause. I'd like to wait till the end of time to help expose a threat to our national security. Uh, yeah. I hear there's been some trouble about your official status, Mr. Mattson. Let's, uh, call it a misunderstanding. I hope we can. Do you have your papers with you? Uh... Excuse me a moment. I'll check these with our files. Won't take but a minute. I checked your papers against our files. They seem to be in order. Are you sure of that? Yes, Mr. McKenzie. I'm sure. Why aren't you sure? Uh, well, the customs officer said they were mistaken. Oh. Oh, yes, I see. Of course. Mattson, my most humble apologies. I... Uh, Mattson, how'd you make out in your search for that undeveloped film? Not too well, I'm afraid. Maybe Mr. McKenzie can help us. No, no, I didn't take any pictures in Russia. And planned to believe him, Mattson? Yes. You may go, Mr. McKenzie. Thank you. Thank you. Sorry, I... well, thank you. Close, huh, Mattson? Yeah, too close. How come you're here? They can carry you, John. We... Come in. Uh, pardon me. I'm awfully sorry to interrupt, Mr. Mattson. Oh, Mrs. Dwight, this is Agent Beaker. How do you do, Mr. Dwight? Something we can do for you, Mr. Dwight? Well, yes, I wondered if I might run along. My husband, you know, is still at the airport dispensary. Sure. If it's all right with Agent Beaker, it's all right with me. Oh, thank you, Mr. Mattson. Well, just a minute. We've been keeping you here to talk to you about some film. Oh, oh, the film. Well, really, Mr. Beaker, I just... She hasn't got it. How do you know? Well, I... I know, that's all. Well, give my best to your husband, Mrs. Dwight. I hope his stomach settles down. Now, look, you guys. I spent three years in Europe chalking up a pretty good score for news beats. Now I get the story of my career. An insight on Moscow when you chain me to an umbrella stand in a reception room. Sorry, Mr. Wilson. Oh, my. I notice you didn't waste time with my competition. They've probably got extras on the street by now. It'd make better time without that cast on your foot. Very funny. That cast is a handicap to you. And to us. Now I get double talk. Look, guys, all I want to do is file this story. Wilson, you told me your editor brought you home because you broke your ankle. Sure. You don't know Hank Barry like I do. You've got to break at least one major bone before he'll even let you go out to lunch. Wasn't that Barry down at the airport? Yeah, yeah. He didn't know about your cast, friend. He didn't know you'd broken an ankle at all. He seemed very surprised, Wilson. And you're a little bit surprised yourself right now. You think I'd wrap that ton of plaster around my foot to hide a roll of film? Yes. I think you'd sell your mother to science for a good news beat. Wouldn't you? Sure. But that's a lot more comfortable than wearing plaster of Paris wedgies. OK. Let's remove that wedgie right now. Oh, no. Oh, no, Buster. You don't go tampering with my broken bones. This cast is strictly for my doctor and me. You've got doctor's orders to keep your foot in that cast. You bet I have. Your doctor's in Europe, isn't he? OK. You win. Very tidy little trick, Wilson. Where'd you learn it? World War II. You'd be surprised at the messages across the lines inside plastic cast. Your ankle all right? Yeah. I decided to break it when I heard I was headed for Moscow. You guys won your point, so I'll make a deal with you. You keep the cast, I'll keep the film. No deal. Well, remember it was my camera that took the pictures. My leg that carried the cast. My idea to smuggle the film through the iron curtain. No doubt about that. The film's rightfully yours. Should be a big story, all right? The biggest. Actual on-the-spot photos of Russian political prisoners. The ones you, G-men, haven't been able to identify yet. In fact, you've got two stories, Wilson. One, the pictures on that film. And the other? Exclusive rights to the obituaries of those political prisoners. Obit? The FBI can't confiscate that film, Wilson. We don't want to. It's yours, rightfully. I know, I know. We can't confiscate your conscience, either. That's yours, too. All yours. Hmm. Okay. You've killed my story, busted up my cast. Might as well take the film, too. Thanks, Wilson. Where are you going? Now that I've got a conscience again, I'd better buy my mother back from science. The FBI office while Bika sent the film down to the lab to be developed and printed. He kept the prints, gave me the negatives. I felt pretty good sitting around the FBI office, just as though I belonged there. Just as though there were no commies in my life at all. I hated to leave, but I had to. Comrade Adair would be waiting for me, waiting to hear how he tricked the FBI and... Get in, Svetik. What are you... Get in, get in. Well, comrade? Why don't you was still in Pennsylvania, Adair? You were wrong, weren't you? Yeah. Guess I was. I drove up to see how things were going for you. I missed you at the airport. I know. I didn't miss you as you left the FBI office, however. So I gather. You'd better explain, comrade. You may never have another chance. Nothing to explain. Those phony credentials were just a bit too convincing, that's all. Too convincing? Yeah. We government men, you know, have to work together. What? When the customs office fails and the FBI fails, we government men have to get together for strategy meetings. How else can we outsmart those stupid commies? You mean you actually had them asking you for advice? That's right. It's the funniest thing I have ever heard. Of course they needed advice. They couldn't find the negatives they wanted. They never will, either. You've got them now. Here. Svetik, you're remarkable. You're absolutely remarkable. Yeah. You better let me out here. That's my hotel. I stood at the curb looking after comrade Adair's car, his laughter still pounding in my ears. Then I turned and started walking. I couldn't stay at the hotel now. I was too restless. I just wanted a walk to put distance between the commies and me, even for a little while. I had to walk. To walk away from the obscenity of communist laughter. And this time, one of the few times, it was good to walk alone. Dana Andrews will return in just a moment. This is Dana Andrews, friends. Not long ago, a man who'd escaped from behind the iron curtain made this observation about communist fashions. He said their clothes were well made, but they were dull and drab, and the people seemed to huddle down inside their garments as if seeking to protect themselves from a cold, ill wind. Thank Heaven, freedom is still the fashion in America. In the story you just heard, names, dates and places are fictitious to protect innocent persons. Next week, another fantastic adventure. Join us then, won't you?