 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. You are about to hear a strange story. Names, dates, and places are, for obvious reasons, fictional. But many of these incidents are based on the actual experiences of Matt Sovetic, who for nine fantastic years lived as a communist for the FBI. Here is our star, Dana Andrews, as Matt Sovetic. For nine years, I was like the Dutch boy in a broken dyke, trying to plug leaks that could widen into a torrent in the flood. Fighting in the darkness of undercover to prevent disaster, dreaming a strange, recurring dream that the water, trickling ominously from the breeches in the dyke, was red. Blood, blood, red. Nine long years. In a moment, listen to Dana Andrews as Matt Sovetic, undercover man. Dana Andrews as Matt Sovetic, undercover man. This story from the confidential file is marked, Abbey as in Abbey Gales. Sometimes I have days like this. Days when I want to crawl into a deep hole and just sulk, or do some hard physical work to sweat the venom and self-hate out of my system. Days like this, I hate the words Communism, Cell, Trotsky, I, Common Form, Aged Prop, Party Line. Hate them. But there's Comrade Rivchenko fronting for Moscow. And he's got party work for me again, like it or not. And I hate it. Days like today. Good, Sovetic. You know, of course, about the organization known as the American Rally for Peace and Tolerance. The arpat? Yes. Something for us to infiltrate, I take it. My dear Sovetic, do you pretend not to know that the arpat has been a Communist front for five years? I'm not pretending anything. I just didn't know it. Strange. The FBI knows it. The FBI? At least the arpat is suspected of being a party front. Oh, that's something else again. Nothing I can do about it, is it? You will think of something to re-establish confidence in the American Rally for Peace and Tolerance before it's too late. That's a pretty big order, coming cold like this. Two hundred and eighty local members of arpat will cooperate in any workable plan to quite-wash them. Isn't the Kremlin a plan? Why are we the patsies? Five o'clock, Comrade Sovetic. What about five o'clock? I will be waiting here for you to discuss your plan. I go out steaming quietly. I find a good safe pay station and telephone my FBI contact. It's my day to be disagreeable, all right? I suddenly hate all the hocus pocus of calling the FBI and using that red pony-to-blue fox gibberish so necessary to secrecy. I even resent having to call the perfectly respectable little café where we meet Rondeau Green. When my FBI contact walks in, I'm waiting for him with acid in my soul. I tell him of the assignment Revchenko has tossed into my lap and, incidentally, let off a lot of dangerously explosive steam. And you say you're supposed to come up with an idea by five this evening? That is correct. Somewhere, Revchenko heard that Rome was built in a day and that Sovetic was the architect. A noblest Roman of them all. Honey, I never was so close to chucking this job as I am right now. What's the matter? Just once, that's all. Just once I'd like to perform some straight right-handed service for my country, no strings attached. We always wanted to be dead sure that the arpat was really a red front. We are sure now, thanks to you. That's a big service, Matt. Maybe, but now I've got the whitewash a red front and somebody's going to get hurt in the process. So fight, Matt. War means casualty. Just once. I'd like to do a lot of good without doing even a little harm. Well, you have any ideas for Revchenko? Come five o'clock? Blank. Nothing. Maybe you're fighting it too hard. Have you got any inspirations? No. Are you fighting it too hard? You've got me there, man. I don't think it's something. Matt, you're who pays for the lunch. I call it... heads. Heads it is. Best thing that's happened to me all week. See you around. Good luck, man. Keep in touch. Nice going, gal. Did I hit you at all? No, no, no. Oh, I did. Well, just grade my knee with your bumper. Is that all? It's funny getting nicked by a Red Cross station wagon. I'm just a volunteer in the Red Cross blood donor service. You're sure you're all right now? Yeah, I'm fine. You better come with me. Where to? The hospital. I'll tell you I'm perfectly okay. No, take my arm and don't argue, please. All right, nurse. I'm not a nurse. I'm just doing this to humor you. I'll not draw a crowd. You get in first, can you? No, go on. Slide in. All right, but... Now, can you get in alone? With my dying effort. Like so. I don't want to quarrel, but... you really stepped right out in front of me. Sorry, I can't discuss it. Why? To see my lawyer. Really? No, I was off in a cloud. Polly clinic, Polly. Oh, you had me worried. I watched the girl secretly as she drives. Carefully, yet relaxed and confident. And very, very fetching in the blue uniform of the Red Cross volunteers. I say, girl, she isn't quiet. 30, maybe. With a look of kindliness and patience maturing her eyes and mouth. It's a firm good face. Tempered, it seems to me, in sadness and experience. I like it, and I like her. I make conversation to hear a voice and to find out what I can about her while I can. Your time is short with decent people when you're a communist for the FBI. Blood donor service, you said? Yes. Nice job, these station wagons. Well, this one's fairly new. Expensive? I'd rather not say. You see, they're often donated to us. Oh, I see. You don't want to put a price on generosity. Yes. This card donated? It says on the door panel. Well, I didn't notice. In memory of Major Robert Quinton. Oh. How's the leg? Oh, nary a pang. Well, you'd better exchange cards anyhow, just in case. I'm just plain math-cevetic. No steal and grave cards. I'm Mrs. Robert Quinton. Oh. You donated the car, then? You can reach me through the Red Cross. Well, I'm sure it won't be necessary. You must be pretty busy anyhow. Well, unfortunately, no. Why not? Well, I don't know. People don't quite realize the importance of the blood donor program. The urgent need for blood plasma and whole blood war or peace. Maybe it takes you to tell them. All right. When did you last give blood? Yeah. Yeah. I won't pursue the boy. Well, like, I wish I could explain, especially to somebody like you. Well, I mean, somebody who's lost somebody. You know, never mind. I'm sorry. He was a training flight. He was an instructor. They're just as gone, however they go. Oh. You get over it, you try. The blood bank has its share of visitors who are getting over it without forgetting. Yeah. I study the strong, gentle contours of her face. I like her laughter, but her melancholy pierces me through and through. All at once, I feel exactly like shedding about 500 cubic centimeters of sovietic blood without any strings attached. I want to do something for somebody, whether my red comrades like it or not, and they won't. I haven't an idea in my head for Revchenko and Arpat, the communist front crowd right now. I'm in business for myself personally. Look, how about this? Yes. I'm not hurt, eh? We'll let the doctor decide that. All right, we'll let the doctor decide it. Drive me around the block to the blood bank and let the doctor there decide if I'm okay. And if I am, I'd like to donate a pint of blood. What's the matter? Are you... You're not just doing this for me. Let's say I'm doing it for me. Blood bank, Polly. And I better make a right turn here. And the name is Abby. Abby is in Westminster? Abby as in Abigail. Matt as in Sevetik. How do you do? Fine. I'm feeling strangely exhilarated, lightheaded. I feel great. Inside of 20 minutes, I'm lying on a cot in the blood donor center with a dozen other donors. I watch a half-liter flask fill up with 500 cubic centimeters of Matthew Sevetik. I don't feel a thing, except that strange exhilaration. Ben, it's over. The nurse helps me off the cot Here comes Abby as in Abigail to usher me into the commissary for refreshments. How do you feel, Mr. Sevetik? Oh, I feel fine. Keep that bandage on your arm until tomorrow. The nurse told me. And drink lots of fluids. As if I ever drink anything but fluids. Well, it's good we met, isn't it? I think so. Come back soon? I'll check directly with you. That's all right with you. That would be all right, yes. Well, fun's fun, but I gotta be going. Goodbye, Mr. Sevetik. Yeah. And thank you. I'm still feeling pretty good. I nod and grin and aimly at other donors waiting their turn in the foyer. Walk outside. Pretty soon I come down to Earth again and remember it's time for my regular telephone check with Revchenko. Sevetik? Yes? I must see you at once. You said you wanted to see me at five o'clock. I'm telling you now that I want to see you now. I haven't given the ARPAT situation enough thought yet. Now, Sevetik. Okay. Ahead for headquarters, the exhilaration of the blood bank all evaporated. I'm worried whenever Revchenko takes that blunt attitude. When I walk into his office, I know right off the heat is on and hot. Tell me about your morning, comrade Sevetik. What do you mean after I left you this morning? After you left me this morning, yes. Well, first I... So why? Just tell me that song. I'm interested in your day. Well, nothing much. I walked around, had lunch. Where? Where did I walk? Where did you have lunch? What's the difference? Some little joint? Near the blood donor center perhaps? Could be. In the blood donor center perhaps? I don't get you. You do know, however, that it is sharply forbidden for party members to cooperate in any way with the American Red Cross? Certainly I do. Why? Comrade Sevetik, roll up your sleeve. Now back to Dana Andrews, starring as Matt Sevetik. And I was a communist for the FBI and the second act of our story. I've got to think fast. If Revchenko learns I actually gave blood at the blood bank, I'm in serious trouble. The bandage is in the crook of my left arm. I pummel at the cuff of my right sleeve, stalling for time, thinking hard and fast, fighting down panic. If Revchenko learns the truth, I'm through in the Communist Party and useless, therefore, to the FBI. And then, with a kind of a little shock of discovery, I get my inspiration. Idea. A great idea. Why were you seen coming out of the Blythe Street Blood Donor Center? Huh? Who saw me? Does it matter? You were seen. Well, I was working on an idea for the American Rally for Peace and Tolerance. That's why you betray your party? Oh, I wouldn't say that, Revchenko. What would you say then? Look here. Suppose the ARPAT volunteers are massed to contribute blood. Are you insane? We give a couple of hundred pints of blood, sure, but we publicize it big. We build up ARPAT as a patriotic force, giving their blood for Uncle Sam. Oh, few people may still have their doubts, but mostly it'll be a lot easier sledding for the rally from there on in. Oh. I can arrange to take over the Blythe Street Donor Center for the day. Ported grass reporters, sob interviews, some good old phonous balonus about our American responsibilities to America. The works. Leave it all to me and it's a breeze. Huh? How soon can this be done? I'll get on it right away. Not bad, Sevetik. Get on with it. Hello? Hello? Hello, Abby? Mrs. Quinton? Hello? Hello? Oh, Abby, I struck big paydude for you. Mr. Sevetik? I think I've talked 280 members of the American rally for peace and tolerance into coming down and giving blood. Oh, how wonderful. The question is, can you handle it all in one day? Well, name the day. That's all. Tomorrow? Oh. Well, that would mean some cancellations and we don't want to lose a single donor. The next day then. Fine. Early, dawn to dusk. That's a contract, girl. I'll call you about exact arrangements later. So long for now. Matt. Yeah? Thank you, Matt. So much. Matt, she called me. Matt. I'm feeling pretty good as I hit the telephone and make arrangements with Arpat, the newspapers and the local radio for publicity on the grand gesture. It's almost too good to believe. I've actually conned the party into giving blood to the American Red Cross. Two mornings later, the comrades of Arpat start showing up bright and early and for the rest of the long day, there isn't a dull moment. Somewhere along late in the afternoon, I make my routine telephone check with Rev Chinco and get the first hint of sudden disaster. Sevillik can report to my office immediately. Why? What's the matter? Don't talk now, do as I say, report her at once. But I... At once, Sevillik. Now what? Use of your scheme has reached the highest echelons of our apparatus in America. It simply will not do to give blood to a culture we despise. But don't they understand? We've gotten great value for it. Arpat will be in the clear again. I tell you, it will not do, Sevillik. And I tell you, it's done. Then undo it. How? Destroy the blood flasks somehow. We can't do that. You can't, but you will. I'll try to think of something. You must. When can you bring me a plan? I'll call you later. I'll be here, Sevillik. Waiting. A situation, Matt. I didn't want to drag the FBI into this more than I had to. But I need help. I hate to be this negative about it, Matt, but you have no choice. Let the comrades get back their blood. I won't do it. No other choice, Matt. So what is there to do? The idea is to have a comrade pose as a hold of man making his escape. He stops the blood transport on the highway at gunpoint, commandeers the car, and hides it away for two days. If whole blood isn't processed in two days, it's worthless. Well, yeah, it begins to take shape. They don't dare actually destroy the flasks. They would point the finger straight at them as you point out. Well, that'll work all right. It's just a shame, that's all. Find out when the blood will be taken out tonight to the processing center. Call Revchenko, tell him your plan, and describe the route of the car. Oh, yeah. He'll get some zealous comrade to flag it down, all right. Better get going on it right away, Matt. I call Abby, find out the time she's leaving with the unprocessed blood, learn the route, and make a date to ride down with her to the processing lab. Then I call Revchenko, make an appointment with him, and give him the layout. He likes it. Why shouldn't he like it? It was cut to measure by the FBI. I wait for 9.30 at night, and ride the long ride to the processing lab in Abby Quinton's heavily loaded station wagon. A very, very bad company for a good-looking widow. Matt, what's the matter? Nothing. You've been so quiet. Well, I can get these moods. Good thing for a girl to know. Pretty dark stretch, isn't it? I know it perfectly by now. Is it always so deserted? I picked it because it's deserted. I don't like traffic around when I'm driving blood. Too precious to risk. It's packed securely, isn't it? Heavy wooden cases, cork liners, metal petitions. But a hard blow, and somebody might lose out. Burned child, wounded soldier, somebody. So many somebody's... Well, Abby, look out! Oh! Somebody on the road. He's waiting at us, limping. Don't get out. He can make it. Thanks. What's the matter? What's wrong? My curse went off the highway. Are you hurt? I don't know. Get me to a hospital. Well, climb in. Give him your hand, man. Here. Thanks, pal. Now get rolling fast. Go easy on that trigger, pal. Then get going. Better do it, Abby. Sorry, friends. That's all right. It's a pleasure. Little job went wrong in a gas station. I had to blast the attendant. Cops put an APB on their shortwave with a description of my car. Had to change transportation. Understand? Perfectly. Red cross car, huh? Couldn't have picked better. Take a left at the next interchanger. I'm not responsible. You hear me? I hear you. Watch it, girl. He killed one man. I won't let him kill 50. There are 300 pints of whole blood in his car. All with the necessary tests made at the center. Emergency. Emergency? There's been an urgent call for whole blood to be flown overseas. I thought we were going to the processing center. We branch off on the airport road. You take the next interchange, lady. No airport. Don't miss it, lady. I wouldn't count on it if I were you. She means it. I know she's telling the truth. There are 300 pints of life stored away behind us in those blue cases. And I don't much care what might happen to me if I try to help and get those cases delivered to that plane. I want to look real good come Judgment Day. I want to look good to the aviquettins of this world and to this special aviquettin in particular. Only how? Wreck the station wagon and hope to reload on a passing truck or car? What if we burn? Suppose the flasks are all smashed. Suppose we're hurt and helpless to explain the situation to any passerby. Suppose... Suppose she's killed. Think, Semetic. Think and act. Do something. Watch it now. The interchange is that ahead. What's that? I don't know, but I can guess. We've been going over 80. Cops? Yeah. They're flashing us now. Step on it, you. Get moving. I can't go any faster. Do you want to direct the car, you lunatic? Yeah, I want to direct the car. Yeah. Yeah. You're crazy. That's right, lady. You're so right, lady. Yell at them. Tell them Red Cross. Tell them emergency. Tell them, go on! That's all right, officers. Emergency. Red Cross Airport, emergency. No! Scope! No! Too late, lady. They're going places. No. No. They want us to follow. This is funny. They're giving us a police escort to the airport. Oh, no, they're not. Isn't it funny, though? It's wonderful. Can you get that wheel? Why do you... Stop! You fool! No, don't! Your wreckage, you fool! I wake up slowly. It smells like a hospital. Then like perfume. It's both. I see clean gray walls. I see Abby smiling down at me. Hi, Matt. You're a mess. Listen to you. What's a black eye and a patch on my cheek? Look at you. What about me? Nothing permanent. You took the windshield way out. What about the flasks? Did it all smash? Just a few bottles. The police put the rest aboard almost on schedule. And they have our gun-happy friend. Oh, that's fine. I'll be back tomorrow night. Good. Good night, Matt. Bye, Abby. As in Abigail. She's back the next night. And the next and the next. She's probably back the following night, too. I wouldn't know. Because I'm gone by then. Because I don't think I can face her evening after evening without losing my nerve and my job with the FBI. I'd go soft. I'd chicken. So I'm out of there before visiting our the fourth night around. The comrades can't say I didn't try. So I'm in the clear. They won't wreck another blood-transport car. Fice might rub the whitewash off the American rally for peace and tolerance. They don't know that the FBI knows what's underneath that whitewash. Red, bright red. So maybe I don't do too badly at times, but it gets harder and harder to say goodbye when the Abbey Quinton say good night. But I'm a communist for the FBI. I walk alone. Dana Andrews will return in just a moment. This is Dana Andrews. The play you've just heard is typical of the fantastic undercover behind-the-scenes struggle for America and the entire world. It was another story stemming from the real experiences of Matt Savetti who worked undercover for the FBI. Next week, another exciting and compelling adventure. So be with us, won't you? See you.