“Well.” He narrowed his eyes. “Though my colleagues would say otherwise, my Russian has improved a lot. Lately, they speak about nothing else in the OGPU. You just have to keep your ears open.”
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. It’s something else. Look at this.” He indicated the issuer’s account number. “I need to know whose account that is. Who ordered the transfer.”
Walter scanned the document with reluctance. “It says it there: Confidential. They guard that information like treasure.”
“Sure, but I’m not asking about the number in the transcript. I’m referring to the one I’ve corrected underneath, in red pencil.”
Walter removed his glasses to read it carefully. “Where did you get this?” He frowned.
“I’d rather not involve you.”
“You already have by coming here. If anyone followed you, I’ll be linked to someone defending a murderer.”
“Think about what you’re saying. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that the witness to a crime that happened a year ago suddenly appears in the middle of a trial? If he has always had that evidence, why didn’t they arrest Hewitt sooner? And it’s not just any witness. No. It’s someone with status. Viktor Smirnov . . . But why would a guy who’s only interested in his cars get involved in this case? It beats me. All I can think of is that they’ve threatened to take away his privileges.”
“Well, since you’re asking me to think about it, you could also consider that even if he has complicated reasons for giving evidence, that doesn’t mean that Hewitt’s innocent. McMillan died, the money disappeared, and there’s the recording.”
“Damn it, Walter! Hewitt doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who throws his employees off bridges. And if they lied about that, they could be lying about everything.”
“You don’t have the look of someone who would kill his landlord, but you murdered Kowalski. Really, Jack. How easy it is to look the other way when you’re defending someone who’s provided you with all manner of luxuries!”
Jack was hurt that Walter had chosen to remind him of the landlord’s death, but he could sense that his friend was envious of him. For the sake of their long friendship, he tried to be tolerant. “I can see why you might feel sore, but it’s not fair for you to look down on me for it. I’ve worked for everything I have, and your own boss, Sergei Loban, authorized it. And I didn’t realize you and Sue were in such a precarious situation. Shit, Walter! If you needed help, a loan, I don’t know, whatever. All you had to do was ask, and I—”
“Well, I’ll be damned, Jack! Now you’re a fucking loan shark? And to think you hated your uncle the banker.”
“Please! Don’t take what I’m saying literally. I was just trying . . . Well, it’s just that I had no idea you were living in these conditions. When you left the American village, I thought you were moving somewhere better.”
“Sure . . . A mansion, like Wilbur Hewitt’s.”
“Give it a rest, Walter! I’m sorry, really I am. Look. Here. It’s not much, but . . .” He went to take out some notes from his wallet, but Walter stopped him.
“I don’t need handouts, Jack. In fact, I think you need my help, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” He got up and strolled around the room. “Anyway, let’s leave it. Are you going to tell me where you got that number?”
Jack took a deep breath and studied Walter’s troubled face. He hesitated as his heart accelerated. It was Walter. His friend Walter. “I found it in a trunk that belonged to McMillan,” he finally said. “Hewitt let me have his luggage, unaware that there were dozens of reports hidden inside that contain information on the Avtozavod, including the banking transactions that have been used in the trial to incriminate Hewitt. The records in the court case match McMillan’s reports with one exception: the issuer’s account number is different. And McMillan’s papers are the official balance sheets, stamped by the Vesenkha, the Supreme Soviet of the National Economy.”
“And all of that was in a trunk?”
“It had a false bottom. Look, Walter, I’m convinced that the document I’ve found is the same one McMillan was going to hand over to Sergei when he called him. That’s why I don’t understand why Sergei would alter the issuer’s account number.”
“I agree that it’s strange.” Walter stood up and tugged at his thinning hair. “But, truthfully, Jack, I don’t know what significance your discovery could have. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to find anything out. Where’s the original?”
“Hidden.”
“OK. Then bring it to me tomorrow, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Tomorrow will be too late. I need to know the issuer’s identity before the trial resumes.”
“I see. Problem is, I’d have to go back out now, find someone at the office, and try to get them to help me by showing them a number written in red pencil. If you’d brought the original, then—”
“Listen, if it’s true that Sergei’s changed the number, then that report’s the only evidence that could prove it. And I’m not about to hand it over to those wolves. I am going to present it in the trial, in front of Stalin, but first I have to know why the numbers were altered.”
“The thing is . . .” He shook his head, as if unable to find a solution. “The thing is, I don’t think I can help you. Maybe you should speak to someone with more power in the OGPU. When it comes down to it, I’m just a seksot, an informer, as much as Sue likes to think otherwise. I’m a nobody.”
Jack didn’t know what to say. He finished his tea and considered what Walter had said. Finally, he got up to say good-bye to his friend. “One last thing. Does the name Vladimir Mamayev mean anything to you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard it before. Why?”
“No reason. Thanks anyway. Say good-bye to Sue for me. I owe you one.”
“What’re you going to do?”
Jack put on his fur coat and pulled his ushanka down as far as it would go. “Speak to Viktor Smirnov. I don’t know if it’ll help, but it’s time to find out.”
38
Since he’d left Walter’s humble apartment block, Jack hadn’t stopped wondering what Smirnov’s true role was in the whole business. Before the trial, his apathy toward anything other than his own pleasure had freed him of suspicion. However, his sudden emergence as a witness meant he had serious questions to answer.
When Jack banged on the front door of Viktor Smirnov’s dacha, he couldn’t prevent a shiver from running down his spine. While he waited, he admired the large collection of vehicles parked in front of the house, watched by the guard who a minute earlier had frisked him before letting him pass. The laughter and music from inside reached the garden. Whoever was in there was certainly having a good time. He knocked firmly again and waited.