“So. Have you had a little think about our conversation yesterday?” He took off his monocle.
“A little think, sir? Truthfully, I didn’t sleep a wink.”
“Ha!” He interrupted to allow the waiter to serve them. “And is that good or bad?”
Jack took a deep breath. In reality he hadn’t decided yet. “Mr. Hewitt, I must admit that your offer’s tempting, but before I decide, there are a few things I’d like to discuss with you.”
“Of course! That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?” He wolfed down a sausage practically in one bite.
Jack asked Hewitt about the responsibilities he’d have as supervisor, what his everyday work would be, and how he would report his discoveries. The industrialist explained that he’d occupy the position earmarked for McMillan, and consequently, he’d work directly under him. “Though in theory, under Sergei as well,” he added. “As I said, they’ve made him head of security at the Avtozavod.”
Jack choked on the mouthful he was eating. His brushes with the Soviet on board the SS Cliffwood did not suggest they would get on well. But Hewitt reassured him.
“Don’t worry. It’s just bureaucracy. We Americans have important roles, but the factory belongs to the Soviets.” He explained to Jack that, three years earlier, when Stalin decided to build a factory in Gorky in the image of the Dearborn plants, they extended every courtesy. “Joseph Stalin is a car fanatic, desperate to motorize the country whatever the cost. Imagine old Henry Ford’s joy when the Soviets made him the offer. Not only would Stalin pay him forty million dollars to start manufacturing an obsolete model, but he also agreed to buy the used machinery that Ford had already jettisoned from its factories in Germany.” He clumsily wiped his mustache. “Though, of course, the Soviets made sure that, in addition to building the factory and supplying enough parts, Ford would provide the American technicians needed to get the factory up and running. At first, everything was our responsibility, but as work progressed, the Soviets gradually took over.”
“Took over?”
“Well, that’s one way of looking at it. The fact was, any useless Soviet could be appointed as a boss simply for belonging to the Communist Party, and the next day that boss would hand another position of responsibility to his brother-in-law.”
“That doesn’t surprise me. Like you say, the factory belongs to them, doesn’t it?”
“Yeah, sure, but things worked before. If a nut happened to fall down a crack, they’d damned well make sure they found it and put it back in its place. But now, if you want a Soviet to bend down and pick up a nut, one that he might well have dropped himself, on purpose, half the factory has to be mobilized to authorize it. There are bosses for everything: section bosses, chain bosses, line bosses, union bosses, machine bosses, committee bosses, duty bosses, heads, executives, managers! The few who do any actual work are illiterate peasants from the Caucasus, the Urals, and Mongolia with no initiative and no dreams . . . If it carries on like this, before long, there’ll be more bosses than workers.”
“But I don’t get it. If the factory’s Soviet, there are more and more Soviet bosses, and things are done the way the Soviets want, why do you care so much?”
“I just told you. They hired us to deliver a factory that works, and until it achieves the agreed production figures, the contract remains unfulfilled.”
“You think that the suspected sabotage could be for political reasons?”
“I’m not certain. It might be. They blame counterrevolutionary elements or attacks from disgruntled workers. But it could also be nothing more than a series of accidents due to the operatives’ lack of expertise, or just poor maintenance . . . anything. Either way, it’s my duty to find out. Pass the coffee, will you?”
Jack was pensive, looking Hewitt in the eyes. “And what does Sergei have to do with all of this?” He filled the industrialist’s cup.
“Sergei? Sergei’s your typical tight-lipped Russian. He is a survivor. They assigned him to me this year as a liaison officer, and since then, he’s followed me everywhere like a dog.” He gestured with his chin, indicating the entrance to the room. Jack looked and recognized Sergei’s white beard. He was reading the Pravda some distance away. “Although they’ve promoted him, that shouldn’t worry you. Bear in mind that your job will be to supervise maintenance of the production chain, which isn’t a position that will arouse his suspicion, and it’s something, I’m told, for which you have the necessary skills.”
“You’re told?” He stopped chewing.
Hewitt opened the New York Times with his only good hand, took a folder from the inside pages, and dumped it on Jack’s plate of bacon. “Look for yourself!”
Jack, surprised, opened the folder and studied the report he found inside. It was a wire transmission dated three days earlier in Helsinki, sent from Dearborn. “But this is . . .”
“Exactly. Your employee file. I requested it as soon as I was admitted to the hospital. Everything’s in there, from the day you started at Ford to the day they fired you: training, promotions, authorizations, what you ate, whom you mixed with, and how long you spent in the bathroom. It would appear that you’re a smart guy.” He winked.
Jack breathed in. His heart was thumping. He supposed that if Hewitt had dug this deep, he might know something about Kowalski’s death. But it was unlikely he’d gotten wind of it, and Jack wanted to do business with him.
“I see you leave nothing to chance.”
“I sure don’t, kid. You might’ve impressed me on the SS Cliffwood, but I needed to make sure you could repair the damaged machinery. And now these reports are just what I needed, to know I’m going to pay two hundred dollars a week to the right person.”
“Three hundred.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, three hundred. Three hundred dollars a week if you want me to take this on. Like you said, there’s a lot of money at stake, and there’s no one else who can do it. I’m traveling with my wife, and even though you won’t admit it, everything suggests it’s going to be risky.”
Jack fell silent. He hadn’t asked for more money out of ambition. He just wanted to check whether Hewitt knew he was wanted for murder. If he did, Hewitt would be the one calling the shots and could make him work for free, if he so wished, but if he agreed to Jack’s financial terms, it would mean he had nothing on him. Hewitt stared at Jack for a while. “All right, young man. Three hundred it is!”
Jack didn’t wait to start showing Hewitt that he took the job seriously. He hadn’t yet finished his coffee before he asked for the factory’s floor plans, a detailed inventory of the machinery, the credentials of the Soviet and American machine operators, their shift patterns, and, of course, a comprehensive list of the incidents that had taken place and the workers involved.