“Oh, don’t let the Soviets’ chest-beating scare you,” said Wilbur Hewitt as he shook off the nurse who was trying her best to apply iodine to the scars on his injured arm.
Jack watched Hewitt lower his sleeve with difficulty and head to his office armchair. Perhaps he was a presumptuous, eccentric type, but though Jack knew him only from a couple of conversations, he had the feeling that the American executive was the kind of person who could push men to work harder with just a couple of sharp remarks. And he admired him for that. He imagined that nobody in the Soviet Union would dispute his effectiveness as a leader. However, at that precise moment, it wasn’t Wilbur Hewitt who had captured all of Jack’s attention; it was the young nurse who was gathering her equipment with the care of a mother arranging her sick child’s medicines. Jack had been aware of every movement that she’d made since he walked into the office.
He found her very attractive. In fact, she was the first Russian woman he’d encountered who in his view deserved that description, though that was probably because every other Soviet woman he’d seen had been on the street, covered from head to toe to keep warm. Her beauty might not have been like a Hollywood starlet’s. On the contrary, her soft, clean features were those of a simple young woman who, though she knew she was attractive, gave off an image of seriousness and reliability.
He guessed she was around twenty-five years old. Perhaps less. Her fresh-looking face without a trace of makeup, her long braids gathered over her temples like two nesting snakes, her emerald eyes, focusing only on the medical tasks for which they’d been trained, and the masculine white coat that looked like it had been washed a thousand times gave her a smart, no-nonsense appearance. Jack was admiring her delicate movements and the name “Natasha” on her badge when Hewitt cleared his throat loudly.
“Excuse the mess, kid. They won’t leave me alone. Clearly, these Russians ain’t gonna let me die until I’ve got this factory working.”
The young nurse blushed when she realized she was being referred to. She quickly finished gathering her equipment and took her leave from Hewitt, reminding him of their appointment the next day.
“Yes, yes, tomorrow,” he said wearily, and he waited for her to leave. “So then, Jack. Have you settled in?”
“Not quite, sir. I was about to move into my living quarters when a guard showed up and brought me here. Incidentally, first he took me to see Sergei’s office.”
“What? Oh yeah! I told you he was in charge of the Avtozavod’s security. Sergei works, eats, and sleeps in this factory. He loves everyone to know that he’s doing his job.”
“What’s with the caps with blue ribbons? Their wearers look as if they think they own the place.”
“You noticed, huh? Well, you were right to. Those ribbons are the emblem of the OGPU. So that we’re clear, that’s the secret police. Some people still call them the Cheka. We have to be careful with them. You can’t imagine the headaches they could give us.”
Jack remembered the corrupt policeman he’d bribed in Leningrad to rescue Konstantin’s son. “Secret? Why secret?”
“A revolutionary thing, I suspect.” He lay back in his chair, crossed his legs on the table, and lit a cigarette. “When the Bolsheviks toppled the tsar, they set up various organizations for both domestic and international security. There were foreign powers trying to stop them with all kinds of conspiracies, even backing counterrevolutionary groups who undermined the revolution from the shadows. The Cheka was formed from elements of the Red Army and party leaders, as a kind of state security organization aimed at eliminating their opponents.” He lowered his feet from the table and sat up, moving his head in the direction of Jack’s ear, as if to tell him a secret. “To do away with anyone who contradicted them, shall we say.”
“They sound dangerous.”
“Potentially.” He sat back again. “I haven’t had any problems with them, though I tread carefully. Don’t worry about Sergei. All he cares about is giving the factory a veneer of normality, and to do that, he needs to get rid of the saboteurs.
“Anyway, let’s focus on what concerns us, which is this dinosaur of a factory.” He opened a drawer and took out a brown folder that he placed on the desk. “Here’s the information I couldn’t provide you with in Moscow: plans, machinery inventory, subsidiary enterprises that work with us, and a file listing the incidents and the workers involved. Like I said, most of the problems have been in the press shop and assembly plant. Unfortunately, I don’t have a complete record of all of the employees.”
“But you’ll be able to get one?”
“I think it’ll be difficult. More than thirty thousand people divided into three shifts work at the Avtozavod. And we have to be discreet. If I asked for such an exhaustive list, it could make someone involved in the sabotage suspicious.”
“Well, I really only need records for the plants where the incidents have taken place.”
“I’ll see what I can do, but for now you’ll have to make do with this.” He pushed the folder containing all of the documents toward Jack and stood to bring the meeting to an end.
“When do I start?” Jack also stood as quickly as possible.
“The first shift’s tomorrow at eight. At seven, they’ll come to collect you and your friends. By the way, I have to admit that posting your companions to the various locations of the incidents is the perfect way to gather information without attracting attention.”
“Let’s hope it helps. Like I said, I’ll be able to speak to them whenever I need to, and they’ll tell me everything they see.”
“Great. So we’re all set, then. Spend these first few days familiarizing yourself with the factory and making contact with the workers while you oversee the repairs on the machinery damaged during the crossing. Unless you discover something important in the interim, we’ll meet again in this office next week.”
“Very well, Mr. Hewitt. This . . . There’s one more thing. If you don’t mind my asking, I was wondering about your niece. In such a remote part of the world, and without knowing the language, maybe she’d like some company.”
“Gosh darn, kid! Aren’t you married?”
“Yes, sir. Well, no, sir. I mean—”
“In hell’s name, explain yourself! You’re either married or you aren’t.”
“The thing is”—he figured it was best to tell the truth—“in order to help my two friends, a couple, enter the Soviet Union, we had to fabricate a marriage. Now that we’re here, we’ve kept up the sham, but I swear that I intend to resolve this business as soon as possible and—”