“I understand, sir. If you want, I can still fill you in on my latest discoveries,” he said quietly.
Hewitt pursed his lips while he straightened his vest with his good arm. He looked at Jack as if judging him, before slumping back into his armchair. “OK, kid. Tell me one thing. Do your conclusions this week shed any light on this business?”
“I believe they do.”
“Then let’s take a look, and I hope they do, because this conversation has delayed me, and in ten minutes, I have to report to Sergei.” He started gathering up the notes that Jack had brought him.
“I hope it goes well, sir.”
“You hope it goes well, kid? Well, you’d better, because today it’s going to be you who informs Sergei of your progress.”
Though he was going to see him with Hewitt, Jack couldn’t avoid feeling the same shudder he’d felt running down his spine the first time he’d walked into Sergei Loban’s office. As he sat in one of the red leather armchairs, he breathed in the smoky, damp, wood-scented atmosphere of an office that didn’t appear to have been aired in years. Unlike on his previous visit, the curtains were drawn. A bulb, its filament as dull as Sergei’s eyes, lit the room weakly. The rest of the paraphernalia—a typewriter with two sunken keys, a black Bakelite telephone, and a pair of metal filing cabinets—took on a sinister appearance in the half-light. Once they’d sat down, Sergei slumped into his own armchair and exhaled like an old horse tired of pulling a heavy cart. Behind him, the ubiquitous portraits of Lenin and Stalin kept a watchful eye on the room. The Soviet put a cigarette in his mouth and offered one to Hewitt. He didn’t so much as look at Jack.
Hewitt inhaled as if he really needed it. Then he took out the yellow folder containing Jack’s notes and proceeded to describe their contents in detail. When he finished, he took another puff and waited for Sergei’s approval.
“An excellent job. Except all you have given me are figures. What I need are the culprits,” Sergei murmured.
Hewitt looked at Jack, prodding him to give the Russian an explanation. Jack took the notes and went over them.
“Sir, the conclusions I’ve reached suggest that there’s a high percentage of accidents caused by errors, and—”
“I’m not interested in accidents.”
“All right.” Jack cleared his throat. “As for the cases of sabotage, we need to separate two types of action with completely different objectives and methods. On the one hand, we have minor faults: screws coming loose, machines not working properly, or materials disappearing. If they didn’t occur so frequently, we could put them down to human error. This kind of sabotage tends to cause small amounts of damage and is difficult to prevent. Like I say, the perpetrators are opportunistic, disgruntled workers who—”
“In the Soviet Union, there are no disgruntled workers!” Sergei broke in again.
Jack frowned. For a moment, he considered arguing with him, but he knew that following that path would only take him down a blind alley. “As for the second type . . .” He cleared his throat again while he rearranged his notes. “The second type is totally different and involves trained workers who plan their actions meticulously to cause maximum damage.” He handed Sergei a file. “Look: batches of bearings manufactured out of tolerance, the devastating effects of which wouldn’t be discovered until thousands of engines blew.” He handed him another. “Metallic impurities welded into the steel molds during the stamping process, rendering them useless.” He passed him a third file. “Or damage to manufacturing components, for which, curiously, there are no spares in the warehouses.”
“Interesting . . .” Sergei took some battered spectacles from his drawer. Putting them on, he read the reports closely. “And the culprits?”
“That’s the problem. Like I said, these people know what they’re doing. The sabotage doesn’t cause immediate damage, which makes it more difficult to identify the perpetrator.”
“So we’re talking about highly trained operatives?”
“Without a doubt.”
“Well. In that case—”
He didn’t manage to finish his sentence, because the door to his office was flung open and a man wearing a tight brown army jacket burst in without even glancing at Hewitt and Jack. “Sergei! I need a damned mechanic to fix the Buick once and for all,” he blurted out.
Sergei snorted as if the person who’d just interrupted him were his rebellious teenage son. However, it was Viktor Smirnov, the finance commissar whom Jack had met at Elizabeth’s birthday party. “I’ve told you a thousand times to knock before you come in!” bellowed the director of operations.
Viktor gave a start but didn’t apologize. With a self-satisfied look at the Americans, he left, slamming the door behind him.
“By Lenin’s whiskers! I’m sick of inept bureaucrats. Let’s see . . . Where were we? Oh yes! Highly trained operatives. Good. Well, let’s leave it here. Thank you, both. Jack, you’ve been a great help.” He held out a hand to congratulate him.
When they left the office, Jack and Hewitt found Viktor Smirnov waiting for Sergei, pacing the hall like a caged cat. Jack knew he was about to be indiscreet, but he couldn’t help himself. “Would your Buick be the 1928 Master Six Roadster?” he asked Viktor.
Hearing him, the official stopped dead. “That’s right, but how did you—?”
“Six-cylinder engine, forty-eight horsepower, convertible . . . I couldn’t help admiring it when I saw it parked outside.”
“You know cars?” Viktor’s eyes gleamed.
“It’s my job. I worked on that very model for a while in the United States. A beautiful vehicle, but as delicate as a damsel, Mr. . . .” He pretended he couldn’t remember his name.
“Smirnov. Viktor Smirnov. Have we met?” He clearly hadn’t paid much attention to Jack at the Hotel Metropol.
“No . . . I don’t think so. Anyway, enjoy your car before it falls to pieces.”
“What a coincidence! The cylinder head’s gone on mine. Would you know how to fix it?”
Jack thought of Elizabeth before answering. “Of course. I could strip that Buick down blindfolded.”
Back at his office, Hewitt, who had remained silent all the way there, slammed the door and threw Jack’s reports into the wastepaper basket.
“What were you thinking? All Sergei needed was any excuse to blame the American workers, and you gave it to him on a platter. Why the hell did you tell him the sabotage was done by experienced operatives? I warned you not to divulge anything like that.”