With its blue domes set on top of two little towers, Jack thought that the dacha where Viktor Smirnov lived could not have looked more like a Byzantine church. While he waited for someone to come to the door, he admired the gardens and fountains that surrounded the impressive two-story building. Looking down the hill, he could see the point where the Volga took in the waters from its tributary, the Oka. Beyond the river, the frozen expanse seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon.
He was about to ring the bell again, when Smirnov, wrapped in a striking red silk dressing gown, came out of his mansion to invite him in. “Magnificent views, aren’t they, Jack?” He greeted him with a handshake.
Inside, Jack was captivated by the array of paintings and tapestries that lined the walls, giving the room the appearance of a palatial parlor. He sat on a velvet-lined sofa by a side table with an old gramophone on it, and savored the cup of tea a servant had brought to him, while Viktor crowed about the stove in the middle of the room that heated the entire building.
The Soviet official described the dacha as his redoubt. An old mansion that had belonged to a relative of Tsar Nicholas II, the place was little more than a stable when he had occupied it after the revolution. “But gradually I turned a pigsty into a palace. Just look: Bohemian crystal, genuine French furniture, Ziegler Persian rugs, canvases by Levitan, Serov . . . Costly, yes, but extraordinary. Not everyone knows how to appreciate such treasures, of course, but if you’ve owned a Buick Master Six, you’ll know exactly where I’m coming from,” Viktor said, taking it for granted that Jack was a man of refined tastes.
Jack was glad he’d put on McMillan’s suit, which the tailors on Sverdlovka Avenue had made to fit him like a glove. Viktor noticed it.
“Bird’s-eye?”
“Pardon me?”
“The fabric of your suit. It’s bird’s-eye, is it not?”
“Oh yes!” Jack said through sheer reflex. “Do you like it?”
“Of course! Not very appropriate for this climate, but elegant nonetheless. I buy my suits from the GORT, our private store. Now look, drink your tea and let’s talk about the car. That’s what you came for.”
Viktor didn’t wait for Jack to finish his tea before he asked him to follow him to the garage, where he kept his most treasured possession. With its gleaming beige paintwork, the Buick was immaculate, as if fresh off the production line. Viktor proudly informed Jack that he had it washed twice a day with water from the Oka. Jack saw that next to the Buick was an old Ford Model A covered in dust, as well as a burgundy Ford Model B, freshly imported.
“I have the tools you requested,” Viktor informed him.
Jack examined them. In addition to the usual sets of socket wrenches, on the workbench were a torque handle, some pliers, and several screwdrivers. He turned his attention to the Buick, and while he opened the hood, he asked Viktor to describe to him again what was wrong with the automobile. When Viktor had finished, Jack examined the engine.
“The heating and water consumption suggest there’s a leak in the cylinder head.” Jack unscrewed the radiator cap and looked at it. He ran his finger inside it and collected a blob of an unctuous substance the color of milky coffee that had accumulated at its base. “This confirms it.”
“That’s what my mechanic told me.”
“No doubt. And I guess he suggested taking out the cylinder head and repairing it by soldering it.”
“He did. But he assured me that the repairs wouldn’t take long, so I decided to postpone them.”
Jack inspected the rest of the engine’s organs. He pretended to think for a moment. “It’s a design fault. The cylinder head on this vehicle’s susceptible to corrosion because of the diameter and position of the cooling ducts. Even if we milled a new cylinder head, sooner or later the problem would return.”
“So what does that mean? Can it be fixed or can’t it?” Viktor waited anxiously for Jack’s reply.
Jack paused before responding. Given Viktor’s obsession with his Buick, perhaps he’d struck gold. “The repairs can be done, of course. But we’d need several things that are hard to find, and, honestly, I doubt you could afford it.” He waited for Smirnov to take the bait.
Viktor responded to the challenge as if Jack had doubted the authenticity of his lineage. “No one’s said anything about money. Tell me what you need,” he demanded.
There was a long silence. Finally, Jack looked Viktor in the eye. “What I’d need would be time to work, the right tools, a means of transportation to get around in . . .” He paused. “And somewhere quiet to do the repairs.”
Back at the American village, Jack couldn’t believe what he’d achieved. Miquel had told him about the intricate web of contacts that enabled Viktor Smirnov to enjoy his luxurious lifestyle without the Soviet machinery coming down on him. But the reality exceeded his expectations. Or at least, that was what he surmised from the extraordinary benefits that he was going to enjoy merely for repairing his car.
When he told Joe Brown that he was giving him back his room because he was moving to one of the family homes in the American village, Joe couldn’t believe his ears. “They’re reserved for the big bosses!” he exclaimed in surprise.
Jack smiled and winked, and added that his own vehicle was waiting for him at the door.
Joe let out a sigh of wonder when he saw Jack load his bags into an old Ford Model A to head off to his new home.
With the excuse of needing a quiet place where he could repair the Buick, he’d persuaded Viktor to allow him to stay in one of the empty houses, and since, every time he needed materials, he’d have to travel the six-plus miles between the American village and Gorky, he’d also convinced him to lend him the Ford that he didn’t use.