The Last Paradise



Jack had never desired anybody so much. He would wake up dreaming of Elizabeth and go to sleep remembering her. The rest of his waking hours were a torment from which work couldn’t rescue him. In the mornings, he wandered around the assembly plants, trying not to make any more enemies among his fellow Americans, but it was difficult. The discontent in the Avtozavod was spreading like water from a burst pipe, dampening the spirit of the ever more hungry and exhausted workers. But Jack barely noticed it. His senses were dulled to the world around him, captivated by a woman whose almost unreal beauty seemed to be pulling the strings of his destiny. He was constantly imagining her beside him, naked; he remembered every look, every groan, every kiss, and the memory tortured him every empty, endless hour that he was not with her. Then, when he was by her side, desire gnawed at him, hungry and desperate, but she was distant, as if she’d erased the night they’d spent together from her mind; or worse still, as if it had never happened. Elizabeth laughed and spoke to him in a friendly way, with the empty amiability that she would offer an acquaintance, but not with the passion of a lover. Jack didn’t know why, but Elizabeth had erected a wall between them. And Jack suspected that Viktor’s imminent return was the cause of her remoteness.





22


The summer flew by. Gradually, shoes were replaced by felt boots, and thick ushankas were donned instead of summer hats. And when the cold arrived, more workers began to disappear.

The most conspicuous disappearance was Harriet Carter’s. Convinced that the Soviets had murdered her husband, the Milwaukee Express’s wife had launched a desperate protest campaign, which, though initially ignored, eventually found a response. One morning Harriet went out for a meeting with Sergei Loban and never returned. Something similar happened to Robert Watkins. In his case, word was that he’d caused a scene in the foundry after hearing that the Soviets were refusing to return his passport. That night, he was arrested by the Black Crows and never seen again.

They weren’t the only ones. The entire Collins family was arrested and charged with counterrevolutionary activities. Yet, in the American village, everyone knew that the Collinses’ only crime was trying to inform reporters from the New York Times in Moscow about their desperate situation.

Jack observed the events in silence. It was what Hewitt had advised him to do, and following his advice to the letter seemed like the safest course of action. He had put off the repairs on Smirnov’s car to concentrate on his work at the factory after Wilbur Hewitt warned him that if he didn’t make some progress in his investigation, they would be forced to revise the terms of his contract. Still, though it was true that there had been few developments, Jack wasn’t allowed to nose around during the night shift, when most of the suspicious incidents had taken place.

Hewitt remained firm. “I’ve told you a thousand times.” He set aside his newspaper, fed up with the young man’s excuses. “A night inspection would attract attention, and the last thing Sergei’s going to authorize is something that could alert the saboteurs. And if the head of security says niet, then it’s niet.”

“But while Sergei’s in Moscow, maybe you could find a way to—”

“To buy us a one-way ticket to jail? Is that what you want?”

Jack thought he had reason to suspect that Sergei himself was implicated in the sabotage, but without hard evidence, there was no point in telling Hewitt.

He was certain that if he wanted to make progress in his inquiries, he would have to find a way to get around Sergei’s rules. The opportunity arose when Viktor Smirnov, on his return from Moscow, turned up at the American village to check on his Buick’s repairs.

“What do you mean it’s not ready? You’ve had it for months!” the Russian yelled.

Jack assured him that he would have repaired it by now had he been in possession of the right equipment, but the problem was the copper gasket. “I tried to fabricate one using the materials you provided, but with the first explosion, it melted like butter. At the Avtozavod, there’s a machine that would solve the problem, but they won’t let me use it. That’s why I was waiting for you to get back.”

“I see . . . and what machine would that be?” Viktor grumbled.

Jack explained that he would need access to a specific press in the assembly section. “I’d only need a couple of hours. The problem is, it’s always operating.”

“Then I’ll make them stop!” the Russian decided with the expression of a dictator being contradicted.

“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. This machine’s one of a kind, and taking it out of operation would affect production. However, there is one thing . . .” Jack pretended to mull over an alternative.

“Yes?”

“Once a week, during the night shift, they stop the machine to change the molds. If I could use it then, I’d have enough time to get your Buick ready before the grand opening of the firing range.”

“Without fail?”

“Without fail.”

“And when do they next stop the press?”

“Tonight, as it happens.”



The moment he went through the factory gate, Jack realized that he was walking into the lions’ den. All hope of escaping unharmed after flouting Sergei’s orders lay with Viktor Smirnov, who walked beside him, one pace behind the armed guard who was leading them to the assembly plant. He hoped that the Soviet official’s presence would free him of any responsibility, though it meant he had to attempt to lose Viktor for long enough to find the evidence that would confirm his suspicions.

Via the endless corridor that ran parallel to the assembly line, they reached the location of the press that Jack had mentioned. The armed guard warned them not to leave without his permission, and then he left them alone to work. Jack pulled on some regular overalls instead of his own white ones, opened his kit bag, and took out a micrometer, the ruined gasket, and a wooden template that he had previously perforated, making holes that lined up with the cooling ducts. Viktor asked about the procedure.

“This machine can be used to press or punch, depending on the mold. We need to punch holes in the gasket aligned with the combustion chambers and cooling ducts. But to make the material harder, first I have to reduce its thickness. Compress it.”

Viktor looked perplexed.

“Let me put it another way,” Jack said. “Imagine you’re using a rolling pin to spread out the dough for a rectangular pastry. Suppose we use the rim of a glass to cut out six holes in the dough and take out their centers. Follow me?”

Viktor nodded.

“At that point, you might think the gasket was ready, but if I press it with the roller again, not only will it become thinner, but it will also expand, including into the holes, which would reduce their diameter. Right?”

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