When they turned away from each other, he tried to push those thoughts from his mind. Walter was his friend, he’d saved him in New York, and he didn’t deserve Jack’s suspicion.
Half an hour later, Ivan Zarko and his nephew appeared. Following the agreed-upon script, they quickly intermingled with the relatives of some of the Soviet women who’d married American workers. Soon after, Wilbur Hewitt arrived, accompanied by his niece, Elizabeth, and her protector, Viktor Smirnov. Unlike on other occasions, Elizabeth’s presence barely registered with Jack: he put it down to his feelings for Natasha. As for Hewitt, Jack saw that the industrialist would play his role to perfection, returning the affection and greetings from the other guests. After a prudent length of time, Jack went to meet him, wearing a salesman’s smile. “Forty years of service! I hope to be able to say the same one day!” he said to Hewitt, giving him a firm handshake.
“It’s an honor to have worked for a great American company for so long. Some party you’ve organized!”
“I hope you enjoy it. Come in and try some of Miquel’s specialties. Viktor, welcome.”
Viktor Smirnov returned Jack’s greeting and went to mix with the guests with a look of disdain, as if just brushing against them would forever ruin his immaculate uniform. Hanging from his arm, Elizabeth accompanied him, sporting a stunning cobalt-blue dress that contrasted with the modest attire of the rest of the partygoers. Hewitt let them go ahead and took the chance to approach Jack, who walked behind them with the help of a crutch. “Where did you get this harebrained idea?” he whispered. “If the Soviets dig up my professional background, they’ll see that I’ve been at Ford for only twenty-five years.”
“I just blurted it out. It was all I could think of to be able to speak to you alone. I thought that, it being a party, Sergei would pull the guards off and entrust Viktor to watch you. Anyway, the important thing now is to get you out of here as quickly as possible.”
“My niece told me that they’re planning to lock me up. Is it true?”
“Yes. Sergei’s going to accuse you of being behind the sabotage. He even blames you for the attempt on my life. He thinks that you’re working for your own benefit, embezzling funds from the factory, or worse still, doing it for the capitalist US government in order to delay Soviet industrialization.”
“That man’s insane! No one’s keener than I am to avoid any disruption at the factory. It’s my responsibility to—”
“I know. And that’s precisely why I felt obliged to tell you.”
“But how did you find out?”
Jack was silent for a moment. He looked at Hewitt and finally let out a sigh. “Because Sergei’s forcing me to spy on you.”
Hewitt stopped in his tracks. “I don’t understand. What do you mean?” His face hardened.
Jack took a deep breath. “I just said it. He’s making me find out whether his suspicions are correct.”
“So you were already working for him when I asked you for help at the firing range?”
“Let’s leave the lectures for another day,” said Jack. “What’s really important is to get you and Elizabeth out of here, before Sergei tires of waiting and fabricates evidence.”
“I warned you! That son of a bitch is intent on laying the blame for his own incompetence on someone else! That’s what happens when you put peasants and goatherds in charge!”
“Goatherds? Ha! Sergei’s a graduate of the Saint Petersburg State Institute of Technology. If you’d warned me, I could have saved myself from a whole lot of trouble.”
“And who taught him? Probably someone carrying a gun.”
Jack saw Viktor in the distance searching for them with his eyes, and he led Hewitt to the junk room where they stored potatoes.
“Did Elizabeth mention the money?”
“She did. I have ten thousand dollars that I’ve been taking bit by bit from my account.”
“That’s good. Wait here. I’m going to fetch my friend. I’ll be right back.”
After looking through the lock to make sure nobody was watching, he opened the door and slipped out of the junk room. Shortly after he returned with Ivan Zarko and his nephew, Yuri, who stood guard on the other side of the door. After the introductions, Jack explained the situation superficially to Zarko. They needed three passports and a safe escape route. He refused to say how much money they had, though the Russian asked him several times.
“Forget the price for now and tell us whether you can help us escape,” Hewitt said in broken Russian.
“Who does this sack of shit think he’s negotiating with? A railway station clerk?” growled Zarko.
Jack didn’t bother to translate. “Please, Mr. Hewitt! Keep quiet,” he said. “This man isn’t one of your employees!” He turned back to Zarko. “Excuse him. He doesn’t speak the language very well,” he said on Hewitt’s behalf. “We’ll pay what you consider fair.”
“Why?” said Zarko, his expression ill-tempered. “Why should I be fair with him? I respect you because of my long friendship with Konstantin. He gave you blat. I owe your friend nothing.”
“I’ll vouch for him,” Jack said to settle the matter.
“Hmm . . . I don’t know if I’ll be able to help you.” He shook his head. “If you want to get out of the country without too many checks, you’ll need a Polish, Romanian, or Bulgarian passport, for instance. But if they arrest you, the first thing they’ll do is interrogate you in the language of your passport.”
“The girl and her uncle speak German, and I can get by, too.” Jack was glad he’d had lessons for his trips to the machinery fair in Berlin. “Will that do?”
“I don’t know, but it’s your money. It’ll cost you three thousand dollars, twenty-five hundred for theirs and five hundred for yours.”
“Including transportation?”
“No. For transportation expect to pay the same again. It will take me about three weeks to get the documents. Maybe four. But before spring it will be impossible to leave.”
“Too long. I can wait, but these people need to go right now.”
“Impossible. The railway’s a ticket straight to the gulag. The checks are constant. Two, even three times between each station. If the fugitives were anonymous citizens, they might be able to slip through, but as Americans reported missing, forget it. They’ll arrest you as soon as you set foot on the train. As for road transportation, it disappears in the winter.”
“Damn it! Then find a private vehicle.”
“Ha! And how will you refuel? Vodka and piss? You won’t find a gas station open for at least another six hundred miles. Trying it would be suicide.”
Jack remembered the American couple he saw being arrested and shook his head. There had to be a way.
“All right. You get the passports. We’ll take care of the rest ourselves.”