“I’m sorry. I had to test the gasket with the gauge on this machine, and I didn’t want to bother you,” Jack explained, seeing a hint of suspicion in Viktor’s eyes. “But it doesn’t matter anymore, because this clown just wrecked it.”
As Jack had guessed he would, when he heard about the part being damaged, Viktor flew into a rage. “What’s your name, you bumbling fool?” he yelled, gripping the guard by his jacket.
“Relax,” Jack interrupted. “I took the precaution of making a spare gasket.”
Viktor sighed with relief. What the Soviet official didn’t know was that Jack at last had the evidence he needed to prove his theory.
Jack had given himself a week to organize the evidence before presenting it to Wilbur Hewitt. But he never had the chance. A few hours after his clandestine visit, a black vehicle pulled up in front of Jack’s home, and two uniformed men dragged him inside the vehicle before heading at full speed to an office at the OGPU headquarters.
He spent an hour in total bewilderment before the door to the room they’d locked him in opened with a squeak, revealing Sergei Loban. Recognizing him, Jack gave a start and stood up. He didn’t know that Sergei had returned from Moscow. Nobody had explained to him why he’d been arrested, but one didn’t have to be a genius to work out that it was something to do with his nocturnal investigations. Sergei’s deep voice confirmed it. The OGPU chief sat in one of the chairs and fixed his eyes on Jack’s, which glimmered in the dim light from the single bulb in the room.
“You can sit down,” said Sergei. Jack obeyed. “Let’s see. I’ve just got back, and you Americans welcome me with problems. According to this report, last night, in my absence and going against my orders, you entered the factory in the early hours and used a bearing assembly machine. Correct?”
Jack had already prepared his defense. “Yes. But I didn’t violate any orders. I went there with Viktor Smirnov’s authorization for the sole purpose of fabricating a gasket for his Buick. You can ask him, if you want.”
“I already have, and he confirms that point. But he says that you went to the bearing machine in his absence, when he had only authorized you to work on the gasket.”
“I wanted to check that the part was—”
“Let’s cut the bullshit! You might be able to fool a fairy like Smirnov, but I’m an engineer and I know that to make a copper gasket, a bearing assembly machine is about as useful as a napkin on a pig.”
Jack swallowed. He cursed himself for believing Hewitt when he’d told him that Sergei was nothing more than a bureaucrat. He tried to think on his feet. “I never said I wanted to use that machine to manufacture the gasket. I needed to use the gauge to confirm the accuracy of my micrometer. I’m sure your report will show that I had a defective one in my bag, that is, if the guard who pointed his rifle at me even knew what it was.”
“Of course he knew.” Sergei checked his notes and gnashed his teeth. “And in fact, he mentions it. But it seems too much of a coincidence that you happened to be handling the same gauge involved in some of the worst sabotage in the Avtozavod . . . unless you were doing it on purpose.”
“Like you say, it was a coincidence.”
“You’ll see, then, why I don’t believe you.”
“Frankly, I don’t believe you, either.”
“Ha! You Americans are so full of yourselves. Even when you’re one wrong word away from being sent to Siberia.”
“Now that you mention it, I’d like to ask you about them. About the Americans who’ve disappeared without a trace,” Jack challenged him.
“That’s where you’re wrong. The detainees have left behind a stench of betrayal so strong that you could follow it all the way to the prison where they’re going to pay for their crimes.”
“What crimes? Being American?”
“No, Jack. Most of your compatriots whom we’ve taken have been charged with counterrevolutionary activities that have nothing to do with this investigation.”
“What activities? Protesting against taxes they hadn’t been told about? Asking for food for their children? Wanting to return to their country?”
“Those men have betrayed our trust. What does it matter if they’re charged with sabotage? Either way, they’re enemies of the people. Don’t forget, you gave me the justification to do it. You assured me that the sabotage was so sophisticated that it could only have been perpetrated by skilled workers!”
“But you know it wasn’t them. The reports show the times the accidents took place, but not the moment the machines were tampered with. Like the gauge, for example, the first problem was detected in a routine maintenance operation performed on February 6 at eight ten a.m.”
“That’s right.”
“But what you might not know is that to decalibrate that machine, a qualified operative would need at least twenty minutes. It would take that long to cause a fault subtle enough so that the damage wouldn’t be immediately detected, but bad enough to ruin the parts after a few hours of use.”
“What are you insinuating?”
“That the machine must’ve been tampered with in the early hours of February 6, sometime before the shift change.”
Sergei gave Jack a puzzled look mixed with resentment. “That doesn’t free any Americans from suspicion.”
“I beg to differ. I’ll remind you that, on your orders, at that time all Americans were forbidden from working the night shift, so it’s impossible any of them caused the damage.”
Sergei pursed his lips and stood, casting aside the chair. “Arrogant Americans! You think you’re better than everyone else. You take us Soviets for fools, without realizing that we’re the ones with the intelligence, the courage, and the determination that you lack. And why should I believe a word of your reports?”
“I don’t care whether you believe them or not. Wilbur Hewitt hired me to find out the truth behind the sabotage, and that’s what I’ve been doing. If you’d rather close your eyes and ignore the evidence, perhaps it’s because that’s what you want.”
“How dare you? Do you know who you’re talking to?”
“Until a moment ago, I thought it was Sergei Loban, upholder of Soviet justice. Now, I’m not so sure.”
The morning was as cold as it was overcast.
Jack got up with a sore back. As he pulled on the white overalls that identified him as a specialized operative, he shook his head. He was more convinced than ever that Sergei was hiding something, even if he had encouraged him to continue his investigations with the support of a Soviet assistant.
When he reached the foundry, he was received by the official whom Sergei had ordered to accompany him. It was Anatoly Orlov, the Soviet who’d acted as his guide on his arrival at the Avtozavod. Jack greeted him coldly and got to work. Sergei had ordered him to inspect the furnaces, the boiler section, and the mineral wagons. He spent half the morning completing the first tasks. But when he was about to inspect the molten mineral conveyor, Jack stopped.
“What is it?” Orlov asked.
“I can’t inspect them while they’re moving. You’ll have to shut it down.”
“Impossible. Production can’t be halted.”
Jack stood firm. The mineral conveyers consisted of a suspended rail from which metal buckets hung, transporting the molten ore from the crucible. Examining them while in operation was reckless and risky, because the molten material could splash onto anyone underneath.
“To see it properly, I’d need to go through the safety barrier and into the pit,” Jack explained. “I’m not going to do that with molten metal raining down on me.”
“All right. I’ll order them to stop,” Orlov muttered.
Jack waited for the conveyor to come to a complete standstill. He asked an operative for a protective apron, pulled on some gloves, and opened the door to the pit. Though stationary, the buckets of liquid metal swayed dangerously overhead. Jack protected his eyes and looked up toward the buckets. Though they seemed secure, they creaked menacingly. He went
carefully forward, making sure he didn’t tread on the pieces of metal that were still hot, before heading back to the door.
“All in order. I’m coming out!” he yelled to the others.
Suddenly, before he could reach the barrier, the conveyor jerked into motion without warning, pulling along its deadly load.
Jack screamed like a man possessed when a splash of white-hot liquid missed his face by only a few inches, but the conveyor, relentless, continued moving, spitting out pieces of molten metal that forced him to retreat. “Stop the conveyor, you bastards!” he cried from the temporary shelter he’d found under a metal support.
Nobody seemed to hear him. The noise from the foundry was deafening. Jack tried to think—the support wouldn’t protect him forever. If he stayed there, he would be burned to death. He looked around. At that moment, a shower of incandescent projectiles lit up a piece of discarded rail. It might be his salvation, if he could reach it. He looked toward the conveyor and saw the buckets swinging overhead. He tried to synchronize his movements with the splashes by counting to himself: One . . . two . . . three. He got ready. On three, he leapt from his shelter and swooped on the metal bar, grabbing it and quickly returning to the support. But before he reached it, he felt a searing pain in his left hip, making him howl in agony.
Jack looked at the place where the molten metal had missed the apron and eaten into his flesh. With the red-hot fragment devouring his flesh, he took a penknife from his pocket and cut his pants until his hip was exposed. He roared when he inserted the sharp point between the flesh and the hot metal. As he extracted it, he felt a pain so unbearable that for a moment he wished he could tear his leg clean off. Curling up under the support, he screamed for help again, but there was no response. He took a deep breath and focused on not passing out. He could barely hold himself up because of the pain. He glanced at his hip again and saw a hole like a volcano’s crater. He looked away. He had to get out, but fragments continued to pour down, and right above the door they formed an impassible curtain of fire. He knew that what he planned to do was crazy, but he had no choice. He positioned the apron over his shoulders, took a deep breath, and gripped the metal bar with all his might. Then, without thinking, he left the shelter and ran with a limp toward the chain that drove the conveyor. With burning ingots whistling past him, he inserted the bar between two links and returned to the support. He prayed as the chain carried the metal bar toward the drive gears. Finally, the bar jammed between the cogs, the chain tensed, and there was a horrifying screech as the links bent and vibrated.
Jack knew he had only a few seconds before the bar broke. He adjusted the apron and ran toward the door. When he reached it, he found it closed. He tried to open it, but it wouldn’t budge. Over him, the conveyor shook as if about to come down at any moment. “Sons of bitches! Open the door!” he yelled. Suddenly, the conveyor creaked; then it writhed as if it had taken on a life of its own. “Open this door right now, you bastards!”
Jack decided to try to make it over the barrier before the entire framework collapsed, but when he attempted to climb up, the chain shattered into a thousand pieces and the entire scaffold with the buckets filled with molten iron came down with a deafening crash.
He felt a blow to the head just as a pair of black hands grabbed him and pulled him out. Before fainting, half asphyxiated by the smoke and ash, he recognized Joe Brown calling desperately for help.
23
Had it not been for the discomfort in his hip, Jack would have thought he was in heaven. With barely the strength to move, he saw a young blonde smile at him as she applied an ointment to his forehead. Then a deep drowsiness slowly overcame him until he slipped back into the realm of dreams.
“Jack, can you hear us? Say something, Jack.”
He struggled to open his eyes. His head was spinning. When he managed to focus his vision, at his feet he thought he could make out Joe Brown and Walter. He looked around. To each side of him there appeared to be dozens of patients in a row of beds. He had the impression Joe Brown had a bandaged hand. Seeing Jack move, Walter took off his glasses.
“Where am I?” Jack asked, trying to sit up. An intense pain in his hip stopped him.
“Try not to move. The doc says you need rest,” Walter said.
“What happened? Shit! I feel like a herd of bison ran over my head.”
“A girder hit you on the temple. It was a good knock. They must’ve used all the arnica in the hospital on you,” Joe Brown said with a smile.
“They took some X-rays, and there’s nothing broken. Just little burns all over your body. The worst is your hip. It’s like you have a new belly button down there,” said Walter.
Jack smiled. “You saved me, right?” he asked Joe.
“Well, I heard you yelling. At first I didn’t know where it was coming from, but when I saw the conveyor shaking, I guessed there was someone underneath.”
“And your hands?” He pointed at the bandages covering them.
“Bah! Just a few scratches. I’m back to work this afternoon.”
Jack took a deep breath. His arms and head were bandaged, and he had dressings all over his body. A sudden memory of the Soviet official looking at him impassively roused him. “What is this place?”
“It’s the Avtozavod hospital. Don’t worry. It’s the best in Gorky. You’re in good hands,” said Joe Brown, still smiling. “Well, I have to go. Is there anything you need?”
“No, Joe. Just to get better so I can thank you properly.”
“Don’t worry about that now. Recover. We’re all missing your pork ribs.” He winked.
“When I get back to the village, I’ll treat you to a whole herd of pigs.”
Joe smiled again and left the hospital ward.
When they were alone, Walter took out a cigarette and offered it to Jack. “A good guy, that Joe. It was lucky he was there to save you. Anyway, it’s time for me to get back to work as well. I’ll bring you some more cigarettes on my next visit.”
“Wait! Grab that chair and sit down,” Jack said in a thin voice, as if about to tell a secret.
Walter was surprised but obeyed. He moved closer to the head of the bed and sat down. “Why so mysterious?”
“It was Sergei. He tried to kill me,” he whispered.
“What did you say?”
“You heard. One of his goons started the conveyor after I went down into the pit.”
“But, that’s impossible. It was Sergei himself who had you brought to this hospital.”
“I’m telling you, he tried to kill me!” He raised his voice and noticed a number of patients turning their heads.
“Think it over, Jack. What you’re saying makes no sense. If Sergei had wanted to knock you off, he’d have done it by now. He’s the head of the OGPU here. He can do whatever he wants. And he hasn’t done it.”
“Damn it, Walter! It was no accident!” He thumped the mattress. “For some reason, Sergei must want my death to appear accidental.”
“But why would he want to do that?” Walter peered at Jack through his thick tortoiseshell spectacles.
“How am I supposed to know? Perhaps it’s because I’ve discovered that he’s having Americans taken away under false pretenses.”
Walter sat up, indignant, as if Jack’s words were blasphemy. “That blow to the head must’ve damaged your brain! Sergei’s an honest man. He’s a representative of the Soviet Union, and therefore all he endeavors to do is protect—”
“For Pete’s sake! Look at me! Open your eyes and look around! The Milwaukee Express . . . his wife, Harriet . . . Robert Watkins . . . all the other guys . . . We’ve had no news of them. They’re exterminating us, Walter. You must see it. You have to—”
“All right! Don’t get upset. You say Sergei’s guy watched you go down into the pit. Do you know his name?”
“I don’t know. I can’t remember . . . Orlov! That’s it! His name is Anatoly Orlov.”
“OK. I’ll see what I can find out. You res
t and get yourself fit again. I bet you’ll see things differently when you’re feeling better.”
As he tried to sleep, Jack wondered why Sergei would have sent him to the hospital when he could have killed him anytime he wanted. He couldn’t understand it. His head was still sore, but what really tormented him was the deep burn on his hip, which flared up with any movement he made.
He began to consider whether he should flee Gorky. The Soviets still had his passport, but with the money he’d saved, he guessed he could commission a false one from Ivan Zarko.
He was trying to imagine how he would organize his future life in a country like Britain, when he was surprised by the gentle contact of fingers against his forehead. When he opened his eyes, he saw the kind face of the same young blonde wearing a white uniform he thought he’d seen in his dreams. Her smile soothed Jack for a few seconds, until she ordered him to take off his pajama bottoms so that she could change his dressing. When he realized he had to strip, Jack became alarmed. “Couldn’t you do it . . . I don’t know . . . ?” He pulled the waistband of his pajamas down to just below the burn, making sure the material covered his private parts.
The young woman smiled again, and then Jack recognized her. It was Natasha, the attractive nurse who’d been treating Wilbur Hewitt’s arm. If it had been a toothless old lady, perhaps it wouldn’t have unsettled him so much, but her youth and beauty made him feel even more uncomfortable. “Jack Beilis,” Natasha read from his medical report. “We meet again.”
“Yeah. If possible, I’d rather a male nurse took care of these things,” he said in an unexpected attack of modesty.
Natasha gave him a maternal look. “Look, Jack, I need to do my job, but if it’s any comfort, when I did your dressing this morning, I saw everything there was to see, and I wasn’t especially impressed.”
Jack felt almost as embarrassed as he had when his mother caught him stroking his first girlfriend’s thighs.
The young woman left the report on the bed, and without giving him time to protest, she lowered his pajama bottoms to the knees. For a moment, Jack held on to the corner of the sheet to keep his privates hidden.
The Last Paradise Page 24