“I’m not tired,” she said.
“Please. I need to be alone.”
Elizabeth reluctantly obeyed. When she’d gone, Jack went up to the hearth and suffocated the fire with a wet blanket. Then, using a poker, he pushed aside the embers, before placing a wide wooden board on the ashes to protect himself. He lay on top of the board, and from that position rummaged inside the chimney. He put on a pair of safety gloves he’d brought home from the factory and slowly removed some firebricks to gain access to a cavity that he’d fashioned as a safe. He took out the reports and replaced the bricks. He brushed himself off, set aside the board, and relit the fire. When it ignited, he contemplated the flames with satisfaction. Nobody would suspect that the firebricks concealed the hiding place where he stashed his money.
He made some tea and began to sip it along with the soup. The drink comforted him, not so much because of its flavor, but because its heat reminded him of the warmth he always felt from Natasha’s smile.
He longed to hold her again. Whenever he had a moment of peace, he would remember her kisses, her looks, her caresses. When he saw her, he would plead with her to run away with him. She was all that mattered to him.
When he’d finished his tea and soup, he went over McMillan’s documents. Rereading the list of Soviet engineers who’d traveled to Dearborn, he paused at the name that had initially caught his attention.
Vladimir Mamayev
Vladimir Mamayev was the only engineer he had no record of in his preliminary reports. This would have been purely coincidental if not for the fact that, according to those reports, the rest of the listed technicians were on a training course in Moscow on the dates when the most significant sabotage had taken place.
He served himself some more tea while he mulled it over.
He set aside the names and positioned McMillan’s accounting records alongside those noted down in the court transcripts that he’d been given. When he compared them, he raised his eyebrows in astonishment.
The two reports matched point by point. Sergei’s evidence was solid. However, the numbers corresponding to the account that transferred the fifty thousand American dollars to Wilbur Hewitt’s private account differed by one digit. It was the same entry that McMillan had marked with a dot. Jack searched for the identity of the issuer in the court transcript, but found only the word Confidential in the corresponding box.
He finished his tea. Something did not add up, and maybe it was simpler than it seemed. Fifty thousand dollars . . . Why would a rich man like Wilbur Hewitt risk his position for an amount that would be small change to him?
He went over the records again. It was true that Hewitt had taken money from his account, but it showed credits and debits that corresponded to orders for supplies made from the Avtozavod, which indicated that the account was not a private one, but a company one. And given the high volume of transactions, Hewitt could easily have missed a payment from a third party.
Jack noted down the numbers and the name Vladimir Mamayev, telling himself that perhaps Wilbur Hewitt deserved another chance. And not just for him, but for Elizabeth.
To avoid having to put the fire out again, he hid the reports under a cupboard. Then he wrapped up as warmly as he could. He had to speak to the only person he trusted who had access to OGPU documents, and that was Walter Scott.
Jack buttoned up his overcoat as the icy cold cut through his lungs like a knife. He coughed from the pain. He made sure nobody was watching the house, and set off, equipped with an old umbrella to ward off the blizzard. He checked his watch again. It was six o’clock in the evening. He guessed that, by that time, Walter would have arrived home. He lived in the sotsgorod, a workers’ neighborhood.
He knocked on the door and waited. Sue appeared, giving a start when she recognized him.
“Jack! Long time no see!” She cleared her throat. “Well . . . don’t just stand there; you’ll freeze to death. Come in.”
Jack saw that the apartment consisted of a single room that served as bedroom and living room. Sue rushed to pull across the curtain they had in the middle of the room to hide the unmade bed. She didn’t look well. When he asked for Walter, she replied that he’d be home soon.
“Place looks comfortable,” he lied.
“It’s a bit small, but we’re happy.” She forced a smile while she put up her hair with a bobby pin. “Do you remember when we left New York, thinking that we’d be given a little house with a garden?” She laughed. “Those were the days! Here, sit down.” She offered him a rickety chair. “I’m sorry I can’t offer you any vodka, but with the famine, there’re certain luxuries we can’t afford. They give Walter a bottle a week at work, but he trades it at the market for eggs and a couple of bones for making broth. Do you want tea while you wait? That I can offer.”
Jack accepted. He hadn’t seen Sue since the store’s opening. He hadn’t noticed it then, but in the weak light of the bulb, her face looked haggard and was marked by little wrinkles.
“So how are you?” she asked him. “Walter told me you’re playing the lawyer, defending the capitalist you saved on the ship.”
“Yes. It’s something I agreed to do.” He didn’t want to give any more details. “And you two, how are you?”
“Fine, fine . . . Here. Be careful with the tea; it’s boiling.”
They sat in silence for a while.
“Do you know how long he’ll be?”
“No, not really. He’s very busy right now. With Stalin here, everyone is. But he’ll be home soon. Ah!” They heard a key in the lock. “He’s here.” She got up to greet him. Jack copied her.
Walter opened the door and took off his woolen ushanka, sprinkling the floor with snow. He was still brushing himself off when he noticed Jack. He stopped dead, as if he’d seen a ghost.
“What a surprise! What the hell brings you here?” Walter saw the cup of tea beside Jack and gave Sue a reproachful look. Jack noticed it.
“Don’t worry, I won’t stay long. I don’t want to put you in an awkward position. It’s just that I have information. Strange information . . .”
“I see . . . Sue, could you go see the neighbor, ask if they can spare a potato or two?”
“Walter, you know they don’t have so much as a—”
“Go find a damned potato!” he yelled at her.
Sue rushed to put on her coat and left the apartment. Walter sat opposite Jack, glowering.
“So? What information is this?”
Jack opened the folder and took out the court transcripts they’d given him. He explained what they were and why he had them in his possession.
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve been at the sessions, in the audience.”
“Well, in that case you’ll know that McMillan made a list of bank transfers. This one here. And the one giving the figure of fifty thousand dollars is the one they attribute to Wilbur Hewitt.” He pointed at it.
“Yes. At the office today, they were saying that they’d examined the list of transfers, and in addition to verifying that the recipient of the fifty thousand dollars was Wilbur Hewitt, they also found that he’d withdrawn some of the funds.”
“And they hadn’t noticed it before? I say that because any money going into a Soviet bank is monitored so closely that it’s impossible to take it out without the government knowing about it.”
“With most transactions, yes. But Hewitt’s account, to which most of the money went, was held in a German bank. It was opened to pay for contracts and supplies.”
“Wow, Walter, you are well informed!”
“Well.” He narrowed his eyes. “Though my colleagues would say otherwise, my Russian has improved a lot. Lately, they speak about nothing else in the OGPU. You just have to keep your ears open.”
“Anyway, that’s not why I’m here. It’s something else. Look at this.” He indicated the issuer’s account number. “I need to know whose account that is. Who ordered the transfer.”
Walter scanned the document with re
luctance. “It says it there: Confidential. They guard that information like treasure.”
“Sure, but I’m not asking about the number in the transcript. I’m referring to the one I’ve corrected underneath, in red pencil.”
Walter removed his glasses to read it carefully. “Where did you get this?” He frowned.
“I’d rather not involve you.”
“You already have by coming here. If anyone followed you, I’ll be linked to someone defending a murderer.”
“Think about what you’re saying. Doesn’t it seem strange to you that the witness to a crime that happened a year ago suddenly appears in the middle of a trial? If he has always had that evidence, why didn’t they arrest Hewitt sooner? And it’s not just any witness. No. It’s someone with status. Viktor Smirnov . . . But why would a guy who’s only interested in his cars get involved in this case? It beats me. All I can think of is that they’ve threatened to take away his privileges.”
“Well, since you’re asking me to think about it, you could also consider that even if he has complicated reasons for giving evidence, that doesn’t mean that Hewitt’s innocent. McMillan died, the money disappeared, and there’s the recording.”
“Damn it, Walter! Hewitt doesn’t seem like the kind of guy who throws his employees off bridges. And if they lied about that, they could be lying about everything.”
“You don’t have the look of someone who would kill his landlord, but you murdered Kowalski. Really, Jack. How easy it is to look the other way when you’re defending someone who’s provided you with all manner of luxuries!”
Jack was hurt that Walter had chosen to remind him of the landlord’s death, but he could sense that his friend was envious of him. For the sake of their long friendship, he tried to be tolerant. “I can see why you might feel sore, but it’s not fair for you to look down on me for it. I’ve worked for everything I have, and your own boss, Sergei Loban, authorized it. And I didn’t realize you and Sue were in such a precarious situation. Shit, Walter! If you needed help, a loan, I don’t know, whatever. All you had to do was ask, and I—”
“Well, I’ll be damned, Jack! Now you’re a fucking loan shark? And to think you hated your uncle the banker.”
“Please! Don’t take what I’m saying literally. I was just trying . . . Well, it’s just that I had no idea you were living in these conditions. When you left the American village, I thought you were moving somewhere better.”
“Sure . . . A mansion, like Wilbur Hewitt’s.”
“Give it a rest, Walter! I’m sorry, really I am. Look. Here. It’s not much, but . . .” He went to take out some notes from his wallet, but Walter stopped him.
“I don’t need handouts, Jack. In fact, I think you need my help, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.” He got up and strolled around the room. “Anyway, let’s leave it. Are you going to tell me where you got that number?”
Jack took a deep breath and studied Walter’s troubled face. He hesitated as his heart accelerated. It was Walter. His friend Walter. “I found it in a trunk that belonged to McMillan,” he finally said. “Hewitt let me have his luggage, unaware that there were dozens of reports hidden inside that contain information on the Avtozavod, including the banking transactions that have been used in the trial to incriminate Hewitt. The records in the court case match McMillan’s reports with one exception: the issuer’s account number is different. And McMillan’s papers are the official balance sheets, stamped by the Vesenkha, the Supreme Soviet of the National Economy.”
“And all of that was in a trunk?”
“It had a false bottom. Look, Walter, I’m convinced that the document I’ve found is the same one McMillan was going to hand over to Sergei when he called him. That’s why I don’t understand why Sergei would alter the issuer’s account number.”
“I agree that it’s strange.” Walter stood up and tugged at his thinning hair. “But, truthfully, Jack, I don’t know what significance your discovery could have. I don’t even know if I’ll be able to find anything out. Where’s the original?”
“Hidden.”
“OK. Then bring it to me tomorrow, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Tomorrow will be too late. I need to know the issuer’s identity before the trial resumes.”
“I see. Problem is, I’d have to go back out now, find someone at the office, and try to get them to help me by showing them a number written in red pencil. If you’d brought the original, then—”
“Listen, if it’s true that Sergei’s changed the number, then that report’s the only evidence that could prove it. And I’m not about to hand it over to those wolves. I am going to present it in the trial, in front of Stalin, but first I have to know why the numbers were altered.”
“The thing is . . .” He shook his head, as if unable to find a solution. “The thing is, I don’t think I can help you. Maybe you should speak to someone with more power in the OGPU. When it comes down to it, I’m just a seksot, an informer, as much as Sue likes to think otherwise. I’m a nobody.”
Jack didn’t know what to say. He finished his tea and considered what Walter had said. Finally, he got up to say good-bye to his friend. “One last thing. Does the name Vladimir Mamayev mean anything to you?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard it before. Why?”
“No reason. Thanks anyway. Say good-bye to Sue for me. I owe you one.”
“What’re you going to do?”
Jack put on his fur coat and pulled his ushanka down as far as it would go. “Speak to Viktor Smirnov. I don’t know if it’ll help, but it’s time to find out.”
38
Since he’d left Walter’s humble apartment block, Jack hadn’t stopped wondering what Smirnov’s true role was in the whole business. Before the trial, his apathy toward anything other than his own pleasure had freed him of suspicion. However, his sudden emergence as a witness meant he had serious questions to answer.
When Jack banged on the front door of Viktor Smirnov’s dacha, he couldn’t prevent a shiver from running down his spine. While he waited, he admired the large collection of vehicles parked in front of the house, watched by the guard who a minute earlier had frisked him before letting him pass. The laughter and music from inside reached the garden. Whoever was in there was certainly having a good time. He knocked firmly again and waited.
When Viktor Smirnov opened the door with his dressing gown half open and a glass of champagne in his hand to find himself face-to-face with his unexpected visitor, his smile instantly disappeared. Jack greeted him coldly.
“Jack! What’re you doing here?” He looked from side to side, to make sure that Jack was alone.
“I’m sorry to show without warning, but I needed to speak to you about a serious matter.”
“Oh. Well, now really isn’t a good time. I’m celebrating with some friends from Moscow, and we were about to drink a toast.”
Jack could hear heels clicking and women’s laughter. “It won’t take long.”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s about Sergei’s statement. There’s something that doesn’t add up, and I thought you must know about it.”
“Oh?” He looked back into the house, as if weighing whether to return to the fun that awaited him or deal with Jack. “All right. Let’s go upstairs, then. We can speak more freely up there.”
As they went down the hall toward the stairs, Jack heard the laughter of the women who, scantily dressed, were dancing and exchanging kisses with some officers whom he’d never seen before. One of the young women appeared, her breasts uncovered, and called to Viktor to come down. She stumbled over her words but insisted.
“I’ll be right there!” Smirnov replied to the girl. “Old friends,” he explained to Jack, as if that could hide that they were prostitutes. “Right. You were saying?” He closed the door to his study and sat in a magnificent leather chair.
Jack accepted Viktor’s invitation and copied him. He didn’t know where to begin. He
took off his ushanka and gazed around the room. The music from the gramophone was putting him on edge. “Quite a party. I’m sorry I’ve interrupted you.”
“And so am I.” Viktor served himself a glass from the bottle of champagne he’d picked up in the hall. Though there were glasses nearby on a sideboard, he didn’t offer Jack one. “So, what is so important that you had to come disturb me at this hour?”
“I think”—Jack took a deep breath—“I think Sergei’s lying.”
“Oh? And how can you be so sure?” He savored a sip of champagne very slowly, without taking his eyes off Jack.
Jack hesitated. Something inside him told him not to tell the truth. “I don’t know. It might be nothing. I . . .”
“Come on, Jack. You can’t have come here in the middle of the night just to interrupt our party.”
“No, of course not.” He dried the sweat from his hands. “I . . . Does the name Vladimir Mamayev mean anything to you?” he finally asked, and Viktor coughed as if the champagne had flooded his lungs.
What was left of his drink spilled onto the desk. Jack hurried to help him. But while he mopped up the spillage with his own ushanka, he saw a framed photograph that made his heart freeze.
“Excuse me,” Viktor apologized. “I’ve drunk too much tonight. No. I don’t know anyone named Mamayev. Why? Is there something wrong?”
“No, of course not.”
Jack fell silent as he gazed at the photograph of a young woman in Viktor Smirnov’s arms. It was Natasha, with a gigantic diamond on her finger.
A convenient unbearable pain in his hip had provided the perfect excuse to end Jack’s meeting with Smirnov. Now he lurched down Gorky’s deserted avenues like a sleepwalker, the snow whipping his face until it was wrapped in a shroud of ice.
He imagined Natasha and Smirnov, plotting together with Sergei. They had all fooled him. All of them. Even Hewitt. Bastards! he thought to himself.
The Last Paradise Page 39