Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

I nodded, looking at them in the mirror.

“How is Dorene?” he asked Bobby, handing him a cigarette. “Has she already begun to complain about the lack of fashion here? She will not be able to do an ounce of clothes shopping.”

“She’ll make do,” said Bobby, lighting up.

“Ah, you say that, but she’ll be on the first train to London within weeks for a vacation. If I am finding it necessary to get out of town so much, she certainly will. I can’t tell you how much I’d rather be in Paris.”

“Moscow doesn’t suit you, William?” said Bobby.

“Not particularly,” he said, leaning forward toward me. “You know, Prescott, Louise Bryant, my ex-wife and mother of my ten-year-old daughter, was in love with the idea of this place. But she was actually just in love with Jack Reed, who was indeed authentically in love with Russia. So, you see… love, love, love.”

“And you?” I said.

“I love Paris,” said Bullitt, pointing. “Turn here, Prescott. I have hope for this place, but it frustrates me. Trying to make inroads with Stalin is like trying to find a good steak in this city. And Maxim Litvinov, the People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, is all the more difficult. He’s smart, but his integrity could use some work.”

As Bullitt continued smoking and talking, it was as if he were venting his frustrations, thinking out loud. I could sense the weight he was carrying.

“Mr. Litvinov is acting as if the financial debts they owe America, along with their agreement not to interfere in our domestic affairs, are subjects we never discussed when our two countries initially met last year. Those agreements were signed when we reestablished relations. Why the hell does he think the president agreed to send me here?” He touched my shoulder. “You’re not a spy, are you, Prescott?”

“Ya ne shpion,” I said in Russian. “No.”

“I like that,” he said, leaning back again. “I’m going to steal him from you, Bobby. Maybe I’ll use him to find out where these damn Soviet spies are planting their hidden recorders. Can you find this out, Prescott?”

“Sir?” I said, pretending I hadn’t heard him.

“I think Sergei, the caretaker who lives in the basement, is working with NKVD,” said Bullitt. “His room remains locked and we have no access. I really don’t care, actually, as we know the entire house is littered with hidden wire recorders. We just try to always make sure we’re saying nice things about our hosts when inside Spaso House. We’re actually just being honest, a foreign concept to them, one that will continue to puzzle them, as they only deal in suspicion.”

“Does Sergei act suspicious?” said Bobby.

“Not particularly. Turn again here, Prescott. But you have to remember, gentlemen, when we reestablished relations last year, they had plenty of time to install whatever they wanted in Spaso before we moved in. God knows what’s behind the walls. One of our third secretaries, George Kennan… you know him, don’t you, Bobby?”

“Yes, I met him once in Washington.”

“Brilliant fellow who’s also fluent in Russian. Anyhow, he and I have spent hours at night trying to find a secret door that leads somewhere. Nothing. I know there’s one, though. I believe this because when I first met with Stalin last year, he gave me the option of two different places that could serve as the ambassador’s residence. One was Spaso. The other was an old Supreme Court building that looked like a prison. He offered me these two as options because they’d perhaps been remodeled as spy buildings.”

“Just your hunch, though, right?” said Bobby. “You’ve seen nothing specific, have you?”

“No, it is indeed just my hunch. But my hunches are good. I believe they can plant recorders behind the walls, ceilings, and floors in the morning and remove them at night without any of us knowing it. Don’t know how, but would like to find out! And I believe the new chancery they just finished next to the Hotel National is even more riddled with recorders. We may as well have had our staff move into the Kremlin.”

“This sounds like a major problem,” said Bobby. “Is there anything—”

“It’s not a major problem. They just still don’t trust us. That’s what happens when you’ve had no relationship for sixteen years. I figure the less suspicious we act, the better. We’ve been tasked with a mission by the president to reestablish good relations with these people. We’ll do our part and do so honorably. All of our staff simply leave the house when we want to carry on private conversations.”

Bullitt paused for a moment and then continued.

“Hell. Who am I kidding? This car probably has a wire recorder hidden somewhere. Probably turns on automatically when the car door is opened. Can they do that sort of thing yet, Prescott? Technologically, I mean.”

“I would think… yes,” I said. “But I haven’t spent a great deal of time studying recording, much less recorder activation. I do know this: Just because something isn’t on the open market, doesn’t mean it hasn’t been invented. And as it relates to the Soviet Union, I recall reading somewhere during my research of this country that a Mr. Neill Brown, who was the U.S. minister in St. Petersburg back in the mid-1800s, said of this place, ‘Secrecy and mystery characterize everything. Nothing is made public that is worth knowing.’ ”

“I’ll be damned,” said Bullitt.

“The truth of the matter,” I said, “is that advancements in wire recording, as we Americans know them to be, are fluid, to say the least. But someone would have to have regular access to your Lincoln, sir, in order to remove any hidden device once it’s full. And, of course, to plant another one.”

“I see. Well, my vehicles are always locked, and I have the keys, so we need not worry about this conversation. And I have six U.S. Marines on guard detail at Spaso. One of them is even my courier who goes to the Kremlin regularly. He’s very discreet, a real secretive sort, if you know what I mean.” He pointed. “Make another turn here, Prescott.”

“But you do sound a bit worried, William,” said Bobby.

“That’s because—and this goes to Prescott’s point—they are working on new types of recording devices in this country like no other. They are absolutely obsessed with technology and the idea of finding new ways for their NKVD to spy on people, all the while believing every foreigner is a spy as well. They have even asked me questions about our American scientists back home, wanting to know about any new advancements in recording. As if I’d dare tell!”

“Obsessed with finding new ways to spy, huh?” said Bobby.

“Obsessed! And they’re so indiscreet. I believe Stalin is pouring more and more money into their scientific institutions. They’re opening the Institute for Physical Problems here in Moscow, and there’s the Physical Technical Institute in Leningrad.”

“You mentioned the caretaker,” said Bobby.

“Yes,” said Bullitt. “I don’t know anything in particular. We just have our suspicions. This Lincoln vehicle was made at the Ford plant here in Moscow, but I have it thoroughly inspected regularly by Carl Lock, one of our staff who fancies himself an auto mechanic. The last inspection was a week ago. Still, I always wonder if the NKVD have found a way during the night to bribe one of the marines and plant a device in here somewhere.”

“Those marines are too honorable,” said Bobby.

“But they’re so young,” said Bullitt. “And I saw the way they blushed around the young Russian girls during a recent social event we hosted at Spaso. They’re susceptible to bribes I believe. NKVD is using these beautiful girls, young ballerinas, to soften the men up.”