Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

Koskinen put his cigar out in the ashtray and sat up straight. His intrigue was obvious. Perhaps because he wanted to be the man who got credit for suggesting such an idea to Stalin, as it might be just the kind of offering that would put him on the dictator’s “Good List,” even though he claimed a Trotskyist takeover was on the horizon. Or, maybe he just wanted to do this because he actually thought it might help me. Either reason suited me.

“But you worked for this Ellington,” said Koskinen. “Therefore, you are loyal to him .”

“No! He is a friend, but I would cut his throat to save my family.”

Koskinen squinted at me a bit and began pinching his chin with his right thumb and index finger. “Cut his throat you say! You would?”

“Yes,” I firmly said, lying through my teeth. “He is loyal to America, and I am loyal to my family. And, as I previously said, I was stunned to have been arrested in a country I love more than the United States. If my family and I were to be released, them before the mission commences and me upon its conclusion, we could easily forgive the arrests and remain loyal expatriates, completely at ease with living out the remainder of our lives in Russia.”

“Stalin would never agree to release your family prior to any spy mission having been completed. I know nothing of this sort of thing, but I can guess. Your family would be leverage. They’d have to remain imprisoned until you’d gathered any type of intelligence at the U.S. Embassy in Berlin, intelligence that one hundred percent fulfilled Stalin’s appetite. And even then, he might kill you all. He might tell you, ‘Mission complete. Come back to the Soviet Union and join your just-released family.’ But when you arrive… bang, bang, bang, bang! A bullet to each of your heads from one of his most trusted NKVD men.”

“Then I’ll take on the assignment while they remain imprisoned,” I said. “All I ask is that the assignment has a specified time length, one that would assure all of our releases in no more than one year. Otherwise Stalin must certainly know they will die in here if kept much longer than that. I can gather plenty of intelligence in twelve months.”

“Do you speak German?” he said, busily writing everything I said now.

“ Ja! I speak German, Russian, Italian, French, Spanish, and, of course, English.”

He looked up from his pen with slight surprise. Then he continued writing, as if preparing a report he’d later type, one that listed the details of my history, the proposed mission, etcetera. It was like he knew such a suggestion of espionage would not fall upon deaf ears. I was reminded of just how seemingly orgasmic this whole spy business was to them.

He stopped writing and leaned back, lost in thought for a while. After about a minute passed, I wondered if he’d decided not to consider my proposal, perhaps realizing that taking such a risk could cost him his life.

“Your ability to speak Spanish could be good for us both,” he finally said, leaning forward. “I will help you under one condition. And it involves testing your… how do you say in America… your character. You see, I can’t make you do what I’m about to ask, but you can give me your word. Can you give me that, comrade?”

“Of course,” I said. “I am going to die in here like the others; my family as well. I’ll promise you anything.”

“Assuming you are magically able to get out of Russia, you are going to need a job, yes?”

“Yes,” I said, watching him take a small slip of paper and jot something down.

“You’re going to memorize this name and address because you can’t walk around with this paper. Go to this place and see this man.” He handed the slip to me and continued. “He is part of the Trotskyist movement. Tell him I sent you and that you speak Spanish and Russian. Then tell him why you hate Stalin. Because of your color, zek background, and rare language ability, he may have a good job for you, or he may not. But find out, okay?”

“Okay,” I said, handing the paper back to him.

“Is it stuck already?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’ve got it memorized.”

“I have your word that you will go see this man if you get out?”

“You have my word,” I said, meaning it to my core.

“Then it is between you and your God now. Correct?”

“Yes.”

“I will send this letter I’m writing about you to the proper man at the Kremlin,” he said, pen scribbling again. “It will likely be relayed to Stalin. But the next phase, assuming it’s not him ordering all of you immediately executed, will likely be a serious interrogation of you from some top NKVD men, along with them having you, in some way, confirm that your friend is indeed posted in Berlin and is willing to hire you. Are you sure you want me to send this?”

“Yes,” I said, watching him write, his eyes remaining down. “Like I said, we are going to die in here anyway. That is part of their plan, what, with the way they feed us. They don’t want us to live, just as you’ve said. They want to replace us. This possible mission is my only hope.”

“Then let me ask some more questions,” he said.

“Okay, but first I have one more request. I must be transferred with my son to a camp near my wife and daughter before I leave for Berlin. I must be able to confirm with my own eyes that they’re alive. Of course I know that you can’t mention that you’ve already told me where they are. But I need to see them alive. Can you pretend not to know and ask them to find out where they are?”

“I’m writing this all down,” he said, talking into his pen, pausing in between each written word. “But… in… the… meantime… you… must… survive… these… next… weeks… or… months. You know, until we receive word, because, of course, this is all only between you and me, and those commanders out there overseeing this camp, the ones higher ranking than me, have complete authority, as you understand, to kill you or your son without reason. They don’t know that I like you. So… stay alive, Comrade Sweet.”

Two days later, I saw before me a sight that required the willing suspension of disbelief. I was in the passenger’s seat of a large cargo truck, and we were just beginning to make the short drive down to the ship dock at the bay, where we were to retrieve some recently imported machinery. Just as we began to turn east, something caught my eye to the left. A rather small group of zeks was heading toward our camp from the west. They were walking the Road of Bones, but going the wrong direction, perhaps returning from mines. And they were all white men, save for one. I squinted to make sure my eyes weren’t deceiving me, and they were not. Interspersed amongst the zeks was none other than one Lovett Fort-Whiteman.

As we continued toward the bay and lost sight of them, the lump in my throat stayed with me. My close friend looked beaten and weathered. I wondered just how and when he’d been imprisoned. Perhaps they were sending him to my lagpunkt , and if not, I certainly intended to speak with Koskinen about Lovett, to somehow convince him that my friend was as astute as me when it came to engineering, even though he wasn’t. Still, I knew that his expertise in science might be enough to convince Koskinen to let him work with me. After all, I had a little bit of leverage now.

Six days passed and I’d seen no sign of Lovett, although I knew he was probably slaving away somewhere within our Magadan camp. I’d told Koskinen about him and he’d agreed to look into it, but that had only been some twenty-four hours ago, as it was now Monday.

With the day’s work complete and our ration of hot water consumed, James and I were lying in our bunks resting. Many of the zeks in our barracks were loud and constantly instigating fights and arguments with others over the most arbitrary of issues, everything from a missing sock to a stolen cigarette or ruble. And on this particular night, I was on the receiving end of a bothersome false accusation from a zek named Max, who was about fifty years old, short, and considerably bonier even than the rest of us. His skin looked like wrinkled, filthy leather, the deep crevices on his face filled with a sort of green-black grime.