Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

“Put him on the bed at the end over there and administer the sedative!” said Zorin, who was walking just behind us.

The guards laid me down and two nurses approached, one holding a needle, the other, a cup of water. I was kicking and began repeatedly shouting, “MY LORETTA! MY GINGER!” But the guards were able to control my movements enough for one nurse to roll up my sleeve before the other injected me. As the drug began to calm me down, one nurse held my head up enough for the other to pour water into my mouth. By the time I had swallowed it all, light had turned to dark, and the nightmare had been temporarily put to sleep.

Eighteen days later, on December 15, 1938, I sat with James in our private barracks room and we ate lunch together with Osip watching our every move. We were finishing off our plates of baked salmon, boiled potatoes, and cabbage. Neither of us had found it easy to eat after learning of Loretta’s and Ginger’s deaths, but it was Osip’s job to make sure the plates didn’t leave the room until they were empty.

“There is something I need to tell you, Interpreter,” said Osip. “Colonel Zorin has instructed me to inform you that you will be leaving in two days for Leningrad. You weren’t supposed to leave until late December, but that has changed.”

Before Osip could say another word, Colonel Zorin entered the room carrying two brown briefcases. He looked down at James and me sitting in our chairs like we had stolen something. He always appeared angry, but this was an even more pronounced frown.

“The Kremlin has just notified me that you will be leaving in the morning, Interpreter,” said Zorin. “It had been changed to two days from now, but now it is even sooner. Tomorrow morning is also when your boy here will begin working in the mines.”

“Okay,” I said, no longer even able to summon up any words of resistance to these Soviet animals.

“Don’t think for a second, Interpreter, that your son is no longer a fucking zek ,” said Zorin, setting the briefcases next to Osip. “The Kremlin may have ordered me to feed him well over the next year, but he will work like all the others while you are in Berlin.”

“Excuse me, Colonel Zorin,” I said, “but I have been asking for days that my son here get treatment for his breathing problem. James has told me that his brief visits to the hospital have only resulted in him receiving cough syrup, which is hardly considered treatment. He needs to see a proper doctor, not a nurse.”

“What did you say, black zek ?” said Zorin, angrily.

“I said my son needs treatment. He is having trouble breathing, particularly at night. I would think the Kremlin would like to see him stay alive while I’m gone. He is their… you know… leverage after all.”

Zorin removed his pistol from his holster and stepped forward, sticking the end of the barrel against the skin right between my eyes. Part of me wanted him to pull the trigger.

“Shut your American mouth,” said Zorin. “You think because you are speaking Russian to me, that makes it okay to talk fancy with me? The doctors are busy attending to zeks with serious diseases. Do you hear me?”

I nodded, the pistol still stabbing my forehead. James sat still with his plate on his lap. My fifteen-year-old boy was a young man now, unafraid I sensed, able to handle himself if need be.

“I can sense that you are growing brave,” said Zorin. “You feel as though you don’t have as much to live for now. But maybe if you get a good night’s sleep before the morning departure, you’ll realize how important your son is to you. Don’t you remember that feeling of having your soul ripped out of you when you saw your dead wife and daughter?”

I nodded.

“You don’t ever want to feel that again, I’m sure. Besides, if you start acting too bold, the Kremlin will just have one of our undercover NKVD men visit Berlin and kill you, then order me to shoot your son here.”

He finally pulled the pistol back and reholstered it.

“Let me have your chair, Osip,” said Zorin. “And bring me the briefcases.”

Osip stood, slid his chair over, and Zorin sat with James and me. Then Osip placed the briefcases at Zorin’s feet before returning to the doorway, where he continued standing guard.

“Pay very close attention to this,” said Zorin. “For the sake of this mission, we will call the town of Valga, Estonia, the halfway point between Berlin and MR4. There will be absolutely no cable communication between you and me while you are in Berlin. And make no mistake… the Kremlin has made me their official go-between. It is I who will relay all intelligence to them once I receive it from you. Clear?”

“Yes,” I said, setting my half-empty plate on the floor while James continued eating.

“This briefcase is yours for now,” he said, picking one up and handing it to me. “And the other one is mine for now. As you can see, they are brand-new briefcases, each made by the Kremlin engineers for this specific mission. Steel covered with brown leather. They can only be unlocked with a combination of nine numbers and letters. Both briefcases have the same combination. I was told that you have an extraordinary memory.”

“Yes,” I said, running my fingers over the seven small, gold, button-like fixtures located just under the briefcase handle.

“Good, because you are never to write this combination down. “It is 7-K-6-Z-R-9-9-V-5.”

I rolled my finger over the first button and it clicked each time a different letter or number appeared. When the number 7 appeared, I stopped and continued on to the next fixture. I finally clicked button number nine into position and popped the case open.

“On your first try,” said Zorin. “Impressive. Now, listen carefully. The Nazis have all modes of communication under strict surveillance. They will intercept anything spoken over the telephone or sent via cable. So, on the first Tuesday of every month, in the morning, Osip here will meet our German contact, Dieter, at the train station in Valga, Estonia. Both men will have boarded their respective trains the day before, obviously on a Monday. Got that?”

“Yes.”

“Dieter is a chauffeur for the Hotel Adlon in Berlin. We have lots of spies working at that fancy hotel where so many important international dignitaries stay. And all of our spies there, and within many other establishments throughout Berlin, are German citizens. But, you see, they are proud, loyal communists first. Dieter is also being well compensated for his longstanding loyalty. We have so, so many communist spies around the world! And, now, you will be the best. Yes?”

“That is certainly my plan,” I said.

“Dieter will pick up your briefcase on the first Monday of every month and then catch the train to Valga. His two days off are Monday and Tuesday. And he doesn’t have to show up for work until Wednesday, late morning. This gives him forty-eight hours to make the thirty-five-hour round-trip. Make a habit of having breakfast at 7:00 a.m. every Monday and Wednesday at the Golden Café near his apartment. He has coffee across the street at the Blue Lion daily. Your first drop-off is to be on February 6th, a day when he will be carrying a simple, empty briefcase, not one of these beauties.”

“Got it,” I said. “At that point, you will still be in possession of the duplicate.”

“Correct,” he said. “So, Dieter will see you get up to leave the Golden Café and cross Friedrichstrasse Street at seven forty-five. It is very busy at that time. Once the traffic guard signals and you cross, wait at the corner in front of the Blue Lion in preparation to cross the east-west street of Beck. Set your briefcase down. He will come stand beside you there in the crowd and set his briefcase down. Before you cross Beck Street, pick up his briefcase and he’ll grab yours.”