Jason Overstreet: Beneath the Darkest Sky

When the clock hit 7:45, I stood and walked toward Friedrichstrasse Street, leaving some money behind on the table. Waiting for the traffic guard’s signal, I stood amongst the crowd of suited men and we finally crossed over and stationed ourselves in front of the Blue Lion. Then, just as planned, I sat my briefcase down, and before we began to move, Dieter approached, setting his next to it. I casually looked at him, his black fedora similar to mine and the many others who were hustling off to work. He was my height, thin, fair-skinned, with a sharp nose and chin.

The traffic guard finally stopped the vehicles and the throng began to walk again, Dieter and I following protocol. Not a word needed to be spoken. The first delivery had been set into motion.

Brussels, Belgium

February 9, 1939

BOBBY AND I HAD WANTED TO MEET DALLAS CONRAD EARLIER IN the week, but I’d had to be in Berlin from Monday to Wednesday to make the briefcase exchange. As a result, we were taking the Thursday morning train to Brussels. Bobby had been able to organize the fourteen-hour trip by setting up a meeting with none other than Joseph E. Davies, the current U.S. Ambassador to Belgium. It was too ironic that he’d be visiting with the man I despised for having been a deplorable ambassador to the Soviet Union.

We arrived at around 10:00 p.m. and checked into two rooms at the Hotel Metropole. Bobby’s meeting with Ambassador Davies wasn’t due to take place until the following afternoon. Meanwhile, our man Dallas Conrad would be joining us for breakfast downstairs at 8:00 sharp.

Both of us woke feeling well-rested and anxious. We sat down at a corner table in the busy hotel café at around 7:30, each of us ordering coffee and oatmeal. All Dallas had mentioned was that he’d be carrying a little black dog—a Pomeranian to be specific.

“Thanks again, Press, for trusting me with your entire plan,” said Bobby, stirring some milk into his coffee. “I hope you believe I was never going to try to stop you.”

“I do,” I said, adjusting my tie. “I just needed some time to think it through a bit more before completely filling you in. I needed to get that briefcase in Dieter’s hands for the first time. That simple act cleared my mind quite a bit.”

“What else did you send?”

“I asked Colonel Zorin to give me details on my family’s well-being. And I specifically asked for a doctor’s report regarding James’s breathing issue. Problem is, the medics at the camp are awful. He needs to see a proper physician.”

“Do you know how fucking handcuffed I feel right now, Press?” He sipped. “I sort of blame myself for all of this. How could I not have been more proactive about looking into the arrests while living in Moscow? All of us diplomats were so damn busy romanticizing about the damn place. Even still, I believe many of our government officials live vicariously through white rebels like the late Jack Reed, along with current so-called Soviet sympathizers like Max Eastman, James Burnham, and Max Shachtman.”

“Please don’t blame yourself,” I said.

“I’ve been walking around in a constant state of shock for over a month; in utter awe of not only how you managed to survive the camps, but the specific acts of barbarism you had to endure, the friends you were forced to watch die. I can’t grasp how you had the strength or wherewithal to think up an escape plan in the midst of the entire mess. And again, I can’t help but beat myself up over it.”

“Don’t,” I said. “I’m focused on what’s ahead, on Dallas.”

“He’s going to stand at the entryway so that we can see him,” said Bobby, opening a notebook and scribbling something. “I’ll go retrieve him when he appears.”

“Then you should probably stand up,” I said, sipping my coffee. “I believe that’s our man with the silver head of hair standing next to the maître d’.”

Bobby took a sip of water, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and stood. I watched him walk across the large café, winding his way through the many tables until he reached Dallas, who was standing about twenty feet in the distance. The Military Intelligence vet appeared to be in his late fifties or early sixties. He was average height, trim, finely tailored, his silver hair fashioned like Bobby’s, in the mode of one Clark Gable. The two shook hands and then headed my way. Just before they arrived I stood.

“Prescott,” said Bobby, “this is Dallas Conrad.”

“Thank you for coming,” I said, shaking his hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” he said with a deep smoker’s voice.

“Please,” said Bobby, offering Dallas up a chair, the three of us sitting. “Coffee, Dallas?”

“No, I’m fine,” he said, petting his perfectly behaved dog.

“I don’t want to waste a second of your time, Mr. Conrad,” I said, taking a file from my briefcase and placing it in front of him. “I think you’ll find the plan clear and concise.”

“Good,” he said, taking a pen and blank card from his suit pocket before opening my file and beginning to read.

Bobby and I sipped our coffee and watched Dallas carefully running his finger down my typed outline. I scanned the café and wondered if Stalin had designated someone from day one to shadow me, a person who had perhaps traveled on the same train from Berlin to Brussels. It didn’t matter if Stalin had done such. All this possible spy would be witnessing was my boss meeting with some important-looking official.

“Anything in Latvia is possible,” Dallas finally said, jotting down a note, his clean-shaven, pinkish, rough-skinned face remaining completely calm.

“Good,” I said.

Dallas looked at me. “My men can start by poking around the secondary schools. Not to state the obvious, but every one of us was a child at one point.”

“Your men?” I said.

“My men,” he said, writing again. “The next phase of your plan sounds like a job for… I don’t know… say… two young officials from the Central Statistical Bureau of Latvia. My men can certainly look the part. I’m sure when they knock at the door with their proper-looking badges, your targets will welcome them in for a cup of tea and a nice chat about their family. Most Latvians speak Russian. So do my men. Any covert operative worth his salt these days has to speak it.”

“Good,” I said. “And I’m assuming they can pick most locks?”

“In their sleep. But back to the idea of them dressing as Central Statistical Bureau officials. My men will simply say that they are updating the country’s census. Questions surrounding this topic never draw the target’s suspicion. This process should allow my men to specifically identify all of the players involved here, their histories, their relationships with one another, etcetera. Believe me, my men will ask the right questions.”

“How long?” I said.

“Could be two weeks. Could be two months. Hard to say. They’ll stay in a simple apartment until your targets are confirmed to exist or not exist. If they do exist… then… as you’ve suggested here in your outline, they’ll rent a two-bedroom apartment somewhere off the beaten path, a real secure one. Easy. They operate with plenty of cash on hand.”

“Speaking of cash,” said Bobby, sliding an envelope full of money across the table toward Dallas. “This is triple what I was told you might require. And there’s more to come as the job progresses, and certainly when it’s finished.”

“I’ve got one shot at this,” I said. “All I ask is that your men take that into account.”

Dallas nodded. “Look, my men are highly skilled, highly trained professionals. They’re not choirboys. They’re not hired assassins, but they’ve killed. Bobby here is an American diplomat. That’s all I need to know to trust him. It’s obvious that this isn’t some sort of damn game to you, Mr. Sweet. My men will see the job through until you and Bobby are satisfied. No one needs to die, but if it means protecting either of you, that is certainly part of their job description. They’re private contractors.”