Jason Overstreet - Beneath the Darkest Sky

Riga, Latvia

April 9, 1939

On a Sunday, some two months after I’d met Dallas in Belgium, I found myself sitting in a two-bedroom Riga apartment accompanied by two of Dallas’s men. The train ride from Berlin had taken me two days.

Dallas had finally sent his positive cable to Bobby on Friday, March 24, but I hadn’t been able to leave straightaway because my next briefcase exchange had been just ten days away on April 3. But now that I was here on the 9th, I had at least two and a half weeks to accomplish what I needed to before heading back to Berlin in time to make my fourth exchange on Monday, May 1.

The second exchange had gone smoothly, the briefcase filled with false information about U.S. submarine technology. I had typed up several reports using strictly physics and mathematics terminology—reports that partially detailed new types of S-boats called X-boats that America was on the cusp of introducing. Of course there were no renderings included, no actual math equations or physics specifics. It was strictly conceptual, my best attempt at theorizing. What I’d articulated could only describe a submarine that might be able to exist in the distant future, not 1940.

The size, speed, range, and depth of these futuristic sounding war machines would leave the Soviets scratching their heads and wanting to know more details. But in the end, I was certain Stalin could only worry at best, for he knew my access was limited and that I was merely relaying a small piece of a much larger and more complex mechanical breakthrough. That’s what he’d think at least.

I’d explained to the Kremlin that I’d accessed portions of a broader set of documents from the suitcase of a visiting Department of War official named Bob Wilmoth. Of course, there was no Bob Wilmoth. Still, it had been fun using my engineering skills to dream up something that didn’t exist.

The briefcase Dieter had given me during the second exchange included confirmation that the Kremlin was going to make sure Lovett was transferred from Magadan to MR4. They had confirmed that he was alive but said he wouldn’t be transferred until May, when a large group of free hires were set to ship home. I was just happy he wasn’t dead.

The third briefcase I’d delivered had information in it involving the same X-boats, but focused on who was involved. I’d reported that two men were responsible for aiding the U.S. in this engineering breakthrough, both with code names. I’d reported that the code names were probably being used so that various U.S. officials could comfortably correspond with one another about their two well-compensated, secret geniuses. One was a fictitious Australian mathematician being referred to as Warren Press Lord. The other was an engineer from Singapore I’d codenamed Lee Rodgers Lincoln.

I’d told the Kremlin that a team of scientists from America would be having their next meeting with the two geniuses in Honolulu, Hawaii, on August 30 at 8:00 p.m. It would be held in Fountain Lecture Hall at the University of Hawaii. I was guessing some Soviet spies would be dispatched to Hawaii in order to try to place recording devices throughout the lecture hall. I was sending the Soviets on a wild goose chase, all the while knowing I’d need to be long gone before this August 30 date. And I had to keep telling myself that this entire escape plan wasn’t some ill-conceived fantasy.

Regardless, now that I’d arrived in Riga, I needed to deal strictly in reality. The apartment I found myself in was bare, old, and drab—several mattresses and blankets having been placed in the bedrooms and living room. The unit was on the first floor of a brown five-story Gothic-style complex. There were four apartments on each floor. I had met Dallas’s men as planned at the Riga Hotel and the introduction had gone smoothly.

Both men, Luc and Xavier, were in their thirties, from Paris, and spoke fluent English. They were clean-shaven, fit, and tall, and one could easily imagine either playing the role of a businessman or soldier. How they’d ended up working for Dallas was of no concern to me. I needed them. They had driven me to 105 Stabu Street in a green Ford Deluxe Tudor, and though my body was tired, my mind was fresh.

“Listen to me very carefully, you two,” I said, the three of us sitting on the wooded floor in the living room with our backs against the wall, all of us dressed in suits. “Change of plans. I know what I told you in the car, but I want to move on this tonight.”

Xavier and Luc nodded, suggesting that was absolutely fine with them. Images of my son lying in a hospital bed ran through my head. All I’d received in Zorin’s last briefcase, besides a letter telling me how pleased the Kremlin was with my work so far, had been a brief note informing me that James was doing much better. I knew it wasn’t true.

“Before I forget, Xavier,” I said, reaching for my leather bag and taking out one of two envelopes full of cash, the other being for my own upcoming expenses. “This is for you to give to Dallas when you see him next, which may be a while. I’m assuming he’ll give you your share at that point.”

“We will be here until you tell us to leave,” said Xavier, placing the envelope in his small suitcase.

“We brought what you asked for,” said Luc, taking a pistol from his briefcase and handing it to me.

“Do you have the camera?” I said.

Xavier nodded. “And the flashlights, and the paper, and the pen.”

“Did you have a telephone installed?”

“Yes,” said Xavier.

“We’ll wait until 3:00 a.m. to head out,” I said. “One of you can go grab food for us.” I pulled down my black fedora a bit and fiddled with the pistol. “I see you’re both wearing brown suits.”

“We know,” said Xavier. “We are all to wear black suits tonight. Clear, Mr. Sweet.”

“Do you have their names written down, a list of who’s who?”

Xavier took a paper from his pocket and handed it to me.

“What is the address?” I said, reading the names.

“3 Maza Pils Street,” said Luc. “It’s a three-story apartment building. There are five units on each floor. Our targets are in a second-story unit at the end of the hall, number six. The place is approximately one and half miles from here. The door has a typical brass set; typical keyhole below the knob, easy to manipulate the inner cylinder, easy to pick.”

“There can be no screaming,” I said. “We have to execute with precision.”

The narrow, cobblestone streets were completely bare when the three of us pulled up some twelve hours later, the dark morning leaving us practically invisible. We exited the car and entered the main door of the building. Inside was a small, well-lit lobby with mailboxes to the right, a stone stairwell to the left.

Luc led the way and the three of us climbed to the second floor, quietly making our way to the end of the dimly lit hallway. Stopping at the apartment door, Luc sat a large leather bag down. I nodded at him and he calmly jiggled the handle. It was locked, so Luc took a tiny tool from the backpack Xavier was wearing. Then he began doing what Dallas had claimed he could do in his sleep, pick the lock.

A few minutes passed and then a click . Luc returned the tool to Xavier’s backpack and proceeded to remove three flashlights, Xavier and I each taking one. All three of us removed our holstered pistols. Then Luc slowly pushed the door open, darkness awaiting us inside.

As the two moved forward, I picked up the leather bag, set it just inside, and closed the door behind us. With our flashlights dotting the living room floor and walls, Luc led the way deeper inside. We knew that the apartment had three bedrooms. I was to head to the one at the rear of the hallway on the left. Xavier and Luc were to split the other two.