“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.”
We continued our drive along the river. All this talk of new types of recording devices had me wondering what technology the Soviet scientists were actually on the cusp of.
“That river is beautiful, isn’t it, gentlemen?” said Bullitt. “Pull over up here to the left, Prescott. I’d like to get out and stretch my legs.”
I pulled over and waited for the ambassador to get out. But he just sat there for a moment smoking and staring at the river.
“I’d like to have a private moment with you, Bobby,” he finally said. “We’ll be right back, Prescott. Keep it running.”
I nodded as they exited and made their way to the rear of the vehicle, both of them lighting fresh cigarettes. My window was up, so I couldn’t hear them, but my confidence was up as well, so I rolled it down just a bit. My desire to eavesdrop on their conversation overrode any type of honor one might suggest I exhibit.
“There is an apartment for you and your family at the Mokhovaya, Bobby,” said Bullitt, essentially whispering. “But I think it’s in the best interest of everyone to have Prescott and his family find a more suitable living space.”
“Sir!” whispered Bobby, obviously taken aback.
“I’m not trying to hide him, Bobby, but I think it’s best to keep other staff from making him feel uncomfortable. I know we’re in the Soviet Union and race relations are progressive, but most embassy staff still see the issue as it is back home. They most certainly aren’t comfortable with race mixing, in terms of living arrangements.”
“But you and I talked,” whispered Bobby. “In Haiti, embassy staff were completely fine with Prescott living—”
“This is not fucking Haiti . . . or Africa . . . or the Caribbean. You know there’s not a single Negro FSO in our entire Moscow chancery. There’s a reason for that. It’s the way things are within the State Department still. For that matter, there’s not a single female FSO here either.”
“We’re not like this, you and I, William.”
“No, we’re not. And I believe relations will change. Listen. I agreed to have you serve on my staff, at a very high level at that. And I know that Dorene’s influence with the president and first lady didn’t hurt. Franklin all but demanded I take you on. So you’re here. You’ll be an ambassador yourself very soon. That should be your focus.”
“Prescott is a man of great integrity. And as my career grows, I intend to have him by my side for as long as—”
“You can have him by your side here, too. We’re simply talking living arrangements. I agreed to let you hire whomever you wanted as your personal aide. Shouldn’t that be enough? He’s got embassy clearance at least, and he’s on a personal service contract. But let’s be clear, he’s basically no different from the Russian builders I hired for the ballroom, a contractor hired by the embassy.”
“I understand that,” said Bobby, sounding quite disappointed. “But if—”
“He’s a fucking assistant, for Christ’s sake! Essentially a servant! They’re plentiful. And like all the others, regardless of color, there won’t even be a record of him having ever existed at the chancery here. That’s just plain old reality.”
“Prescott is one of the most brilliant, loyal—”
“So is my new Italian aide, Mr. Offie,” said Bullitt.
“But Prescott will eventually be an FSO. I intend to see to it. And he, like the American gentleman who’s now Consul in Las Palmas, will eventually completely break through these archaic barriers.”
“Dammit, I, for one, know this Negro Consul you speak of. His name is Clifton Wharton, Sr. And I really like and respect him. But he wasn’t sent to Moscow.”
“But perhaps he could have been.”
“That’s enough on the subject, Bobby. I’m sure Prescott is bright, and I meant what I said earlier about having him work with the Russian contractors on the new ballroom as a technical advisor. And your office at the chancery shall be his office as well. But let’s find him a suitable apartment. Come! I’d like to get going.”
I casually rolled my window back up as the two rejoined me, lit cigarettes still in hand. I wasn’t going to let this living situation deter me from working with my friend, because I believed that he would one day see to it that such arrangements wouldn’t have to be made. In fact, I intended to relieve him of even having to bring the issue up. I planned on telling him that Loretta wanted to live amongst some of the local artists, wherever that was.
“Let’s continue on to Kutuzovsky Street, Prescott,” said Bullitt, exhaling smoke. “I’ll show the two of you Stalin’s private estate. It was just built. It’s called Blizhnyaya Dacha . . . his nearby dacha. The house is heavily guarded and difficult to even see, but you’ll get a sense of the place. Construction is actually still being completed on it.”
“Sounds fantastic,” I said, knowing that Bobby’s sour mood would lead him to remain quiet.
“I’m hoping,” said Bullitt, “that Stalin keeps his word on something. He promised me I could build a new embassy chancery on a place I desire. It’s a piece of land on a beautiful bluff in the Sparrow Hills overlooking the Moscow River. I’ve had an American architect draw up some plans. It could be like J
efferson’s Monticello.”
No slaves, though, I hope, Mr. Ambassador! I said to myself. I wouldn’t have dared said it out loud.
“I would like to take this opportunity to be frank, gentlemen,” said Bullitt. “I’m merely thinking out loud. As I hinted at earlier, Prescott, perhaps you could work with the Russians I just hired to build the new ballroom. Be our American electrician! The Soviet government forced me to use Russian contractors, but we need at least an American consultant on board. Then you could dig a little and find out where they’re hiding their new gadgets. The electricity will have to be shut off periodically and you’ll maybe have access to areas in the attic and behind the walls of the mansion—all thirty rooms.”
I looked in the mirror at Bobby. His face was beet red. I was hoping that he could at least wait until we were alone to blow his top. I didn’t want him to lose his job on the first day.
“You’re being colored, Prescott, and speaking Russian will allow you to ingratiate yourself to the workers without raising any eyebrows. They simply find it almost a communist calling to treat coloreds with complete deference . . . as if how they treat you all is the ultimate test of their allegiance to Marx’s manifesto. Is that too blunt, Prescott?”
“Blunt is quite preferable to vague, sir,” I said.
“Indeed. You can have him most of the time, Bobby, but perhaps he can work on the ballroom for the first couple months here. Don’t worry about desperately needing Prescott to translate for you for the time being, Bobby, because you’re probably not going to leave your office very much in these early days. I need you to help sort out the passport mess our consular has on his hands.”
“Yes, sir,” said Bobby.
“He’s overwhelmed. Hundreds of Americans have lost theirs. When Mr. Stalin initially promised them work over here, somehow their passports magically disappeared within the first few weeks of their arrival. Some, I know, threw them away as a protest to America’s Depression after they’d been promised Soviet citizenship. They’ve told us as much. Now they’re homesick and want them back.”
“I’m here to serve you, Mr. Ambassador,” said Bobby.
I hated hearing my friend have to suppress his own feelings and bow down to his superior, but such was the way it had to be. Besides, other than perhaps Paris, there wasn’t a place on this earth where a colored man like me wouldn’t have to deal with race-based inconveniences like this.
The thought alone made me start to miss our home city. Again, there, only when we’d ventured into high-end areas had Loretta and I so much as sniffed hints of well-disguised bigotry. Paris as a whole was the most accepting place on earth I could imagine when it came to treating coloreds well. And I actually wondered at times if even the bits of racism I felt were a result of the issue being so engrained into me back in the U.S. that I assumed it was there when it wasn’t. Maybe those odd looks from wealthy Parisians had had more to do with class than color.
While teaching at the University of Paris, I was actually encouraged to try to earn my PhD and become a full-time professor, but I’d declined, knowing I didn’t want to be a lifelong lecturer. But, still, the administrators never even batted an eye at my being a Negro. Even the idea of treating me as if I were less than was anathema to them. And outside of work, I was always invited to private functions or parties. Our social life was not just limited to attending events that took place within Loretta’s little Montmartre artists’ colony.
Looking back, I realized that the reason I’d always felt the need to leave Paris and pursue something else was born out of my desire to help my American brothers and sisters feel what I’d felt in France. Unless all of them could be free, too, my happy bones still ached for them. And if working for a potential U.S. ambassador meant having a hand in shaping a more compassionate foreign policy, one that might eventually teach our government to treat its own people with the same dignity and respect that it shows citizens abroad, I had to do it.
“In many ways,” said Bullitt, lighting a new cigarette, “this might be one of the worst days in history. I failed to mention the news I received earlier. German President Paul von Hindenburg died today. God help us! Chancellor Adolf Hitler has just become the absolute dictator of Germany. He’s calling himself Fuhrer. All that means is ‘leader,’ but I fear it will come to mean ‘savage murderer’ to the rest of us in the civilized world.”
Again I looked at Bobby in the mirror. He was wiped out. This made me both sad and happy. Sad that he was hurting, but happy to know he cared so deeply about me. This was a friend, a brother—a man I’d follow to the ends of the earth.
9
Camp Z, Far East Russia
September 1937
DARKNESS HAD COME QUICKLY AND THE MEN GATHERED ONCE again. They sounded even louder this time, unaffected by the long day of work they’d just completed, starving to see more blood. And as Leonid and I entered the ring, I had the distinct feeling one of us was about to die.
“SILENCE!” shouted Officer Kozlov, turning away from the bosses. “Most of us gathered here in the middle of this vast forest are Russian. We are proud Russians, too! And although we men up here are free and you zeks out there are not, we all share the same history. I say that to say this: Make us proud, Leonid Nikita!”
The crowd roared all the way up to the star-filled sky. The bosses smowned with pride at their great Russian beast, and Leonid nodded back at them, assuring each that he’d heard their message loud and clear and would heed it. I was alone. I was surrounded. I was an American.
“BORBA!” yelled Officer Kozlov.
Leonid lumbered forward in attack mode and I tried to evade him. My only hope was to make this a game of stamina. He lunged again. I dodged.
With my back facing the stage, he moved in once more and I jabbed his eye, ducking his sweeping counter right as the two of us switched places. His eye had been cut open pretty well. I jabbed again with my right and he caught my fist, pulling it in and biting it, taking the tip of my thumb off in the process. Then he bit down on the webbing between my thumb and index finger, ripping away more flesh like a rabid wolf. Blood oozed down my arm, as he still had it in his grasp.
Before he could chew any more of my hand off, I groin-kicked him and he released me. The visual of this beast growling at me now and chewing my flesh—fresh blood covering his lips—was a haunt for all times. He clutched his crotch and smiled, waiting for me to make another move.
“NIKITA! NIKITA! NIKITA!” the throng howled.
I held out my hand to have a look, all the while backing up. He’d taken off two substantial chunks. I tried to ball up my fist again, but the pain made it next to impossible.
Leonid rushed me once more and this time was able to grab the left shoulder strap of my coveralls as I turned away. He pulled me close, bear-hugging me, lifting my feet off the ground, trying to squeeze the air out of me.
I gasped for air and he began to run with me as if I were a mere child. As we neared the stage, he shoved me into one of the thick log beams that held up the platform. I fell to my knees and shook my head, desperately attempting to stay conscious. I could see a blurred image of him readying to kick me with a kill shot and I began to crawl. His foot still caught my left bicep, however, the force feeling like it had fractured my humerus.
“KILL! KILL! KILL!” the zeks belted out while I continued crawling on all fours.
He wound up for another kick, but I rolled away and got to my feet. The zeks screamed with approval, happy to see the battle continue. I was still woozy, my legs wobbly. Facing him and circling, I tried to buy time, praying with each second that my senses would return.
Leonid stood strong with his mammoth arms flexed and he grinned at me, his teeth appearing to be completely rotten, even with the pink of my blood covering them. Each time he stepped forward I backed up, vigorously shaking my head in the process and breathing deep for oxygen. I needed to think, to outsmart this giant. My only hope was to use his aggression against him.
I purposefully circled back around to the stage and backed up. He swung big and I dodged it, waiting for the next one. He kicked at my groin and I sidestepped, his foot crashing into the beam while I spun around, his back now against the stage.
The zeks laughed at his miss and a look of frustration came over him. I backed up and again we danced center ring, both of us breathing heavily. The blood from my hand and his busted-up eye had decorated both of us, creating a scene of complete savagery. His arms spread like a bird’s, he lunged at me again, and once more, I was quicker. There was no doubt he wanted to wrestle, to get me on the ground and muscle me to death. And it was a smart strategy on his part, because he had to weigh at least 270, much heavier than my even 200. The time had come to stop evading him.
I looked over his shoulder at the stage platform, studying how high it was—no more than three feet, I figured. I began circling until again my rear faced the stage. Then I slowly began to back up, measuring my steps carefully, judging exactly how far I was from the platform—calculating every move. I would need to be precise in order to execute this final maneuver.
As I’d anticipated, he bullishly rushed at me once more and I dipped down real low, grabbing him around his upper legs, my face pressed against his stomach, all the while allowing his force to continue through me as I lifted him and he drove me straight back, my feet off the ground now, both of us suspended in air. Instead of banging my back against the stage beam, I arched my spine, continuing to use his momentum and weight to drive his head straight down now and into the platform’s edge, splitting his face open, snapping his thick neck, killing him instantly.
We both lay there as a silence came over the crowd, dust swirling around us. Leonid’s body had me completely blanketed, all of his weight bearing down on me like a dead grizzly’s. I rested there for a moment, trying to feel for something that might be broken, but his head had taken the full brunt of the fall. I had surprised him with the all-too-quick tripping maneuver, so much so that he hadn’t been able to extend his wing-positioned arms properly in time to brace himself and save his face.
Beneath the Darkest Sky Page 9
