“Plenty,” I said, walking over.
“Good. It may look beautiful, but it won’t start. And it’s not the battery. Just had a new one put in.”
“Do you mind?” I said, signaling that I’d like to take a look. He nodded and moved aside. I leaned over the engine to get a bird’s-eye view, looking in every direction before jiggling various wires. “Could be a problem with the electrical portion of the ignition switch, a short or something,” I said. “Or, maybe even a plugged exhaust system. I’ll need some time to diagnose.”
“There’s a toolbox behind you just inside the garage there,” he said, and I immediately went to retrieve it.
“There you are, William!” said an approaching Bobby. “We’ve been searching every room in Spaso trying to find you.”
“Well, you found me,” said Bullitt, rag still in hand. “What is it?”
“You called a meeting, William,” said a confused-looking Bobby, who was accompanied by four others.
“I sent Charles to the chancery to tell you that I’d like to move the meeting to tomorrow,” said Bullitt, gazing at his watch. “You didn’t get the message, Bobby?”
“He never—”
“It’s fine,” said Bullitt. “You’re all here. We may as well take advantage of it. That damn Charles! He probably got sidetracked.”
“I spoke to him this morning,” said Bobby. “He mentioned nothing of a changed meeting time, but did say he was planning to fetch your ballerina friend for you, William. Maybe he—”
“He’s not fetching anyone for me. Her name is Lolya Lep-ishinkaya and she happens to be one of the finest dancers in the entire Moscow Ballet. She’s giving private lessons to Anne. Is that okay with you, Bobby?”
“Sorry, William. Your daughter is fortunate to have such a willing teacher. And Charles did indeed say she was a brilliant performer.”
Charles Thayer was whom he was referring to, the ambassador’s very young, “do everything” assistant and interpreter.
“Anne loves the performing arts,” said Bullitt. “She and I recently attended a play called ‘The Negress and the Monkey.’ She thoroughly enjoyed herself.”
Upon hearing Bullitt’s comment, I damn near dropped the flashlight I’d just taken out of the toolbox. Something about the words negress and monkey thrown together so casually didn’t fall easily upon my ears. Nevertheless, I ignored it and began digging through the toolbox in search of some fresh batteries.
“Chip found you some more wooden coat hangers, William,” said thirty-year-old George Kennan, a nice, handsome gentleman I had met already at the chancery, one of the ambassador’s third secretaries. I’d met all of the staff. The other third secretaries were Bertel Kuniholm and Chip Bohlen, both in their thirties, both in attendance.
“Ah, yes, wooden hangers!” said Bullitt, walking around to the driver’s side door, Pie-Pie panting behind the wheel. “Did you find any more of that good vodka we had last weekend, George?”
“Indeed.”
“Excellent!” said the ambassador, actually cracking a smile. “Nothing like drinking vodka in Russia! When in Rome, right, gentlemen?”
We all nodded, Bobby placing his hand on my shoulder, his big grin signaling how happy he was to see me. I was still thinking about the oddity of the ambassador asking his third secretary to fetch wooden hangers for him.
“Or in this case… when in Russia!” continued Bullitt. “Their vodka is about the only thing I can find worth praising at the moment. Can you handle this, Prescott, maybe get her up and running for me?”
“I’m sure I can, sir,” I said, turning the flashlight on and leaning over the engine again.
The ambassador smiled. “You’re a lifesaver, Prescott. You may never get him back, Bobby. I hate to tell you that.”
Bobby half smiled, all six of the men now standing beside the driver’s side door while I continued examining the engine. Of course I positioned myself so that I could still see them through the space between the open hood and frame. How could I not?
“I can’t help but be envious of you, William,” said Loy Henderson, admiring the white roadster. Loy was the second secretary. He was balding and had a rather egg-shaped head. Booby had informed me that Loy was forty-two. In fact, he’d informed me of all of the top staff’s ages.
Bullitt actually put some more polish on the rag, squatted down, and began shining the door again, his five staffers standing around him. It was as if the ambassador was suffering from some sort of compulsive disorder. He started talking to the rag again. “I cabled Washington at five this morning and informed the president of the latest regarding Stalin and his hopes for a partnership with us against Japan.”
“I fear the Soviet leader has expectations that most assuredly will never be met,” said Bobby. “Am I correct?”
“Yes,” said Bullitt.
Kennan shook his head in subtle disbelief. “It’s like talking to a wall. Does Mr. Stalin somehow not see—”
“Again,” said Bullitt, “it is Maxim Litvinov whom I’m dealing with here. He may have the title of People’s Commissar for Foreign Affairs, but he’s actually just Stalin’s mouthpiece. He continues to ask if the president will somehow agree to a pact of nonaggression between the U.S., Japan, China, and the Soviet Union. I told him, very diplomatically, that the answer was no… again. Still, as it stands today, they are insistent on securing a partnership in the Far East.”
“And what of their end of the original promises they made last year?” said Bobby. “Have they paid a penny yet of the war debt they agreed to finally make good on?”
“No,” said Bullitt, still squatting. “Back in January I thought Litvinov was about to crack and pay up. I believed they were so worried about an immediate attack from Japan that they’d pay us in the hopes that we’d protect them. But now it seems Litvinov is duplicitous in his thinking—still fearful on one hand, but on the other, of the belief that there will be no such attack. He’s halfway convinced himself that Roosevelt will prevent any such attack anyway, or side with Stalin if war did break out. And as far as promises go, Bobby, theirs are all empty it seems.”
“This is not going as we’d originally hoped,” said Chip Bohlen. “We’re spinning our wheels.”
Bullitt stood and flicked some lint off of the right sleeve of his fancy blue suit jacket. As fine as my suits were, all of them made in Paris, his were even finer. I’d learned that his had also been tailor-made in Paris. He was the first man I’d met who actually primped more than I, and I’d even overheard him telling his French servant that he didn’t give a damn about coming across too bourgeoisie in the eyes of the plain-dressing Soviets.
“I’m still hopeful, gentlemen,” said Bullitt, throwing the rag down and lighting a cigarette. “We’re not as prejudiced under Roosevelt as we were back in 1919 when Republicans were in charge. As a result, however naïvely optimistic I may be acting, I’m hoping the Soviets will see this new us and begin engaging in more honorable… truthful talks.”
“Then again,” said Kennan, “you’re not dealing with Lenin like you were back then on your secret visit. This is Stalin, who appears to have been born without a conscience. And didn’t he and Litvinov also agree to allow Americans here the right to freedom of religion and security of status? Seems hardly to be the case!”
Kennan, who sounded the most intellectual of them all, cleared his throat, as if summoning up the courage to continue offering his rather gutsy opinion to Bullitt. And he did.
“Why isn’t the president being more assertive here, William? I worry that he’s more concerned with assuaging the feelings of our countrymen rather than actually untangling these knotty problems of war debt and Communist Party interference in America’s domestic affairs. Does he simply want to massage his relationship with Stalin so as to make Americans feel safe and not grow more fearful of this rising madman, Adolf Hitler? I mean, it’s one thing to—”