American largesse,” she said, reverting to the polished, Ballet Russe elocution native to Leningrad. Foreign Press Liaison ranks were weighted toward politically reliable university students with a flair for languages.
“Here,” Butler said, reaching into the folds of his expensive overcoat, the sort senior Party types got to wear. “I have some stories here that need to be filed, but I expect to be occupied all afternoon. I wonder, if you get a few minutes?”
The sergeant nodded, brisk and businesslike, stacking the sheaf of papers atop the nylons—interrelated clauses of a wordless contract—and regarding Butler with a certain expectancy, wondering if there was more.
There was. Butler quickly inventoried the stack of parcels, culling this or that item for immediate use, stacking the rest against the wall. Soon the pockets discreetly sewn into his coat lining were filled. He smiled at the sergeant, giving her the hapless shrug of a man comically overwhelmed.
“Would it be possible to have the rest of these items shipped forward?
I'm with the 104th Guards, Special Reconnaissance, near Przemysl. Perhaps if someone is driving out in the next day or two …”
“Of course, comrade. I will see what can be arranged. Will you be checking in again today?”
“I'll be tied up,” said Butler in colloquial English, which everyone knew from the movies. “Got to catch up with the folks back home.”
“And home is…Washington, D.C.?”
Butler shook his head and smiled.
No sign announced the place he was looking for. The place had no name, and neither did the man who waited there.
Puak, he was called: a Russian word meaning spider. It was not a name but a mask, a fitting image; as
Stalin
, for example, meant steel, and
Füchschen
meant little fox. His position vis-à -vis the 4th Ukrainian Front was undefined and, for all Butler knew, nonexistent. To say he was Moscow's man in Rownje—a typical correspondent's formula—meant nothing, because Moscow, in such a context, might mean any number of things: the Stavka, the Chekha, the NKVD, or any of the rival power blocs within these shadowy organizations. Unquestionably Puak had been sent here by certain higher powers, but who those powers were and what their ultimate motives might be remained as mysterious as the man's true identity.
Butler chuckled when he saw the dull brass plaque engraved with what the casual eye would take for a street number, 1965. In truth this was no address but rather a date: the glorious year, just two decades hence, when—according to a prophecy attributed to Felix Dzerzhinsky—world Capitalism would have breathed its last and the enlightened rule of the proletariat would reach from pole to pole.
Fixing the date there struck some as pessimistic and others as starry-eyed, but to Butler it seemed about right. Today was 1944, and Nazism would surely be destroyed within the year. There would follow a time of upheaval and hardship in Europe—the sort of messy, confusing, and expensive situation from which Americans always strive to extract themselves. They had abandoned Europe in the Twenties and would do so again, Butler was certain, in the Fifties. With the Yanks out, the Soviets would soon be running the show. The old empires would be dismantled, and former colonial subjects—accounting for the bulk of the world's population—would look to the USSR as the great liberating power, a beacon of hope and a model for the future. The United States, thus isolated,would hold out a while longer as a privileged island of revanchism, secure between its shining seas. But that game couldn't go on forever. In the absence of global markets to exploit, America would fall victim to the greed, decadence and hedonism of its own elite. It would die of consumption. As to
when
this would occur, well, 1965 was as good a guess as any.
He stood for a minute outside the building where the brass plaque hung, too small to have been a house, more likely a
“Here,” Butler said, reaching into the folds of his expensive overcoat, the sort senior Party types got to wear. “I have some stories here that need to be filed, but I expect to be occupied all afternoon. I wonder, if you get a few minutes?”
The sergeant nodded, brisk and businesslike, stacking the sheaf of papers atop the nylons—interrelated clauses of a wordless contract—and regarding Butler with a certain expectancy, wondering if there was more.
There was. Butler quickly inventoried the stack of parcels, culling this or that item for immediate use, stacking the rest against the wall. Soon the pockets discreetly sewn into his coat lining were filled. He smiled at the sergeant, giving her the hapless shrug of a man comically overwhelmed.
“Would it be possible to have the rest of these items shipped forward?
I'm with the 104th Guards, Special Reconnaissance, near Przemysl. Perhaps if someone is driving out in the next day or two …”
“Of course, comrade. I will see what can be arranged. Will you be checking in again today?”
“I'll be tied up,” said Butler in colloquial English, which everyone knew from the movies. “Got to catch up with the folks back home.”
“And home is…Washington, D.C.?”
Butler shook his head and smiled.
No sign announced the place he was looking for. The place had no name, and neither did the man who waited there.
Puak, he was called: a Russian word meaning spider. It was not a name but a mask, a fitting image; as
Stalin
, for example, meant steel, and
Füchschen
meant little fox. His position vis-à -vis the 4th Ukrainian Front was undefined and, for all Butler knew, nonexistent. To say he was Moscow's man in Rownje—a typical correspondent's formula—meant nothing, because Moscow, in such a context, might mean any number of things: the Stavka, the Chekha, the NKVD, or any of the rival power blocs within these shadowy organizations. Unquestionably Puak had been sent here by certain higher powers, but who those powers were and what their ultimate motives might be remained as mysterious as the man's true identity.
Butler chuckled when he saw the dull brass plaque engraved with what the casual eye would take for a street number, 1965. In truth this was no address but rather a date: the glorious year, just two decades hence, when—according to a prophecy attributed to Felix Dzerzhinsky—world Capitalism would have breathed its last and the enlightened rule of the proletariat would reach from pole to pole.
Fixing the date there struck some as pessimistic and others as starry-eyed, but to Butler it seemed about right. Today was 1944, and Nazism would surely be destroyed within the year. There would follow a time of upheaval and hardship in Europe—the sort of messy, confusing, and expensive situation from which Americans always strive to extract themselves. They had abandoned Europe in the Twenties and would do so again, Butler was certain, in the Fifties. With the Yanks out, the Soviets would soon be running the show. The old empires would be dismantled, and former colonial subjects—accounting for the bulk of the world's population—would look to the USSR as the great liberating power, a beacon of hope and a model for the future. The United States, thus isolated,would hold out a while longer as a privileged island of revanchism, secure between its shining seas. But that game couldn't go on forever. In the absence of global markets to exploit, America would fall victim to the greed, decadence and hedonism of its own elite. It would die of consumption. As to
when
this would occur, well, 1965 was as good a guess as any.
He stood for a minute outside the building where the brass plaque hung, too small to have been a house, more likely a
Similar Books
![Bowles, Jan - Claimed for the Master's Pleasure [Guilty Pleasures 5] (Siren Publishing Everlasting Classic)](https://fs.collectorofbookboyfriends.com/473996/thumbs/152x264/bowles-jan-claimed-for-the-masters-pleasure-guilty-pleasures-5-siren-publishing-everlasting-classic.jpg)
