that Morrow had contacted several Russian scholars to review the manuscript, and soon everyone was talking about a Russian edition in the works here on American soil. She immediately alerted Anderson, who told her they’d take care of it. “No pat on the back,” she told us. “Not even a thank-you.”
Even worse, Morrow had also contacted a friend at the University of Michigan Press to explore the possibility of printing the novel in the United States—in spite of the exclusive world rights owned by the Italian publisher Giangiacomo Feltrinelli and likely to secure a nice amount of change. “I can publish anywhere I please,” Morrow had told Teddy when confronted.
Teddy and Henry were again dispatched to Great Neck—to quiet Morrow with an even finer bottle of whiskey and an even bigger box of chocolates, and to halt his deal with Michigan. Morrow protested, but finally he agreed to be cut out of the operation—not because of the whiskey and chocolates, but because of the promise of an even larger compensation than he’d initially been given.
After the Morrow situation was put to bed, Teddy and Henry trekked over to Ann Arbor to stop Michigan from moving forward. They pleaded with the university’s president to cease the publication plans. They told him the first Russian-language edition needed to appear to come from Europe in order to have the greatest impact on the Soviet reader and to avoid being dismissed as American propaganda. They also emphasized that the author, Boris Pasternak, could be put at risk if the book was connected to U.S. distribution. After some back-and-forth, Michigan had agreed to delay the publication until the Agency’s edition appeared in Europe.
The Agency then worked with Dutch Intelligence to finish the job. A deal was made with Mouton Publishers, which was already contracted to produce the book for Feltrinelli in Dutch, to do a small run in Russian for the Agency.
After all that, Doctor Zhivago was finally on its way to Brussels and the World’s Fair; if all went according to plan, it would be in the hands of Soviet citizens by Halloween.
To celebrate, Teddy and Henry arrived back in Washington just in time to catch Shirley Horn’s second set at the Jungle Inn. They took a seat in the red vinyl booth farthest from the stage.
Teddy drank whiskey on the rocks and Henry sipped a dirty gin martini as they watched Shirley. They were so transfixed that they didn’t notice Kathy and Norma in the booth next to them. Or perhaps they did notice the women but just didn’t recognize them without their typewriters and steno pads.
“She’s good, right?” Henry shouted over the din of the club. “What I tell you? The real deal.”
“Very,” Teddy said, waving his hand to flag down the waitress.
“The real deal. Absolutely. Aren’t you glad you came out tonight?”
“What’s with the waitress?” Teddy asked. He loosened his tie. “We should’ve gone home to change. We look like a couple of feds.”
“Speak for yourself,” Henry said, dusting something invisible off his navy blue jacket. “And you know damn well that if we’d gone home first, you’d have just stayed in. What’s with you lately, Teddy boy?”
Instead of answering, Teddy rose to get another drink, returning with two martinis, an extra olive in his.
“A toast?” Henry asked.
“To what?”
“The book, of course. May our literary weapon of mass destruction make the monster squeal.”
Teddy raised his glass half-mast. “Za zdorovye.”
Kathy and Norma, still unnoticed, raised their own glasses to toast the victory.
The two men watched as Shirley dipped her head to her keys, looked up to the ceiling, then glanced over at a man wearing a black Stetson with a peacock feather sitting up front at a small round table.
“What’s the story there?” Henry asked, nodding toward the man at the table.
“I’m not in the mood.”
“Come on! For old times’ sake.”
“Husband,” Teddy replied. “He sits and watches her every show. Or maybe…a lover?”
“No,” Henry said. “Ex-husband. Watching her perform is as close as she lets him get.”
“That’s good, real good.”
“Any chance of reconciliation?”
“No.”
The two friends sat for a few minutes.
“You sure you’re all right, Ted?”
Teddy finished his drink in two gulps.
“How’s Irina?”
“She’s fine.”
“Cold feet’s normal. Hell, I have cold feet now, and I’m not even dating anyone.”
“It’s not that. She just…she gets so quiet.”
“We all have our quiet moments.”
“Nah, this is different. And when I ask why she’s quiet, she gets mad.” Teddy looked around. “Where’s the goddamn waitress?”