Agent 6 ld-3 Page 2

  Leo thought it an inappropriate reference. He’d heard enough.

  – Dzierzynski was the father of this agency. To compare your predicament with his is ludicrous. We are not permitted the luxury of interpretation. We are not judges. We don’t decide what evidence to present and destroy. If she is innocent, as you claim, that will be found out during further questioning. In your misguided attempt to protect her, you’ve incriminated yourself.

  – Leo, she’s a good person.

  – You’re infatuated with her. Your judgement is compromised. Leo’s voice had become harsh and cruel. He heard himself and softened his tone.

  – Since the evidence is intact, I see no reason to draw attention to your mistake, a mistake that would certainly end your career. Write up your report, mark the sketch as evidence and let those more experienced than us decide.

  He added:

  – And Grigori, I cannot protect you again.

  Moscow Moskvoretsky Bridge KM Tramcar

  Same Day

  Leo exhaled on the window, causing it steam up. Childlike, he pressed his finger against the condensation and without thinking traced the outline of the Statue of Liberty – a crude version of the sketch he’d seen today. He hastily rubbed it away with the coarse cuff of his jacket and glanced around. The sketch would have been unrecognizable to anyone except himself and the tramcar was almost empty: there was only one other passenger, a man seated at the front, wrapped up against the cold in so many layers that the smallest patch of his face was visible. Having made sure no one had witnessed his sketch he concluded there was no reason to be alarmed. Usually so careful, he found it hard to believe he’d made such a dangerous slip. He was running too many late-night arrests and even when he wasn’t working, he was finding it difficult to sleep.

  Except for early in the morning and late at night, tramcars were crowded. Painted with a thick stripe in their centre, they rattled around the city like giant boiled sweets. Often Leo had no choice except to force his way on. With seating for fifty, there were typically twice that number, the aisles filled with commuters jostling for position. Tonight Leo would’ve preferred the discomfort of a busy carriage, elbows jutting into his side and people pushing past. Instead he had the luxury of an empty seat, heading home to the privilege of an empty apartment – accommodation he was not obliged to share, another perk of his profession. A man’s status had become defined by how much empty space surrounded him. Soon he’d be designated his own car, a larger home, perhaps even a dacha, a country house. More and more space, less and less contact with the people he was charged with keeping watch over.

  The words dropped into Leo’s head: How Love Begins.

  He’d never been in love, not in the way described in the diary – excitement at the prospect of seeing someone again and sadness as soon as they went away. Grigori had risked his life for a woman he barely knew. Surely that was an act of love? Love did seem to be characterized by foolhardiness. Leo had risked his life for his country many times. He’d shown exceptional bravery and dedication. If love was sacrifice then his only true love had been for the State. And the State had loved him back, like a favourite son, rewarding and empowering him. It was ungrateful, disgraceful, that the thought should even cross his mind that this love was not enough.

  He slid his hands under his legs, mining the space for any trace of warmth. Finding none, he shivered. The soles of his boots splashed in the shallow puddles of melted snow on the steel carriage floor. There was heaviness in his chest as if he were suffering from the flu with no symptoms except fatigue and dullness of thought. He wanted to lean against the window, close his eyes and sleep. The glass was too cold. He wiped a fresh patch of condensation clear and peered out. The tram crossed the bridge, passing through streets heaped with snow. More was falling, large flakes against the window.

  The tramcar slowed to a stop. The front and back doors clattered open, snow swept in. The driver turned to the open door, calling out into the night:

  – Hurry up! What are you waiting for?

  A voice replied:

  – I’m kicking the snow off my boots!

  – You’re letting more snow in than you’re kicking off. Get in now or I’ll shut the doors!

  The passenger boarded, a woman carrying a heavy bag, her boots clad in clumps of snow. As the doors shut behind her she remarked to the driver:

  – It’s not that warm in here anyway.

  The driver gestured outside.

  – You prefer to walk?

  She smiled, defusing the tension. Won over by her charm, the gruff driver smiled too.

  The woman turned, surveying the carriage and catching Leo’s eye. He recognized her. They lived near each other. Her name was Lena. He saw her often. In fact, she’d caught his eye precisely because she behaved as if she did not wish to be noticed. She would dress in plain clothes, as most women did, but she was far from plain herself. Her desire for anonymity struggled against the pull of her beauty and even if Leo’s job hadn’t been to observe people he would surely have noticed her.

  A week ago he’d chanced across her on a metro. They’d been so close together that it had felt rude not to say hello. Since they’d seen each other several times, it was polite to at least acknowledge that fact. He’d been so nervous it had taken him several minutes to pluck up the courage to talk to her, delaying for so long that she’d stepped off the carriage and Leo, frustrated, followed her even though it wasn’t his stop, an impulsive act quite out of character for him. As she walked towards the exit he’d reached out and touched her on the shoulder. She’d spun around, her large brown eyes alert, ready for danger. He’d asked her name. She’d assessed him in a glance, checking the passengers passing by, before telling him it was Lena and making an excuse about being in a rush. With that, she was gone. There was not the slightest trace of encouragement, nor the slightest trace of impoliteness. Leo hadn’t dared follow her. He’d sheepishly backtracked to the platform, waiting for the next train. It had been a costly endeavour. He’d turned up to work late that morning, something he’d never done before. It was some consolation that he had finally found out her name.

  Today was the first time he’d seen her since that awkward introduction. He was tense as she moved down the aisle, hoping she’d take the seat beside him. Rocking with the motion of the tramcar she passed him by without a word. Perhaps she hadn’t recognized him? Leo glanced back. She took a seat near the rear of the carriage. Her bag was on her lap, her eyes fixed on the snowfall outside. There was no point in lying to himself: of course she remembered him, he could tell from the way she was studiously ignoring him. He was hurt at the distance she’d placed between them; each metre was a measure of her dislike for him. If she wanted to talk she would’ve sat closer. On consideration, that would have been too assertive. It was up to him to go to her. He knew her name. They were acquaintances. There was nothing improper with striking up a second conversation. The longer he waited the more difficult it would become. If the conversation fell flat, all he would lose was a little pride. He joked to himself that he could afford such a loss: perhaps he carried around too much pride in any case.

  Standing up abruptly, committing himself to a course of action, he de towards Lena with a false air of confidence. He took the seat in front of her, leaning over the back of the seat:

  – My name’s Leo. We met the other day.

  She took so long to respond that Leo wondered if she was going to ignore him.

  – Yes. I remember.

  Only now did he realize that he had nothing to talk about. Embarrassed, hastily improvising, he remarked:

  – I heard you say just now that it’s as cold on this tram as off it. I was thinking the same thing. It is very cold.

  He blushed at the inanity of his comments, bitterly regretting not having thought this conversation through. Looking at Leo’s coat, she commented:

  – Cold? Even though you have such a nice coat?

  Leo’s status as an agent provided
him access to a range of fine jackets, hand-crafted boots, thick fur hats. The coat was tantamount to a declaration of his status. Not wishing to admit he worked for the secret police, he decided on a lie.

  – It was a gift from my father. I don’t know where he bought it.

  Leo changed the topic of conversation.

  – I see you around a lot. I wonder if we live close to each other.

  – That seems likely.

  Leo puzzled over the response. Evidently Lena was reluctant to tell him where she lived. Such caution was not uncommon. He shouldn’t take it personally. He understood it better than anyone. In fact, it appealed to him. She was shrewd and that was part of her appeal.

  His eyes came to rest on her bag, filled with books, notebooks – school exercise books. Trying to strike a pose of easy familiarity, he reached out, taking one of the books.

  – You’re a teacher?

  Leo glanced at the information on the written on the front. Lena seemed to straighten slightly.

  – That’s right.

  – What do you teach?

  Lena’s voice had become fragile.

  – I teach…

  She lost her train of thought, touching her forehead.

  – I teach politics. Sorry, I’m very tired.

  There was no ambiguity. She wanted him to leave her alone. She was straining against her desire to remain polite. He returned the book.

  – I apologize. I’m disturbing you.

  Leo stood up, feeling unsteady, as if the tramcar were travelling across a stormy ocean. He walked back to his seat grabbing the bar for support. Humiliation had replaced the blood in his veins, the sensation pumped around his body – every part of his skin burning. After several minutes of being seated, jaw locked, staring out the window, her soft rejection ringing through his head, he noticed that his hands were clenched so tight there was a series of curved fingernail impressions embedded in his palms.

  Moscow Lubyanka Square The Lubyanka, Headquarters of the Secret Police

  Next Day

  Leo hadn’t slept last night, lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, waiting for the sting of the humiliation to fade. After several hours he’d got up and paced his empty apartment, moving from room to room like a caged animal, full of hate for the generous space appointed to him. Better to sleep in a barracks, the proper place for a soldier. His apartment was a family home, the envy of many, except it was empty – the kitchen unused, the living space untouched, impersonal, no more than a place to rest after a day’s work.

  Arriving early, he entered his office and sat at his desk. He was always early except for the day he’d stopped to ask Lena’s name. There was no one else in the office, at least not on his floor. There might be people downstairs in the interrogation rooms, where sessions could run for days without interruption. He checked his watch. In an hour or so other staff would start to arrive.

  Leo began to work, hoping the distraction would push the incident with Lena from his mind. Yet he was unable to focus on the documents in front of him. With a sudden swipe of his arm, he knocked the papers to the ground. It was intolerable – how could a stranger have such an effect upon him? She didn’t matter. He was an important man. There were other women, plenty of them, many would be thankful to be the subject of his attention. He stood up, pacing the office as he’d paced his apartment, feeling caged. He opened the door, walking down the deserted corridor, finding himself in a nearby office where the reports on suspects were held. He checked that Grigori had filed his report, expecting his trainee to have forgotten or to have neglected the duty for sentimental reasons. The file had been submitted, languishing near the bottom of a low-priority stack of case files, many of which would not be read for weeks, dealing with the most trivial of incidents.

  Leo lifted Peshkova’s file, feeling the weight of the diary inside. In a snap decision, he moved it to the highest-priority pile, placing it at the very top – the most serious suspects, ensuring the case would be reviewed today, as soon as the staff arrived.

  Back at his desk, Leo’s eyes began to close as if having completed that piece of bureaucracy he was finally able to sleep.

  *

  Leo opened his eyes. Grigori was nudging him awake. Leo stood up, embarrassed at being caught asleep at his desk, wondering what time it was.

  – Are you OK?

  Pulling his thoughts together, he remembered – the file.

  Without saying a word, he hastened out of the office. The corridors were busy: everyone arriving for work. Quickening his pace, pushing past his colleagues, Leo reached the room where active cases were held for review. Ignoring the woman asking if he needed any help, he searched through the stack of files, looking for the documents on the artist Polina Peshkova. The file had been on the top. He’d put it there only sixty minutes ago. Once again the secretary asked if he needed any help.

  – There was a file here.

  – They’ve been taken.

  Peshkova’s case was being processed.

  Same Day

  Leo searched Grigori’s expression for hatred or disgust. Evidently his trainee didn’t know that the file on Polina Peshkova had been moved. He would find out soon enough. Leo should pre-empt the discovery with an explanation, an excuse – he’d been exhausted, he’d simply glanced at the documents then put it back in the wrong pile. On second thought there was no need to mention it. The evidence against the artist was thin. Her file would be reviewed and the case dismissed. It was going to be reviewed anyway: Leo had merely accelerated the process. At the very worst, she’d be called in for a short interview. She would be free to continue her work. Grigori could meet her again. Leo should put the matter out of his mind and concentrate on the task at hand – their next assignment. Grigori asked:

  – Are you OK?

  Leo put a hand on Grigori’s arm.

  – It’s nothing.

  *

  The lights were turned off. The projector at the back of the room whirred. On screen there appeared footage of an idyllic rural village. The houses were made of timber and roofs were thatched. Small gardens were lush with summer herbs. Plump chickens picked at grain, overflowing from ceramic pots. Everything was in abundance, including sunshine and good humour. Farmers were dressed in traditional outfits, patterned shawls and white shirts. They strode through fields of corn, returning to their village. The sun was bright and the sky clear. The men were strong. The women were strong. Sleeves were rolled up. Soaring music gave way to a formal news commentary.

  – Today these farm workers have a surprise visitor.

  In the centre of the village were several men in suits, out of place and awkward. With smiles on their plump faces, the suited men guided their guest of honour through the picturesque surroundings. The visitor was a man in his late twenties, tall, well built and handsome. Either through some trick of editing, or through some trait of the individual, it seemed as if there was a permanent smile on his face. His hands were on his hips. He was not wearing a jacket and his sleeves were rolled up, just like the farmers. In contrast to the artifice of the rural pantomime playing around him, his excitement seemed genuine. The commentary continued:

  – World-famous Negro singer and dedicated Communist, Jesse Austin, has come to visit the countryside as part of his tour of this great land. Though a citizen of the United States, Mr Austin has proved himself to be a most loyal friend of the Soviet Union, singing about our way of life and this country’s belief in freedom and fairness.

  The footage changed to a close-up of Mr Austin. His answers were dubbed in Russian, the English still audible in the gaps in the translation.

  – I have a message to tell the world! This nation loves its citizens! This nation feeds its citizens! There is food here! And plenty of it! The stories of starvation are lies. The stories of hardship and misery are the propaganda of capitalist big businesses that want you to believe that only they can provide the things you need. They want you to smile and say thank you when you pay a dollar
for a cent’s worth of fd! They want the workers to feel gratitude when they’re paid a couple of dollars for their labour while big business makes millions. Not here! Not in this nation! I say to the world – there is another way! I say again – there is another way! And I’ve seen it with my own eyes.

  The men in suits surrounded Austin in a protective circle, laughing and applauding. Leo wondered how many of the farmers were agents of state security. All of them, he suspected. No real farmer would be trusted to pull off this performance.

  The footage ended. From the back of the room, their superior officer, Major Kuzmin, stepped forward. Short and stout, with thick-lensed glasses, to an outsider he might appear comic. To officers in the MGB, he did not, for they understood the scope of his power and his readiness to use it. He declared:

  – That footage was filmed in 1934 when Mr Austin was twenty-seven years old. His enthusiasm for our regime has not diminished. How can we be sure he’s not an American spy? How can we be certain his Communism isn’t a trick?

  Leo knew a little of the singer. He’d heard his songs on the radio. He’d read some articles about him, none of which would have been published unless the authorities considered the American a valuable asset. Sensing Kuzmin’s questions were rhetorical he said nothing, waiting for Kuzmin to continue, reading from a file:

  – Mr Jesse Austin was born in 1907, in Braxton, Mississippi, migrating with his family at the age of ten to New York. Many Negro families moved out of the South, where they experienced persecution. Mr Austin talks extensively about the experience in the transcripts I’ve given you. This hatred is a powerful source of discontent among black Americans and an effective tool in recruiting them to Communism, perhaps the most effective tool we have.