Agent 6 ld-3 Read online

  Raisa said:

  – Who are those people for?

  The cabin attendant replied:

  – They’re for you.

  The plane came to a standstill. The doors opened. As soon as they did, a school brass band began to play, the noise filling the cabin. In a state of dumb bewilderment the passengers lined up in the aisle. Raisa was at the front. The school band was at the foot of the stairway, playing with great gusto rather than great finesse. Raisa was nudged down the stairs, one of the first to step onto the tarmac. The press was to one side, perhaps as many as twenty photographers, flashbulbs popping. Raisa turned around, unsure what she was meant to do or where she was supposed to go. They’d been told to leave their bags onboard so they would be free to enjoy the reception. A welcome party greeted them, smiling and shaking their hands.

  Raisa saw a small group of men, apart from the others. They were wearing suits, hands deep in their pockets. Their faces were hostile. She knew without seeing a badge, or a gun, that they were America’s secret police.

  *

  FBI agent Jim Yates watched the Soviet delegation form three neat rows, the shortest at the front, tallest at the back. The band, the balloons, the audience, the photographers flashing their cameras like these kids were film stars, and not one of them smiled, their expressions rigid, their mouths narrow. Like machines, he thought, just like machines.

  Manhattan Hotel Grand Metropolitan 44th Street

  Next Day

  If asked whether she cared about the concerts Zoya would shrug and claim that she hoped they went well if only for the sake of her mother. She didn’t feel personally invested and didn’t have much belief in the value of the events – the notion of international goodwill being conjured by singing songs seemed comical in its naivete. Her rule was to avoid getting involved in politics and ideologies. She was training to be a surgeon. She dealt with the body, flesh, bone and blood, not ideas or theories. She’d sought out a profession in which in her mind there was as little moral ambiguity as possible: she would do her best to help the sick. Her approach to these concerts was pragmatic. She wanted to travel: that was the reason she was here. She wanted to see New York. She was interested to meetthe values. She’d learnt a little English and was curious to put it to use. And there was no way she would have allowed her little sister Elena to travel without watching over her.

  Sat on the edge of the bed, Zoya was less than a metre away from the television, engrossed in the American programmes being shown seemingly at all hours. The screen was encased in a glossy walnut cabinet with the speaker on one side, a panel of small dials down the other. The instruction card on top had been translated into Russian. No matter what dials she turned, or buttons she pressed, the same set of programmes was on. There were cartoons. There was a programme with music called The Ed Sullivan Show, introduced by a man in a suit, Edward Sullivan, with live music from bands she’d never heard of. Afterwards there were more cartoons featuring talking dogs and racing cars that tumbled down cliffs, crashing in an explosion of gold and silver stars. Zoya’s English was limited to a few phrases. It didn’t matter since there was hardly any dialogue in the cartoons and The Ed Sullivan Show featured live music and even when it didn’t, even when the presenter was talking, even when she didn’t understand, she found it fascinating. Was this what America watched? Was that how America dressed? The shows were hypnotic. She’d woken up early to watch more. The fact of having a television in her bedroom, a bedroom with her own private bathroom, was so incredible it seemed a shame to spend too much time sleeping.

  The cartoon was about to finish. Zoya strained forward, excited. Even better than the cartoons or the music were the programmes that ran in between shows. These shorts were no more than thirty seconds each. Sometimes they featured men and women speaking directly to the camera. They spoke about cars, silverware, tools and gadgets. This one featured a busy restaurant in which children laughed while being served wide glasses filled with ice cream, chocolate sauce and fruit. It was followed by a second short, this one featuring images of houses, impossibly large for a single family, more like a dacha than a house. Except unlike a dacha, situated in the countryside, there were many of these large houses side by side, with neat lawns and children playing. And every house had an automobile. There was a programme featuring devices to chop carrots and potatoes and leeks and turn them into soup. There were face creams for women. There were suits for men. There were objects for every chore, machines for every task, and they were all for sale, propaganda except not for a political regime but for a product. She’d never seen anything like them before.

  There was a knock. Zoya turned the volume down, opening the door and finding Mikael Ivanov outside. He was the youngest of the staff accompanying them, some thirty or so years old and one of the propaganda experts assigned to the delegation. His purpose was to make sure none of the students embarrassed the State and to make sure the Americans were unable to unduly influence the students. Zoya didn’t like him. He was good-looking, vain, arrogant and humourless – textbook party loyal. He’d joined the tour preparations three months before they were due to leave, spending several hours a week lecturing the students, highlighting the social problems in the United States and explaining why Communism was superior to capitalism. He’d provided them with lists of things they should be wary of. While abroad they were supposed to carry these laminated checklists around with them wherever they went. On the checklist were statements such as: The ostentatious wealth of a Few

  The deprivation of the Many Zoya wanted to wince every time Mikael spoke. She understood the principle, that the poor would be on the fringes, hidden from view, and that it was easy to be impressed by symbols of wealth in the centre of Manhattan. All the same, his relentless emphasis on party dogma was tedious. Of the many people involved in the tour, he was the person she mistrusted the most. Mikael strode past Zoya, across to the television, turning it off with an angry flick of his wrist. – I told you: no television. It’s propaganda. And you’re lapping it up. They’re treating you like you’re a fool and you’re behaving like one. At first Zoya had tried to ignore him as much as possible. Since that ploy hadn’t worked she’d decided it was more fun to irritate him. – I can watch something without being brainwashed. – Have you ever watched television before? Do you think they haven’t put a lot of thought into the programmes they’re showing you? This isn’t real television that the American citizen will watch – it has been created just for you, along with the contents of that bedroom bar. In their rooms they had found a small refrigerator stocked with Coca-Cola, strawberry- and cream-flavoured candy and chocolate bars. A note, kindly translated into Russian, explained that the contents were free and were to be enjoyed with the hotel’s compliments. Zoya had moved with lightning speed, drinking the soda before squirrelling away the rest of the chocolate. By the time Mikael had arrived to confiscate the contents none remained. He’d been furious and conducted a thorough search of their room, failing to find anything, since Zoya had lined all the candy and chocolate along the window ledge. Leo would’ve been proud. Mikael was now working himself into a fresh temper about the television, which he had unplugged as if Zoya would not be able to plug it back again. – Do not underestimate the power of their programmes. They serve to numb the minds of their citizens. It is not mere entertainment: it is a key weapon in maintaining their authority. The citizens of this country are given idiotic escapism in order to prevent them asking deeper questions. Though Zoya enjoyed upsetting him, finding him entertaining when he was angry, the joke quickly grew tedious and she moved to the door as a way of hastening his departure. He looked about the room. – Where is Elena? – In the bathroom. She is shitting. As an insult to the Americans, you should be pleased. He was embarrassed. – You’re only on this trip because of your mother. It was a mistake to bring you. You are quite unlike your sister. Practise your songs. Tonight’s concert is important. With that, he left. Zoya slammed the door shut, angry at the comparison he’
d made between her and Elena. Like most party officials he ruled by creating divides between people, families and friends. She was closer to her sister than anyone alive and she would not allow any agent of the State to imply otherwise. She pressed her ear to the door to msure he’d gone. He was the kind of man who’d linger and eavesdrop to find out what people thought of him. Unable to hear anything she crouched down, peering through the crack under the door. There were no shadows, just a strip of light. Passing the bathroom, she called out to her sister: – You OK in there? Elena’s voice was faint. – I’ll be out in a second. She’d been in there for a while. Zoya plugged the television cable back into the socket and returned to the edge of the bed and turned it back on, lowering the volume only slightly. Maybe the American programmes were supposed to brainwash the audience. But only someone brainwashed by the Kremlin wouldn’t be curious.* Even though there was nothing left in her stomach, Elena felt as if she wanted to be sick again. She filled a glass with water and rinsed her mouth. Desperately thirsty, yet unsure whether she could manage even a sip, she spat out the water. She took one of the towels, drying her face, composing herself. She was shocked at how pale she looked. She breathed deeply. She couldn’t delay any longer. She opened the door, stepped out into the hallway, rooting through the cupboard, hoping that Zoya would remain preoccupied with the television. Zoya called out: – What are you looking for? – My swimsuit. – You’re going to the pool? – That is where people swim, isn’t it? Elena was trying to be sassy in an effort to hide her nervousness but it wasn’t her style and the words jarred. Zoya didn’t seem to notice: – You want me to come? Elena snapped back: – No. Zoya stood up, looking at her sister directly. – What’s wrong? Elena had made a mistake in being so abrupt. – Nothing. I’m going to have a swim. I’ll see you in an hour or two. – Mother’s coming back for lunch. – I’ll be finished before then. Holding her gym bag, Elena left. In the corridor she hastened away from her sister’s room, checking up and down to make sure no one was watching. She didn’t head to the elevator, instead stopping by room 844 and trying the handle. It was unlocked. She stepped inside, shutting the door behind. The room was dark. The curtains were drawn. Mikael Ivanov stepped out of the shadows, putting his arms around her. She rested her head against his chest, whispering: – I’m ready. He put his hand on her chin lifting her eyes up towards his. He kissed her. – I love you.

  Manhattan United Nations Headquarters 1st Avenue amp; East 42nd Street

  Next Day

  Raisa’s awe came not from the architecture – the United Nations headquarters were not particularly tall or beautiful – but simply from being here. It was her first full day in New York City and the experience of being abroad, in the nation described as their Main Adversary, was overwhelming. Waking up in her hotel room in the middle of last night she’d been disorientated, searching the bed for Leo. When she couldn’t find him, she’d opened the curtains to reveal a view no more glamorous than a back alley and a fragment of city skyline, the edge of an office tower – a view of windows and air-conditioner units. Yet she’d stood in dumb wonder as if stretched out before her were snow-capped mountains.

  She entered the lobby of the United Nations Headquarters, the only member of her delegation to attend these preliminary meetings, inspecting the General Assembly Hall where tonight’s concert was to be staged. She was to discuss the event with key Soviet diplomats, the men involved with the complex and ongoing negotiations with the American authorities. She expected the meeting to be tough. They would want to pick through every detail of her plans. Tonight’s concert was to be a gathering of United Nations envoys, representatives from almost every country and the key diplomatic event of the tour. A second concert was planned for tomorrow, intended for a public audience. It was to be filmed then broadcast around the world. After that, the delegation would travel by train to Washington DC for a final set of concerts.

  As part of the chess-game-like negotiations, the Soviet authorities had insisted that the group not be taken on a tourist trail of New York City or Washington DC. Officials in Moscow were keen to avoid photos of Soviet students staring in amazement at skyscrapers or the Statue of Liberty, or salivating over hot dogs and pretzels as if they were starved and deprived. Such photos would be exploited. Despite the stated peace agenda, both sides were hunting for an iconic image that would define the tour in one nation’s favour – the image that would be remembered and disseminated around the world. These fears had resulted in two officials being appointed to stage-manage the group’s public appearances, evaluating any situations set up by their American guides. Raisa had no interest in these games being played and was annoyed that despite being in New York, the only visit she would probably ever make to the city, many of the sights were off limits. She was giving serious consideration to the idea of sneaking Elena and Zoya out of the hotel at night and taking them on an unofficial tour. It would be difficult to slip past the security and perhaps her instincts as a teacher were asserting themselves too strongly. There would be a risk. She pushed the thought aside for now, concentrating on the upcoming meeting.

  Although she lived in Moscow and held a prestigious job she was concerned that she’d seem provincial. Granted a generous allowance, she’d bought a new outfit. She was wearing it for the first time today, a steel-coloured suit. She felt uncomfortable in it, as if she were wearing someone else’s clothes. In Moscow the exclusive stores had been temporarily opened to her and the other teachers on the trip, a strictly one-off event in order to ensure they were presentable. Even so, she had no sense of international fashions and while the staff working in the store had lectured her on what executives in New York would wear, she suspected they didn’t know what they were tal="0" about. The diplomats she was about to meet spent their lives immersed in a society of the most important people in the world. She imagined walking into the room, being assessed in an instant as a woman of limited means who rarely travelled outside of Moscow. They would smile, polite, condescending – certain that she’d been plucked from obscurity, from mediocrity, and pushed onto an international stage. And this would be gleaned from a quick glance at her plain shoes and the cut of her jacket. In ordinary circumstances she wouldn’t have cared what a stranger made of her appearance. She was not vain. On the contrary, she preferred not to be noticed. But in a situation like this she needed to command respect. If they didn’t trust her, they’d be tempted to interfere in her plans.

  In the elevator, Raisa stole a final glance at herself. The guide caught sight of her nervous self-appraisal. The young man, educated, with hair slicked to the side, wearing a no doubt expensive suit and polished shoes, afforded her a patronizing smile as if to confirm that her anxieties were exactly correct: her shoes were plain, her clothes poor and her appearance not to the standards typical of those working in this building. Worse was the implication that he was being generous to her, understanding the limits of her situation and making necessary allowances. Raisa remained silent, feeling out of her depth. She composed herself, doing her best to dismiss the incident, before stepping into the offices of the Soviet representative to the United Nations.

  Two men, in immaculate suits, stood up. She knew one of them already, Vladimir Trofimov, a handsome man in his forties. He worked for the Ministry of Education, where the plans for the trip had been formalized. She’d met him in Moscow. While she’d expected him to be a political creature, largely indifferent to the children, he’d proved to be gregarious and friendly. He’d spent time with the students, engaging them in conversation. Trofimov introduced Raisa to the other man:

  – Raisa Demidova.

  He switched into an imitation American accent:

  – This is Evan Vass.

  She hadn’t expected any Americans in the meeting. The man was tall, in his late fifties. Vass stared at her with such intensity that she was momentarily taken aback. His eyes didn’t casually wander over her clothes, or note her simple shoes. She reached out to shake his hand. He took hold of it, l
oosely, as if it were something awful. He didn’t shake it: he merely held it. She found herself wanting to pull away. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was making her feel uncomfortable. Though she’d been practising, Raisa’s English was limited.

  – It is my pleasure to meet you.

  Trofimov laughed. Vass did not. He answered in perfect Russian, releasing her hand:

  – My name is Evgeniy Vasilev. They call me Evan Vass as a joke. It is a joke, I suppose? I have never found it funny.

  Trofimov explained his joke:

  – Evan has been in America so long and is so corrupted by American ways we have renamed him.

  Even this light exchange left Raisa confused – to claim someone was corrupted by American ways was hardly a laughing matter, yet it seemed the remark were no more than banter. These men existed in a rarefied atmosphere where even serious accusations carried no danger. As Trofimov poure glass of water she reminded herself that no matter what leniency they showed each other she was not of their level and rules that did not apply to them still applied to her.

  Putting the disconcerting introduction behind her, Raisa reiterated the plans for the concert, pointing out the significance of the arrangements, from the choice of songs to the blocking. There had been one meeting in her hotel last night with her American counterpart: she was about to have a second meeting in the Grand Assembly Hall. There would be a dress rehearsal in the afternoon. Trofimov smoked throughout, smiling and nodding, occasionally watching his cigarette smoke swirl in the air-conditioned currents. Vass gave no reaction, regarding her with unmoving coal-black eyes. As she finished, Trofimov stubbed out his cigarette.

  – That sounds excellent. I have nothing to add. You seem to have everything under control. I’m sure the concerts will be a great success.