Agent 6 (13 page)

Same Day

Anna dropped her head, knowing that this would end badly. They had lied to Agent Yates – they were aware of the concert at the United Nations tonight. Four separate attempts to persuade Jesse to turn up had been made by members of the CPUSA. They’d wanted him to address the crowds that were expected to gather outside the gates, a pro-Communist demonstration. With each attempt they’d used a different technique: they’d sent a wise old man who could quote just about anything Marx had ever written, they’d sent a beautiful young woman to flatter Jesse with her attention, they’d sent a young militant Communist who’d aggressively demanded solidarity, they’d sent a middle-aged married couple who’d also suffered at the hands of the FBI, or so they’d claimed. But Jesse had rebuffed all of them, saying that he was retired, he was old and he’d given more than enough speeches for the cause. The fight needed to be made by someone else, someone new. When they’d accused him of being beaten he hadn’t denied it, waving them out of the door and ordering them not to bother a beaten man any more.

Earnest and wide-eyed, sugar-dusted with innocence and idealism, this girl was surely their last attempt at persuasion. She was a much smarter choice. This girl wasn’t stuffed full of theory and quotes. She was bright with hopes and dreams; she believed in something. Careful calculations had been made in choosing her and they had nothing to do with sex. Her husband had no sexual feelings towards the girl. It wasn’t that Anna was blind, believing in her husband’s fidelity while he cheated on her every chance he got. That was the lurid picture painted by the FBI. In nearly forty years of marriage Jesse had never cheated on her and there’d been countless opportunities. He was a handsome man with a voice that made women weep in admiration. In his early years, when he’d been touring, there were fans lining up outside his dressing room who would’ve stripped off every stitch if he’d so much as given them a suggestive look. Many called her a fool and him an expert liar, with a honey-sweet tongue and a siren’s voice that could make her believe anything he wanted. Anna knew better. Fidelity was his problem, not promiscuity. He was loyal to a fault – loyal to his mistress Communism even when she’d cost him his livelihood.

Anna had never blamed Jesse for the hardship that his beliefs had brought them. Her friends had pleaded with her to make him shut up, to retract his statements and apologize even if he didn’t mean it, just to alleviate the pressure. She’d refused to countenance the idea. He was outspoken and passionate – the characteristics of the man she’d fallen in love with. His music was an extension of his beliefs – they couldn’t be pulled apart, his personality couldn’t be unravelled or tampered with. He couldn’t be made more palatable or less provocative. However much she held by this view, and held it today, in truth, there had been times when bitterness rose through her veins like a tidal surge. She’d been his manager. She’d developed his career: all that work, all those achievements washed away like marks on a sandy beach. When she thought about everything they’d gained and everything they’d lost, sometimes her strength left her, her spirit crumbled and she imagined thei life without Communism. In those moments she hated the very sound of the word, despised each syllable, but she never loved Jesse less.

Anna noted her husband’s quick step as he hurried their young visitor inside and shut the door. His despondency after speaking to Yates evaporated like morning mist burnt off by a new day’s sun. The girl was nervous and trying hard to control it; far from making her less persuasive, her stuttering and awkward behaviour was beguiling. She spoke in English, stumbling over her words.

— My name is Elena. I am a student from the Soviet Union, visiting the United States as part of a tour. We are performing a series of concerts in New York and Washington DC. Tonight we perform in the United Nations.

Agent Yates, repulsive as he was, was no fool. He’d been correct – the Soviets hadn’t given up. They’d made contact. Jesse had always been disillusioned with the CPUSA, but he’d never been able to say no to anything the Soviets had asked of him. The young Russian seemed uncertain whom she should address, perhaps not expecting Anna to be at home.

— Mr Austin, and Mrs Austin, I volunteered to act as a messenger. My spoken English is not good. I was informed that you speak Russian, Mr Austin. May I speak in Russian? I am sorry, Mrs Austin. Please forgive me. There would be no mistakes if we could speak Russian.

Jesse glanced at Anna. He said:

— I will translate.

Anna nodded her consent. The young woman switched to Russian. Her husband’s face brightened with the sound of that language – a language Anna had never understood.

*

Jesse’s Russian came back to him in a rush and he was amazed at his fluency after so many years. It didn’t feel like a language he’d taught himself, it felt like a mother tongue.

— I thought maybe I was no longer of any use to you.

He’d not meant to sound self-pitying. The young Russian girl shook her head.

—
There was a school programme only two years ago to write to you when we heard of your difficulties with the authorities. Thousands of students composed letters of support. I myself wrote you a letter three pages long. They were posted to you. Surely some came through?

—
No, nothing.

—
We feared this would happen. They were intercepted. The American secret police open all your mail.

Jesse had long suspected that his mail was being intercepted though had no idea it was to this extent. He pictured the young FBI agents given the job of reading them all, hundreds of letters by children, analysed and fed through the most sophisticated automated code breakers. Elena continued:

— We also asked members of the American Communist Party to talk to you but they failed to persuade you to attend the concert.

Jesse became annoyed at the mention of the CPUSA.

—
American Communists spend all their time bickering among each other. They’ve never achieved a thing worth mentioning. Why would I do anything for them?

We would have tried to call you . . .

The Russian girl blushed, not meaning to draw attention to their depressed circumstances. They no longer owned a phone. She continued:

— That’s why I had to come in person. But that is not the only reason. I’m here to tell you that regardless of whether you come to the concert tonight, you have not been forgotten in Russia as you have been in the United States. I am seventeen years old and you are a hero of mine. You are a hero for many Russians regardless of their age. You are played on the radio. Your popularity today is greater than ever before. That is the reason I wanted to come here today, Mr Austin, because we have heard your enemies tell you so many lies. We want to tell you the truth. You are admired and you are loved! You will never be forgotten and your music will never stop being played.

Jesse felt as if he’d been unfrozen from a block of ice, warm joy passing through his body. His music wasn’t lost. His songs were being enjoyed in another country even though his library of work had been erased from America’s consciousness. No longer listened to in his own country, his work could still be heard abroad. Overwhelmed, he moved to the table, forced to sit down. Anna moved towards him, taking his hands.

—
What is it? What did she say?

—
My music is still being played.

It was true that he’d felt abandoned by the nation and the party for which he’d sacrificed so much. To hear that this was not the case was a powerful salve to the many hurts inflicted over the years.

Turning back to the young girl, he asked:

— Who sent you?

Elena answered in Russian:

— My instructions are from the highest levels of the Soviet government. If nothing else comes of this meeting than my message of appreciation then that is enough. However, we are keen for us to do more together. We understand that you can no longer speak onstage or in concert halls because those venues will no longer employ you. When that first happened we were told that you reacted by speaking on street corners, refusing to give in, improvising venues, turning a parking lot into an auditorium. Ye t we have reports that you no longer speak in any capacity.

Jesse dropped his head. He’d initially fought against the FBI’s tactics by taking his words to the streets, standing atop a crate, a fruit box, the hood of a car, calling out to anyone who’d listen. That was the past. He hadn’t given a speech like that for at least two years. It wasn’t merely the frequent interruptions by patrol officers or being arrested for disturbing the peace. The passing audience was often indifferent and some were even abusive. He sighed a response in English.

— That is a young man’s game.

Anna squeezed his hands. There was agitation in her voice:

— Did Yates see her when she came in? Ask her, Jesse.
He repeated Anna’s question. Elena replied:

— Yates is an American secret-police officer? I saw him. But I was very careful. That was why I approached the apartment from the back.

Jesse translated. Far from appeasing his wife, it made her angry.

— Do you understand what you’ve done by coming here? Do you understand the danger? What more can you ask from him? What more can he give you? Look around! What is there left to take?

Anna rarely lost her temper. Jesse stood up, putting his hands on his wife’s arms. But that only infuriated her further. She pushed him away, refusing to be silenced, pointing to the pile of albums stacked in the corner, addressing the Russian girl as though she represented the Soviet regime:

— You see this? This is the only way he can sell his records now. He prints them privately because no record company will sign him. He sells them by subscription to the fans that still remember him. Once, he sold millions. Now how many do you sell, Jesse? How many subscribers do you have? Tell her!

With Elena’s limited English, she could piece together only a little of the meaning. She understood the conversation about the albums in the corner of the room. According to Mikael, the CPUSA had offered Mr Austin direct subsidies as soon as the FBI had started undermining his career. He had declined, repeating his stance that he’d never taken any money from the Soviet government – he’d never accepted a bribe or a payment or gift of any kind. Mr Austin crouched by the heap of records, his back to both Anna and Elena. He said in Russian:

— Five hundred. That’s all I have left. I have five hundred subscribers. Five hundred fans . . .

Elena knew that of the private subscribers who bought his self-produced albums, the CPUSA made up four hundred. It had been the only way to support Austin without him finding out. She ventured off her carefully prepared script:

—
May I ask you something? I was not told to ask this. It is a question I would like to put to you. It is a personal question.

—
Please, ask me anything.

Elena caught Anna’s eye and switched into broken English.

— Why do you support the Soviet Union? Why do you give so much?

The question had a profound impact on both Mr Austin and his wife. They looked at each other and in that instant their conflict seemed to disappear. They did not answer. And for a moment they seemed to forget that Elena was in the room.

Elena checked her watch: she needed to return to the hotel. It was approaching midday.

— Please, Mrs Austin, I do not have much time. I must speak in Russian again.

She switched back to her native language.

— As you know, tonight we’re performing a concert at the United Nations Headquarters. The world’s press will be there. The most important diplomats will be there. We want you to be there too. We tried to arrange for you and your wife to have official tickets but the organizers blocked us. So I am here to ask you to wait outside, on the street, to give one of your speeches, if you feel up to it, to show that you have not been silenced. When the concert is finished, a few of the Soviet students will exit through the main doors. We will surround you, cheering and clapping. This moment will be the photograph that defines the whole trip. Everyone in the United States will be reminded of the injustice done to you. Please, Mr Austin, tell me you’ll be there. This is our way of doing mething for you.

Carried away with the energy of her plea, Elena placed a hand on his arm.

Same Day

Osip Feinstein crouched on the rooftop of the block opposite Jesse Austin’s apartment. If the Russian girl hadn’t turned up, the job of persuading Jesse would have fallen to him and he doubted very much he would’ve succeeded. With his camera he’d followed the events in the apartment, taking photographs of the two of them together: the young girl and the singer, a man who could’ve been living in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park instead of this slum. He was doped up on a drug far more toxic and powerful than opium, addicted to righteous ideology. Osip clicked the camera, shooting the scene before him. The last photograph would be the most incriminating – her frail white hand on his big black arm, the rumpled bed sheets in the background.

Manhattan
Hotel Grand Metropolitan
44th Street
Same Day

As Raisa entered the lobby, twenty sets of eyes landed on her: American secret-police agents pretending to be guests, lounging on sofas and chairs, sipping coffee, following her – their eyeline skimming the rim of their cup and the tops of their newspapers. From the UN Headquarters she’d been driven back to the hotel and left unsupervised for no longer than it took her to step from the car to the revolving doors of the Grand Metropolitan. At the elevator she half expected one of the officers to step in with her. Contemplating the security around the hotel, she found it excessive, so many officers to guard over schoolchildren. The elevator doors closed. Raisa said:

— Twentieth floor, please.

Without turning around the man operating the elevator gave a small nod. She was certain he was an agent despite being dressed in hotel livery. She studied his peculiar uniform, red with white trim down the legs. He was an unlikely looking spy, and she wondered if her anxieties were running away with her. She was seeing spies everywhere.

Trying to focus on what was real, rather than dangers imagined, she told herself that preparations for the concert had gone well. The discussions with her American counterparts had been awkward but not unmanageably so. Raisa’s opposite number was an American teacher with neat grey hair and thick oval glasses. Through an interpreter they’d found much to talk about, not out of polite obligation but genuine curiosity. Raisa sensed that he was forced to maintain an air of subdued hostility in order to prove that he was not a Communist sympathizer. During their discussions key Soviet officials were absent, having expressed no desire to watch the upcoming dress rehearsal, excluding themselves from the preparations despite the degree of worldwide exposure it was going to attract.

The elevator doors opened. The operator turned round.

— Your floor, ma’am.

She nodded, heading out, wishing Leo was by her side. His instincts for subterfuge were acute. Alone, she realized how dependent she’d grown on them.

In the corridor, before Raisa could reach her daughters’ room, one of the propaganda officers stepped out in front of her, blocking her way. It was Mikael Ivanov. He was arrogant, handsome and an entirely unnecessary addition to their team. He asked:

— How were the morning meetings?

As tempting as it was to ignore him, Raisa said:

—
A success, the concert should go well.

—
Were you photographed? I told them no photographs without me present.

—
No, I wasn’t photographed. There was no press.

He raised a finger, keen to correct her.

—
But you must be careful of what appear to be amateur photographs. Someone might pretend to be your friend, and claim the photograph is for a personal album, and that is merely a trick in order that you lower your guard.

—
No one took my photograph.

Why was Mikael Ivanov delaying her with his unnecessary questions? Raisa moved off before he could say anything else, reaching her daughters’ room and knocking. Zoya opened the door. The television was on in the background. Raisa glanced about the room.

—
Where’s Elena?

—
She went swimming.

Instinctively Raisa looked over her shoulder only to discover Mikael watching her with inexplicable concentration.