Agent 6 (38 page)

Same Day

Marcus Greene, impeccably tailored, took out a cigarette and sat down as though this was his home. He said:

— You seem nervous.

Leo didn’t reply. He disliked the casual disregard with which they broke into his apartment or bugged his phone, and the way in which they searched his belongings when he was out, something that he was aware of since they failed to put items back into the correct position. But he was under no illusion that he belonged to the Americans, a piece of intellectual property, and they would behave exactly as they pleased. It was almost comical that Greene would then ask:

— May I smoke?

Leo nodded, taking off his coat, hanging it in the hall. Returning to the living room he stood opposite Greene.

—
Why aren’t you in Pakistan?

—
I’m on leave, visiting my family.

Greene sucked deeply on his cigarette, with the loving intensity known only to an addict. Leo took a seat opposite, leaning forward, hands on his knees. Greene remarked without self-pity:

— I have not been a good father. I regret my shortcomings, I suppose. But I haven’t done much about them, so I’m not sure what that regret is worth, at least not in the eyes of my wife and my sons. I tell you this because it is part of the reason I’m here. I know how much your family matters to you, not just the family you brought to New York, but also the family you left behind in the Soviet Union.

Leo asked, his voice strangled with tension:

—
What’s happened?

—
The Soviets suspect that you’re alive. We thought that killing the captain might mean your existence would be unconfirmed. Perhaps it is. However, they’re testing the water. While I was in Peshawar, they made sure that we became aware of certain pieces of information regarding your daughters. Zoya and Elena . . .

Leo stood up, as if ready to leave immediately. Greene gestured for him to sit down. He ignored the gesture and in the end Greene stood up too.

—
We have no means of verifying these rumours. They might be lies intended to flush you out. There was pressure on me not to reveal them to you but I was sure you’d want to know. It’s your decision whether you believe the stories or not.

—
What stories?

—
Because of your defection your daughters have been taken in for questioning. Their husbands have also been interrogated. They have been released, but their futures are unce of cin. The next step would be for them to be arrested. That hasn’t happened yet, but it could. It is bait, crude, but I can see from your expression, effective.

—
If I don’t return, they will arrest them? That’s the threat?

—
Leo, we have no way of knowing if this is just a play. They can’t be sure you’re alive.

—
Do they have an American source?

—
I don’t believe that’s likely. The Soviets have never been very effective at penetrating the CIA. If you do nothing, if you don’t react, they will presume you to be dead and nothing will happen to your daughters. I’m sure of that.

But Leo knew better how the KGB functioned: he knew their mindset. He remembered how he would have behaved as an ambitious young agent. Shaking his head, feeling sick with fear at the danger he’d put his daughters in, he said:

— I don’t have much time.

Same Day

Leo sat in silence over dinner, picking at the food he’d cooked. The threat to his daughters would be carried out even though they were innocent. During Stalin’s reign it was established that the son was tainted with the father’s guilt. A single crime, a single allegation, could bring about the ruin of an entire family, the toxin of suspicion travelling along bloodlines. Times had changed only so far. This mode of thought remained within the mindset of the KGB, an organization that had always preferred its agents to marry other agents, structuring itself like a dynasty of operatives distinct from the ordinary citizen. This was part of the reason they had always opposed his marriage to Raisa. If Leo did not surrender, his daughters would be arrested, detained in the worst conditions. The KGB’s malice would be impersonal, procedural and utterly predictable. Just as it did not matter that his daughters were innocent, it did not matter that they could not be sure if Leo was alive. The Soviet intelligence network in the United States was weak, certainly compared with the European cells of agents. However, they had within their means an easy way of flushing Leo into open. So much had depended upon them presuming he was dead. That plan had failed.

Leo pushed his plate aside. Both Nara and Zabi knew something was wrong, exchanging glances. He could not tell them the news since he’d not decided what to do. The uncertainty would be an unnecessary strain. Zabi had only just returned from a session with a psychiatrist. Though her physical injuries had healed, she was in therapy, two sessions a week, a process delayed for several months while she’d undergone intensive schooling in English, lessons she attended with Nara. Leo skipped most of the lessons, concentrating instead on his investigation. However, he always made time to accompany Zabi to the psychiatrist, surprised that the doctor’s office was not in a hospital but a pleasantly decorated room in her house. After the third or fourth session, he’d become more relaxed about treatment. Zabi didn’t fear the sessions. Needless to say the American government covered the cost. They covered the costs of all their expenses. In exchange, Leo met intelligence officers, providing information on Afghanistan. His knowledge of the Soviet Union itself was dated, particularly with regard to the KGB and secret police. This information was primarily of interest to historians and academs, a few of whom had been granted security clearance to question him. Only his reports on Afghanistan were classified. It was hard to gauge what impact they were having on American policy – he was never trusted enough to be told anything, only ever questioned. Some of the questions revealed their way of thinking. There were clearly elements in the CIA keen to fund the insurgency, to provide weapons. Whether that was being carried out, Leo could not tell.

At the end of dinner, Leo tidied away the plates, returning to the table with a carton of ice cream that he’d bought from a grocery store run by a woman from Ukraine, one of the few people in the neighbourhood that he spoke to, as unsociable in New York as he had been in Kabul. As he spooned the ice cream into three bowls he said:

— I’m flying to Washington tomorrow. You remember the work I spoke about? There is an archive of items relating to Soviet espionage in the United States. They want me to take a look, see if I can throw any light on the objects.

Nara was surprised.

—
I thought you weren’t doing that for a couple of months.

—
They want me to go immediately.

—
Why?

The reason was simple: they didn’t think Leo would be in America for much longer. Leo kept this secret, merely shrugging.

— I don’t know.

He added, weakly:

— I do as I’m told.

Zabi asked:

— Are you leaving us?

Leo couldn’t look her in the eye. He toyed with a spoonful of ice cream.

— I’ll only be gone a few days.

Washington DC
FBI Headquarters
J. Edgar Hoover Building
935 Pennsylvania Avenue
Next Day

Leo was due to stay in Washington DC for a few days, depending on how the work progressed. Resigned to the fact that his time in the United States had been suddenly and dramatically cut short, he was impatient to return to New York – there was now intense pressure on his investigation. In all likelihood he had weeks, not months, before the Soviet Union took further action against his daughters. If they went as far as to arrest Zoya and Elena then he would not be able to hold out – more likely, he would begin to make arrangements to return that same day. A once benign trip to the archive was now a costly distraction.

A friendly man called Simon Clarke had met him at the airport, introducing himself as the archivist, an owlish-looking individual in his fifties with round gold-framed glasses and a gently protruding stomach curving out from his body like a pleasant hillside. He spoke fluent Russian, grammatically perfect, but with an American accent and Leo guessed that he’d probably spoken to very few native Russians. Kind and mild-mannered, Clarke hoped that Leo could illuminate many of the discoveries that had been collecting dust, mysteries that they’d failed to unravel about Soviet espionage protocols launched against the main adversary. Clarke had used Soviet spy slang –
the main adversary> – keen to show that he was acquainted with their secret code.

On a brief tour of the city, before heading to the archive they stopped outside the FBI headquarters. The building was modern, concrete, quite unlike the Russian secret police headquarters, the Lubyanka, with its grand historical facade in the centre of Moscow. The architectural principle of the Hoover Building seemed not that it should appear impressive but that it should appear unbreakable. There was nothing ornate or decorative about the design: it was a hybrid of a parking lot and a power station, as if the FBI were in the same utilitarian category. The archive, not marked on any map or listed in any official registry, was located three blocks back, on 8th Street. There was no sign, no reception, merely an unremarkable door that opened directly onto the street like a fire escape. The entrance was sandwiched between two large offices: a door without a number or mailbox, like a magical portal that everyone on the street walked past oblivious to the secrets it held.

Clarke took out his keys, opening the door, turning on the lights and revealing a narrow staircase. He ushered Leo inside, locking the door behind them before descending the stairs. The air was dry, machine-processed. At the bottom of the stairs was a small drab office where Clarke turned off an alarm system. To the side of the office was a steel door, sealed shut, like a bank vault. After entering a code, there was a faint hiss as the door opened. Lights automatically turned on, fluorescent bulbs slowly flickering one after another in quick succession, revealing the archive’s full dimensions.

Far larger than Leo had expected, the archive stretched for hundreds of metres with row upon row of steel shelves. Unlike a library there were no books. Everything was stored in uniform brown cardboard boxes, side by side – thousands of them, each with the same gap between them. Leo looked at Clarke:

— All this?

Clarke nodded:

— Seventy years’ worth of material, most of it understood, some of it not.

Leo moved forward. Clarke put a hand on his shoulder.

— Before we start, there are a couple of rules. I’ve been instructed to search you upon leaving. Please don’t be insulted: this is standard policy and applies to all visitors. You must wear these gloves when touching anything. Other than that, you’re free to look at whatever you like. Except no fountain pens, or ink of any kind. You don’t have any pens on you?

Leo shook his head, taking off his jacket, hanging it in the office. Clarke noted:

— You might want to keep that with you. The chamber is cold, air-conditioned for preservation purposes.

Seventy years’ worth of refrigerated spy secrets, thousands of attempts to betray, deceive and murder, preserved as though they were mankind’s finest achievements.

The ceiling was not particularly high, but the room was remarkably wide, giving it surreal proportions, the shape of squashed shoebox. The entire archive was concrete, resulting in two colours dominating, the grey concrete and the brown cardboard boxes. There was the hum of air and occasionally slight vibrations from a passing subway train. A passage ran through the middle of the archive from end to end. Each aisle was marked with a number. There were no signs, no written explanations. Clarke must have guessed his thoughts, remarkold/p>

— Don’t worry! We don’t want you to look through everything. I have put aside several boxes that I thought you might be able to shed some light upon. But you’re free to walk around and see if anything catches your eye. Why don’t you familiarize yourself with the archive before we sit down with the material I’ve selected?

Despite the suggestion that he was free to explore, Clarke had not left his side.

Feeling self-conscious, Leo stopped by one of the aisles, picking one at random. Each box had a sticker with a number written on it, a long code that meant nothing to a casual glance. Every box had a lid, making it impossible to browse. Clarke commented:

— There is a reference catalogue in the office that matches up the codes with a description of the contents. Not everything is stored in boxes, though: some odd-shaped objects, or oversize items, stand on their own. They’re located further down, near the back. Let me bring a copy of the catalogue: that might help.

Clarke turned around and hurried towards the office. Leo circled, restless – his thoughts dwelling upon the investigation. Idly he opened the nearest box. It was filled with money, wads of five-and ten-dollar bills, low denominations, but pristine, unused, a small fortune. Leo suspected the money was Soviet-produced forgeries. One wad of money was inside a plastic bag labelled
CAUTION
. The notes probably contained a chemical of some kind, perhaps even a toxin. Putting the lid back on, he moved down to the next aisle, selecting another box and lifting the lid. This box was filled with scientific equipment, a microscope and other apparatus that Leo didn’t recognize. The objects were dated, perhaps fifty or so years old. Once again there was no explanation: no written documents. After the third and fourth box it dawned on him that the bulk of this archive would prove to be banal. It appeared as if the Americans had collected everything even vaguely connected to Soviet spy protocols.

About to turn around and wait for Clarke to return, Leo spotted the oversize objects. He walked towards the back of the archive, finding a walking cane made out of gnarled wood. He toyed with it for a while, wondering if there was a secret compartment, some secondary function, a poison spear perhaps. Giving up, he returned it to the shelf. There was an old-fashioned transceiver, perhaps used to make secret communications, as large as a television. Next to that was a suitcase.

Leo crouched down, his hands shaking as he placed them on the case. Though his hands had changed markedly over the years, this case had not. It was old fashioned with a leather-clad handle and rusted steel locks. Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen it for sixteen years there was no doubt that it was the same case he’d bought when he was a young secret-police officer.

It was the suitcase Raisa had taken to New York.