Agent 6 (39 page)

Same Day

Leo stood up, peering through the boxes, checking to see if Clarke was close by. There was no sign of him. Returning to the case, his hands still shaking in nervous anticipation, he clicked the locks open and looked inside.

The disappointment was crushing. The case was empty. Recovering his composure, he breathed deeply. He ran his fingers along the lining, searching for a noe, a letter hidden in the fabric. There were no knife cuts, no stitched compartments. He examined the outside, turning it upside down, feeling the base and the corners. He could hear Clarke’s footsteps on the concrete floor.

— Mr Demidov?

The case offered no more clues. He checked the objects nearby: there were at least twenty other suitcases. He recognized none of them. Surely Zoya and Elena’s belongings were also here. They’d been confiscated: the girls had returned to Russia with only the clothes they were wearing, everything else had been taken. Leo memorized the item number of Raisa’s case. Clarke’s footsteps were getting closer: he was only metres away. As he came into view, Leo stood up, moving away from his wife’s case.

Clarke smiled at him.

—
Find anything?

—
No, not really.

It was a weak denial. Clarke didn’t pick up on it. He was carrying a large hardback book protected with plastic.

— Here’s the catalogue.

Leo took it from him, saying nothing about his discovery, trying to remain calm and unflustered, opening the book and flicking through. Clarke put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

— I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a few boxes of items I’d like your opinion on.

The reading area was near the office, situated inside the archive since no items could be removed. A table had been provided. There was a desk lamp, a chair and several boxes filled with items to look through. Clarke chatted to Leo for a while, explaining his interest in the contents. Leo barely listened to a word, tortured by the delay, desperate to look up the reference number of the suitcase in the catalogue. Finally, Clarke left him alone and he was able to study the entries. The numbering system was complex. From memory he scribbled down the code number of the suitcase. He found the entry log. The description read:

INVESTIGATION RED VOICE
1965
NY

He checked the vocabulary in his dictionary. The use of the word RED was almost certainly a reference to Communism, a prominent Communist voice – surely it referred to Jesse Austin.

Leo stared at the codes trying to figure out how to trace the other documents connected to the same investigation. Unable to crack the system, and reluctant to ask for assistance, he had no choice but to work through every entry, running his finger down the descriptions. He was halfway through the catalogue, constantly checking to see if Clarke was approaching. His finger stopped, pressed against the words:

INVESTIGATION RED VOICE

He wrote down the location for the box – code 35 / 9 / 3.3 – and shut the catalogue, slipping the paper into his pocket.

Standing up, he edged forward, seeing Clarke nearby in the office. He was occupied and Leo took his chance, moving quickly, hurrying towards aisle 35. Reaching the aisle he turned right, his hand moving across the numbers, finding the ninth unit. The box was on the top shelf, third along. He took hold of it, his arms trembling with emotion. The box was heavy and he struggled with it before managing to set it down. As if he was handling a box of precious treasure, he slowly removed the lid.

Inside was a mass of documents, details of the United Nations concert, a programme, official letters written from the Kremlin regarding the trip, discussing the Student Peace Tour, the proposals and protocol. As a former agent, Leo’s sense for what was important had been developed over many years of searching through papers and personal belongings. These were formal state documents. They revealed only the surface gloss of the tour. His hand touched the bottom of the box, feeling something hard, the spine of a book – it was a diary.

Leo read the first entry, remembering the words as surely as if he’d written them himself:

For the first time in my life I feel the need to keep a record
of my thoughts.

Harlem
Bradhurst
West 145th Street
Three Days Later

In the back of a cab Leo clutched a notebook in which he’d transcribed the most important details from Elena’s journal. Unable to steal the diary in its complete form, he’d studied the pages in the archive at every unsupervised opportunity. The timeline ran up until the afternoon before the concert, the last day Raisa was alive. After coming back to the hotel from her meeting with Jesse Austin, Elena had been escorted to her room. Getting ready for the dress rehearsal, she’d snuck into the bathroom and made one final entry. This scribbled, hastily written page was unquestionably the most important. Leo had ripped it from the journal, stuffing it into his sock along with the other notes he’d taken and smuggled them out from the archive.

Most of the diary contained information Elena had already told him when she’d returned to Moscow, including the way in which she’d been approached by the propaganda officer, Mikael Ivanov, and how the relationship had developed between them. It was heartbreaking and infuriating in equal measure to track her emotions, reading descriptions of how she fell for the fiction of her betrayer’s love and his noble, lofty intentions. She genuinely believed her mission was to show the abandoned and maligned Jesse Austin that he was still loved by Communist Russia. The depth of her idealism was matched only by her adoration of Ivanov. Everything she’d done – every mistake – had been motivated by love. Leo could only presume that her capacity for love was the reason she’d been targeted and selected for the operation. Reading the honey-dipped words Ivanov had used to seduce his daughter, Leo couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d failed as a father, failed to protect his children from the world of deceit that had been his profession. If there was one thing he could have taught them it was how to spot a lie.

Elena had been aware that keeping a diary was risky, particularly considering the secretive nature of her octives, and she’d resorted to a crude code, numbers for names and a shorthand system of description. If he had not been her father it would have been difficult to make sense of the contents, but he was able to replace numbers with names in the majority of cases. The propaganda officer Ivanov was number 55. Number 71 was Jesse Austin, the number reversed, 17, was his wife, Anna Austin, a choice of code that revealed a great deal about Elena’s romanticism. There were a few numbers Leo couldn’t identify by name and there was no question in his mind that they were the most important:

AGENT 6.

In her rushed entry she’d described him merely by saying:

He scares me.

The code referred to an FBI detective Elena had seen in Harlem emerging from Jesse Austin’s apartment, the man who’d followed her back to the hotel.

This time Leo wasn’t going to Harlem alone. Seated beside him was Nara. As a trainee in Kabul she’d only ever been involved in one case – the arrest of a love-struck defector that led to his execution. It felt appropriate that Leo should offer her the chance to close her brief detective career with a case against someone who deserved to be caught. That high-minded notion aside, the truth was he needed her. Nara’s command of English was far more advanced than his own. She’d worked tirelessly to improve it, keen to fit in, to make New York City her home and to find a job. In addition to her fluency in English, she was beautiful and charming, whereas he was gruff and scraggy, and she might succeed in persuading people to talk where he had failed. Logically he should have asked for her help from the outset but he’d felt uncertain whether it was wise to involve her. She would feel obliged to support him, regardless of whether or not she agreed with the investigation. As it was a clear violation of the terms of their asylum, seeking sensitive information, he did not want to incriminate her.

Returning from Washington DC, Leo accepted that he didn’t have time to waste and couldn’t do this without her. Nara listened as he told her everything, the research in the library, his failed interviews in Harlem. She was shocked that his many hours away from home had not been spent exploring the city but delving into the past. As expected, he could tell that she was concerned about upsetting their American hosts. After all, she was a mother now and had Zabi’s future to think of. However, she felt a duty to support Leo. She owed him her life. It was with mixed emotions, a sense of foreboding and reluctance, as well as a sense of duty and curiosity that she agreed to participate in the search for Raisa’s killer.

The cab stopped. Leo stepped out, holding the door for Nara. He reached into his pocket to pay the driver. Pressed beside his money were the notes he’d copied from the diary and the page he’d ripped loose. In that final, crucial entry, Elena had mentioned that a man had shown her into Jesse Austin’s apartment, an angry old man referred to as number 111. Jesse Austin had explained the man’s anger to Elena by pointing out that he owned a local hardware store and considered Communism bad for business and bad for the community. It wasn’t much of a lead.

Leo decided to go to number 111 on 145th, hoping it would be a hardwarestore, only to find it wasn’t a store, it was an apartment block. After managing to sneak into the communal areas, Leo knocked on door 111. He and Nara spoke to the owner, an elderly man who’d lived in the apartment most of his life, had never owned a hardware store and couldn’t understand why he was being asked he if had. Taking a chance, Leo asked whether he knew Jesse Austin anyway. The old man looked at Leo with a peculiar gaze. It was obvious that he knew him, perhaps even knew him well, but he shook his head and shut the door. Glancing at Nara, Leo said, exasperated:

— This is what I’m up against. No one wants to talk. They haven’t forgotten him, but they don’t want to talk about him.

She merely replied:

— There might be a reason for that.

Leo was not in the mood for compromise.

— There’s also a good reason for wanting them to talk.

Walking down the street, Leo raised his hand, gesturing at a run-down hardware store, a ramshackle, old-fashioned affair. The store window was cluttered and dark. Nara looked at him.

—
How do you know this is the store?

—
I don’t.

Leo pointed to a hand-painted sign.
A family business for thirty years!

Opening the door, a small bronze bell rang overhead. There was a musty smell. The shop counter was dusty. The contents were disorganized. On the wall behind the cash register there was a row of plastic drawers, filled with odds and ends, nails and bolts, screws and hinges, drawers stacked as high as the ceiling.

The proprietor was young, a man in his early thirties, emerging from a back room with reading glasses on the end of his nose, regarding his unusual customers. His glance concentrated on Leo and turned unfriendly.

— You’ve been in here before?

Nara stepped forward, speaking in fluent English, having already gone over the question with Leo at home.

— We’re looking for information on a famous singer who used to live near here. His name is Jesse Austin.

Upon hearing the name the man took off his glasses, placing them on the counter.

—
That’s right, you’re the Jesse Austin man. What is it with you, anyway?

—
My name is Leo Demidov.

Embarrassed by his English, he turned to Nara. She added:

— My name is Nara Mir. This is my friend. Leo knew Mr Jesse Austin a long time ago. We’re trying to find information.

The man studied Leo, saying:

—
You knew Jesse Austin? I don’t believe it.

—
It’s true.

—
You’re not from New York, are you?

—
I’m from Russia.

—
Russia? And you knew Jesse?

—
We met in Moscow.

—
You met in Moscow?

The store owner had a habit of turning everything Leo said into a question and Leo was unsure how to respond. The man addressed Nara:

—
You’re who? His translator?

—
I’m his friend.

—
What do the two of you want?

Leo said to Nara in Dari:

— I want to know how Jesse Austin died, the truth, not what was printed in the papers.

Nara translated. Leo watched the store owner’s reaction. He shook his head, waving at the door.

— I don’t know anything. Now get out. I’m serious. Don’t bother me again. This is a store. If you want to buy something . . .

Before the store owner could return to the back room, Leo took a chance, calling out:

— Your father knew Jesse Austin.

The store owner turned sharply, staring at Leo accusingly, suddenly angry.

— How do you know my father? What are you doing dragging him into this? You better have a good answer.

Leo replied through Nara:

— Your father met with Jesse Austin the day he was shot. He brought a young Russian girl to his apartment. The two men argued.

She translated. The store owner was stunned. Recovering some of his composure he said:

— What do you want?

Leo sensed he was making inroads and pushed home his advantage.

— The papers claimed a Russian woman shot Jesse Austin. The papers claim the Russian woman was called Raisa Demidova. The papers are wrong. She did not kill him. That is a lie.

Leo took a chance.

— Your father knew it was a lie.

The store owner listened to the translation before turning to Leo.

— And how do you figure this?

Leo had memorized the English.

— Raisa was my wife.