Agent 6 (6 page)

— Your girl is a teacher, you said?

Confused, Leo hesitantly replied:

— My girl?

— Your girlfriend? The one we were talking about. The teacher. Wouldn’t it be something to go see a school?

Moscow
Secondary School 7
Avtozavodskaya
Same Day

Leo sat with his hands tight arund the steering wheel, furious at Austin for not understanding the danger that he’d placed him in. The man’s actions were naive – entirely foreign. Keen to prove his detractors at home wrong, he’d embarked on a programme of calculated sabotage, brushing aside their plans with the playfulness of a man who had no comprehension of the regime he flattered. It did not tolerate mistakes. Grave risks existed for the people organizing his trip, including Leo. Yet it hadn’t occurred to Austin that there would be consequences if he saw anything that didn’t chime with the idealized vision that the Kremlin wanted him to export to the United States. These attempts to duck the official preparations were little more than a game, evidenced by the way he’d whistled all the way to the Secondary School 7, where Lena worked.

Leo stared in dumb terror at Secondary School 7: a newly built box of classrooms supported on concrete legs. Fortunately there was no risk that the school building itself wouldn’t pass inspection. The officials were greatly relieved that their guest had chosen an institution they would have gladly picked themselves. The risk was solely on Leo’s shoulders. He’d lied. When he’d claimed Lena was the woman he loved, he’d presumed the lie would fold into the conversation, an irrelevance immediately forgotten. It had been intended to save him from the minor embarrassment of admitting that there was no one he loved and no one who loved him. Now he bitterly regretted his foolishness. Why couldn’t he simply have admitted that he lived alone? There was no way to wriggle out from the trap. Austin was intent upon visiting a school and he wanted to see one that couldn’t have been prepared in advance. Leo had set him up perfectly.

Stepping out of the car, he tried to think calmly, rationally, something he’d been unable to do for the past forty-five minutes. He knew that her name was Lena. He didn’t know her full name. He knew that she taught politics. Most important of all, he knew that she didn’t like him. His legs felt weak, like a condemned man walking to his execution. He weighed up the option of admitting the lie: he could stop the group and declare that he didn’t know Lena. He’d invented a relationship because he didn’t want to appear lonely. It would be a pitiful, humiliating confession. Austin would laugh it off, perhaps offering him some reassuring words about love. They could tour the school without visiting Lena. The officials would say nothing. Yet there was no question that Leo’s career would come to an end. At best he’d be demoted. More likely he’d be accused of deliberately undermining the opinion of a key ally of the Soviet Union. Since there was nothing to gain by admitting the lie it was better to play along with it for as long as possible.

It was lunchtime. Children were outside playing in the snow. Leo could use them to buy him some time, encouraging Austin to talk to the students while he slipped off and found Lena. He only needed a couple of seconds to prepare her. She didn’t have to do anything other than smile, answer questions and play along with his lie. She was smart, he was sure of that. She would understand. She would improvise.

As they entered the gates, Grigori hurried to his side, their first opportunity to speak in private since Austin’s request to visit the school.

— Leo, what is going on? Who is this woman?

Leo checked that no one else was in earshot.

—
Grigori, I lied.

—
You lied?

He sounded amazed, as if he considered Leo an automaton, incapable of anything as human as a lie.

—
About the woman – Lena, she doesn’t love me. She barely even knows me.

—
Does she work here?

—
She works here. That much is true. I think, at least, I can’t be sure.

—
Why did you lie?

—
I don’t know. It just happened.

—
What are we going to do?

Grigori had not removed himself from Leo’s predicament. He did not have the instincts of a typical MGB agent. They were a team. Leo felt a flush of gratitude.

— I’m going to try and persuade Lena to play along with the lie. Stay with Austin, slow him down, try to buy me as much time as possible.

The children ran forward, forming a circle as Austin entered the school. The playground had fallen silent. No doubt fearing that one of the children might say something out of turn, it was entirely possible that none of them had ever seen a black man before, an official spoke up, smiling broadly to cover the implicit threat.

— Children, you have a very important guest today. This is Jesse Austin, the famous singer. You must show our guest how well you can behave.

Even the youngest children understood the danger these men represented. Austin crouched down to ask a question. Leo couldn’t hear what he was saying. He was already on his way to the entrance.

Once inside, out of sight, he broke into a run, his shoes heavy on the smooth stone floor. He stopped a teacher, grabbing her arms, startling her with his intensity.

— Where’s the director’s office?

The teacher remained dumbstruck, staring at Leo’s uniform. Leo shook her.

— Where?

She pointed to the end of the corridor.

Leo burst into the room, causing the school director to stand up, paling with each second. Leo realized that the poor man believed he was being arrested. He was frail, in his late fifties. His lips were squeezed thin with anxiety. There wasn’t much time.

— I’m Officer Demidov. I need to know everything about a teacher working here. She’s called Lena.

The director sounded like a frightened child.

—
A teacher?

—
She’s called Lena. She’s young, my age.

—
You’re not here for me?

Leo snapped:

— No, I’m not. I’m here for a woman called Lena. Hurry up!

The old man seemed to come alive with these words – someone else was in trouble, not him. He stepped around the front of his desk, keen to be as helpful as possible. Leo glanced towards the door.

—
Lena, you say?

—
Her subject is politics.

—
A teacher called Lena? I’m sorry: you have the wrong school. There are no teachers called Lena here.

—
What?

— There are no teachers called Lena working here.

Leo was shocked.

— But I saw her books. They had the name of this school written across them.

Grigori opened the door, hissing a warning:

— They’re coming!

Leo was sure of the school. Where was the mistake? She’d told him her name. Her name! That was the lie.

—
How many teach politics?

—
Three.

—
A young woman among them?

—
Yes.

—
What is her name? Do you have a photograph of her?

—
In the files.

—
Hurry!

The director found the relevant file. He handed it to Leo. Before he could look through it, Grigori opened the door again. Austin and the officials entered the room. Leo turned to address them:

— Director, I’d like to introduce you to Jesse Austin, our guest. He wants to inspect a Soviet school before returning to America.

The director having barely recovered from the first shock was inflicted with a second – an internationally renowned guest and a group of top-ranking officials. The official who’d addressed the children outside now addressed the headmaster, using the same smile to mask his warning:

— We want to show our visitor that the Soviet education system is one of the best in the world.

The director’s voice had become weak again.

— I wish you’d given me some warning.

Austin stepped forward.

— No warning. No fuss. No ceremony. No preparations. I want to poke around, see what you get up to. And see how things work. Forget I’m even here.

He turned to Leo.

— How about we watch a lesson?

Disingenuous, Leo answered:

—
A science lesson, perhaps?

—
Is that what your girl teaches? Science?

Upon hearing the claim that a teacher was Leo’s girlfriend, the director stared at Leo. Ignoring him, Leo answered Austin’s question:

—
No. She teaches politics.

—
Well, we all like politics, don’t we?

Everyone laughed except Leo and the director. Austin added:

&mdah; What was her name? Did you tell me before?

Leo couldn’t remember if he’d mentioned the name Lena or not.

— Her name?

Evidently he didn’t know her name. The director was too scared or too slow-witted to step in and help him.

— Her name . . .

Leo deliberately dropped the file – let it slip from his hand, the papers falling out. He bent down, picking them, glancing through them.

— Her name is Raisa.

*

The director led the way to Classroom 23 on the second floor, Austin by his side, the officials behind him, stopping occasionally to examine a poster on the wall, or peer into another lesson. During these breaks, Leo was forced to wait, unable to stand still. He had no idea how the woman who’d lied to him about her name was going to react. Eventually reaching the classroom, Leo peered through the small window. The woman at the front was the woman he’d met on the metro, the woman he’d spoken to on the tramcar, the woman who’d told him her name was Lena. It occurred to him, belatedly, that she might be married. She might have children of her own. As long as she was smart, they were both safe.

Leo pushed forward and opened the door. The delegation followed, the entrance filling up with officials, the school’s director with Jesse Austin at the front. The students stood up, amazed, their eyes flicking from Leo’s uniform to their director’s anxious face to Austin’s wide smile.

Raisa turned to Leo, holding a stub of chalk, her fingers dusty white. She was the only person in the room, aside from Austin, who seemed calm. Her composure was remarkable and Leo was reminded why he found her so attractive. Using her real name, as if he’d known no other, Leo said:

— Raisa, I’m sorry for arriving unexpectedly but our guest, Jesse Austin, wanted to visit a secondary school and I naturally thought of you.

Austin stepped forward, offering his hand.

— Don’t be mad at him. It’s my fault. I wanted it to be a surprise.

Raisa nodded, assessing the situation with agility.

— It certainly is a surprise.

She noted Leo’s uniform, before remarking to Austin:

— Mr Austin, I enjoy your music very much.

Austin smiled, asking coyly:

—
You’ve heard it?

—
You’re one of the few Western . . .

Raisa’s eyes darted towards the crowd of party officials. She checked herself:

— Western singers any Russian would want to listen to.

Austin was elated.

— That’s kind of you.

Raisa glanced at Leo.

—
I’m flattered my lessons were considered worthy for such important visitors.

—
Would it be OK if I watched you teach?

—
Take my seat.

—
No, I’ll stand. We’ll be no trouble, I promise! You just go ahead. Do your normal thing.

It was a comical notion that this lesson would be normal. Leo felt faintly hysterical and light-headed. The sense of gratitude was so intense it was a struggle not to take hold of Raisa’s hands and kiss them. She taught the lesson, managing to ignore the fact that none of the children were listening, all of them fascinated by the guests.

After twenty minutes a delighted Austin thanked Raisa.

—
You have a real gift. The way you speak, the things you say about Communism, thank you for letting me listen in.

—
It was my pleasure.

Jesse Austin was smitten with her too. It was hard not to be.

— Are you busy tonight, Raisa? Because I’d like it very much if you’d come to my concert. I’m sure Leo has told you about it?

She glanced at Leo.

— He has.

She lied with consummate skill.

— Then you’ll come? Please?

She smiled, expressing a razor-sharp sense of self-preservation.

Moscow
Serp I Molot Factory
Magnitogorsk
Same Day

Planners for tonight’s event had toyed with the idea of staging the concert within the factory itself, capturing footage of Jesse Austin singing, surrounded by machinery and workers, creating the impression of a concert that had sprung up spontaneously, as though Austin had burst into song while touring the premises. It had proved impractical. There was no clear stretch of floor space to act as an auditorium. The heavy machinery would block the view for many and there were questions about whether the machinery was suitable for international scrutiny. For these reasons the concert would take place in an adjacent warehouse emptied of stock and more traditionally arranged. A temporary stage had been set up at the north end, in front of which were a thousand wooden chairs. In order to preserve the notion that this was a concert in contrast to those performed in the West, the workers were being ushered directly from the factory floor, given no time to go home and change. The organizers not only wanted an audience of workers, they wanted an audience that looked like workers, with oil on their hands, sweat on their brows and lines of dirt under their nails. The event would offer a stark contrast to the elitism that typified concerts in capitalist countries with tiered ticket prices resulting in a stratification of the audience, where the poor were so far away they could hardly see the show while the truly impoverished lingered backstage, in the service corridors, waiting for the concert to finish so they could sweep the floor.

Leo supervised the movement of workers from the factory to the warehouse, his thoughts on Raisa. He’d cut a particularly unimpressive figure today at her school, desperate and dishonest. However, he was in a position of power and Raisa had proved herself to be astute: it was possible she would weigh up the offer to attend the concert purely in practical terms and those were favourable to him. He wondered what she thought of his occupation. Mulling over the possibilities, he urged the people around him to hurry up and fill whatever seats were available. There were no tickets. The concert was free. The men and women dutifully occupied any remaining places, some of them shivering as they sat down. The warehouse was little more than a steel shell. The roof was too high and the space too large for the gas heaters to warm the entire area. Workers seated at midway points between heaters were discreetly handed gloves and jackets. Leo rubbed his hands together, searching the crowd – there was not long to go and Raisa had still not arrived.

The programme had been arranged in advance although it was hard to know if Austin would change those plans too. The proposal was for him to take to the stage with a number of songs interspersed with short polemical speeches. His speeches would be in Russian; with a couple of exceptions, the songs would be in English. Leo glanced across the sweep of the audience, picturing how the scene would appear on the propaganda film intended for distribution across the Union and Eastern Europe. Leo snapped at a man seated a couple of rows back:

— Take off your hat.

Gloves wouldn’t be seen in the film. Hats would be. They didn’t want to give away that the auditorium was bitterly cold. As Leo was making the final checks for anything that might appear out of place he saw a worker rub some of the dirty grease from his boot across his face, blackening it. Leo didn’t need to hear what was being said as several men seated nearby began to laugh. He pushed into the auditorium, reaching the man and whispering:

— You want this to be the last joke you ever make?

Leo stood over him as he wiped the grease from his face. He looked at the men who’d laughed. They hated him but not as much as they feared him. He sidestepped out of the row, returning to the front of the stage. After thirty minutes of shuffling, the seats were filled. There were workers standing, crowded at the back. The orchestra was onstage. The concert was ready to start.

It was then that Leo saw Raisa, being escorted into the auditorium by an officer. He’d only ever seen her dressed in her work clothes, practical and sturdy outfits, her features hidden beneath a warm hat, her hair tied back – her skin pale and without makeup. Misunderstanding the nature of the concert, she’d dressed smartly. She was wearing a dress. Though her clothes were hardly extravagant, they were dazzling when contrasted with the workers. Among the dirty shirts and ragged trousers worn by most of the audience, she walked nervously. She felt exposed, out of place and overdressed. The eyes of the workers followed her, and for good reason. Tonight she seemed more beautiful than ever before. Arriving in front of him, Leo dismissed the other officer.

— I’ll take our guest from here.

Leo guided her to the front, his throat dry.

— I’ve saved you a seat, the best in the house.

Raisa replied, a hint of anger in her voice:

—
You didn’t tell me the concert was so informal.

—
I’m sorry. I was flustered earlier. But you look lovely.

She registered the compliment and her anger seemed to dissolve.

— I wanted to explain why I lied about my name.

He noted the tension in her voice, politely cutting her explanation short.

— There’s no need to apologize. I’m sure men ask for your name regularly. It must be a nuisance.

Raisa remained silent. Leo added, keen to stop the silence from becoming too long:

— Anyway, it’s I who owe you an apology. I surprised you today. Austin wanted to see a school. I put you on the spot. It was unfair. You could have embarrassed me.

Raisa turned her head away.

— It was an honour to have such important guests.

A formality had crept into the way she spoke to Leo, no longer brusque or dismissive. She glanced about the auditorium.

—
I’m looking forward to hearing Mr Austin sing.

—
So am I.

They arrived at the front.

— Here we are. Like I said, the best seats in the house.

Leo stepped back, faintly amused at the incongruity of her radiance among the exhausted factory workers.

The warehouse lights were switched off and bright stage lights turned on, flooding the structure in a yellow glow. The cameras began to roll. Leo took position on the steps to the stage, looking out over the audience. Austin entered from the other side, striding up the stairs in huge bounds. His energy was remarkable. Onstage he seemed even taller and more impressive. With a small wave of his hand he modestly requested the applause to come to an end. Once there was silence he took the microphone, speaking in Russian.

— It is an honour to be here, in Moscow, to be invited to sing in your place of work. The welcome you give me is always special. I don’t feel like a guest. The truth is, I feel at home. At times, I feel more at home than I do in my own country. Because here, in the Soviet Union, I am loved not only while I sing, not only while I’m onstage and while I entertain you. Here, I’m loved offstage. Here, the fact that I’m a singer makes me no different from all of you even though our occupations could not be more different. Here, regardless of whether I am singing, regardless of my success, I am a Communist. I am a comrade, like all of you. The same as all of you! Listen to those sweet words. I am the same as all of you! And that is the greatest honour of all . . . to be different and yet treated the same.

The orchestra began to play. Austin’s first choice was the
Friends’ Song
, written for the Communist Youth with lyrics that called for the building of new cities and the laying of new roads. It had been modified for orchestral backing, transforming it from little more than a propaganda hymn into a musical performance. To Leo’s surprise, the performance overcame the rigid polemic of its lyrics. Austin’s voice was powerful and intimate at the same time. It filled the cavernous space. Leo was sure that if he’d asked anyone in the audience they’d have stated that Austin appeared to be singing directly to them. Leo marvelled at what it must be like to have a voice that could move men to tears, a voice that could hush and soothe a room filled with athousand tired workers. Among the front row, he sought out Raisa. She was concentrating on Austin, under the spell of his voice. He wondered if she would ever look upon him with the same admiration.

As the song finished, a disturbance broke out at the back of the warehouse. Members of the audience turned around, staring into the darkness. Leo stepped forward, straining his eyes, attempting to identify the source of the noise. A man appeared from the shadows, wearing an MGB uniform, his shirt pulled out, his trousers scuffed with dirt. He was a mess, staggering wildly from side to side. It took Leo a moment to realize this man was Grigori – his protégé.

Leo hurried forward, running past other agents in order to intercept him. He took his trainee by the arm. He stank of alcohol. Despite the danger of his predicament, Grigori seemed not to notice Leo. He was applauding Austin with loud, slow, erratic claps. When Leo tried to pull him away, out of the warehouse, Grigori growled like a feral dog:

— Leave me alone.

Leo clamped his hands on Grigori’s face, staring him in the eye, speaking with genuine urgency.

— Pull yourself together. What are you doing?

Grigori replied:

—
Get out of my way!

—
Listen to me—

—
Listen to you? I wish I had never heard you speak.

—
What has happened to you?

— To me! No, not to me, to someone else, Leo, the artist, Polina, you remember her? The woman I love? They arrested her. Even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the offending page . . .

Grigori raised the page from the diary, complete with the doodle of the Statue of Liberty.

— Even though there was nothing in that diary, they arrested her, even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the page, they still arrested her!

He was repeating himself, slurring his words, running the sentences into each other as though they were a chant. Leo tried to cut him short:

—
Then they’ll free her and the matter will be over.

—
She’s dead!

He shouted out the words. A sizeable part of the audience had now turned from Austin to Grigori. He continued to speak, this time in a whisper:

— They arrested her last night. She didn’t survive the questioning. A weak heart, that’s what they said to me. A weak heart . . . a weak heart! Was that her crime, Leo? If that is a crime you should arrest me too. Arrest me, Leo. Arrest me. Charge me with a weak heart. I would rather a weak heart than a strong one.

Leo felt sick.

— Grigori, you’re upset, listen to me—

— You keep asking me to listen to you. But I won’t, Leo Demidov, I won’t listen to you! The sound of your voice is appalling to me.

Other agents were moving closer, several rising out of the audience. Grigori bolted forward, running up the stairs, past the orchestra and towards Austin. Leo rushed after him, following up the stairs but pausing at the threshold of the stage. If he tried to make Grigori leave, they would end up in a fight. The cameras were rolling. Thousands were watching.

*

Grigori stood, blinking in the glare of the spotlights. He wanted to shout out the truth. He wanted to tell them an innocent woman had been murdered. As the faces of those seated in the front rows came into focus he understood that they already knew – not that Polina was dead, but they knew her story, they knew it many times over. They did not need to hear it from him. They did not want to hear it. No one wanted him to speak. They were afraid, not for him, but of him, as if he had some sickness that might infect their lives. He was a lunatic, a man who stood onstage and made himself a target – an act of suicide. There was nothing noble in his actions. What did it matter if he spoke the truth? It was a useless, dangerous truth. He turned to the man onstage with him, the famous Jesse Austin. What had Grigori hoped? Perhaps he’d hoped that a man full of dreams about this land would hear the truth and transform from an advocate to a critic – it would be a bitter blow to the regime, a suitable revenge for Polina’s murder. But looking into Austin’s kind eyes he realized that this man did not want to know the truth either.

Austin wrapped an arm around Grigori’s shoulder, announcing to the audience:

— I don’t know if he’s a fan, or someone telling me to shut up!
There was laughter. Grigori slurred the words, drunk, but exhausted, defeated:

— Comrade Austin.

Grigori pulled out the diary page:

— What does this mean to you?

Austin took the page, examining the doodle. He turned to the audience.

— Our friend has shown me a drawing of the most important symbol of our time. It is the Statue of Liberty, in New York. There in my country, that statue is a promise of things to come – a future of liberty for every man and woman, regardless of background, or race. Here your liberty is real.

Grigori was crying, surrounded by people and yet alone. He repeated Austin’s words, speaking up, projecting to the back of the warehouse:

— Here our liberty is real!

*

On the steps to the stage an agent grabbed Leo’s arm.

—
Do something! Fix this!

—
What can I do? You want me to go up onstage?

—
Yes!

Leo edged closer but Austin shook his head, indicating that he’d deal with it. He began another song. It wasn’t due to be performed until the very end, as the finale, but Austin had brought it forward, sensing that he needed something to finesse the interruption. It was
The Internationale
– the anthem of Communism.