Agent 6 (7 page)

Arise, you branded by a curse
,
You whole world of the starving and enslaved!

Many in the audience stood up immediately. The rest quickly followed and Leo understood why Austin had chosen this song to mask the disturbance. The audience knew the lyrics. Though their singing was tentative at first, it was only because they were unsure whether they were supposed to join in. As Austin encouraged them, they became louder and louder, until each man and woman was singing as loud as they could, perhaps fearful that their loyalty to the State might be measured by their volume, perhaps fearful that if they didn’t sing until they were hoarse they would become like the strange sad figure of Grigori. Leo was also singing, but half-heartedly, preoccupied with his doomed trainee. There were tears in the young man’s eyes, glistening in the bright spotlights. He too was singing:

We will destroy this world of violence
Down to the foundations, and then
We will build our new world!

Austin ended the song after the first verse. As the calls for a new world died down, vigorous applause broke out across the auditorium. Agents stepped up onto the stage, clapping, false smiles on their faces, closing around Grigori, edging nearer, trying to disguise their murderous intent. Oblivious, Grigori stood, waving at some distant point, towards imaginary friends, biding the new world goodbye.

Leo felt another tug on his arm. It was Raisa. She’d left her seat, taking hold of him. It was the first time she’d ever touched him. She whispered:

— Please, Leo, help that man.

Leo saw fear in her eyes, for Grigori certainly, but also for herself. She was afraid. That fear had brought her to him. Finally Leo knew what he had to offer – safety and protection. It was hardly a great talent. But, perhaps, in these dangerous times it would be enough, enough to create a home, enough to satisfy a wife, enough to make a person love him. Putting his hand on top of hers he said:

— I will try.

FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

Moscow
Novye Cheremushki
Khrushchev’s Slums
Apartment 1312
24 July 1965

Climbing the stairs, Leo Demidov’s shirt became damp with sweat, clinging to his back and stomach in transparent patches. His socks seeped with each squeeze of his toes. On the ground floor the elevator was broken: the door jammed half open, the light inside flickering like the eyes of a dying animal. Despite having to climb thirteen flights of stairs he encountered no other people. It was eerie for an apartment block to be silent in the middle of the day. No children played in the corridors, no mothers with shopping, no doors slamming shut or neighbours arguing – the bustle of ordinary life muffled by the heatwave now in its sixth day. In housing projects constructed in this fashion the concrete hoarded heat with the greed of a miser collecting gold. At the top of the stairs Leo paused, catching his breath before entering apartment 1312, unseen by the other occupants of the floor.

Surveying the cramped surroundings, he pinched the shirt off his torso as though it were a series of leeches feasting on him. He crossed the living area into the kitchen and ran his face under the water. The pressure was weak, the water disappointingly tepid. Nonetheless the sensation was pleasant and he remained underneath the stuttering flow with his eyes closed allowing the water to run over his cheeks, lips and eyelids. He turned the tap off, water dripping from his face, snaking down his neck. Opening the small window, he found the hinge stiff even though the building was only a few years old. The air outside was still, not a trace of wind, a block of heat wedged around the building. Opposite him the identically designed residential tower shimmered like a mirage: the vertical lines of thousands of windows quivering in the sunlight.

The apartment was typical in almost every way. There was only one small separate bedroom and consequently the living room had been crudely partitioned to create an additional sleeping area. This makeshift division was common in many households, a line hung from wall to wall with a sheet draped for privacy shielding two narrow single beds from the kitchen area. Leo moved to the borderline between the communal space and the designated sleeping area. Bags had been packed, one beside each bed, ready to go. He tested their weight. They were heavy, one notably more than the other. Over many years, having searched hundreds of apartments, he’d developed an acute sense for anything out of place. A person’s home revealed secrets in the same way that a suspect revealed their guilt, through the smallest details. In apartments, clues could be the amount of dust on a surface, tiny scratch marks on the floorboards or a single sooty fingerprint on a desk. Leo’s eyes were drawn to one of the beds. With the intense summer heat there were no blankets, just a thin sheet, enabling an easy view of the mattress. It displayed a small bump, like a headless pimple, almost imperceptible, hardly worthy of attention except to someone trained by the secret police.

Guided by these instincts, Leo crossed into the sleeping area and squeezed his hand under the mattress. His fingers touched the edge of a book. He pulled it free. It was a notebook with a hard cover. There was nothing written on it, no title or image. It was not one of the cheap flimsy books used by schoolchildren. The paper was expensive. The spine was stitched. He turned it over, checking to see how many of the pages were creased. Half the journal had been filled with writing, perhaps two hundred pages’ worth. He tipped it upside down, shaking the contents. Nothing fell out. With the preliminary examination over, he flicked to the first page. The handwriting was neat, small, precise, written in pencil, the tip of which had been kept pinpoint sharp. There were several faint smudges where words had been rubbed out and written over. Time and care had been spent on it. He’d examined many diaries in his lifetime. Often entries were written in haste, scrawled, words flung down without much thought. Careful redrafting was a promising indication that the diary contained valuable admissions.

The first entry was dated a year ago and Leo wondered if that marked the beginning of this volume, or the beginning of the author’s first diary. His question was answered by the opening sentence:

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

Leo shut the book with a snap. He was no longer an agent: he no longer firstd for the secret police. This was not the apartment of a suspect – it was his home. And this diary belonged to his daughter.

About to return the diary to its ill-considered hiding place, Leo heard the key in the front door. With a flush of panic, he calculated that he didn’t have enough time to return the book – he’d be caught in the act. Instead, he placed his hands, and the diary, behind his back. He took a step towards the door, away from the bed, looking up, like a soldier coming to attention.

Raisa, his wife, regarded him from the doorway, a bag by her side. She was alone. She shut the door, stepping into the apartment and disappearing into shadow. Even in the dark, Leo could feel her eyes judging him. His cheeks turned hot with embarrassment, different from the heat of the day, a burning sensation under his skin. Raisa had become his conscience. He could not lie to her and rarely made a decision of any importance without imagining how she’d react. She exerted a moral force, a pull upon his emotions as powerful as the moon on tidal forces. As his relationship with Raisa had developed, his relationship with the State had weakened – he wondered if he’d always suspected that would be the case, that by falling in love with her he knew his marriage to the MGB would end. Leo now worked as manager of a small factory, overseeing shipments, processing receipts, with a reputation among his staff as being scrupulously fair.

She took a step closer, coming out of the shadow and into the sunlight. To Leo’s mind she was more beautiful today than she had been as a young woman. There were faint lines about her eyes and her skin was no longer as taut and fragile as it had once been. Softness had crept into her features. Yet Leo loved these changes more than any ideal of youthful beauty or perfection. These were changes he’d witnessed: changes that had occurred while he’d been by her side, the marks of their relationship, the years they’d spent together, reminding him of the most important change of all. She loved him now. She had not loved him before.

Under her gaze Leo abandoned his intention to slip the diary back without her noticing and instead offered it to her. Raisa didn’t take it, looking down at the cover. He remarked:

— It’s Elena’s.

Elena was their younger daughter, seventeen years old, adopted early in their marriage.

—
Why do you have it?

—
I saw it under the mattress . . .

—
She’d hidden it?

—
Yes.

Raisa thought about this for a moment before asking:

—
Did you read it?

—
No.

—
No?

Like a novice in an interrogation, Leo capitulated under the slightest pressure:

— I read the first line and then closed the book. I was about to return it.

Raisa moved to the table, putting her shopping down. In the kitchen she filled a glass with water, turning her back on Leo for the first time since coming home. She finished the water in three long gulps and placed the glass in the sink, asking:

— What igirls had returned instead of me? They trust you, Leo. It’s taken a long time but they do. You’d risk that?

Trust was a euphemism for love. It was hard to be sure if Raisa was talking solely about their adopted daughters, or if she was indirectly referring to her own emotions. She continued:

— Why remind them of the past? Of the person you used to be? And the career you used to have? You’ve spent so many years putting that history behind you. It’s not part of this family any more. Finally the girls think of you as a father, not an agent.

There was calculated cruelty in the detail of her response, laying out their history with unnecessary elaboration. She was angry with him. She was hurting him. For the first time in the conversation Leo became animated, wounded by the remarks.

—
I saw something hidden under the mattress. Wouldn’t any man be curious? Wouldn’t any father have acted as I had?

—
But you’re not just any father.

She was right. He’d never be an ordinary husband. He’d never be an ordinary father. He would have to guard against the past as surely as he had once guarded against enemies of the State. There was regret in Raisa’s eyes. She said:

—
I didn’t mean that.

—
Raisa, I swear to you, I opened this diary as a father worried about his family. Elena has been acting strangely. You must have noticed?

—
She’s nervous about the trip.

— It’s more than that. Something is wrong.

Raisa shook her head.

— Not this again.

— I don’t want you to go. I can’t help feeling this way. This trip—

Raisa interrupted him.

— We made a decision. Everything is arranged. I know your feelings about the trip. You’ve opposed it from the beginning without giving any good reason. I’m sorry you’re not coming. I would love you to be there. I would feel more at ease with you by my side. And I petitioned for you to come with us. But it was impossible. There’s nothing more I can do. Except to pull out, without giving any reason, at the last minute, which would be far more dangerous than going, at least in my view.

Raisa glanced at the diary. She was tempted by it too.

— Now, please, put the diary back.

Leo clutched it, reluctant to let it go.

—
The first entry troubles me—

—
Leo.

Raisa hadn’t raised her voice. She didn’t need to.

He put the book back, positioning it carefully under the mattress, spine facing him, roughly half an arm’s depth away from the edge – the exact position he’d found it. He crouched down, examining to see if the mattress appeared disturbed in any way. Finished, he stepped back from the bed, conscious that Raisa had been watching him throughout.

Next Day

Leo couldn’t sleep. In a few hours Raisa would be leaving the country. Only in exceptional circumstances had they been apart for longer than a day. He’d fought in the Great Patriotic War – was a war hero decorated for bravery – yet the prospect of being alone unsettled him. He turned on his side, listening to the sound of her breathing. He imagined that she was breathing for both of them, timing his own breath with hers. Slowly he reached out and gently laid his hand on her side. Remaining asleep, she reacted to his touch, taking hold of his hand and pressing it against her stomach as if it were a precious keepsake. After a gentle squeeze of his hand her breathing returned to its rhythm. His anxieties about the trip almost certainly sprang from the fact that he didn’t want her to leave. It was possible he’d conjured worries about their plans, developed arguments about why they should stay at home – voiced opinions relating to safety and security merely for selfish reasons. He gave up on the idea that he might snatch even an hour of rest and slipped out of bed.

Navigating in the dark, his feet kicked her suitcase. It was packed and ready, at the foot of the bed as if eager to be on its way. He’d bought this case fifteen years ago, when he’d been an agent, when the exclusive shops were open to him. It was one of his first purchases, having been told that his duties would involve extensive travel. Excited by the prospect, puffed up by the importance bestowed upon him, he spent his entire weekly wage on this smart case, picturing himself criss-crossing the country, serving his nation wherever duty called. That proud, ambitious young man seemed a stranger now. The few luxury items he’d accumulated during his career had almost all been lost. This case, deposited at the back of a wardrobe, gathering dust, was all that remained from those days. He’d wanted to throw it out, and had expected his wife to welcome the decision. Despite having nothing but hatred for his former career, Raisa would not allow the luxury of such a symbolic gesture. With their current wages they’d never be able to replace it.

He checked his watch, holding it up to the window, catching the moonlight. Four in the morning – in just a few hours he would accompany his family to the airport, where he would say goodbye, remaining in Moscow. In the dark he dressed, stealthily leaving the bedroom. Opening the door he was surprised to see his younger daughter seated at the kitchen table in the dark. Her arms were in front of her, hands clasped, as if she were praying – deep in thought. Seventeen years old, Elena was a miracle to Leo: seemingly incapable of spite or malice, her character showing few scars, in contrast to Zoya, his elder daughter, who was often brusque, surly and aggressive, with a temper that could flare at the slightest provocation.

Elena looked up at him. He felt a shudder of guilt at the thought of discovering her diary, before reminding himself that he’d put it back without reading more than the opening sentence. He sat beside her and whispered:

— Can’t sleep?

She glanced across the room in Zoya’s direction. To avoid turning on a light and waking her, Leo lit a short stubby candle, tipping wax into the base of a tea glass and fixing the candle inside. Elena remained silent, hypnotized by the refracted light of the flame. His earlier observation that she was acting oddly was accurate. It was quite unlike her to be tense and reticent. If this had been an intervias part of an investigation Leo would have been sure that she was involved in something. But Leo was not an agent any more and he was annoyed that his thoughts were still organized according to the disciplines he’d been taught.

He took out a deck of cards. There was nothing else to do for the next couple of hours. Shuffling the deck, he whispered:

— Are you nervous?

Elena looked at him oddly.

—
I’m not a child any more.

—
A child? I know that.

She was angry with him. He pressed her:

— Is anything wrong?

She considered for some time, looking down at her hands, before answering with a shake of her head.

—
I’ve never flown before, that’s all. It’s silly, really.

—
You would tell me? If there was something wrong?

—
Yes, I’d tell you.

He did not believe her.

Leo dealt the first hand of cards, trying and failing to reassure himself that he’d done the right thing in not refusing to allow the trip. He’d protested as far as he was able, capitulating only when it seemed as if he was opposing the plan merely because he’d not been allowed to go with them. His decision to leave the KGB was a permanent mark on his record. There was no prospect of his ever being granted papers for travel abroad. It did not seem fair that his circumstances should hold them back. Opportunities to visit foreign countries were exceptionally rare. It was possible they’d never get another chance.

They’d been playing cards for no more than thirty minutes when Raisa appeared at the door. She smiled, which evolved into a yawn, and sat down with them, indicating that she wanted to be dealt in, muttering under her breath:

— I didn’t think there was much hope of getting a full night’s sleep.

Across the room there was a loud and deliberate sigh. Zoya sat up in bed. She pulled back the cloth dividing screen and surveyed the game. Leo was quick to apologize.

— Did we wake you?

Zoya shook her head.

— I couldn’t sleep.

Elena said:

— Were you listening to our conversation?

Walking towards them, Zoya smiled at her sister.

— Only in an attempt to fall asleep.

She took the remaining seat. The four of them, with hair dishevelled, lit only by the flicker of a candle, were a comical sight. Leo dealt to each player. He watched his family take up their cards. Had it been in his power he would’ve frozen time, halting the approaching dawn, stopping the sun from rising and delaying for eternity the moment when he’d have to say goodbye.