Agent 6 (8 page)

Manhattan
2nd Avenue Subway Station
Same Day

Leaving the subway station, Osip Feinstein walked slowly, ambling in a haphazard fashion, taking on the air of an eccentric gentleman down on his luck, an effective trick because it was not too far from the truth. His slow walk was a crude measure designed to expose anyone shadowing him, normally young FBI agents who were physiologically incapable of appearing casual, remaining stiff and upright as if their skin had been starched rigid along with their shirts. Normally Osip was followed once a month in what seemed to be routine FBI harassment rather than a concerted attempt to build a case against him. However, for the past month he’d been followed every day. The step-up in surveillance was dramatic. Members of the Communist Party of America were reporting a similar increase in FBI activity. Osip felt sorry for them. The vast majority weren’t spies. They were believers, nurturing dreams of revolutions, equality and fairness – card-carrying supporters of a legitimate political party. It didn’t matter that Communism was not a crime. Their political allegiance resulted in their lives being placed under intense scrutiny. They were plagued with accusations. Their employers were presented with dossiers containing nothing more than speculation regarding their employees’ out-of-hour activities, dossiers that concluded:

A company or firm is judged by the behavior of its employees.

Underneath there was a telephone number. Every employer was being asked to spy for the State. So far this year three men had lost their jobs. One had suffered a nervous breakdown as his family, friends and casual acquaintances were brought in for questioning. One woman no longer left the house, certain she was being watched.

Osip paused, glancing back, assessing the people behind him. None of them stopped or looked at him. He crossed the street abruptly then ambled at a slow pace for some hundred or so metres before breaking into a brisk walk. Turning down another street, then another, he’d almost looped back to where he’d started. He reassessed the people behind him before continuing on his way.

The location for the meeting was an ugly low-rise, cooked by the summer sun, filled with beaten-down immigrants, just like him. Maybe not just like him; he doubted many of them were working as spies, although you could never be sure. The entrance area was busy, people lingering outside, squatting on the steps in the balmy evening. Osip’s clothes were appropriately threadbare, his face sallow. No one paid him any attention: maybe he fitted in or maybe they just didn’t care about a down-and-out fifty-seven-year-old man. He entered the apartment building, his shirt becoming sticky with perspiration as he stepped into the corridors. The evening was humid and the putrid muggy air hung around him like a shroud. Climbing the stairs, he wheezed his way up to the seventh floor. Even with the lowest of expectations, he was surprised at how awful this place was. There were stains on the walls as if the whole building were sick, suffering rashlike symptoms. He knocked at apartment 63. The door gave a little.

— Hello?

There was no reply. He pushed the door wide open.

The dregs of sunset, filtered by filthy net curtains, threw skewed shadows about the room. A narrow corridor passed a narrow bathroom leading narrow bedroom. There was a single bed, a fold-down table and a chair. An exposed light bulb hung from the ceiling. The bed linen hadn’t been changed in months, shimmering with grease. The smell was oppressive. Osip pulled out the chair and sat down. In the soupy warm air, he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.

Faintly aware of a figure in the room with him, Osip awoke from his sleep, straightening up and closing his mouth. There was a man at the door. The sun had set. The light from the overhead bulb was weak. Osip wasn’t sure whether it had been turned on by the man or whether it had always been on. The man locked the front door. He was carrying a cracked leather sports bag. He surveyed the room, the greasy bed linen. From the disgust on his face it was obvious the apartment didn’t belong to him. The man pulled the comforter across the bed before perching on the edge. He was in his late thirties, or early forties; everything about him seemed substantial, his arms, his legs and chest, his facial features. He rested the bag on his knees, unzipping it, taking out something small – tossing it towards Osip, who caught it. In his palm was a wrap of opium. In a movement perfected over many years, he secreted the wrap into an inside pocket of his jacket with a small hole that enabled it to drop into the lining. Many agents had addictions, some to gambling, some to alcohol. Osip smoked most nights until he passed out, lying on his back and feeling the most wonderful sensation in the world – nothing at all. Dependency on the drug served a secondary purpose. It made his superiors, and those in the Soviet Union reviewing his activities, less suspicious. His addiction allowed them to feel in control of him. They owned him. He depended on them. His code name was Brown Smoke. Though it conveyed a degree of contempt, Osip liked it. It made him sound like a Native American, which for an immigrant spy was an irony, he supposed.

It was doubtful that this man was an FBI undercover agent. He hadn’t said a word. An undercover agent would have already told a hundred nervous lies. He reached into the bag for a second time. Osip leaned forward, anxious to see what he would pull out next. It was a camera, with a telescopic lens. Osip said:

— This is for me?

The man didn’t reply, placing the camera on the table. Osip continued:

— I think there’s been some mistake. I’m not a field operative.

The man’s voice was coarse and low, more like a growl than speech.

— If you’re not an operative, what are you? You provide us with no useful information. You claim that you are developing spies. These spies give us nothing.

Osip shook his head, pretending to be indignant.

—
I have risked my life—

—
A calculated risk from a man with nothing to lose. You’re an expert in doing as little as possible. Time has caught up with you. Many thousands of dollars have been paid to you, and for what?

—
I am happy to discuss what more I can do for the Soviet Union.

—
The discussions have already taken place. We’ve decided what you must do.

—
Then I’d counsel that those demands be aligned with my skills.

The man scratched his chest through his shirt then looked at his nails, surprisingly long, and spotlessly clean.

— Something very important is about to happen. For it to succeed two things need to be done. You were given a camera. Let me show you what I was given.

The man placed a gun on the table.

Airspace over New York City
Same Day

The cloud cover parted as neatly as if a hand had pulled back a theatrical curtain revealing New York City to the audience circling in the sky. The Hudson River split like a tuning fork around the narrow island of Manhattan, on which the fabled skyscrapers were so neat and numerous that the city appeared as a geometric creation composed entirely of straight lines. Raisa had expected New York to be vast, even from the sky, a colossus of steel, with eight-lane roads and cars in ant-like lines that stretched for miles. Regarding the United States for the first time, she found herself holding her breath, an adventurer who’d finally reached a place of lore and legend – comparing myth with reality. This was not only her first glimpse of America, it was her first time in an airliner, the first city she’d ever seen from the sky. The moment was dreamlike although Raisa had never actually dreamt of coming here. Her dreams, modest as they were in scope, had always been confined within the borders of the USSR. The prospect of visiting America had never crossed her mind. Of course, she’d speculated about the nation vilified by her government, posited as their greatest enemy, a society upheld as an example of corruption and moral degeneracy. She’d never believed these assertions outright. Occasionally it had been necessary as a teacher to repeat the statements, striking a tone of anger and outrage, fearful her students would denounce her if she moderated the descriptions of the United States. Yet whether she believed them or not, these lies must have influenced her. This city and this country were a concept, not a real place, an idea controlled by the Kremlin. The Soviet media was only allowed to publish photographs of soup kitchens, lines of the unemployed, juxtaposed beside images of the vast homes of the rich, men whose stomachs strained against the cut of their bespoke suits. After years of mystery, the city was sprawled beneath her, fully exposed, like a patient on a surgical table, ready for her without comment or qualifications, without the accompaniment of a polemical propaganda narration.

Suddenly fearful that she’d made a mistake in bringing her daughters to this strange new world, Raisa regarded Elena, beside her, peering through the small window as the airliner circled.

— What do you think?

Elena was so excited she didn’t hear the question. Raisa tapped her shoulder, suggesting:

— The city is smaller than I expected.

Elena turned around, able only to say:

— We’re really here!

She returned her attention to the window, staring down at the city. Raisa stood up, looking over the back of her seat at her elder daughter in the row behind. Zoya was also pressed up against the window, like a young child, her eyes hungry for every detail. Raisa sat back down, reassured that she’d done the right thing in bringing them to New York – it was a remarkable opportunity.

The pilot announced their approach, explaining that preparations were being made for their arrival at the airport, no doubt a ceremony of some kind. At an elaborate departure ceremony in Moscow they’d been told that the pilot was the same man who had flown Khrushchev to the United States on his countrywide visit in 1959 and that this was the exact same plane used by the Premier, one of the few planes that could travel such a distance without needing to refuel. Concerned about their international image, the Kremlin had insisted that the delegation land in New York in the most advanced airliner in the world.

As the Tupolev 114 circled out to sea, readying to land at John F. Kennedy airport, Raisa caught sight of a smaller island located off the lower tip of Manhattan. She pressed her finger up against the window, telling Elena:

— You see that?

Elena face was still close to the window, fearful that she might miss some wonder:

— Yes, I see it. What is it?

Raisa squeezed her daughter’s arm.

— It’s the Statue of Liberty.

Elena turned around for the first time since the cloud had parted.

— What is that?

At nearly seventeen years old Elena had no idea about the city she was about to arrive in. While Raisa had been prepared to risk her own life reading banned books and illegally imported magazines, she would never have allowed her daughters to read them. In the conflict between her instincts as a teacher and her instincts as a protective mother, the mother always won out. She’d deliberately sheltered her daughters, shielding them from any knowledge that might taint them. By way of explanation she merely said:

— A famous New York landmark.

Glancing at the excited faces of the Soviet students who filled the cabin, Raisa couldn’t deny that she felt a sense of pride muddled with her anxiety. She’d been intimately involved in the planning and development of this trip. Her position on it hadn’t been won through political connections. In fact, the opposite was true: she’d needed to overcome serious questions about her past. Leo was a pariah in the complex political landscape of Moscow: his reputation was ruined by his refusal to work for the State security forces. Over the last ten years he’d maintained a low profile while she’d become an increasingly prominent figure in the education system. Promoted to director at her secondary school she held regular meetings with the ministry on topics such as literacy levels. Her school had achieved improvements that she would’ve dismissed as propaganda had she not been involved. It was a peculiar reversal of fortunes. Leo, once powerful and well connected, was now isolated, cut off from advancement, while her career had grown, pushing her closer to the corridors of power. Yet there was never any suggestion of jealousy. He was far happier now than she’d ever known him. He loved his family. He lived for them. He would die for them: of that there was no doubt. She felt a pang of sadness that he was not here to share this experience with them. She wasn’t sure whether he’d enjoy New York, he’d almost certainly be on edge, alert for plot and intrigue, but regardless, he would always enjoy being with them.

Considering the level of hostility between the two countries the trip had been labelled as naive by many commentators. A delegation of Soviet students was to perform concrts in New York and Washington DC in an effort to improve relations between the two nations. It seemed like a fanciful idea. Recent diplomatic incidents had been grave: the Cuban Missile Crisis had brought the countries to the brink of nuclear war. While other incidents were relatively trivial in comparison, such as the Soviet Union being excluded from New York’s World Fair, they’d contributed to a worsening sentiment. Tensions were high. Against this backdrop the notion of a school visit had gained favour with governments on both sides. Since neither nation could be seen to capitulate on critical military issues, there were few avenues open diplomatically. Though seemingly slight, agreeing to these concerts was one of the few concessions either country was prepared to make.

Diplomats on both sides had thrashed out the official aim of the trip, entitled
THE INTERNATIONAL STUDENTS’ PEACE TOUR:

The hope is for the children of today to know only peace in their lifetime.

The Soviet students ranged in age from twelve to twenty-three and were drawn from every region. They were to be partnered with an exact match of American students drawn from across fifty states. On stage the two nations would be intermingled, standing side by side, hand in hand, performing before the world’s media and diplomatic elite. It was a crude political exercise and on occasion the preparations had descended into farce: there had been discussions about whether the weight and height of each student needed to be balanced to avoid one set of students appearing more substantial on stage. Despite these absurdities, Raisa thought the premise admirable. She’d originally been asked to nominate a selection of students who’d best represent the country and had enthusiastically become involved with the planning. Unexpectedly she’d been asked to head up the tour. Her only stipulation had been that she’d didn’t feel comfortable leaving her daughters behind. Elena and Zoya had therefore been included. While Zoya found representing her country problematic – she had no love for the State, with a rebellious spirit that she could barely manage to control – she was shrewd enough to appreciate that the opportunity to travel would almost certainly never arise again. Furthermore, it was unthinkable to decline such an offer. She wanted to become a surgeon at a prestigious hospital. She needed to appear a model citizen. They’d witnessed the repercussions to Leo when he’d declined to work as a secret-police officer. In contrast to her older sister, Elena had no qualms about the trip: she couldn’t have been more thrilled and had begged Raisa to take the position.

The airliner made its descent, the gentle rocking briefly muting the excitement of the passengers. Several gasps could be heard among the group of students and some of the teachers. Considering their inexperience as travellers, they’d remained remarkably calm during the flight. As they passed through the patchy cloud, Elena took hold of Raisa’s hand. Whichever way she looked at it, today was a remarkable moment. Not only had Raisa never dreamt that one day she would visit the United States, she’d never imagined she would have a family of her own. Her situation had been so desperate as a teenager – a refugee during the Great Patriotic War – that her ambition had been no grander than to survive. Even today she found it a miracle that she’d been fortunate enough to adopt two daughters that she both admired and loved.

Touching down, the cabin remained in a state of stunned silence, as if sceptical that they’d made the transition from the sky to the ground. They were now on American soil. The pilot announced:

— Look out your window! On the right-hand side!

At once everyone unbuckled their seatbelts, rushing to the windows and peering out. Raisa was ordered by the cabin attendant to hurry the students back into their seats, an instruction she ignored, unable to resist sneaking a look out of the window herself. There were thousands of people outside. There were balloons and banners, written in English and Russian.

WELCOME TO AMERICA!

Raisa said:

— Who are those people for?

The cabin attendant replied:

— They’re for you.

The plane came to a standstill. The doors opened. As soon as they did, a school brass band began to play, the noise filling the cabin. In a state of dumb bewilderment the passengers lined up in the aisle. Raisa was at the front. The school band was at the foot of the stairway, playing with great gusto rather than great finesse. Raisa was nudged down the stairs, one of the first to step onto the tarmac. The press was to one side, perhaps as many as twenty photographers, flashbulbs popping. Raisa turned around, unsure what she was meant to do or where she was supposed to go. They’d been told to leave their bags onboard so they would be free to enjoy the reception. A welcome party greeted them, smiling and shaking their hands.

Raisa saw a small group of men, apart from the others. They were wearing suits, hands deep in their pockets. Their faces were hostile. She knew without seeing a badge, or a gun, that they were America’s secret police.

*

FBI agent Jim Yates watched the Soviet delegation form three neat rows, the shortest at the front, tallest at the back. The band, the balloons, the audience, the photographers flashing their cameras like these kids were film stars, and not one of them smiled, their expressions rigid, their mouths narrow. Like machines, he thought, just like machines.