Tom Smith: Agent 6

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 protege.

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?