Tom Smith - Agent 6

– 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.

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.

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.