Tom Smith - Agent 6

– I thought maybe I was no longer of any use to you.

He’d not meant to sound self-pitying. The young Russian girl shook her head.

– There was a school programme only two years ago to write to you when we heard of your difficulties with the authorities. Thousands of students composed letters of support. I myself wrote you a letter three pages long. They were posted to you. Surely some came through?

– No, nothing.

– We feared this would happen. They were intercepted. The American secret police open all your mail.

Jesse had long suspected that his mail was being intercepted though had no idea it was to this extent. He pictured the young FBI agents given the job of reading them all, hundreds of letters by children, analysed and fed through the most sophisticated automated code breakers. Elena continued:

– We also asked members of the American Communist Party to talk to you but they failed to persuade you to attend the concert.

Jesse became annoyed at the mention of the CPUSA.

– American Communists spend all their time bickering among each other. They’ve never achieved a thing worth mentioning. Why would I do anything for them?

We would have tried to call you…

The Russian girl blushed, not meaning to draw attention to their depressed circumstances. They no longer owned a phone. She continued:

– That’s why I had to come in person. But that is not the only reason. I’m here to tell you that regardless of whether you come to the concert tonight, you have not been forgotten in Russia as you have been in the United States. I am seventeen years old and you are a hero of mine. You are a hero for many Russians regardless of their age. You are played on the radio. Your popularity today is greater than ever before. That is the reason I wanted to come here today, Mr Austin, because we have heard your enemies tell you so many lies. We want to tell you the truth. You are admired and you are loved! You will never be forgotten and your music will never stop being played.

Jesse felt as if he’d been unfrozen from a block of ice, warm joy passing through his body. His music wasn’t lost. His songs were being enjoyed in another country even though his library of work had been erased from America’s consciousness. No longer listened to in his own country, his work could still be heard abroad. Overwhelmed, he moved to the table, forced to sit down. Anna moved towards him, taking his hands.

– What is it? What did she say?

– My music is still being played.

It was true that he’d felt abandoned by the nation and the party for which he’d sacrificed so much. To hear that this was not the case was a powerful salve to the many hurts inflicted over the years.

Turning back to the young girl, he asked:

– Who sent you?

Elena answered in Russian:

– My instructions are from the highest levels of the Soviet government. If nothing else comes of this meeting than my message of appreciation then that is enough. However, we are keen for us to do more together. We understand that you can no longer speak onstage or in concert halls because those venues will no longer employ you. When that first happened we were told that you reacted by speaking on street corners, refusing to give in, improvising venues, turning a parking lot into an auditorium. Ye t we have reports that you no longer speak in any capacity.

Jesse dropped his head. He’d initially fought against the FBI’s tactics by taking his words to the streets, standing atop a crate, a fruit box, the hood of a car, calling out to anyone who’d listen. That was the past. He hadn’t given a speech like that for at least two years. It wasn’t merely the frequent interruptions by patrol officers or being arrested for disturbing the peace. The passing audience was often indifferent and some were even abusive. He sighed a response in English.

– That is a young man’s game.

Anna squeezed his hands. There was agitation in her voice:

– Did Yates see her when she came in? Ask her, Jesse. He repeated Anna’s question. Elena replied:

– Yates is an American secret-police officer? I saw him. But I was very careful. That was why I approached the apartment from the back.

Jesse translated. Far from appeasing his wife, it made her angry.

– Do you understand what you’ve done by coming here? Do you understand the danger? What more can you ask from him? What more can he give you? Look around! What is there left to take?

Anna rarely lost her temper. Jesse stood up, putting his hands on his wife’s arms. But that only infuriated her further. She pushed him away, refusing to be silenced, pointing to the pile of albums stacked in the corner, addressing the Russian girl as though she represented the Soviet regime:

– You see this? This is the only way he can sell his records now. He prints them privately because no record company will sign him. He sells them by subscription to the fans that still remember him. Once, he sold millions. Now how many do you sell, Jesse? How many subscribers do you have? Tell her!

With Elena’s limited English, she could piece together only a little of the meaning. She understood the conversation about the albums in the corner of the room. According to Mikael, the CPUSA had offered Mr Austin direct subsidies as soon as the FBI had started undermining his career. He had declined, repeating his stance that he’d never taken any money from the Soviet government – he’d never accepted a bribe or a payment or gift of any kind. Mr Austin crouched by the heap of records, his back to both Anna and Elena. He said in Russian:

– Five hundred. That’s all I have left. I have five hundred subscribers. Five hundred fans…

Elena knew that of the private subscribers who bought his self-produced albums, the CPUSA made up four hundred. It had been the only way to support Austin without him finding out. She ventured off her carefully prepared script:

– May I ask you something? I was not told to ask this. It is a question I would like to put to you. It is a personal question.

– Please, ask me anything.

Elena caught Anna’s eye and switched into broken English.

– Why do you support the Soviet Union? Why do you give so much?

The question had a profound impact on both Mr Austin and his wife. They looked at each other and in that instant their conflict seemed to disappear. They did not answer. And for a moment they seemed to forget that Elena was in the room.

Elena checked her watch: she needed to return to the hotel. It was approaching midday.

– Please, Mrs Austin, I do not have much time. I must speak in Russian again.

She switched back to her native language.

– As you know, tonight we’re performing a concert at the United Nations Headquarters. The world’s press will be there. The most important diplomats will be there. We want you to be there too. We tried to arrange for you and your wife to have official tickets but the organizers blocked us. So I am here to ask you to wait outside, on the street, to give one of your speeches, if you feel up to it, to show that you have not been silenced. When the concert is finished, a few of the Soviet students will exit through the main doors. We will surround you, cheering and clapping. This moment will be the photograph that defines the whole trip. Everyone in the United States will be reminded of the injustice done to you. Please, Mr Austin, tell me you’ll be there. This is our way of doing mething for you.

Carried away with the energy of her plea, Elena placed a hand on his arm.

Same Day

Osip Feinstein crouched on the rooftop of the block opposite Jesse Austin’s apartment. If the Russian girl hadn’t turned up, the job of persuading Jesse would have fallen to him and he doubted very much he would’ve succeeded. With his camera he’d followed the events in the apartment, taking photographs of the two of them together: the young girl and the singer, a man who could’ve been living in a penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park instead of this slum. He was doped up on a drug far more toxic and powerful than opium, addicted to righteous ideology. Osip clicked the camera, shooting the scene before him. The last photograph would be the most incriminating – her frail white hand on his big black arm, the rumpled bed sheets in the background.