Tom Smith - Agent 6

– The older sister has been watching the television.

– And the younger sister? Elena?

– She went swimming.

– When did she go?

The translator checked the log.

– She left the room at ten a.m.

– Did you report this?

– She was followed to the pool.

– Has she returned?

– No.

– All those hours at a swimming pool? You don’t think it’s strange she hasn’t returned?

Jim picked up the translator’s empty coffee mug, banging it against the table – a startlingly loud noise in the otherwise hushed atmosphere of the room. Everyone looked at him.

– I want to know the location of one of the girls, Elena, eighteen years old. She was reported to be in the swimming-pool area.

An agent raised his hand, said nervously:

– The girl was followed into the swimming-pool area. We have an agent outside.

– Is she still there?

– She hasn’t left.

– The agent can see her? Right now – he can see what’s she doing?

There was silence, then a hesitant response.

– The agent isn’t in the pool area. He’s stationed outside. But she hasn’t passed him. She has to be in there.

– You’re willing to bet your career on that, are you?

The man’s confidence fell away. He began to stammer:

– That’s the only way into the pool. If she hasn’t passed him she’s got to be in there.

Yates didn’t bother to reply, hastening towards the doors, running past the elevator, and taking the steps up to the pool two at a time.

Seated in a cab, Elena glanced at her watch. She was late. The students were due to meet up in minutes. Everything had taken longer than she’d expected – far longer to drive to Harlem, longer to get into Mr Austin’s apartment and longer to get out again. Fearful that the American secret police were watching, she’d been guided out of Austin’s building through the back. She’d waved goodbye to Austin unsure whether he would show up tonight. He had not made any promises. She’d done all she could.

The hotel was up ahead, only five hundred metres away, but the traffic wasn’t moving. Not knowing the correct English phrase she said:

– I pay now.

She put some money down, far too much, not waiting for her change. She jumped out and ran down the street. Instead of heading to the main entrance she turned down the hotel service alley. A series of steel ladders were attached to the back wall, leading up to the sun terrace on the fifth floor – a fire escape for those caught outside if the main pool area and corridor were impassable. Before climbing the ladder, Elena took off her clothes. Underneath her blouse and skirt she was wearing a swimsuit. When she’d climbed down this morning a bundle of clothes and a pair of shoes had been left for her, disguised and hidden behind the huge trashcans. Elena had no idea who planted the clothes, a member of the CPUSA perhaps. She threw these temporary clothes into the garbage before climbing the ladder. Red-faced and out of breath, she reached the fifth-floor sun terrace, peering over the edge. It was a sunny day a bunde terrace was crowded. She climbed up, walking determinedly towards the pool, unsure whether anyone had caught sight of her unusual entrance.

The man she’d seen in Harlem, the American police agent, was by the edge of the pool. She couldn’t enter without being seen. If he’d already checked the sun terrace he would be suspicious if she suddenly appeared. He might find the fire escape. He might find her clothes in the garbage. The only place he couldn’t have checked was the women’s changing rooms. It was accessible from both the pool and the outside deck. Elena switched direction, walking away from the agent. She pushed on the door and stepped inside.

Heading towards her locker, a hand came down on her shoulder. Startled, she turned. It was Raisa.

– Where have you been?

– I was in the sauna.

The lie was a flash of improvised genius. Elena’s face was red and sweaty. Raisa seemed to mull over this explanation and Elena realized had Zoya been in this position Raisa would’ve questioned her further. Instead, Raisa nodded, accepting it as the truth. Elena picked up a towel, wrapping it around her. Raisa asked:

– Did you come down from the room in your swimsuit?

Elena shook her head, retrieving her clothes from the locker. She was about to change when Raisa stopped her.

– You can shower and change in your room. Hurry, we’re late.

Elena was annoyed at being spoken to as if she were a child and any guilt she might have felt about her secret enterprise quickly faded.

Stepping into the corridor they came to face to face with the American secret-police officer – the man from Harlem. His eyes were bloodshot, red capillaries like the roots of a tree branching out from his black pupils, patches of perspiration on his shirt. Elena tried to remain calm. Raisa asked, speaking in English:

– Can I help you?

Yates looked down at Elena, ignoring Raisa. He reached out, placing a finger on the side of Elena’s face, catching a drop of sweat. He held the drop of sweat up to his eye, as though it were evidence.

– I’m FBI officer Yates. I’m going to be watching the both of you very closely from now on.

Raisa glanced down at Elena, then back at Yates. Yates stepped out of their way.

*

Raisa remained silent in the elevator. When Elena tried to speak she angrily gestured for her to say nothing. On the twentieth floor they walked at a brisk pace to the girls’ room. Not until Raisa was inside and had locked the door did she speak.

– I need you to tell me if something is going on. Don’t lie to me.

Raisa grabbed Elena’s arm tight. Elena was shocked.

– You’re hurting me!

– What is going on?

Zoya joined them.

– What’s happened?

Raisa was looking at Elena.

– Elena, tell me, right now, what are you involved in?

Uncomfortable under her stare, Elena turned to the television. On the screen a brightly coloured cartoon car drove off a cliff, exploding in a shower of blue and green and pink stars. Her reply was a whisper.

– Nothing.

Raisa let go of her daughter’s arm, in quiet disbelief at what she was about to say.

– I don’t believe you.

Leo was not expecting to have any word from or contact with his family for the duration of their trip. The same was true for every family who’d said goodbye to a son or daughter. They’d been told it was too complicated to arrange a phone call unless there was an emergency. Two days had passed since Leo had watched their plane take off for New York while he remained at the airport, among the remnants of the farewell ceremony. When everyone made their way from the viewing platform as the airliner disappeared into the distance, Leo remained standing long after it could no longer be seen. His family would be gone for eight days. To Leo it felt an impossibly long time.

The heatwave showed no sign of abating. It was approaching midnight and Leo sat at his kitchen table, wearing a vest and a pair of shorts, a glass of lukewarm water on the table, cards spread before him, his life on hold until his family returned. The cards were a distraction, an anaesthetic that gently numbed his impatience. He concentrated on the game at hand, achieving a meditative state of thoughtlessness. The nights were more difficult than the days. At work he was able to keep busy, resorting to cleaning the factory floor, perhaps the only manager ever to do so, in an attempt to push towards a state of physical exhaustion so that he might be able to sleep. At home, his strategy revolved around playing cards until he was on the brink of sleep, until he could hold his eyes open no longer. Last night he’d slept at the table, concerned that if he made the move to the bedroom he’d wake up and his chance of catching even an hour’s sleep would slip away. Tonight he was waiting for that same moment, the point at which his eyes became heavy and he could lower his head onto the table, face pressed against the upturned cards, relieved that another day had passed.