Tom Smith - Agent 6

About to place down a card, his arm froze, the two of spades pinched between his fingers. He could hear footsteps inthe corridor. It was almost midnight, an unlikely time for someone to return home. He waited, tracking the footsteps. They stopped outside his apartment. He dropped the card, hurrying to the door, opening it even before the person had even knocked. It was an agent wearing KGB uniform, a young man – his brow was dripping with sweat having climbed the thirteen flights of stairs. Leo spoke first.

– What’s happened?

– Leo Demidov?

– That’s right. What’s happened?

– Come with me.

– What is this about?

– You need to come with me.

– Does it concern my family?

– My instructions are to collect you. I’m sorry. That’s all I know.

It took a concerted act of discipline not to grip the agent by his shoulders and shake an answer from him. However, it was probably true that he knew nothing. Controlling himself, Leo returned to the apartment, hurrying towards Elena’s bed, sliding his hand under the mattress. The diary was gone.

*

In the car Leo placed his hands on his knees, remaining silent as he was driven into the centre of the city. His thoughts were ablaze with possibilities of what might have happened. He paid no attention to the journey, breaking from his anxious theorizing only when the car finally stopped. They were outside his former place of work, the Lubyanka – the headquarters of the KGB.

While the students ate lunch at the hotel, Raisa requested a phone call to her husband in Moscow, arguing that this was the only opportunity before the dress rehearsal that she would have to speak to him. The ability to lie convincingly was a talent that she had been forced to acquire as a young woman trying to survive during Stalin’s years of terror, fearful that every rejection from every man who made a pass at her would bring an allegation of anti-Soviet behaviour. In this instance she claimed that Leo’s elderly father was sickly and she wanted to make sure his condition had not worsened. She faced no resistance from the American authorities, who were more than happy to make arrangements, instead facing pressure from her colleagues, particularly Mikael Ivanov, who did not want members of the group phoning home. Raisa dismissed his objections: she was leading the delegation, not a homesick student, and a phone call to her husband was hardly an issue that need concern him, particularly if the Americans did not object. Of course, Raisa never believed the phone call would be private. The Americans and the Soviets would listen to every word. In view of such constraints, her dialogue needed to be coded. In her favour, Leo would understand from the mere fact of the phone call that something was wrong and she hoped, with careful phrasing, to communicate enough of events that he could offer an opinion. He would know very quickly whether there was something genuinely wrong or whether her anxiety was unwarranted.

Sitting in her hotel room, perched on the edge of the bed, she waited, staring at the phone on the side cabinet. If authorities in Moscow agreed to the request, Leo was going to be brought from their apartment to a phone. Once he was ready, the international call would be put through. Rationalizing both the Soviet and American position, she guessed that they were keen to hear what she had to say. If she made any remark the Soviets didn’t approve of the call would be cut short.

Almost an hour had passed, the students would be finishing lunch soon – the dress rehearsal was due to begin. Time was running out. Raisa stood up, pacing the room, uncertain if the call was going to happen. Belatedly it occurred to her that she’d never spoken to Leo on a telephone before.

The phone rang. She jumped for it. A voice in Russian said:

– We have your husband. Are you ready to take the call?

– Yes.

There was a pause, a click – a sound like the rustling of papers.

– Leo?

There was no reply. She waited. Her impatience got the better of her.

– Leo?

– Raisa.

His voice was distorted, almost unrecognizable. She pressed the phone close to her ear, fearful of losing a sound. It took restraint not to simply spill her emotions: she needed to tread carefully and remember the lies she’d told to set up the call.

– How is your father? Is he feeling better?

There was a long delay and it was difficult to interpret it as either Leo’s confusion or the connection. Finally he replied:

– My father is still unwell. But his condition is not any worse.

She smiled: Leo had not only realized that the lie was a pretext for calling, he’d left the excuse open in case she needed to call again. He asked, failing to conceal his anxiety:

– How is the trip?

Raisa was forced to respond indirectly, stating the points of concern without elaboration.

– Today I met officials at the United Nations, where the first concert is to be held, and they had no questions regarding the plans. Previously they’d been involved very closely. Today they accepted the plans without comment.

Once again there was a delay. Raisa waited, wondering what interpretation he’d offer. Finally he said:

– No comments?

His response was the same as hers. It was unusual for Soviet officials not to stamp their authority on plans, not to interfere.

– None.

– You must be… pleased?

– Surprised.

Raisa didn’t know how much time she had. It was essential she bring up the second point troubling her.

– Leo, the girls are nervous. Elena particularly.

– Elena?

– She doesn’t seem herself. She spends a lot of time on her own.

– Have you spoken to her?

– She says nothing’s wrong.

The phone crackled against Raisa’s ear, reminding her of the fragility of the connection, it could be cut at any point. Suddenly frantic, she blurted out:

– Leo, I don’t believe her. What should I do?

The delay was so long that she was sure the call had been terminated. She asked:

– Leo? Leo!

Leo’s voice was firm.

– Don’t allow her to attend the concert. Raisa, youhear me? Don’t allow There was a click. The phone crackled. The connection was lost.

Moscow

Lubyanka Square

The Lubyanka, Headquarters of the Secret Police

Same Day

Leo repeated Raisa’s name, raising his voice each time. The phone was silent. The connection was dead.

The door to the office opened. He’d been left alone during the conversation, an absurd illusion of privacy and a deeply cynical ploy, no doubt in the hope that he would lower his guard. It was simply ridiculous to imagine that his conversation hadn’t been recorded and scrutinized. A woman entered the office, saying:

– I’m sorry, Leo Demidov: the connection was broken.

The woman appeared to be a secretary. She was not in uniform. He asked:

– Can we reach my wife again?

The woman squeezed her lips, compressing them into a feeble imitation of a sympathetic smile.

– Perhaps you can talk tomorrow.

– Why can’t you put me through now?

– Tomorrow.

Her condescending tone, heavy with the implication that she was reasonable and he was not, infuriated Leo.

– Why not now?

– I’m sorry, that’s not possible.

The woman’s apologies were flat and insincere. Leo was still clutching the phone, holding it out towards the woman as if he expected her to bring it back to life.

– I need to speak to my wife.

– She’s on her way to the dress rehearsal. You can talk tomorrow.

The lie increased Leo’s unease. For her to have the authority to lie meant that she was an agent. He shook his head.