Tom Smith: Agent 6

– And she responded…?

Grigori seemed unsure whether the question was put to him by a friend or by a superior officer. When he understood that Leo was genuinely curious, he answered:

– How else do you meet someone except to introduce yourself? I spoke about her art. I told her that I’d seen some of her work – which is true. The conversation continued from there. She was easy to talk to, friendly.

Leo found this extraordinary.

– She wasn’t suspicious?

– No.

– She should have been.

Briefly they’d been speaking as friends, about matters of the heart, now they were agents again. Grigori sank his head.

– Yes, you’re right, she should have been.

He wasn’t angry with Leo. He was angry with himself. His connection with the artist was built on a lie: his affection was founded on artifice and deception.

Surprising himself, Leo offered the diary to Grigori.

– Take it.

Grigori didn’t move, trying to figure out what was happening. Leo smiled.

– Take it. She is free to continue her work as an artist. There’s no need to press the case further.

– You’re sure?

– I found nothing in the diary.

Understanding that she was safe, Grigori smiled. He reached out, pulling the diary from Leo’s hands. As the pages slipped out of his grip, Leo felt an outline pressed into the paper – it wasn’t a letter or a word but some kind of shape, something he hadn’t seen.

– Wait.

Taking the diary back, Leo opened the page, examining the top right-hand corner. The space was blank. Yet when he touched the other side he could feel the indented lines. Something had been rubbed out.

He took a pencil, brushing the side of the lead against the paper, revealing the ghost of a small doodle, a sketch not much larger than his thumb. It was a woman standing on a plinth holding a torch, a statue. Leo stared blankly until realizing what it was. It was an American monument. It was the Statue of Liberty. Leo studied Grigori’s face.

Grigori stumbled over his words:

– She’s an artist. She sketches all the time.

– Why has it been rubbed out?

He had no answer.

– You tampered with evidence?

There was panic in Grigori’s reply.

– When I first joined the MGB, on my first day, I was told a story about Lenin’s secretary, Fotievam. She claims that Lenin asked his chief of security, Felix Dzierzynski, how many counterrevolutionaries he had under arrest. Dzierzynski passed him a slip of paper with the number one thousand five hundred written on it. Lenin returned the paper, marking it with a cross. According to his secretary, a cross was used by Lenin to show he had read a document. Dzierzynski misunderstood and executed all of them. That is why I had to rub it out. This sketch could have been misunderstood.

Leo thought it an inappropriate reference. He’d heard enough.

– Dzierzynski was the father of this agency. To compare your predicament with his is ludicrous. We are not permitted the luxury of interpretation. We are not judges. We don’t decide what evidence to present and destroy. If she is innocent, as you claim, that will be found out during further questioning. In your misguided attempt to protect her, you’ve incriminated yourself.

– Leo, she’s a good person.

– You’re infatuated with her. Your judgement is compromised. Leo’s voice had become harsh and cruel. He heard himself and softened his tone.

– Since the evidence is intact, I see no reason to draw attention to your mistake, a mistake that would certainly end your career. Write up your report, mark the sketch as evidence and let those more experienced than us decide.

He added:

– And Grigori, I cannot protect you again.

Leo exhaled on the window, causing it steam up. Childlike, he pressed his finger against the condensation and without thinking traced the outline of the Statue of Liberty – a crude version of the sketch he’d seen today. He hastily rubbed it away with the coarse cuff of his jacket and glanced around. The sketch would have been unrecognizable to anyone except himself and the tramcar was almost empty: there was only one other passenger, a man seated at the front, wrapped up against the cold in so many layers that the smallest patch of his face was visible. Having made sure no one had witnessed his sketch he concluded there was no reason to be alarmed. Usually so careful, he found it hard to believe he’d made such a dangerous slip. He was running too many late-night arrests and even when he wasn’t working, he was finding it difficult to sleep.

Except for early in the morning and late at night, tramcars were crowded. Painted with a thick stripe in their centre, they rattled around the city like giant boiled sweets. Often Leo had no choice except to force his way on. With seating for fifty, there were typically twice that number, the aisles filled with commuters jostling for position. Tonight Leo would’ve preferred the discomfort of a busy carriage, elbows jutting into his side and people pushing past. Instead he had the luxury of an empty seat, heading home to the privilege of an empty apartment – accommodation he was not obliged to share, another perk of his profession. A man’s status had become defined by how much empty space surrounded him. Soon he’d be designated his own car, a larger home, perhaps even a dacha, a country house. More and more space, less and less contact with the people he was charged with keeping watch over.

The words dropped into Leo’s head: How Love Begins.

He’d never been in love, not in the way described in the diary – excitement at the prospect of seeing someone again and sadness as soon as they went away. Grigori had risked his life for a woman he barely knew. Surely that was an act of love? Love did seem to be characterized by foolhardiness. Leo had risked his life for his country many times. He’d shown exceptional bravery and dedication. If love was sacrifice then his only true love had been for the State. And the State had loved him back, like a favourite son, rewarding and empowering him. It was ungrateful, disgraceful, that the thought should even cross his mind that this love was not enough.

He slid his hands under his legs, mining the space for any trace of warmth. Finding none, he shivered. The soles of his boots splashed in the shallow puddles of melted snow on the steel carriage floor. There was heaviness in his chest as if he were suffering from the flu with no symptoms except fatigue and dullness of thought. He wanted to lean against the window, close his eyes and sleep. The glass was too cold. He wiped a fresh patch of condensation clear and peered out. The tram crossed the bridge, passing through streets heaped with snow. More was falling, large flakes against the window.

The tramcar slowed to a stop. The front and back doors clattered open, snow swept in. The driver turned to the open door, calling out into the night:

– Hurry up! What are you waiting for?

A voice replied:

– I’m kicking the snow off my boots!

– You’re letting more snow in than you’re kicking off. Get in now or I’ll shut the doors!

The passenger boarded, a woman carrying a heavy bag, her boots clad in clumps of snow. As the doors shut behind her she remarked to the driver:

– It’s not that warm in here anyway.

The driver gestured outside.

– You prefer to walk?

She smiled, defusing the tension. Won over by her charm, the gruff driver smiled too.

The woman turned, surveying the carriage and catching Leo’s eye. He recognized her. They lived near each other. Her name was Lena. He saw her often. In fact, she’d caught his eye precisely because she behaved as if she did not wish to be noticed. She would dress in plain clothes, as most women did, but she was far from plain herself. Her desire for anonymity struggled against the pull of her beauty and even if Leo’s job hadn’t been to observe people he would surely have noticed her.