Tom Smith - Agent 6

Osip offered his hand to shake.

– My name is Osip Feinstein. I’m the owner of this agency.

– Agent Yates.

Yates produced his credentials but didn’t shake Osip’s hand. Instead, he sat on a chair, slumped, as though he were at home in front of his television. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled and said nothing more. Osip stood, waiting.

– I take it you’re not here for the travel.

– Correct.

– How can I help you?

– You tell me.

– Tell you what?

– Listen, Mr Feinstein, we can bounce this back and forth all day long. Why don’t I lay my cards on the table? You’ve been under surveillance for many years. We know you’re a Communist. You’re described as a cautious man and a canny operator. Yet today my men are able to follow you to Harlem. You go into an apartment building not too far from a man called Jesse Austin. After several hours you left, returning to the store with a camera slung over your arm. We saw it all. That’s what troubles me. It’s not your style to be this careless. It feels like you’re flirting with us, Mr Feinstein. If I’m wrong, if I have insulted you in some way, that’s fine: I’ll walk out of here right now and say sorry for taking up so much of your time, I’m sure you’re busy selling these tours.

Yates stood up, walked towards the door. Osip called out:

– Wait!

He had not intended to sound so pitiful. Yates turned around, slowly, a toxic smile on his face.

Osip tried to ascertain quickly what kind of man he was dealing with. He’d hoped for someone businesslike. This agent seemed emotional and angry.

– You queer, Mr Feinstein? In my experience most Communists are either queer, Negro or Jew. I know you’re a Jew. I can see you’re no Negro. I’m not all that expert at guessing queers, though. Sure, there might be other kinds of Communists, but the ones who aren’t ashamed to stand up and say ‘I’m proud to be a Communist’ are always queer, Negro or Jew.

Yates sucked on his cigarette and exhaled, jabbing it at Osip’s chest.

– I’ve been following your career with interest, Mr Feinstein. We’ve known for some time that this tourist agency is a cover. Did you think we were stupid? Those spies you sent us? We let them in. Why? Because we were confident as soon as they arrive in this country and start living in a nice house, and driving a nice car and eating nice food, they’re going to forget about that god-awful Communist hole they left behind. They’re going to be loyal to us because our lives are better than yours. And you know what? We were right. You’ve arranged for what, maybe three hundred people and their families to come over?

The exact number was three hundred and twenty-five. Yates sneered:

– How many have given you anything confidential? How many have given you even a scrap of information or a single blueprint?

Despite his doubts about Yates, there was no way back. Osip had to proceed with his plan.

– Agent Yates, I left the Soviet Union fearing for my life. I have no love for that regime. I began working as a spy for the Soviet Union only because I couldn’t get any other work in New York. I was hungry. It was during the Great Depression. The CPUSA had money. I had none. That is the truth. After I joined them, there was no going back. My card was marked as a Communist. I had to behave as one. The men and women whose visas I arranged were never likely spies. They were people in danger, scientists and engineers. They feared for their lives and the lives of their children. I never expected them to become spies. I never expected them to provide a scrap of information, as you say. I used Soviet resources to get them to safety under the guise of infiltrating American universities or factories or even the military. That is the truth. The measure of my success was not how many spies I created, but how many lives I saved.

Yates stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.

– Mr Feinstein, that’s an interesting story. Makes you sound like an American hero, is that what you’re saying? I should be patting you on the back?

– Agent Yates, I no longer wish to work as a Soviet agent. I wish to work for the United States government. In saying this, my life is now in terrible danger, so you should have no reason to doubt my word.

Yates moved close to Feinstein.

– You wish to work for the United States government?

– Please, Agent Yates, follow me. I can prove my sincerity.

Osip escorted him through to the temporary darkroom, showing him the photographs of Jesse Austin. Only now did Osip notice that Yates had drawn his gun, fearing a trap. Keeping the gun by his side, Yates asked:

– Why did you take the photographs?

– They’re part of a plan drawn up by a Soviet department called SERVICE.A. The Soviet authorities intend to exploit these concerts for their own benefit. They have asked Jesse Austin to speak outside the UN tonight.

– They’ve been trying to get him to attend for months now. So what?

– He turned down every request, so they sent this girl, a Russian girl, an admirer of Jesse Austin. They want him to address the crowd. The world’s media will be present.

– The world’s media will be inside the hall, not on the sidewalk. You’re telling me their plan is to persuade a washed-up singer to shout about his Communist brothers to a rabble on the sidewalk? Let him speak! I don’t give a shit.

Yates began to laugh, shaking his head.

– Feinstein, is this really what you brought me over for?

– Agent Yates, after tonight, Jesse Austin will be more famous than ever, more famous than you can possibly imagine.

Yates stopped laughing.

The night was as hot as the day. Red-brick walls baked in the full glare of the sun leached the heat back out, slow-cooking the residents. For about an hour either side of sunrise there was some respite, when the bricks were cool and the sun wasn’t yet beating down, the only time of day that was fresh and human. Jesse sat on the window ledge with no expectations of a breeze. Outside the sound of children playing ball or skipping ropes no longer cut the air. Having sold its day’s stock the clam wagon was pushed off, arthritic, rusty wheels creaking into the distance. Beggars, who’d set up position next to it in the hope of catching loose change, were moving off, breaking into different directions, looking for somewhere to sleep or for new places to beg. The card players took their games from the shade onto the sidewalk, on fold-out flimsy tables. Those who’d slept during the day came alive with the night. There was drink and dope and laughter – the light side of the night, the first drink, the first smoke and it was always a good time. Later the fights would start, the arguments and shouting, the women crying and the men crying too.

Jesse watched the street evolve into darkness as the last of the sunlight seeped away. This was his entertainment now, for they no longer owned a television set, sold it years ago. They didn’t miss it. They didn’t want to watch the programmes it showed, the music that was aired, suspicious of the powers that controlled it, powers that would block him being on television in a heartbeat. Jesse wondered about the other men and women he might have known and loved if their careers hadn’t been swallowed up by a disapproving state. How many artists, musicians, writers, painters, had been lost to fear? He wished he could bring them together, these lost souls, sit them round his table, pour them a drink, hear their stories, listen to their troubles and delight in their talents.

Anna was dressed for work. She was on a late shift, working for a restaurant that stayed open twenty-four hours a day. Nine at night to nine in the morning was a shift that not even the younger waitresses volunteered for. Anna claimed to prefer it, saying the heavy night-time drinkers always tipped better than the daytime diners and they never sent any of the food back. She stood by the door, ready to go. Jesse got down from the window ledge, taking her hands. She asked: