Tom Smith - Agent 6

An angry woman called out:

– If you love the Soviet Union do much why don you go back with them to Russia!

His confidence growing, Jesse relished the adversary.

– Why would I go anywhere when this is my home! I’ve lived here all my life. My parents are buried here! Their parents are buried here! I’m as American as you are, perhaps more so, surely more so, because I truly believe in freedom of speech, in equality, concepts I doubt you even think about. You’re too busy waving the American flag to think about what that flag symbolizes!

The woman was joined by a breakaway group of anti-Communist protestors, taking turns to heckle Jesse, shouting above the noise, some of their comments disappearing, some breaking through.

– You live in America and you insult our country!

– The only people I’ve ever insulted were people like you, people who don’t understand that every man and woman on this earth shares a common humanity. While you may not understand it, the hope for a better life is understood all over the world. The desire to be treated fairly does not change depending on where you live, or what language you speak.

Jesse gestured at the United Nations Headquarters.

– That building represents the world under one roof. That is the reality of our existence. We live under one sky. We breathe the same air. We get warmth from the same sun. Government policy does not create human rights. Those rights came first! Governments exist to serve and protect those basic human rights. Those rights have nothing to do with how you vote in an election, where you live, the colour of your skin or the money in your wallet. Those rights are inalienable. I’ll fight for those rights as long as I have air in my lungs and blood in my heart!

Jesse knew the concert would finish soon. The Soviet delegation would exit onto the street, the young students spilling into the crowd, surrounding him. He could only smile at the thought.

Global Travel Company

926 Broadway

Same Day

Cuffed to the radiator in the back office, locked in the dark, Osip Feinstein had lost track of the time. He was now sweating from withdrawal sickness. Normally by this time he’d be smoking opium and his body’s desire for the drug overpowered all other sensations, including the emotion any normal person would be feeling in these circumstances – fear. His trousers were soaked where he’d wet himself. His wrist was hurting as the metal dug into his skin. He could no longer move his fingers. The photographs of Jesse Austin and the Russian girl had been taken and Osip’s initial impression of Agent Yates had proved to be correct: the man was extremely dangerous.

In his dazed state he became aware of someone outside the office. Slowly the door opened. He blinked at the light. Standing over him was the Soviet operative who’d given him the camera. As Osip’s eyes adjusted to the light he saw that the man was holding a gun.

– Trusting the FBI was a poor decision, an unexpected misjudgement considering how shrewd you have been in the past.

Osip did not have the energy to resist – he did not even have the energy to fight for his life.

– I’ve ben running from you for thirty years.

– No more running, Osip.

The man picked up a bottle of hydroquinone, one of the chemicals used to develop film, highly flammable, and poured it over Osip’s clothes and face, splashing it down his throat and into his eyes. It was a powerful bleach and Osip’s skin stung as painfully as though it were burning, even before the man had set him alight.

The concert was over. The audience was applauding. The young American student beside Zoya was so excited by the standing ovation he squeezed her hand. Only twelve or thirteen years old, the boy was smiling. Right now he didn’t care that she was Russian – they were friends, part of a winning team. The success was theirs equally. Belatedly she appreciated that her mother’s plans were much more than about the quality of the performance. It had been Raisa’s idea for everyone to wear the same clothes, American and Soviet students alike, and it had been her idea that they commission new music from international composers. The world’s diplomatic elite was applauding the way in which the concert had navigated the many potential traps, offending no one and including everyone. Raisa had tiptoed between different sensitivities with the aplomb of a diplomat, and the diplomatic audience was showing their appreciation.

Zoya followed the young American boy offstage, applause still ringing in the Assembly Hall. Once in the corridor the students broke formation, hugging each other, thrilled with their success. Raisa was talking to the American school principal, both of them laughing in contrast to their cagey conversations during the dress rehearsal. Zoya was pleased for her mother. She deserved to be proud of her achievements and Zoya regretted being so cynical about the entire event, wishing that she’d been more supportive, just as Elena had been.

Glancing around the students, Zoya couldn’t see her sister. She’d only been positioned a few students away in the line-up yet was nowhere to be seen. She began looking for her, nudging through the crowd now mixed with members of the audience streaming out from the main auditorium. More and more people were pushing into the corridor, keen to congratulate them, men she didn’t recognize shaking her hand. She caught sight of Mikael Ivanov, the propaganda officer, cutting a path through the students, with apparently no interest in them despite the fact that they were being photographed.

Zoya followed him.

*

Flushed with success, Raisa eagerly tried to find her daughters. It was difficult to locate them since the corridors were so full. She stood on the spot, slowly turning around, searching the crowd. They were nowhere to be seen. A tingling anxiety rose up through her legs into her stomach; she paid no attention to the congratulations offered to her, ignored the very men and women she’d been sent here to impress. Pushing through the group she saw Zoya and felt relief. She hurried towards her.

– Where’s Elena?

Zoya looked at her, pale with worry.

– I don’t know.

Zoya raised her hand, pointing in front of her.

Raisa saw Mikael Ivanov with his back to her and the children, staring out of the large lobby windows at the street and the demonstration. Behind him photographers flashed their cameras at the children and yet he didn’t turn around, his attention concentrated on the events outside. She walked up to him, grabbing his arm and turning him around, staring into his handsome face with such determined ferocity that he recoiled but she did not let go of his arm:

– Where is Elena?

He was about to lie: she could see the process as clearly as if she were regarding the mechanics of a watch.

– Don’t lie to me or I swear I’ll start screaming in front of all these very important guests.

He said nothing. She glanced at the demonstration and whispered:

– If anything happens to her, I’ll kill you.

Elena left the United Nations Headquarters without being stopped. Preparations had been made, the route arranged, passage through security, a blind spot in the building leading to an exit where she escaped without being questioned. As she stepped out she’d been handed a dark red coat with a hood to conceal her face. Nothing had been left to chance. She’d been siphoned off from the main group as soon as the concert was finished. Mikael was not going with her. It was important he was not involved in the photo graph since the presence of a propaganda officer would undermine its authenticity. During the dress rehearsal the plans had changed. Mikael had explained it was impossible for a small group of students to join the demonstration: they could only manage to sneak Elena out. The American authorities had arranged for a coach to take the students doorstep to doorstep: straight from the United Nations to the hotel. FBI agents were going to drive it. Elena would have to go alone. The operation rested on her shoulders: a chance to redefine Communism in the eyes of the world, to create a modern progressive image that would be embodied in the photograph of a young Russian hand in hand with an older American, two nations, two generations bridged. The photograph would carry a powerful message of an inclusive ideology, reminding the world of the Soviet Union’s ability to embrace different races and cultures across a vast geographical space. Finally Elena would step out from the shadow of her sister, proving to Mikael that she was worthy of his trust and love.