Tom Smith: Agent 6

Leo glanced through the transcripts of all Austin’s conversations since he’d arrived – a chronology of his ten hours in the apartment. He’d spent twenty minutes in the bath, forty-five minutes for dinner. There were exchanges with the female agent about the Patriotic War. Austin spoke excellent Russian, a language he’d sought to learn after his visit in 1934. Leo considered this an additional complication. The agents would not be able to communicate openly. Austin would understand any slips. Flicking through the transcripts, it seemed their guest had already questioned the discrepancy between the enormous apartment and the single occupant. The agent had made a reply about it being a reward for her husband’s valour in battle. After dinner, Austin had phoned his wife. He’d spoken to her for twenty minutes. AUSTIN: I really wish you could be here. I wish you could experience the things I’m experiencing and tell me if I’m being blind. I worry I’m seeing things the way I want them to be and not the way they are. Your instincts are what I need right now.

In reply his wife had told him that his instincts had never let him down before and she loved him very much.

Leo handed the transcript to Grigori.

– He’s changed. He’s not the same man we saw visiting the farm. He’s having a crisis of confidence.

Grigori read through the pages. He handed them back to Leo.

– I agree. It doesn’t look good.

– That’s why he waited until the last minute to change his accommodation arrangements.

The agent posing as the widow entered the surveillance centre. Leo turned to her, asking:

– Was he interested in you?

She shook her head.

– I made several suggestive remarks. He either didn’t notice or ignored them altogether. I pretended to become upset thinking about the death of my husband. He put an arm around me. But it was not sexual.

– You’re sure?

Grigori crossed his arms.

– What is the point of trying to trap him?

Leo replied:

– We’re not judging him. We must know our friends in order to protect them. We’re not the only ones spying on him.

In the corner an agent raised his hand:

– He’s awake.

*

The party officials congregated in the marble hallway – a clump of middle-ranking, middle-aged men, suits and smiles, just like the group who’d shown Austin round the village. As important as Austin was, it was decided against arranging meetings with high-ranking Soviet personnel in case it played into the FBI’s hands, enabling them to portray Austin as a Soviet crony, interested in the elite, rather than a man enamoured with the system itself.

Austin appeared at the foot of the stairs, dressed in a knee-length coat, snow boots and a scarf. Leo assessed his tailored clothes. They were not flamboyant yet were no doubt excellent quality. Jesse Austin was wealthy. Reports estimated his annual inme to be in excess of seventy thousand dollars. Austin assessed his reception. Leo saw a hint of displeasure in his expression. Perhaps he felt he was being surrounded and crowded, overly managed. He addressed them in Russian:

– Have you all been waiting long?

His Russian was excellent, fluent, but it followed American patterns of speech and despite his good accent, his words sounded foreign. The foremost official stepped forward, replying in English. Austin cut him short:

– Let’s speak Russian. No one speaks it back home. When else am I going to practise?

There was laughter. The official smiled and switched from English into Russian.

– Did you sleep well?

Austin replied that he had, unaware that everyone already knew the answer.

The group left the House on the Embankment, making their way through the snow, guiding their guest towards the limousine. Leo and Grigori broke off, heading towards their car. They would follow the party, rejoining them at their destination. As Leo opened the door, he looked back to see Austin eyeing the limousine with disdain. He began to petition the officials. Leo couldn’t hear what they were saying. There was a disagreement. The officials seemed reluctant. Ignoring their protests, Austin hastened away from the limousine, arriving beside Leo and Grigori.

– I don’t want to be driven around behind tinted windows! How many people in Russia drive cars like that!

One of the officials caught up.

– Surely, Mr Austin, you’d be more comfortable in the diplomatic vehicle? This is just a standard working car, nothing more.

– Standard working car sounds great to me!

The official was flummoxed by this alteration of their carefully laid plans. He hurried back to his group, discussing the matter, then returned and nodded.

– Very well, you and I will travel with Officer Demidov. The others will go ahead in the limousine.

Leo opened the door, offering the front passenger seat to Austin. But once again Austin shook his head.

– I’ll sit in the back. I don’t want to take your colleague’s seat.

Putting the car in gear, Leo glanced in the rear-view mirror at Austin, his tall frame cramped into the ungenerous proportions of the car. The official peered at the rudimentary interior with dissatisfaction.

– These cars are very basic. They were built for work not for leisure. I imagine they compare badly to many of your American cars. But we have no need for excess here.

That sentiment may have carried more weight had the official not five minutes ago tried to impress his guest with the luxury of a limousine. Austin replied:

– It gets you there, doesn’t it?

The official smiled, a smile designed to cover his confusion.

– Gets us where?

– Wherever it is we’re going.

– Yes, it will get us there. I hope!

The official laughed. Austin did not. He disliked this man. Already the plans were unravelling.

Grocery Store No. 1 was the most exclusive shopping experience the city had to offer, open only to the elite. The walls were ornate, adorned with gold leaf. The pillars were marble, the tops decorative and intricate – flourishes that befitted a palace. Regal settings for tins of food, polished and stacked with labels facing forward, fresh fruit arranged in patterns, spirals of apples, hills of fat potatoes. Several days had been spent preparing the store. Each aisle overflowed with stock, the storerooms had been pillaged and everything had been brought forward, meticulously displayed. The end result was a venue that Leo immediately recognized as an entirely inappropriate choice for their guest, fundamentally misunderstanding the audience it was intended for. This store didn’t represent a model for a new society – it embodied the past, a Tsarist-era snapshot of exuberant wealth. Yet the gaggle of party officials beamed at Austin, as if expecting him to applaud. They had let vanity get in the way of identifying what their guest truly wanted, presenting him with ostentation, abiding by the calculation that the more they showed him, the more he’d be impressed. Their profound fear of being seen as poor and shabby in relation to their American foes had blinded them.

Leo paused beside tins of pea soup stacked in a pyramid formation. He’d never seen food arranged this way and wondered why a person would be impressed by such a display. Austin passed the pyramid, looking at it with disdain, while surrounded by a clump of officials keenly pointing towards exotic fruits that Leo couldn’t name. In an attempt to integrate this excess with the ideology of Communism, the shoppers, all MGB agents, had been selected from across the age spectrum, dressed in plain clothes and scuffed shoes, as though Grocery Store No. 1 were for everyone – the elderly grandmother and the young working woman alike. The staff meanwhile – men for the meat counter, women for the fruit aisle – had been instructed to smile as Austin passed them by, their faces following him as if he were the sun and they were flowers turning into his light. There were more shoppers outside, offstage, shivering in the snow, entering at apparently random intervals in order to maintain the impression of people coming and going.