Tom Smith - Agent 6

Clarke took out his keys, opening the door, turning on the lights and revealing a narrow staircase. He ushered Leo inside, locking the door behind them before descending the stairs. The air was dry, machine-processed. At the bottom of the stairs was a small drab office where Clarke turned off an alarm system. To the side of the office was a steel door, sealed shut, like a bank vault. After entering a code, there was a faint hiss as the door opened. Lights automatically turned on, fluorescent bulbs slowly flickering one after another in quick succession, revealing the archive’s full dimensions.

Far larger than Leo had expected, the archive stretched for hundreds of metres with row upon row of steel shelves. Unlike a library there were no books. Everything was stored in uniform brown cardboard boxes, side by side – thousands of them, each with the same gap between them. Leo looked at Clarke:

– All this?

Clarke nodded:

– Seventy years’ worth of material, most of it understood, some of it not.

Leo moved forward. Clarke put a hand on his shoulder.

– Before we start, there are a couple of rules. I’ve been instructed to search you upon leaving. Please don’t be insulted: this is standard policy and applies to all visitors. You must wear these gloves when touching anything. Other than that, you’re free to look at whatever you like. Except no fountain pens, or ink of any kind. You don’t have any pens on you?

Leo shook his head, taking off his jacket, hanging it in the office. Clarke noted:

– You might want to keep that with you. The chamber is cold, air-conditioned for preservation purposes.

Seventy years’ worth of refrigerated spy secrets, thousands of attempts to betray, deceive and murder, preserved as though they were mankind’s finest achievements.

The ceiling was not particularly high, but the room was remarkably wide, giving it surreal proportions, the shape of squashed shoebox. The entire archive was concrete, resulting in two colours dominating, the grey concrete and the brown cardboard boxes. There was the hum of air and occasionally slight vibrations from a passing subway train. A passage ran through the middle of the archive from end to end. Each aisle was marked with a number. There were no signs, no written explanations. Clarke must have guessed his thoughts, remarkold/p›

– Don’t worry! We don’t want you to look through everything. I have put aside several boxes that I thought you might be able to shed some light upon. But you’re free to walk around and see if anything catches your eye. Why don’t you familiarize yourself with the archive before we sit down with the material I’ve selected?

Despite the suggestion that he was free to explore, Clarke had not left his side.

Feeling self-conscious, Leo stopped by one of the aisles, picking one at random. Each box had a sticker with a number written on it, a long code that meant nothing to a casual glance. Every box had a lid, making it impossible to browse. Clarke commented:

– There is a reference catalogue in the office that matches up the codes with a description of the contents. Not everything is stored in boxes, though: some odd-shaped objects, or oversize items, stand on their own. They’re located further down, near the back. Let me bring a copy of the catalogue: that might help.

Clarke turned around and hurried towards the office. Leo circled, restless – his thoughts dwelling upon the investigation. Idly he opened the nearest box. It was filled with money, wads of five-and ten-dollar bills, low denominations, but pristine, unused, a small fortune. Leo suspected the money was Soviet-produced forgeries. One wad of money was inside a plastic bag labelled CAUTION. The notes probably contained a chemical of some kind, perhaps even a toxin. Putting the lid back on, he moved down to the next aisle, selecting another box and lifting the lid. This box was filled with scientific equipment, a microscope and other apparatus that Leo didn’t recognize. The objects were dated, perhaps fifty or so years old. Once again there was no explanation: no written documents. After the third and fourth box it dawned on him that the bulk of this archive would prove to be banal. It appeared as if the Americans had collected everything even vaguely connected to Soviet spy protocols.

About to turn around and wait for Clarke to return, Leo spotted the oversize objects. He walked towards the back of the archive, finding a walking cane made out of gnarled wood. He toyed with it for a while, wondering if there was a secret compartment, some secondary function, a poison spear perhaps. Giving up, he returned it to the shelf. There was an old-fashioned transceiver, perhaps used to make secret communications, as large as a television. Next to that was a suitcase.

Leo crouched down, his hands shaking as he placed them on the case. Though his hands had changed markedly over the years, this case had not. It was old fashioned with a leather-clad handle and rusted steel locks. Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen it for sixteen years there was no doubt that it was the same case he’d bought when he was a young secret-police officer.

It was the suitcase Raisa had taken to New York.

Same Day

Leo stood up, peering through the boxes, checking to see if Clarke was close by. There was no sign of him. Returning to the case, his hands still shaking in nervous anticipation, he clicked the locks open and looked inside.

The disappointment was crushing. The case was empty. Recovering his composure, he breathed deeply. He ran his fingers along the lining, searching for a noe, a letter hidden in the fabric. There were no knife cuts, no stitched compartments. He examined the outside, turning it upside down, feeling the base and the corners. He could hear Clarke’s footsteps on the concrete floor.

– Mr Demidov?

The case offered no more clues. He checked the objects nearby: there were at least twenty other suitcases. He recognized none of them. Surely Zoya and Elena’s belongings were also here. They’d been confiscated: the girls had returned to Russia with only the clothes they were wearing, everything else had been taken. Leo memorized the item number of Raisa’s case. Clarke’s footsteps were getting closer: he was only metres away. As he came into view, Leo stood up, moving away from his wife’s case.

Clarke smiled at him.

– Find anything?

– No, not really.

It was a weak denial. Clarke didn’t pick up on it. He was carrying a large hardback book protected with plastic.

– Here’s the catalogue.

Leo took it from him, saying nothing about his discovery, trying to remain calm and unflustered, opening the book and flicking through. Clarke put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

– I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a few boxes of items I’d like your opinion on.

The reading area was near the office, situated inside the archive since no items could be removed. A table had been provided. There was a desk lamp, a chair and several boxes filled with items to look through. Clarke chatted to Leo for a while, explaining his interest in the contents. Leo barely listened to a word, tortured by the delay, desperate to look up the reference number of the suitcase in the catalogue. Finally, Clarke left him alone and he was able to study the entries. The numbering system was complex. From memory he scribbled down the code number of the suitcase. He found the entry log. The description read: INVESTIGATION RED VOICE 1965 NY

He checked the vocabulary in his dictionary. The use of the word RED was almost certainly a reference to Communism, a prominent Communist voice – surely it referred to Jesse Austin.

Leo stared at the codes trying to figure out how to trace the other documents connected to the same investigation. Unable to crack the system, and reluctant to ask for assistance, he had no choice but to work through every entry, running his finger down the descriptions. He was halfway through the catalogue, constantly checking to see if Clarke was approaching. His finger stopped, pressed against the words: INVESTIGATION RED VOICE