Tom Smith - Agent 6

This house would not have allayed her fears. In deciding whether to explore upstairs or descend to the basement, Leo chose the gloom of the basement, guessing that it might appeal to Yates.

Rectangular patches of carpet had been nailed to the wooden steps down to the basement with no concern for appearances, making it baffling why the alteration had been done at all. The answer was on the ceiling, covered in black soundproof foam. The concrete floor had also been carpeted in a patchwork of material, using the remains of carpets from upstairs. This wasn’t about aesthetics or comfort, it was about noise, the creation of a quiet room, a cocoon shut off from the world.

There was a tatty chair positioned opposite a large television set up on a small side table. There was a second refrigerator, this one containing bottles of beer, neatly lined up, labels facing forward. There was a stack of newspapers, recently read, crossword puzzles filled in. Leo looked through the home-crafted bookshelves. They contained various biographies of sporting heroes, reference books, a dictionary for the word games that Yates seemed to occupy himself with. There were magazines about fishing. There was pornography. The room was like a teenager’s den buried under a decaying, apparently respectable family house.

The carpeted stairs and soundproofed ceiling meant that neither Leo nor Nara heard Yates arrive. Only when Leo turned to address her did he see the man standing at the top of the padded steps.

Yates had been handsome once, Leo thought, remembering the wedding photograph, with his thick dark hair and well-cut suit. But not any more: skin sagged underneath yellow-tinged eyes. Compensating for this slackness in his features, his lips were stretched tight, thin as a washing line. He used gel to smooth down his grey hair, as when he’d been young, though now it looked like a sickly imitation, a pastiche of youth. Likewise, his suit might have fashionable once but now it was dated and worn, the material threadbare and the cut loose around his limbs. He’d lost weight. From the contents of the refrigerator, Leo deduced that his body had been whittled down by drink. But the creeping frailties of old age did nothing to soften his appearance, physical vulnerabilities made no dent on the aggressive force of his presence. Whatever wrong he’d done, whatever part he’d played in the events of that night, this was an unrepentant man, staring at them with brazen confidence and not a hint of remorse. They’d come for him, broken into his house, and it was him who spoke first, assuming a position of power, smug that they had failed to take him by surprise.

– I’ve been expecting you.

Recovering his own omposure, Leo said to Nara, speaking in Dari:

– He knows who we are?

She didn’t have time to translate, Yates guessed the question and said:

– You are Mr Leo Demidov.

Leo had encountered many brilliant, ruthless agents in the KGB, minds that could calculate a person’s weakness in an instant and in another how to exploit it, uncluttered by moral scruples or ethical limitations. It was their absolute certainty that made them so valuable to organizations like the secret police, where doubt had never been considered an asset. Yates was one of those men. Elena had been right to be afraid.

Leo asked Nara:

– How did he know we were in the United States?

Yates descended the stairs, at ease, opening the refrigerator, taking out a beer while saying with his back to them:

– What language is that?

Nara answered, the tremor in her voice indicating to Leo that, like Elena, she too was afraid:

– It is Dari.

– That what they speak in Afghanistan?

– One of several languages.

– Maybe that’s why your country’s in such a mess. A country should have one language. That’s a problem we’ve got here: too many languages creeping in, confusing people. One country, one language – you’d be surprised at how upset people become when you suggest it. Seems pretty logical to me.

Yates clicked the top off the beer, allowing the cap to fall to the floor, landing silently on the thick patchwork of carpet. He took a sip, licking his beer-wet lips, listening as Nara belatedly translated Leo’s questions: how did he know who they were and how did he know they were in the United States? He gave off the impression that he was enjoying himself, the centre of attention and important in a way he hadn’t been for many years.

– How did I know you’d show up? The FBI informed me you’d been granted asylum, the husband of Raisa Demidova.

Leo’s emotions were stirred by the sound of his wife’s name being mispronounced. The clumsy attempt stung as surely as an insult. With remarkable sensitivity Yates picked up on his reaction and repeated the name:

– Raisa Demidova, she was your wife, am I right?

Leo replied in English:

– Raisa Demidova was my wife.

Leo could not control his tone or expression. He’d laid bare his intentions.

Yates took another long slug of beer, his thin lips sealed around the head of the bottle, his throat gulping as he swallowed – eyes on Leo throughout. Finally, Yates lowered the bottle, then said, his voice heavy with contempt:

– The FBI didn’t think it likely that you’d try to find me. That’s what they said. Me? I knew you’d come. I didn’t believe it was an accident that you ended up in the United States. They tried to tell me it was a coincidence, that therwas no planning, that it had come about by chance, that fate had conspired to bring you to the country where your wife died.

Yates slowly shook his head.

– Agents today are so fucking dumb I could cry. They’re soft. They have to go to charm school, learn how to eat with four different types of knife and fork. They have first-class degrees and run marathons but they don’t know anything about the real world. College kids with guns. They sacked me: did you know that?

He waited for the translation, wanting to judge Leo’s reaction. Leo nodded.

– You retired only a few months after my wife’s murder.

– I was one of the best agents who ever worked for the FBI. In my time, there were mavericks in the Bureau, people who got the job done by any means necessary and no questions were asked. We were given space to act, to make decisions. We were judged on results, not on process. We didn’t have restrictions, or rules. We did whatever we needed to do. Those times are over. The FBI has changed. They want people who do as they’re told, who think in a certain way, company men, no initiative, no guts, every decision needs four permission slips to be signed.

Wistful, he glanced into the near-distance, seeming to forget his guests. Then, abruptly, he turned back to Leo.

– You’re risking a lot coming here. With one phone call, I could have you kicked out the country.

Nara translated, looking at Leo, her eyes imploring him to leave. Yates immediately spotted the division of opinion between the two of them and added, hastily:

– Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to do that. I don’t get many visitors, certainly not ones I can talk with about interesting subjects.

He was lonely. He was vain. And he was proud. Like a professional interrogator, Leo weighed these characteristics, evaluating how likely it was that the man would talk and what pressure might be needed. The combination of vices was promising. Yates had remained silent for many years. He was bitter. The fact that the truth had been erased from historical records bothered him as much as it bothered Leo. He wanted to tell his story. He wanted to talk. Leo only needed to flatter him.

Yates sat down, sinking into his comfortable chair, as laid back as if there were a sporting event on television.