Tom Smith: Agent 6

With regards to the Soviet government, Leo had been unable to obtain any guarantees except for one – if he returned, the punitive measures against his daughters would stop. He had requested that within twenty-four hours of his plane touching down he would be permitted to see them, but he was in no position to insist upon anything. His guilt was not in question. He’d shared sensitive information with the main adversary and was to be tried for treason, a trial whose verdict had already been decided.

As the plane descended, Leo tried to imagine the events of the past eight years, the things that had happened since he was last in Moscow – eight years in which he’d been missing from the lives of his daughters and their husbands. As he thought upon the letters he’d received, it suddenly struck him that he wasn’t anxious about returning to a city filled with memories of Raisa. Something had changed. He was excited. This was the place where he’d fallen in love. He would be closer to his wife here than at any point during his investigation into her death. As the wheels touched down, he closed his eyes. He was home.

One Week Later

Arms and legs cuffed together, secured so tightly that he was forcedto stoop even when standing, Leo had been waiting for several hours in an ancient interrogation room within a prison notorious almost from its inception one hundred years ago. He’d supervised this arrangement countless times: the humiliating restraints, the atmosphere of intimidation and psychological pressures of surveillance, watched by guards in all corners of the room. No threats of violence had been made. Instead, a torture far more astute than physical pain had been applied.

This was Leo’s seventh day in Moscow and he’d not yet seen his daughters. He hadn’t spoken to them by telephone – he’d received no word of their welfare. Every morning upon being woken he’d been informed they would visit him that day. He’d been brought into this interrogation cell and told that they would arrive shortly. He’d waited, eager, feet tapping. Minutes had passed but they’d felt like hours. There was no clock on the wall and no answer ever came from the guards. Part of the torture was the difficulty of judging time. There were no windows, no sense of the outside world. In response, he had devised a way of maintaining his sanity. There was an exposed pipe running across the ceiling. At one of the rusted joints water was leaking, collecting at the line, forming a drop. Once the drop had enough weight it fell and the process began again. Leo counted the seconds of an entire cycle. He then counted them again, and again. There were roughly six hundred and twenty seconds to each drop and he used this number to gauge how long he’d been waiting. So far today he’d been waiting for forty-eight drops, eight hours.

Yesterday he’d sat for twelve hours, counting drops, in a state of great anticipation only to receive word that his daughters were not coming. This excruciating routine was repeated every day, forcing Leo to lurch from hope to despair. He hadn’t been given any information on what the problem was, whether his daughters had been spitefully refused permission or whether they did not want to see him. His tormentors were, of course, aware that Leo would obsess upon the possibility that his daughters were choosing not to visit him and they did nothing to alleviate this corrosive thought which, like a pearl of concentrated acid, bored through his thoughts.

There was a chance his daughters wanted nothing to do with him. Leo could not be sure how they had reacted to the news of his defection, or his return. The girls would be angry with him for causing them so many problems – they’d been arrested, questioned, their families collectively punished for his defection. In the six months that he’d spent in America he could not be sure how their careers had suffered, or how their reputations had been damaged. Perhaps they were afraid of visiting him, concerned with how their lives would change. As he ran these thoughts over and over in his mind he could feel every muscle in his back tightening, his hands clenching.

The door opened. Leo stood up as far his restraints allowed, his throat dry, desperate to see his daughters. He squinted at the shadows.

– Elena? Zoya?

From the gloom of the corridor a KGB officer entered.

– Not today.

Leo had been given his own cell – not out of kindness, more likely they feared that as an older man he would be at risk of tuberculosis and might not survive until the trial if thr had beto one of the communal cells. At regular intervals the grate in the door slid open and an officer checked that Leo hadn’t tried to kill himself. Since his arrival he’d slept for no more than thirty minutes. As the days progressed he’d almost given up on sleep altogether, pacing backwards and forwards – four steps by two steps were the dimensions of his cell – his thoughts revolving around the prospect that he might never see his daughters again.

The cell lights were turned on. Leo was surprised. He received no visitors at night. The door opened. A man in his mid-forties entered accompanied by a guard. Leo didn’t recognize him although it was obvious from his smart suit and shoes that he was important, a politician perhaps. He seemed nervous, despite his trappings of power. He would not hold eye contact with Leo for longer than a second. They did not close the door, the guard remaining close by the man’s side. It was only at this point that Leo noticed the guard was ready with a truncheon, to protect the visitor.

Plucking up the courage to look Leo directly in the eye, he said:

– Do you know me?

Leo shook his head.

– If I told you my name it would mean nothing to you. However, if I told you the name that I used to go by…

Leo waited for the man to continue.

– I used to be known by the name of Mikael Ivanov.

Leo’s first thought was to step forward and crush Ivanov’s throat, assessing the likelihood of success considering his own age and physical condition. Dismissing his instinctive reaction, he managed to control his anger. He had not achieved the one thing he wanted – a visit from his daughters. Whatever blunt satisfaction might come from killing Ivanov, it would guarantee that he would be executed without having seen Zoya and Elena. Apparently relieved that he’d not been attacked, Ivanov pointed out:

– I was forced to change my name.

Leo spoke for the first time.

– A hardship, I’m sure.

Ivanov was irritated with himself.

– I’m trying to explain why you couldn’t find me. Frol Panin advised me to change my identity. He was sure you’d come looking for me, no matter how many years went by. You did. That was why I had to pretend – To be dead?

– Yes.

– Panin was wise. It saved your life.

– Leo Demidov, do you believe a person can change?

Leo considered Ivanov carefully, sensing genuine remorse and wondering if it was a trick – another form of punishment. Modulating his tone from outright hostility to deep scepticism, he replied:

– What do you want?

– I didn’t come to apologize. I know how meaningless that gesture would be. Please do not think me vain or boastful when I say that I have become a man of considerable influence and power.

– That does not surprise me.

Leo regretted the insult, which was childish and petty. But Ivanov accepted it.

– It had been decided that you would not be given permission to see your daughters. It was seen as the only punishment that would hurt you. You would not hear from them, see them, or talk to them.

Leo felt weak, unsteady. Ivanov hastily qualified his remark.