— Twentieth floor, please.
Without turning around the man operating the elevator gave a small nod. She was certain he was an agent despite being dressed in hotel livery. She studied his peculiar uniform, red with white trim down the legs. He was an unlikely looking spy, and she wondered if her anxieties were running away with her. She was seeing spies everywhere.
Trying to focus on what was real, rather than dangers imagined, she told herself that preparations for the concert had gone well. The discussions with her American counterparts had been awkward but not unmanageably so. Raisa’s opposite number was an American teacher with neat grey hair and thick oval glasses. Through an interpreter they’d found much to talk about, not out of polite obligation but genuine curiosity. Raisa sensed that he was forced to maintain an air of subdued hostility in order to prove that he was not a Communist sympathizer. During their discussions key Soviet officials were absent, having expressed no desire to watch the upcoming dress rehearsal, excluding themselves from the preparations despite the degree of worldwide exposure it was going to attract.
The elevator doors opened. The operator turned round.
— Your floor, ma’am.
She nodded, heading out, wishing Leo was by her side. His instincts for subterfuge were acute. Alone, she realized how dependent she’d grown on them.
In the corridor, before Raisa could reach her daughters’ room, one of the propaganda officers stepped out in front of her, blocking her way. It was Mikael Ivanov. He was arrogant, handsome and an entirely unnecessary addition to their team. He asked:
— How were the morning meetings?
As tempting as it was to ignore him, Raisa said:
— A success, the concert should go well.
— Were you photographed? I told them no photographs without me present.
— No, I wasn’t photographed. There was no press.
He raised a finger, keen to correct her.
— But you must be careful of what appear to be amateur photographs. Someone might pretend to be your friend, and claim the photograph is for a personal album, and that is merely a trick in order that you lower your guard.
— No one took my photograph.
Why was Mikael Ivanov delaying her with his unnecessary questions? Raisa moved off before he could say anything else, reaching her daughters’ room and knocking. Zoya opened the door. The television was on in the background. Raisa glanced about the room.
— Where’s Elena?
— She went swimming.
Instinctively Raisa looked over her shoulder only to discover Mikael watching her with inexplicable concentration.
Same Day
Jim Yates entered the lobby, giving a nod to his colleagues stationed around the room, ill disguised as hotel guests. He didn’t care if the Soviets knew they were being watched, their sensitivities were not his concern. He approached the reception and was handed an up-to-date log of movements by the Soviet delegation. According to their records the only person who’d left the premises was a woman called Raisa Demidova, a teacher who’d been taken to the United Nations. She’d returned only a matter of minutes ago. Yates left the log on the receptionist’s desk, heading to the elevator. The young FBI agent working as an operator gave him an embarrassed smile, acknowledging his ridiculous uniform. Yates asked:
— Do you remember a young woman using the elevator?
— Sure, she was just in here.
— No, young as in eighteen years, something like that.
— I’m not sure. I don’t think so. Maybe she used the other elevator.
The doors opened. Yates stepped out, frustrated with the lack of urgency in his colleagues. Their minds were dulled by the fact that they were dealing with cute kids, too angelic to be up to anything. Yates had been adamant fromthe momentthe trip was announced that the Soviets were going to find a way to exploit the opportunity. He approached the ornate double doors to the ballroom. They were closed, a sign claiming the room was undergoing extensive renovation. He took out his key, unlocking the heavy doors, stepping inside the cavernous ballroom.
Over thirty desks were set up, stretching the length of the room, scores of officers seated with headphones scribbling notes. Every room occupied by the Soviet delegation had been bugged with multiple devices in the ceilings of the bedroom and bathroom, the walk-in cupboards – ensuring no area where conversations could take place in private. The televisions had proved divisive. Yates had thought them a risk since the occupants could use the sound to mask their conversations. He didn’t see the value in exposing the students to cartoons, pop music and adverts. He’d been overruled. The televisions had been rigged, providing a bombardment of images projecting a lifestyle that Yates’s superiors wanted to trickle back to the Soviet Union, a message of abundance and comfort. As a concession Yates had managed to ensure that the sets were fixed with a volume control so that they could never be loud enough to hide a conversation.
Each room had been designated two translators working twelve-hour shifts. Dialogue was recorded but to provide immediate feedback the team would translate in real time, jotting in shorthand. Anything of importance was immediately flagged up. Otherwise the translator would type up their notes during the downtime, when the students and teachers were outside, or sleeping. The operation was so large that the FBI had drawn together the highest concentration of Russian linguists in the country.
Yates picked up the folder containing photographs of the Soviet students. He’d already studied them many times. He’d seen them step off the plane, watched them enter the hotel. He wasn’t entirely confident that the young woman he’d spotted on the streets in Harlem could be counted among their number. How did she manage to leave the hotel without being seen? In the bustle he’d only caught her face for a moment and then she’d passed him by before disappearing down another street, apparently not making contact with Jesse Austin, the best-known Communist sympathizer in the area. It had been such an unlikely appearance, and an improbable location for a young white girl. Yates had returned to his car, noting the waiting cab and deciding he was going to wait too. The young woman had not returned. In the end the taxi driver had left without a passenger. It was impossible to see into Jesse’s apartment from the street. After forty minutes Yates had given up too, impatient to check his suspicions back at the hotel.
Flicking through the photographs, he stopped. The woman’s photograph was in black and white. Her name was Elena. She was seventeen years old. She was sharing a room with her older sister. Yates walked to the table where the translator was stationed for that room.
— What are they doing?
The woman translating pulled down her headphones, speaking with a thick Russian accent. Yates hid his disapproval: he was dealing with an immigrant, the least reliable of the linguists.
— The older sister has been watching the television.
— And the younger sister? Elena?
— She went swimming.
— When did she go?
The translator checked the log.
— She left the room at ten a.m.
— Did you report this?
— She was followed to the pool.
— Has she returned?
— No.
— All those hours at a swimming pool? You don’t think it’s strange she hasn’t returned?
Jim picked up the translator’s empty coffee mug, banging it against the table – a startlingly loud noise in the otherwise hushed atmosphere of the room. Everyone looked at him.
— I want to know the location of one of the girls, Elena, eighteen years old. She was reported to be in the swimming-pool area.
An agent raised his hand, said nervously:
— The girl was followed into the swimming-pool area. We have an agent outside.
— Is she still there?
— She hasn’t left.
— The agent can see her? Right now – he can see what’s she doing?
There was silence, then a hesitant
response.
— The agent isn’t in the pool area. He’s stationed outside. But she hasn’t passed him. She has to be in there.
— You’re willing to bet your career on that, are you?
The man’s confidence fell away. He began to stammer:
— That’s the only way into the pool. If she hasn’t passed him she’s got to be in there.
Yates didn’t bother to reply, hastening towards the doors, running past the elevator, and taking the steps up to the pool two at a time.
Manhattan
5th Avenue
Same Day
Seated in a cab, Elena glanced at her watch. She was late. The students were due to meet up in minutes. Everything had taken longer than she’d expected – far longer to drive to Harlem, longer to get into Mr Austin’s apartment and longer to get out again. Fearful that the American secret police were watching, she’d been guided out of Austin’s building through the back. She’d waved goodbye to Austin unsure whether he would show up tonight. He had not made any promises. She’d done all she could.
The hotel was up ahead, only five hundred metres away, but the traffic wasn’t moving. Not knowing the correct English phrase she said:
— I pay now.
She put some money down, far too much, not waiting for her change. She jumped out and ran down the street. Instead of heading to the main entrance she turned down the hotel service alley. A series of steel ladders were attached to the back wall, leading up to the sun terrace on the fifth floor – a fire escape for those caught outside if the main pool area and corridor were impassable. Before climbing the ladder, Elena took off her clothes. Underneath her blouse and skirt she was wearing a swimsuit. When she’d climbed down this morning a bundle of clothes and a pair of shoes had been left for her, disguised and hidden behind the huge trashcans. Elena had no idea who planted the clothes, a member of the CPUSA perhaps. She threw these temporary clothes into the garbage before climbing the ladder. Red-faced and out of breath, she reached the fifth-floor sun terrace, peering over the edge. It was a sunny day a bunde terrace was crowded. She climbed up, walking determinedly towards the pool, unsure whether anyone had caught sight of her unusual entrance.
The man she’d seen in Harlem, the American police agent, was by the edge of the pool. She couldn’t enter without being seen. If he’d already checked the sun terrace he would be suspicious if she suddenly appeared. He might find the fire escape. He might find her clothes in the garbage. The only place he couldn’t have checked was the women’s changing rooms. It was accessible from both the pool and the outside deck. Elena switched direction, walking away from the agent. She pushed on the door and stepped inside.
Heading towards her locker, a hand came down on her shoulder. Startled, she turned. It was Raisa.
— Where have you been?
— I was in the sauna.
The lie was a flash of improvised genius. Elena’s face was red and sweaty. Raisa seemed to mull over this explanation and Elena realized had Zoya been in this position Raisa would’ve questioned her further. Instead, Raisa nodded, accepting it as the truth. Elena picked up a towel, wrapping it around her. Raisa asked:
— Did you come down from the room in your swimsuit?
Elena shook her head, retrieving her clothes from the locker. She was about to change when Raisa stopped her.
— You can shower and change in your room. Hurry, we’re late.
Elena was annoyed at being spoken to as if she were a child and any guilt she might have felt about her secret enterprise quickly faded.
Stepping into the corridor they came to face to face with the American secret-police officer – the man from Harlem. His eyes were bloodshot, red capillaries like the roots of a tree branching out from his black pupils, patches of perspiration on his shirt. Elena tried to remain calm. Raisa asked, speaking in English:
— Can I help you?
Yates looked down at Elena, ignoring Raisa. He reached out, placing a finger on the side of Elena’s face, catching a drop of sweat. He held the drop of sweat up to his eye, as though it were evidence.
— I’m FBI officer Yates. I’m going to be watching the both of you very closely from now on.
Raisa glanced down at Elena, then back at Yates. Yates stepped out of their way.
*
Raisa remained silent in the elevator. When Elena tried to speak she angrily gestured for her to say nothing. On the twentieth floor they walked at a brisk pace to the girls’ room. Not until Raisa was inside and had locked the door did she speak.
— I need you to tell me if something is going on. Don’t lie to me.
Raisa grabbed Elena’s arm tight. Elena was shocked.
— You’re hurting me!
— What is going on?
Zoya joined them.
— What’s happened?
Raisa was looking at Elena.
— Elena, tell me, right now, what are you involved in?
Uncomfortable under her stare, Elena turned to the television. On the screen a brightly coloured cartoon car drove off a cliff, exploding in a shower of blue and green and pink stars. Her reply was a whisper.
— Nothing.
Raisa let go of her daughter’s arm, in quiet disbelief at what she was about to say.
— I don’t believe you.
Moscow
Novye Cheremushki
Khrushchev’s Slums
Apartment 1312
Same Day
Leo was not expecting to have any word from or contact with his family for the duration of their trip. The same was true for every family who’d said goodbye to a son or daughter. They’d been told it was too complicated to arrange a phone call unless there was an emergency. Two days had passed since Leo had watched their plane take off for New York while he remained at the airport, among the remnants of the farewell ceremony. When everyone made their way from the viewing platform as the airliner disappeared into the distance, Leo remained standing long after it could no longer be seen. His family would be gone for eight days. To Leo it felt an impossibly long time.
The heatwave showed no sign of abating. It was approaching midnight and Leo sat at his kitchen table, wearing a vest and a pair of shorts, a glass of lukewarm water on the table, cards spread before him, his life on hold until his family returned. The cards were a distraction, an anaesthetic that gently numbed his impatience. He concentrated on the game at hand, achieving a meditative state of thoughtlessness. The nights were more difficult than the days. At work he was able to keep busy, resorting to cleaning the factory floor, perhaps the only manager ever to do so, in an attempt to push towards a state of physical exhaustion so that he might be able to sleep. At home, his strategy revolved around playing cards until he was on the brink of sleep, until he could hold his eyes open no longer. Last night he’d slept at the table, concerned that if he made the move to the bedroom he’d wake up and his chance of catching even an hour’s sleep would slip away. Tonight he was waiting for that same moment, the point at which his eyes became heavy and he could lower his head onto the table, face pressed against the upturned cards, relieved that another day had passed.
About to place down a card, his arm froze, the two of spades pinched between his fingers. He could hear footsteps inthe corridor. It was almost midnight, an unlikely time for someone to return home. He waited, tracking the footsteps. They stopped outside his apartment. He dropped the card, hurrying to the door, opening it even before the person had even knocked. It was an agent wearing KGB uniform, a young man – his brow was dripping with sweat having climbed the thirteen flights of stairs. Leo spoke first.
— What’s happened?
— Leo Demidov?
— That’s right. What’s happened?
— Come with me.
— What is this about?
— You need to come with me.
— Does it concern my family?
— My instructions are to collect you. I’m sorry. That’s all I know.
It too
k a concerted act of discipline not to grip the agent by his shoulders and shake an answer from him. However, it was probably true that he knew nothing. Controlling himself, Leo returned to the apartment, hurrying towards Elena’s bed, sliding his hand under the mattress. The diary was gone.
*
In the car Leo placed his hands on his knees, remaining silent as he was driven into the centre of the city. His thoughts were ablaze with possibilities of what might have happened. He paid no attention to the journey, breaking from his anxious theorizing only when the car finally stopped. They were outside his former place of work, the Lubyanka – the headquarters of the KGB.
Manhattan
Hotel Grand Metropolitan
44th Street
Same Day
While the students ate lunch at the hotel, Raisa requested a phone call to her husband in Moscow, arguing that this was the only opportunity before the dress rehearsal that she would have to speak to him. The ability to lie convincingly was a talent that she had been forced to acquire as a young woman trying to survive during Stalin’s years of terror, fearful that every rejection from every man who made a pass at her would bring an allegation of anti-Soviet behaviour. In this instance she claimed that Leo’s elderly father was sickly and she wanted to make sure his condition had not worsened. She faced no resistance from the American authorities, who were more than happy to make arrangements, instead facing pressure from her colleagues, particularly Mikael Ivanov, who did not want members of the group phoning home. Raisa dismissed his objections: she was leading the delegation, not a homesick student, and a phone call to her husband was hardly an issue that need concern him, particularly if the Americans did not object. Of course, Raisa never believed the phone call would be private. The Americans and the Soviets would listen to every word. In view of such constraints, her dialogue needed to be coded. In her favour, Leo would understand from the mere fact of the phone call that something was wrong and she hoped, with careful phrasing, to communicate enough of events that he could offer an opinion. He would know very quickly whether there was something genuinely wrong or whether her anxiety was unwarranted.