Panin patted him on the arm, leaving him standing dumbfounded in the rain.
Staring up at the disembarking students, he compared their reactions to the news footage of them as they boarded the outbound flight, bathed in sunlight, smiling, waving to the cameras, excited with the prospect of flying transatlantic in an airliner. They were tired and scared. He waited for the girls he was supposed to meet, girls he hadn’t seen since they were very young – Zoya and Elena.
Seeing them step down, Panin moved forward, his driver following so that the umbrella remained in position over his head as he intercepted the two girls.
— My name is Frol Panin. You don’t know me. I’m here to take you home. I am a friend of your father. I knew your mother only a little. I’m very sorry for your loss. She was a remarkable woman. This is a terrible tragedy. But come, hurry, let us get out of the rain. My car is nearby.
The two girls looked at him blankly. They were sick with grief. The younger girl, Elena, peered out across the runway, blinking away the rain, as Mikael Ivanov was led away to his car. He did not look back. Elena was pained. Panin was amazed that even now, after everything that had happened, she still loved him and still believed he must have loved her.
In the car Panin briefed the girls, outlining the reaction to events i New York and the way in which those events had been portrayed, accurately or not. The American version, printed in newspapers from New York to San Francisco, London to Tokyo, was easy to sell to the public, containing drama and sensation. The story depicted the beautiful Raisa Demidova having an affair with the womanizer Jesse Austin. The relationship dated from 1950. They’d met during one of Jesse’s tours. He’d visited her school and invited her to a concert performed in a factory warehouse. There was even film footage of the two together, Soviet propaganda film, with Raisa congratulating him at the end of the concert. She’d fallen in love and begged him to rescue her from the Soviet Union. They’d had a sexual encounter, incidental to him but life-changing for her. She was obsessed with him and had corresponded regularly, going so far as to organize a mass letter-writing session by the students in her school when she’d heard of his troubles with the American authorities. Elena interrupted at this point, exclaiming:
— It’s not true!
Panin gestured for her to remain silent. He had only claimed this was the truth as the world knew it. In this truth, Raisa was a romantic figure besotted with Jesse Austin, convinced they were in the midst of a perfect love affair separated by nations. For Jesse it was no more than a forgotten night of sexual gratification. When she’d heard of the Soviet delegation going to New York, she’d forced her way onto the tour to reunite with him. Her dream was to claim asylum, live with him, abandoning her hated husband, Leo, who happened to be a secret-police officer. When she’d visited Jesse in Harlem they’d enjoyed a second sexual encounter. There was a photograph of Raisa Demidova, standing beside an unmade bed, crumpled sheets, dwarfed by the figure of Jesse Austin. Elena exclaimed again:
— I was there, not Raisa!
Impatient, Panin suggested that Elena appreciate that this version was the one created by the American authorities to defuse the situation. Continuing with the events, he explained that during this meeting between Jesse and Raisa, he’d told her that he would never leave his wife and she would have to return to Russia, to her husband. Consumed by jealousy and despair, Raisa had purchased a gun. Outside the United Nations, she’d shot Jesse Austin dead. She’d been caught holding the gun.
Elena could control herself no longer.
— It’s a lie! It’s all a lie!
Panin nodded, it was a lie. But it was the version of events that the United States had released to the press: it was the version of events they were demanding the Soviet Union support. The Soviet Union had agreed without condition. A lone shooter, no conspiracy and no greater powers at work – a story of unrequited love and a woman’s fury at being spurned. The remaining peace concerts had been cancelled. Frol Panin and many others in the Kremlin had worked hard in order that the delegation might return without too much of a delay. Finally, the students had been released and returned home. There was no news on when the body of Raisa Demidova might be returned.
In the back of limousine, observing the two girls absorb the narrative crafted around them, Panin addressed them on a separate matter.
— You must understand that Leo is a changed man. The news of his wife’s death has . . .
Panin searched for the correct word.
— Disturbed him. I’m not referring to the normal expression of grief. His reaction has gone far beyond that. He is not the man you remember. To be honest, I’m hoping that your return might help ground him.
The older girl, Zoya, spoke for the first time.
— What can we tell him?
— He will want to know everything that happened. He is trained to detect when he is being lied to. He is certain that the official version of events is a lie. Which of course it is. There is no question in his mind that there has been a conspiracy. You must decide for yourselves what you tell him. I place no limits on what you may talk to him about. Maybe you, Elena, are afraid of telling him the truth. But in his current state of mind, I would be more afraid of telling him a lie.
Moscow
Novye Cheremushki
Khrushchev’s Slums
Apartment 1312
Same Day
The elevator was still broken, and forced to walk up thirteen flights of stairs, Elena began to feel weak, her legs trembling. Coming up the final flight she could see their door. She stopped, unable to go any further, panicking at the thought of the man inside the apartment. How had Leo changed? She sat on the step.
— I can’t do it.
Leo had never hurt them, never raised his hand in anger or even shouted at them. Yet she was scared. There had always been something about him that had unsettled her. From time to time she would catch him sitting on his own, looking down at his hands as if wondering if they belonged to him. She would catch him staring out of the window, his mind elsewhere, and even though everyone drifted into daydreams with him it wasn’t idle thoughts. Darkness collected around him like clumps of static dust. If he realized he was being watched he would force a smile but it would be brittle, on the surface only, and the darkness remained. The thought of Leo without Raisa frightened Elena.
Zoya whispered:
— He loves you. Remember that.
— Maybe he only loved us because of Raisa?
— That’s not true.
— Maybe he only wanted children because of her? What if everything we love about him was because of her?
— You know that’s not true.
Zoya did not sound entirely convinced. Frol Panin crouched down.
— I’m going to be with you. There’s nothing to worry about. They reached the landing. Frol Panin knocked on the door.
Despite neither trusting Panin nor knowing anything about him, Elena was glad he was here. He was calm and measured. Physically he was no match for Leo; however, she couldn’t imagine it would be easy for anyone to ignore his instructions – they were spoken with such authority. The three of them waited. Footsteps could be heard. The door opened.
The man standing before them was unrecognizable as their father. His eyes were swollen with grief and appeared to be inhumanly large. His cheeks were sallow, sucked inwards. There was insanity in his movements. His hands w>
Disorientated by the long flight, the time difference, the emotions of the past week and this reunion, Elena briefly wondered if she’d walked into a different apartment. The furniture had been moved, their beds stacked up, chairs pushed aside as if to make space for a dance. The kitchen table had been positioned in the centre of the room directly under the light. The tabletop was covered with clippings from Soviet papers about the murder of Jesse Austin. There were sheets of intricate handwritten notes, photographs of Jesse. There were photographs of Raisa. A chair had been placed opposite the table. The set-
up was unmistakable. It was ready for an interrogation. Leo’s voice was scratched and hoarse:
— Tell me everything.
Fingers knotted tightly together again, Leo listened with ferocious concentration as Elena recounted events in New York. She became emotional, muddling some of the points, confusing names and offering rambling justifications. At such points Leo interrupted, asking for nothing more than the facts, requesting clarification and demonstrating a pedantic desire for exact details. He didn’t lose his temper, he didn’t shout, and this absence of emotion was perturbing. Something has died inside of him, Elena thought, as she reached the end of her account. Leo said:
— Please give me your diary.
Elena looked up, confused. Leo repeated the request:
— Your diary, give it to me.
Elena looked up at her sister, then back at Leo.
— My diary?
— Your diary, yes, where is it?
— Everything was confiscated by the Americans, they took our clothes, our suitcases, everything. My diary was in it.
Leo stood up, pacing the room.
— I should have read it.
He shook his head angry with himself. Elena didn’t understand.
— My diary?
— I found it before you left, under your mattress. I put it back. It would have contained information about this man Mikael Ivanov. Am I right? You would’ve speculated on his feelings for you. You would have detailed what he’d asked you to do. You were in love. You were blind. I would have seen the relationship was a fraud.
Leo suddenly stopped walking, raising his hands to his face.
— If I’d read the diary I could’ve figured it all out. I could’ve stopped the whole thing. I could’ve stopped you from going. Raisa would be alive now. If I’d just behaved as an agent. I thought it would be wrong to go through your things. But that is who I am. Tt I do. Those are my only skills. I could have saved Raisa’s life.
He was speaking so fast his words were running into each other.
— You love him, this man, Mikael Ivanov, who worked for this secret department? He told you his motivation was equality and justice. Elena, he didn’t love you. Love was how you were manipulated. Some people want money. Some people want power. You wanted love. That was your price. You were bought. It was planned. The love was a lie, the most obvious and simple of tricks.
Elena wiped away her tears, feeling a wave of anger for the first time.
— You can’t be sure of that. You don’t know what happened.
— I am sure. I’ve planned operations like this myself. What’s worse, they knew that only a person who wasn’t aware of the plot could have persuaded Jesse Austin to attend the concert. They needed someone in love. They needed someone full of love and optimism. Otherwise, Jesse Austin would have sensed a trick. He would have sensed if you were lying to him, or if you didn’t really believe the things you were saying. He would never have attended that concert if you hadn’t asked him to.
Elena stood up.
— I know it’s my fault! I know!
Leo shook his head, lowering his voice.
— No, I blame myself. I taught you nothing. I let you into this world naked and naive and this is what happened. Raisa and I wanted to shelter you from those things – lies, deceit, trickery – but they are the truths of our existence. I failed you. I failed Raisa. I had only one thing to offer her, protection, and I couldn’t even provide that.
Leo addressed Frol Panin.
— Where is Ivanov now?
— I know that right now he is on a train. I don’t know where that train is heading.
Leo paused, sensing this was the truth but suspicious of it all the same.
— Who killed my wife?
— To the world, the answer is Anna Austin.
— That is a lie.
— We don’t know what happened.
Leo became angry.
— We know that the official version of the events is a lie! We know that much.
Frol Panin nodded.
— Yes, that version seems unlikely. However, to avoid a diplomatic crisis we have agreed not to contradict the American version of events.
— Who killed Jesse Austin? Was it us? Was it the Americans? It was us, wasn’t it?
— As far as I know, the plan was merely to have Jesse Austin turn up outside the United Nations. The hope was that he would be arrested, dragged off by the police, and if one of the students could become embroiled in the ruckus that would be useful from a propaganda point of view. It was a plot conjured up by a department that is desperate to make some inroads into the anti-Communist senti a de that prevails in the United States. They wanted to repair Jesse Austin’s career. They wanted him to be famous again.
Leo began pacing the room again.
— I knew all along it would be impossible for you not to try something. You couldn’t merely stage a concert. You had to go further. You had to do more.
— It was an ill-conceived plan that has gone badly wrong.
— Let me go to New York. Let me investigate.
— Leo, my friend, listen to me: what you ask is impossible.
— I must find out who murdered my wife. I must find them and kill them.
— Leo, you will never be allowed to go. It will not happen. There is nothing you can do.
Leo shook his head.
— There’s nothing else! This is all that’s left for me to do! I promise, I will find her killer. I will find the person responsible. I will find them.
Same Day
Leo had no clear sense of how long he’d been sitting on the roof of the apartment block – several hours at least. After Panin had left, he and the girls had put the room back as it should be, resembling a home, the two beds side by side. Leo had begun to make dinner but abruptly abandoned his efforts, leaving the food uncooked. The only place he could think to go was the roof.
Teenagers sometimes came here to kiss and fool around if they couldn’t find anywhere else. Tonight, in the pouring rain, it was empty. Leo did not feel cold, even with his clothes soaked through. He could see out across the city, the night lights of Moscow smudged by rainfall. He stood up, walking to the edge of the building and looked down at the drop. He remained there for many minutes, trying to reason why he should step back. He remembered his promise. Stepping away from the edge, he turned his back on the city, heading downstairs to an apartment he’d once thought of as home.
EIGHT YEARS LATER
Soviet–Finnish Border
Soviet Checkpoint
760 Kilometres North-West of Moscow
240 Kilometres North-East of Helsinki
New Year’s Day 1973
The rucksack belonged to a man shot trying to cross the border into Finland. Despite it being a savage winter with the snow in the forests lying waist deep, the man had attempted the perilous crossing perhaps hoping that the weather and near-permanent darkness would make it easier to pass undetected. To trespass into this heavily controlled area by accident or design was considered an attempt to defect to the West, an act of treason. The soldiers patrolling, many on skis through the forest, were instructed to shoot to kill. There would be wide-reaching repercussions if a traitor managed to slip through and seek asylum abroad, revealing classified information about the Soviet Union to its enemies. On a personal level, Eli Romm, in charge of this zone, would be called be witribunal and would almost certainly lose his job and possibly his freedom, accused of neglect or, worse, of wilfully allowing an act of sabotage.
Eli examined the contents of the rucksack. It contained basic provisions: water, bread and cured meats. There was a change of clothes, dark in colour, a thick wool blanket, several boxes of matches, medical supplies, a sharp hunting knife and a steel cup – standard outdoor fare and of little interest. Eli tipped the rucksack upside down. Nothing else fell out. He felt the lining, running his finger along the stitches, convinced it held further evidence. He was right. There was a lump in t
he material, a secret pocket. Cutting through the material, ripping off the patch, he discovered the pocket contained several thin gold coins, bound in plastic, proof that this was a serious attempt at defection. Extensive preparations had been made – gold was nearly impossible to obtain for an ordinary citizen, the inference was that a foreign country was involved and the man was a professional spy.
The secret compartment contained more than gold. Romm found two photographs. Expecting them to be classified he was surprised that they appeared to be worthless from an intelligence point of view, photographs of two women in their late twenties, taken on their wedding day. There were also a series of papers. He opened them, his puzzlement growing as he discovered that they were a mass of carefully pressed, faded Soviet newspaper clippings detailing the shooting of a man called Jesse Austin, a once popular Communist singer, murdered in New York by his lover, a woman called Raisa Demidova. The murder had taken place some years ago, the articles dated back to 1965. There were extensive handwritten notes on the articles, in small neat writing, thoughts on the case, with a list of names, people the man wanted to speak to. Evidently from these notes the ambition was to reach New York, the United States – the main adversary. The apparent motivation was so peculiar that Eli wondered if the papers were in some sort of code. He would have to report the matter directly to Moscow, to the highest authorities.
The prisoner was in a cell downstairs – shot but not killed by a soldier on guard patrol. After firing from long range with a sniper rifle, the guard had pursued but failed to find the wounded man. Somehow the man had struggled on through the snow. The guard had returned to base, bringing out reinforcements to search the area. Eventually, surrounded by dogs, the man was lucky to be apprehended alive. His injury, a single bullet wound, was not life-threatening and he had received rudimentary treatment at the barracks. The man’s tenacity, the fashion in which he’d evaded capture for several hours against overwhelming odds, and the organized, disciplined contents of his bag suggested a military background. He’d refused to speak to the guards or to give his name.