— No one thought you survived. Except for me. I’ve read your file. You have embarked on some perilous journeys. I knew you’d try to reach Pakistan. I’m here to talk you out of it. Leo, you’re a war hero, you have served your country for many years. We cannot allow you to defect. More importantly, I do not believe you want to defect.
Leo did not reply, waiting for Vashchenko to finish. The gentle persuasion would surely be followed by a threat.
— Leo, we made a mistake with the young girl. I made a mistake. You were only trying to protect her. I understand why you behaved as you did. I am a father too.
The sentiment was laughable but Leo was careful not to show any reaction.
— I honestly believed her death would save thousands of lives otherwise I would never have acted in the way that I did. Maybe I was right, maybe I was wrong. It is irrelevant. The myth of a miracle child has spread and the myth isn’t dependent on her. Killing her would have no effect. The story has a life of its own. That is whatI failed to understand. Let me bring you back. There will be no charges. The three of you can live in the Soviet Union if you wish. Wouldn’t Nara and the girl like that? You have been in Afghanistan long enough. You have accrued a considerable salary. You would live in comfort, in your own land, close to your own daughters. You should think of your daughters. What are their names? Vashchenko was perfectly aware of their names.
— If you follow through with this, they will never see their father again. They might even be subject to an investigation, questions might be asked about their loyalty.
The threat was shrewdly targeted. The offer was tempting. Leo considered the prospect of returning to Moscow. He would be reunited with his daughters. Nara and Zabi would be safe. Yet could he trust the offer and trust the captain to keep his word? He might be executed as soon as he returned to Kabul. The defector, Fyodor, who’d escaped only for a day, and for no other reason than because he’d fallen in love, had been executed. Leo’s betrayal was far more serious.
Allowing Leo to think upon the mixture of incentives and warnings, Vashchenko turned to Greene, angling his attacks at the nation ready to accept him.
— You should consider carefully whether this man is asset or a liability.
Before Leo could interject Greene answered in fluent, graceful Russian:
— We have considered the matter carefully. We’ve already accepted his petition for asylum. Furthermore, he is not in Soviet-controlled Afghanistan, he is in Pakistan, and you have no legal hold over him here. My colleague Salaam is furious at your unauthorized entry into his country. I’m afraid we can’t let you have him.
Leo managed enough composure not to exclaim aloud, or gaze at Greene in dumb surprise, trying to react as if this lie were the truth, and an obvious truth at that. Greene toyed with his packet of cigarettes.
— I should point out, were you to be arrested in Pakistan, a Soviet officer – which I presume you to be – the Pakistani government would be upset. You would be classified as a spy. It could cause problems for you, problems far worse than the problems you’ve come here to solve.
Greene quickly translated his comments into Urdu for the Pakistani intelligence officer, who nodded. Leo knew that there was no chance Captain Vashchenko would ever allow himself to be caught alive. And were he to be found dead in Peshawar, the Soviet government would deny that he was working for them, rolling out any number of excuses.
A timid young waiter arrived at the table carrying four bottles of cola on a steel tray. The captain knotted his fingers together, placing his hands on the table.
— The Pakistanis provide aid and weapons to the Afghans. The pretence of their neutrality is not asset to the Soviet Union. We do not care about upsetting their feelings.
Greene glanced at Salaam, muttering an abbreviated translation, before saying to the captain:
— Where does that leave us? Suffice to say that murdering a CIA operative in Pakistan would change the United States’ perspective on the war dramatically.
The captain smiled.
— No one needs be hurt. We just washouan. It is as simple as that. I believe he is of no use to you. The United States should not be foolish enough to send troops into Afghanistan. Why become embroiled in a conflict so far away? Demidov’s information is of no relevance to you.
Though his expression hadn’t changed, somehow Greene’s face communicated an intense dislike of the captain.
— I’m sorry, I still don’t know your name . . .
Leo remarked:
— He is Captain Anton Vashchenko.
There was silence for a while, calculations being made, options being considered. Greene continued smoking, dumping ash into the untouched cola. The captain was growing impatient. He switched back towards Leo.
— Demidov, return to Afghanistan with me. You do not belong in America. The two people you are trying to protect are no longer in danger. And your defection would put your daughters at home in a terrible position.
Leo lowered his head, considering the danger that Elena and Zoya faced if his defection were known.
Judging from the movement of his eyes, Captain Vashchenko had begun to discreetly weigh up the degree of threat. Fahad was his only serious opposition. Greene seemed oblivious or unconcerned, inhaling deeply, blowing smoke through his nose. Leo was convinced that Vashchenko’s next remark would be his last before he resorted to violence. The captain said:
— Do not get involved in Afghanistan. The Afghans hate you as much as they hate us. If you do not interfere in our affairs, if you refuse to supply weapons to the mujahedin, we will bring order and the rule of law within a matter of months. We will open schools, rebuild roads, repair infrastructure. We will educate the population. If the United States joins this war you will condemn the country to years of chaos. You will not find an ally at the end of it. You will create a regime that will despise you as payment for your support. Greene dropped his cigarette into the cola bottle, where it fizzed on the surface.
— I will pass on your message to my superiors.
Greene translated the conversation. Salaam listened carefully then spoke to Greene for a moment. Greene translated:
— Salaam will allow you to walk out of here without being arrested. That’s the best he can offer. Live to fight another day. He has no interest in escalating hostilities with the Soviets.
Leo had remained silent through these discussions. They were coming to an end with no resolution between the parties. He had no option but to act.
Using his knee, he shook the table, toppling one of the cola bottles to the stone floor. As it smashed and as the eyes of the men were drawn to the noise, he bolted forward, grabbing a dirty knife from the table and plunging it into the captain’s neck. With the aid of the distraction and his senses no longer dulled by opium, his speed was reasonable and Vashchenko failed to block the attack. The knife entered the captain’s throat. The two Afghan operatives looked down in horror, having discounted Leo as a threat. Fahad reacted first, drawing his gun and killing the Afghan officers. Fahad did not execute Vashchenko, leaving him seated. Leo grabbed the captain’s hands, pinning them down. Even mortally injured, the man was incredibly strong and tried to pull free. Leo didth="1equo;t let him move, holding his hands tight. The captain’s legs kicked, thrashed, he leant forward, almost touching Leo’s face. Finally he weakened, his eyes closing, but Leo still did not let go, pinning his hands down long after the captain had stopped moving.
Leo released Vashchenko and allowed him to drop to the floor. He stood up and remarked:
— He would never have allowed me to live. He would never have allowed himself to be captured. There was no compromise to be made.
It had been a long time since Leo had killed a man. Still seated, Greene edged his smart shoes away from the blood pooling on the ground, remarking:
— The Soviets have gone to extreme lengths to silence you. You’re worth more to them than I thought.
Salaam peered at the bodies. He knel
t down, searching the captain’s pockets. Leo whispered to Greene:
— Will we be given asylum? Will you support my request? Greene considered.
— Yes.
*
Leo slowly climbed the stairs, confused whether he should be pleased or apprehensive. He could not be sure his defection would remain a secret. However, at long last, he had a passage to America and no matter what, Zabi and Nara would have a new home. With this thought, he hurried up the stairs, two steps at a time. At the top-floor corridor he ran down to the room, throwing open the door. The curtains were drawn back and a pale orange glow from the street spread across the bed linen. Nara and Zabi were nowhere to be seen. He entered the room, moving around the bed, finding them seated, cross-legged on the floor, hidden in the corner. He sat down beside them, unable to articulate what had taken place downstairs – that there was the chance of a new home. Despite his smile, he saw both Nara and Zabi staring at his hands. In his haste, he’d forgotten to wash them. They were smeared with blood. He considered putting them behind his back. Perhaps it was better that they’d seen. Bloody hands were the price he’d paid for their freedom.
SIX MONTHS LATER
Manhattan
United Nations Headquarters
1st Avenue & East 44th Street
15 November 1981
Leo stood on 1st Avenue, outside the main gates of the United Nations Headquarters, at the spot where Jesse Austin had been shot sixteen years ago. Having researched the photographs and newspaper articles, spending many hours in the New York Public Library with access to evidence he’d coveted after Raisa’s death, Leo had ascertained the exact location where the crate had been set up, carried by Austin all the way from Harlem – the stage for his assassination. There was no plaque to mark the place, no sign and no statue. It was an unremarkable sidewalk, giving pedestrians no reason to reflect upon what happened here, the lives lost that night.
Leo came here often, standing with his hands behind his back, as if there were a tombstone before him instead of a kerb. He would ponder the many aspects of the case that he still failed to comprehend. Fundamentally he could not grasp why Austin had been killed, no could he understand why it appeared that the Soviet and American governments had collaborated in covering up the murder. Why had the perpetrators planted the gun on his daughter, slipping it into her jacket pocket only to frame Raisa for the murder? The discrepancy suggested a change of plan and subsequent improvisation. Above all, one question remained unanswered:
Who murdered my wife?
The answers in the history books were lies, undetectable to a casual reader caught up in a narrative of adultery and illicit passion, a fanciful story masquerading as a series of bullet-point facts.
When Leo closed his eyes he was transported back to that night, feeling the heat of the crowd and the humid summer air. He could kneel beside Austin’s body on the street and stare down at the white shirt turning red with blood. He could see the expression on Anna Austin’s face: her mouth open, crying out. He could hear the desperation in her voice, a prescient fear that no help would come. He could picture the crowd panicking, knocking down the barricades – the metal clang ringing out. Leo could see his wife and he’d move closer to her, so close he could hear her heartbeat as she cradled Elena, so close he could hear his daughter’s shallow, rapid breathing as her dreams of a better world smashed around her feet.
Like an optical illusion, he could see the episode vividly and yet not understand the things he was able to see. Although a wealth of photographs existed from that night, curiously there was not one photograph with Elena in it. According to her account, she’d been in the midst of the chaos. She’d held up a Soviet flag beside Jesse Austin. Yet there was no evidence supporting that, no mention in any newspaper of her role. A different story had been told, matched with a single iconic photograph, not reproduced in the Soviet Union, one Leo had never seen before, showing Raisa beside Austin’s body. To Leo’s eye, she was responding to the cry for help. To the American public, she was a crazed killer, bitter with jealousy. Another photo showed Raisa in Jesse Austin’s apartment, the singer’s hand on her arm, bed sheets crumpled in the background. Leo knew the photograph was doctored – Elena had told him she’d visited Jesse Austin, not Raisa. Until Leo arrived in the United States, he’d never grasped the public shame that had been heaped on his wife: the degree to which journalists had been captivated by the idea of a tragic Soviet–American love triangle. The shrewdest woman he’d ever known, the only woman he’d ever truly loved, had been logged in the history books as a naive and deluded mistress. The most idealistic man he’d ever known, and one of the few men he’d ever truly admired, had been characterized as lecherous and a liar, a man of such low morals that a bullet through the heart was seen by many as an appropriate end.
On his visits Leo didn’t always linger outside. It was possible to go on a tour of the United Nations building and he’d been inside, listening to the guides, understanding only a little of their English. He’d seen the hall where Raisa’s concert had taken place, not because it served his investigation but because he enjoyed thinking of her success here – a war refugee who survived Stalin’s purges leading a performance in a venue such as this, the diplomatic elite on their feet, applauding her. Zoya told him the concert had gone better than anyone expected, all Raisa’s preparations had worked ctly. While she’d planned for hope and music and song, others had planned for murder.
Twenty minutes had passed and he hadn’t moved, standing in the same spot, hands behind his back. The guards at the United Nation were staring at him, suspicious. Taxi cabs slowed to see if there was somewhere he needed to be. But there was nowhere else he needed to be. There were no more journeys to be made. Now his task was purely an investigative one. Peering up at the skyscrapers he considered them to be holders of the city’s secrets, silent giants, answers locked away in steel, concrete and glass. He did not lay a flower. He had no interest in any memorial except to catch his wife’s killer.
He’d been instructed not to come here for security reasons. It would be easy for the Soviets to find him if they ever suspected his defection. This would be the first place they’d stake out. As was his way, he ignored the instructions. He walked towards the subway station, conscious that he was being followed. He knew this to be true without stopping and turning around, without seeing the agent on his tail, or glimpsing him out of the corner of his eye. His instincts had been honed over many years. He didn’t blame the American secret police for trying to keep tabs on him. Normally he’d allow them to follow him so that they’d feel reassured. But not today – he had work to do, and he did not want the company of the FBI.
Bradhurst
Harlem
West 145th Street
Walking past the apartment building where Jesse Austin once lived, Leo resisted going in. He haunted the location as though he believed that some trace of the past remained, some imprint of the day when young Elena had arrived, with dreams of equality and fairness. His persistence had not yet been rewarded: queries had been rebuffed on every occasion with responses that ranged from hostile to blank incomprehension. There was no one in the building he hadn’t approached, acquiring a reputation with the inhabitants as a crank. When he’d knocked on what was once Jesse Austin’s door he’d addressed the current occupants, a young couple, in rudimentary awkward English, asking if they knew anything about Jesse Austin. They shook their head, seemingly under the impression that he was looking for someone who lived there now. Unable to articulate his real purpose, he’d taken out the newspaper clippings of the assassination. From their confusion, they had no knowledge of the event, no idea who Jesse Austin was, and certainly no idea why this strange foreign man was asking about him sixteen years after the murder. Though they’d been more polite than most, they’d shut the door and locked it.
Moving away from the apartment building, Leo walked down the street, clutching the articles that he showed to almost anyone, particularly tho
se men and women old enough to have been adults at the time of the murders. While he’d been in the Soviet Union and Afghanistan, he’d always presumed that reaching New York was the main obstacle he faced. He was wrong, underestimating the difficulties an outsider would experience when trying to solve a sixteen-year-old case that no one wanted to remember.
There was a cafe on the other side of the street, always busy and something of a social hub in the neighbourhood, popular with an older clientele. He crossed over and entered. Filled with lunch time customers, it was noisy and lively, packed with small square tables situated so close together the waitresses needed to side-step between them, which they did with some lity. Wearing blue-and-white-striped aprons they delivered plates loaded with inelegant, delicious-looking food. The kitchen was visible, steam rising. There was an almost constant sound of plates clattering. Many of the men and women eating here were at least fifty years old. Surely someone knew Jesse Austin and the truth about his death, even if it were no more than a rumour. Leo would have gladly listened to even the idlest speculation.
Approaching the woman at the cash register, Leo felt frustrated by his limited English, verbal clumsiness that would not endear him to an already suspicious audience.
— I want to ask questions. About this man . . . Jesse Austin.