Leo glanced through the transcripts of all Austin’s conversations since he’d arrived – a chronology of his ten hours in the apartment. He’d spent twenty minutes in the bath, forty-five minutes for dinner. There were exchanges with the female agent about the Patriotic War. Austin spoke excellent Russian, a language he’d sought to learn after his visit in 1934. Leo considered this an additional complication. The agents would not be able to communicate openly. Austin would understand any slips. Flicking through the transcripts, it seemed their guest had already questioned the discrepancy between the enormous apartment and the single occupant. The agent had made a reply about it being a reward for her husband’s valour in battle. After dinner, Austin had phoned his wife. He’d spoken to her for twenty minutes.
AUSTIN: I really wish you could be here. I wish you could experience the things I’m experiencing and tell me if I’m being blind. I worry I’m seeing things the way I want them to be and not the way they are. Your instincts are what I need right now.
In reply his wife had told him that his instincts had never let him down before and she loved him very much.
Leo handed the transcript to Grigori.
— He’s changed. He’s not the same man we saw visiting the farm. He’s having a crisis of confidence.
Grigori read through the pages. He handed them back to Leo.
— I agree. It doesn’t look good.
— That’s why he waited until the last minute to change his accommodation arrangements.
The agent posing as the widow entered the surveillance centre. Leo turned to her, asking:
— Was he interested in you?
She shook her head.
— I made several suggestive remarks. He either didn’t notice or ignored them altogether. I pretended to become upset thinking about the death of my husband. He put an arm around me. But it was not sexual.
— You’re sure?
Grigori crossed his arms.
— What is the point of trying to trap him?
Leo replied:
— We’re not judging him. We must know our friends in order to protect them. We’re not the only ones spying on him.
In the corner an agent raised his hand:
— He’s awake.
*
The party officials congregated in the marble hallway – a clump of middle-ranking, middle-aged men, suits and smiles, just like the group who’d shown Austin round the village. As important as Austin was, it was decided against arranging meetings with high-ranking Soviet personnel in case it played into the FBI’s hands, enabling them to portray Austin as a Soviet crony, interested in the elite, rather than a man enamoured with the system itself.
Austin appeared at the foot of the stairs, dressed in a knee-length coat, snow boots and a scarf. Leo assessed his tailored clothes. They were not flamboyant yet were no doubt excellent quality. Jesse Austin was wealthy. Reports estimated his annual inme to be in excess of seventy thousand dollars. Austin assessed his reception. Leo saw a hint of displeasure in his expression. Perhaps he felt he was being surrounded and crowded, overly managed. He addressed them in Russian:
— Have you all been waiting long?
His Russian was excellent, fluent, but it followed American patterns of speech and despite his good accent, his words sounded foreign. The foremost official stepped forward, replying in English. Austin cut him short:
— Let’s speak Russian. No one speaks it back home. When else am I going to practise?
There was laughter. The official smiled and switched from English into Russian.
— Did you sleep well?
Austin replied that he had, unaware that everyone already knew the answer.
The group left the House on the Embankment, making their way through the snow, guiding their guest towards the limousine. Leo and Grigori broke off, heading towards their car. They would follow the party, rejoining them at their destination. As Leo opened the door, he looked back to see Austin eyeing the limousine with disdain. He began to petition the officials. Leo couldn’t hear what they were saying. There was a disagreement. The officials seemed reluctant. Ignoring their protests, Austin hastened away from the limousine, arriving beside Leo and Grigori.
— I don’t want to be driven around behind tinted windows! How many people in Russia drive cars like that!
One of the officials caught up.
— Surely, Mr Austin, you’d be more comfortable in the diplomatic vehicle? This is just a standard working car, nothing more.
— Standard working car sounds great to me!
The official was flummoxed by this alteration of their carefully laid plans. He hurried back to his group, discussing the matter, then returned and nodded.
— Very well, you and I will travel with Officer Demidov. The others will go ahead in the limousine.
Leo opened the door, offering the front passenger seat to Austin. But once again Austin shook his head.
— I’ll sit in the back. I don’t want to take your colleague’s seat.
Putting the car in gear, Leo glanced in the rear-view mirror at Austin, his tall frame cramped into the ungenerous proportions of the car. The official peered at the rudimentary interior with dissatisfaction.
— These cars are very basic. They were built for work not for leisure. I imagine they compare badly to many of your American cars. But we have no need for excess here.
That sentiment may have carried more weight had the official not five minutes ago tried to impress his guest with the luxury of a limousine. Austin replied:
— It gets you there, doesn’t it?
The official smiled, a smile designed to cover his confusion.
— Gets us where?
— Wherever it is we’re going.
— Yes, it will get us there. I hope!
The official laughed. Austin did not. He disliked this man. Already the plans were unravelling.
Moscow
Grocery Store No. 1,
Yeliseyev’s Grocery Store
Tverskaya 14
Same Day
Grocery Store No. 1 was the most exclusive shopping experience the city had to offer, open only to the elite. The walls were ornate, adorned with gold leaf. The pillars were marble, the tops decorative and intricate – flourishes that befitted a palace. Regal settings for tins of food, polished and stacked with labels facing forward, fresh fruit arranged in patterns, spirals of apples, hills of fat potatoes. Several days had been spent preparing the store. Each aisle overflowed with stock, the storerooms had been pillaged and everything had been brought forward, meticulously displayed. The end result was a venue that Leo immediately recognized as an entirely inappropriate choice for their guest, fundamentally misunderstanding the audience it was intended for. This store didn’t represent a model for a new society – it embodied the past, a Tsarist-era snapshot of exuberant wealth. Yet the gaggle of party officials beamed at Austin, as if expecting him to applaud. They had let vanity get in the way of identifying what their guest truly wanted, presenting him with ostentation, abiding by the calculation that the more they showed him, the more he’d be impressed. Their profound fear of being seen as poor and shabby in relation to their American foes had blinded them.
Leo paused beside tins of pea soup stacked in a pyramid formation. He’d never seen food arranged this way and wondered why a person would be impressed by such a display. Austin passed the pyramid, looking at it with disdain, while surrounded by a clump of officials keenly pointing towards exotic fruits that Leo couldn’t name. In an attempt to integrate this excess with the ideology of Communism, the shoppers, all MGB agents, had been selected from across the age spectrum, dressed in plain clothes and scuffed shoes, as though Grocery Store No. 1 were for everyone – the elderly grandmother and the young working woman alike. The staff meanwhile – men for the meat counter, women for the fruit aisle – had been instructed to smile as Austin passed them by, their faces following him as if he were the sun and they were flowers turning into his light. T
here were more shoppers outside, offstage, shivering in the snow, entering at apparently random intervals in order to maintain the impression of people coming and going.
Austin’s expression grew increasingly sour. He was no longer speaking. His hands were deep in his pockets, his shoulders slumped, while all around him customers behaved like a flock of magpies, swooping from aisle to aisle, picking up anything that caught the light. Leo glanced in one shopping basket to see three red apples, a single beetroot and a tin of processed ham, an unlikely set of requirements for any shopping excursion.
Austin broke free from the clump of officials, once again approaching Leo. He’d evidently decided Leo represented the ordinary man. Perhaps it was his coarse uniform and gruff reticence – during the car ride here Leo had said almost nothing, in contrast to the incessant pitter-patter flattery of the official. Austin put a hand on Leo’s shoulder.
— I feel I can talk with you, Comrade Demidov.
— Of course, Mr Austinto maint
— Everyone wants to show me the best. But I just want to see the ordinary stores, where ordinary folks shop. Is there something more ordinary around here? You can’t seriously be telling me every store is like this one? Is that what you guys are telling me?
Leo felt the pressure of his question like a hand tight around his heart. He answered:
— Not all are the same. We are in the centre of town. This store might have a better range than a village store.
— I’m not talking about a village store. I’m talking about an everyday store. You know? This can’t be the only place in town?
— There are other shops.
— Within walking distance?
Before Leo could answer the officials hurried over, keen to divert their guest back towards their displays. They still had things to show him – fresh bread, the finest cuts of ham. Austin raised his hand, as if to keep them at bay. His mind was made up.
— My friend is going to take me on a walk. He’s going to take me to a smaller store, you know, one that’s a little more . . . ordinary.
The officials glared at Leo as if the suggestion had been his. Their survival instincts were acute. Suddenly the two other teams of agents pushed forward, addressing Leo.
— That is out of the question. We must stick to our itinerary, for security reasons.
Austin raised an eyebrow and shook his head.
— Security? Are you serious? I’m not in any danger here, am I?
They were trapped. They could hardly claim that they couldn’t protect him on the streets of their capital. Austin smiled.
— I know you got rules and regulations. I know you got things you want to show me. But I want to be able to explore, OK? I insist. You hear that? I’m insisting.
He laughed to soften the order but it was an order nonetheless. They were under instructions to do as their guest requested. From the way the others were looking at Leo it was clear that he was going to be blamed.
Leo led the group out of the store, appointed head of this expedition in search of the ordinary. Austin was by his side, his mood already improving as they trampled through the thick snow. Leo glanced back to see the officials in animated conference by the store’s grand doors as a new influx of carefully down-dressed, scraggy shoppers in cheap coats arrived to find the show was over. The party officials didn’t understand what Austin wanted to see but they knew it wasn’t long queues and poorly stocked stores. Since they were under strict orders to accommodate Austin’s every whim they could hardly intervene.
Austin put a friendly hand on Leo’s back.
— Tell me a little about yourself.
Leo had no desire to talk about himself.
— What would you like to know?
Appearing out of nowhere, one of the officials joined them, having evidently overheard their conversation.
— Leo Demidov is one of our bravest officers. He fought heroically during the war and was awarded numerous commendations. Please, Mr Austin, where is it you would like to be taken? Perhaps you could take some tea while we make preparations?
Austin was annoyed at the interruption, ignoring the notion of tea, a crude attempt to stall for time, and addressed Leo.
— What do you do now, Comrade Demidov?
Leo believed in his work as an agent. Communism faced dangers from many sides. It needed to be protected. However, it was much too complex an issue to go into now. He simply said:
— I’m a police officer.
Leo hoped the questions were at an end. But Austin continued:
— Is there a lot of crime in the city?
— Not crime as there is in America. There are no murders or theft. I deal with political criminals, conspiracies against the State.
Austin was quiet for a moment.
— Fairness has many enemies, am I right?
— Yes, you are.
— I’ll wager your job can be difficult.
— Sometimes.
— It’s worth it, my friend. It is worth it.
They’d danced around the edge of this dark subject. Leo was thankful for Austin’s discretion. The conclusion of the conversation seemed to require a long silence, a pause. Jesse Austin eventually broke the silence, opting for a lighter topic.
— No more serious questions. What do you like to do for fun? A handsome man like you, you must be married?
Embarrassed at being called handsome, and at being single, Leo blushed.
— No.
— But why not?
— I don’t know . . .
— But there’s someone you love, isn’t there? Surely there’s someone? There’s always a love story, right?
The question implied it was simply unthinkable that a person could be without love. Leo was desperate to move the conversation on. A lie was the easiest way to do it.
— There is someone. We met recently.
— What does she do?
Leo hesitated, thinking back on Lena’s pile of schoolbooks:
— She’s a teacher.
— Bring her to the concert tonight!
Leo gave a small nod of his head.
— I will ask her. She is often very busy. But I will ask her.
— Please, bring her.
— I will try.
They’d walked for inutes, down side streets, off the main road. An official tugged Leo’s arm, smiling broadly to conceal his agitation.
— Are we walking anywhere in particular?
Before Leo could reply, Austin saw the queue. He raised his hand, pointing to a line of customers snaking outside a small grocery store. Grigori ran ahead, assessing the store. There were at least thirty men and women. Many of them were elderly, their ragged coats dusted with snow. Grigori looked at Leo with alarm. The crowd turned and stared at the unlikely visitors, an MGB agent and a well-dressed American celebrity – perhaps the most famous American singer in the USSR, one of the few that the media was allowed to promote.
Leo turned to Austin.
— Wait here. Let me see what the problem is.
Leo hurried to Grigori’s side to hear him whisper:
— They haven’t opened yet!
Leo banged on the store window. The manager scuttled out of the back room, unlocking the door. Before Leo could utter a warning, Austin was by his side.
— They open a little later here?
Despite the cold, Leo’s shirt had become damp with perspiration.
— It would seem so.
As the door opened, Austin addressed the store manager:
— Good morning. How you doing today? My name is Jesse Austin. Don’t mind us, we’re just here to look around. Please go about your business as usual and I promise we won’t get in the way!
The manager turned to Leo, eyes wide and mouth open.
— Should I close the store for you?
Austin replied, taking control of the situation:
— Those people are waiting in the snow! Let everyone in. Don’t do anything different!
br /> Cautiously, the shoppers trundled in, perplexed at the circumstances, forming a second line at the counter. Leo explained:
— In the other store you saw customers browsing. Here things are more disciplined. The customers tell the staff what they want. They pay and then collect the items.
Austin clapped his hands, pleased.
— I get it. It’s all about necessity! They shop for what they need, nothing more.
Leo mumbled his agreement.
— Exactly.
Reading the transcripts of Jesse Austin’s speeches and American interviews last night, Leo had encountered several heated exchanges where Austin had been accused of believing a falsified vision of Russia manufactured for gullible Westerners. The accusations had stung. He’d refuted the claims. But Leo was left with no doubt that Austin would be sensitive to his tour being overly managed. For this reason Leo and Grigori had spent the evening preparing several smaller stores close to the route of their itinerary. Leo had pre-empted the possibility of an impromptu visit. They’d alerted the managers and where possible they’d directed additional suphere Ato fill their shelves. He calculated that a polished version of reality might be more effective than an artificial model of perfection. Without the time to personally check every store their fate was in the hands of the store managers. Glancing from side to side, checking on the shelves, the state of the floors, he was relieved to see that the store was clean and reasonably well stocked. There was fresh bread and cartons of eggs. The customers were real, not hand-selected, and their good mood was entirely genuine as they marvelled at their luck, shopping on a day when there was so much choice.