Agent 6

  As they explored, each footstep caused a puff of dust, rising up before settling over the toes of their shoes. Only the kitchen showed evidence of recent use. The lines between the tiles were black with dirt. Washing up had been stacked in the sink, coffee cups and encrusted plates. Leo checked the refrigerator. There were cartons of milk. In the freezer was a tower of packaged meals – he counted seven.

  Leo could tell that Nara’s curiosity had been piqued: a desire to continu colous muddled with her anxieties. It was their second search of a suspect’s house together as mentor and student. Leo said:

  — I don’t think Agent Yates is the kind of person to keep a journal.

  — What kind of a person is he?

  Once again, Leo recalled Elena’s words in her diary:

  He scares me.

  This house would not have allayed her fears. In deciding whether to explore upstairs or descend to the basement, Leo chose the gloom of the basement, guessing that it might appeal to Yates.

  Rectangular patches of carpet had been nailed to the wooden steps down to the basement with no concern for appearances, making it baffling why the alteration had been done at all. The answer was on the ceiling, covered in black soundproof foam. The concrete floor had also been carpeted in a patchwork of material, using the remains of carpets from upstairs. This wasn’t about aesthetics or comfort, it was about noise, the creation of a quiet room, a cocoon shut off from the world.

  There was a tatty chair positioned opposite a large television set up on a small side table. There was a second refrigerator, this one containing bottles of beer, neatly lined up, labels facing forward. There was a stack of newspapers, recently read, crossword puzzles filled in. Leo looked through the home-crafted bookshelves. They contained various biographies of sporting heroes, reference books, a dictionary for the word games that Yates seemed to occupy himself with. There were magazines about fishing. There was pornography. The room was like a teenager’s den buried under a decaying, apparently respectable family house.

  The carpeted stairs and soundproofed ceiling meant that neither Leo nor Nara heard Yates arrive. Only when Leo turned to address her did he see the man standing at the top of the padded steps.

  Same Day

  Yates had been handsome once, Leo thought, remembering the wedding photograph, with his thick dark hair and well-cut suit. But not any more: skin sagged underneath yellow-tinged eyes. Compensating for this slackness in his features, his lips were stretched tight, thin as a washing line. He used gel to smooth down his grey hair, as when he’d been young, though now it looked like a sickly imitation, a pastiche of youth. Likewise, his suit might have fashionable once but now it was dated and worn, the material threadbare and the cut loose around his limbs. He’d lost weight. From the contents of the refrigerator, Leo deduced that his body had been whittled down by drink. But the creeping frailties of old age did nothing to soften his appearance, physical vulnerabilities made no dent on the aggressive force of his presence. Whatever wrong he’d done, whatever part he’d played in the events of that night, this was an unrepentant man, staring at them with brazen confidence and not a hint of remorse. They’d come for him, broken into his house, and it was him who spoke first, assuming a position of power, smug that they had failed to take him by surprise.

  — I’ve been expecting you.

  Recovering his own omposure, Leo said to Nara, speaking in Dari:

  — He knows who we are?

  She didn’t have time to translate, Yates guessed the question and said:

  — You are Mr Leo Demidov.

  Leo had encountered many brilliant, ruthless agents in the KGB, minds that could calculate a person’s weakness in an instant and in another how to exploit it, uncluttered by moral scruples or ethical limitations. It was their absolute certainty that made them so valuable to organizations like the secret police, where doubt had never been considered an asset. Yates was one of those men. Elena had been right to be afraid.

  Leo asked Nara:

  — How did he know we were in the United States?

  Yates descended the stairs, at ease, opening the refrigerator, taking out a beer while saying with his back to them:

  — What language is that?

  Nara answered, the tremor in her voice indicating to Leo that, like Elena, she too was afraid:

  — It is Dari.

  — That what they speak in Afghanistan?

  — One of several languages.

  — Maybe that’s why your country’s in such a mess. A country should have one language. That’s a problem we’ve got here: too many languages creeping in, confusing people. One country, one language – you’d be surprised at how upset people become when you suggest it. Seems pretty logical to me.

  Yates clicked the top off the beer, allowing the cap to fall to the floor, landing silently on the thick patchwork of carpet. He took a sip, licking his beer-wet lips, listening as Nara belatedly translated Leo’s questions: how did he know who they were and how did he know they were in the United States? He gave off the impression that he was enjoying himself, the centre of attention and important in a way he hadn’t been for many years.

  — How did I know you’d show up? The FBI informed me you’d been granted asylum, the husband of Raisa Demidova.

  Leo’s emotions were stirred by the sound of his wife’s name being mispronounced. The clumsy attempt stung as surely as an insult. With remarkable sensitivity Yates picked up on his reaction and repeated the name:

  — Raisa Demidova, she was your wife, am I right?

  Leo replied in English:

  — Raisa Demidova was my wife.

  Leo could not control his tone or expression. He’d laid bare his intentions.

  Yates took another long slug of beer, his thin lips sealed around the head of the bottle, his throat gulping as he swallowed – eyes on Leo throughout. Finally, Yates lowered the bottle, then said, his voice heavy with contempt:

  — The FBI didn’t think it likely that you’d try to find me. That’s what they said. Me? I knew you’d come. I didn’t believe it was an accident that you ended up in the United States. They tried to tell me it was a coincidence, that therwas no planning, that it had come about by chance, that fate had conspired to bring you to the country where your wife died.

  Yates slowly shook his head.

  — Agents today are so fucking dumb I could cry. They’re soft. They have to go to charm school, learn how to eat with four different types of knife and fork. They have first-class degrees and run marathons but they don’t know anything about the real world. College kids with guns. They sacked me: did you know that?

  He waited for the translation, wanting to judge Leo’s reaction. Leo nodded.

  — You retired only a few months after my wife’s murder.

  — I was one of the best agents who ever worked for the FBI. In my time, there were mavericks in the Bureau, people who got the job done by any means necessary and no questions were asked. We were given space to act, to make decisions. We were judged on results, not on process. We didn’t have restrictions, or rules. We did whatever we needed to do. Those times are over. The FBI has changed. They want people who do as they’re told, who think in a certain way, company men, no initiative, no guts, every decision needs four permission slips to be signed.

  Wistful, he glanced into the near-distance, seeming to forget his guests. Then, abruptly, he turned back to Leo.

  — You’re risking a lot coming here. With one phone call, I could have you kicked out the country.

  Nara translated, looking at Leo, her eyes imploring him to leave. Yates immediately spotted the division of opinion between the two of them and added, hastily:

  — Don’t get me wrong. I’m not going to do that. I don’t get many visitors, certainly not ones I can talk with about interesting subjects.

  He was lonely. He was vain. And he was proud. Like a professional interrogator, Leo weighed these characteristics, evaluating how likely it was that the man would talk a
nd what pressure might be needed. The combination of vices was promising. Yates had remained silent for many years. He was bitter. The fact that the truth had been erased from historical records bothered him as much as it bothered Leo. He wanted to tell his story. He wanted to talk. Leo only needed to flatter him.

  Yates sat down, sinking into his comfortable chair, as laid back as if there were a sporting event on television.

  — They told me you’d defected? That seems normal for a Communist. In my experience, Communists generally end up betraying their country. You Reds can’t stay faithful for long. Loyalty is a virtue I prize. I’m certain the United States has the most loyal citizens in the world, which is one of the reasons why we’re going to win the Cold War. Take me, for example: I looked after my wife right up until the day she died, long after she stopped loving me. It didn’t matter that she didn’t love me. It didn’t matter that I didn’t love her. I never left her. I knew her every need. I designed this house around her needs. Hard as it might be for some people to accept but I knew my country’s needs too – she needed strength against her enemies. I gave her strength. I never compromised. I never pulled my punches. I did whatever it took and I’d do the same again.

  Leo listened as Nara translated. Yates interrupted:

  — You’re here to kill me?

  Leo understood the English. Before he could reply, Yates laughed:

  — Don’t be shy!

  Leo used a phrase he’d practised.

  — I wish to find out who killed my wife.

  — And you wish to kill them? I see it in your eyes. You and me, we’re not so different – we do whatever it takes.

  Yates slipped a hand into his pocket, taking out a small revolver and putting it on the arm of his chair. He studied Leo’s reaction to the gun carefully, then continued speaking as if the gun weren’t there.

  — You’ve travelled a long way, so I want to be as helpful as I can. Who killed your wife? Who killed your pretty Russian wife? She was pretty, wasn’t she? She was a beauty. No wonder you’re sore about losing her. I bet you couldn’t believe your luck, marrying a pretty woman like that. Hard to understand why she was a teacher. Seems a waste to me. She could have had a real career in America – a model, an actress, her face in all the magazines.

  Leo said:

  — Who shot her?

  Yates swirled the remains of his beer, as if mixing a potion.

  — It wasn’t me.

  Leo had heard thousands of denials in his career. To his disappointment he was certain that Yates was telling the truth.

  Same Day

  Yates raised three fingers.

  — Three people died that night: Jesse Austin, Anna Austin and your wife. A lot of Negroes believed it was me that pulled the trigger on old Jesse. They think I’m the devil and I was the one who shot him even though I was standing on the other side of the street when Austin was killed, with my hands in my pockets surrounded by witnesses, real witnesses too, not the kind in line for a promotion, or trying to duck jail time. Over the years I’ve received hundreds of death threats.

  Yates gestured towards the bookshelves and Leo turned, presuming there to be a bundle of these letters tied together. But there were none and no proof that any death threats had been sent. Yates continued without producing them.

  — Negroes complain about lynching but what they’re really complaining about is that they don’t get to do it to white folks. That’s what equality means to most of them: the right to lynch us back. Lynching for all, regardless of colour.

  Yates laughed while Nara translated. He was greatly amused by his own joke, which he seemed to consider profound wisdom. He didn’t wait for her to finish, keen to carry on with his story.

  — The truth is that the idea of killing Austin never crossed my mind. The idea had never been proposed by the FBI, I swear to God, not once did we discuss it, not even when the old fool was telling the world how he’d rather fight for the Communists than for the United States.

  Leo had no interest in this rhetorical performance, nor in hearing the many reasons why Yates hated Austin, and asked:

  — Who shot him?

  — Your people did. The Communists killed him. Jesse Austin was shot dead by a Soviet agent.

  Leo nodded, he sighed.

  — I believe you.

  Yates lowered his beer, checking with Nara as she translated Leo’s statement. He had always believed Jesse Austin’s death was a Soviet plot, not an American one.

  Leo said in Dari:

  — My daughter Elena was in New York, on that same trip. She was working for a Soviet government agency. She believed that her mission was to rejuvenate the career of Jesse Austin. It is clear to me that this was a lie. She’d been tricked. However, I have never been able to find out why my country wanted Jesse Austin dead. My daughter obviously didn’t know.

  Hearing the translation, Yates nodded.

  — Elena? That girl couldn’t have explained it to you. She didn’t know anything. All she did when we arrested her was cry. She honestly believed she was giving Jesse’s career a boost. It was pitiful how stupid she was.

  Leo felt tremendous fury at these words. His daughter had been exploited because she was a dreamer, a young girl who’d fallen in love. Hearing Yates mock her, the desire to kill him was so strong he was forced to shut his eyes briefly, controlling his anger, allowing Yates to speak without interruption.

  — They needed someone like her to force Austin into the open. He was practically a hermit, never going out. That girl turns up, talks about changing the world, and he can’t say no. The only person who could’ve convinced Jesse Austin was someone like her.

  Finally Leo understood that Elena’s naivety hadn’t merely made it easy for her to be manipulated, it was the key to unlocking Austin’s scepticism, the only way to make sure he turned up to the concert.

  Yates toyed with the gun throughout the translation. Once Nara was finished, he carried on.

  — I’m not surprised you couldn’t figure out what the point of the assassination was. It’s hard to imagine a scheme more twisted than the one they cooked up. The Kremlin had decided that Austin was no longer an asset. He wasn’t on the radio, no one knew who he was and no one was buying his records. He couldn’t get a gig in a bar, let alone a concert hall. I’d done my job well. I’d made the old man irrelevant. The Soviets took a long cold look at their biggest supporter and decided that he was more useful dead than alive. Your government was fixated on the idea that the Negro community was the most likely way to start a revolution in America. I suppose since they were downtrodden, the idea was that they’d rise up, rip off their chains and rebuild the State according to a Socialist model. All it needed was a spark and the whole racial tinderbox would go up in flames, bringing down the capitalist regime and turning the United States red. That was the plan.

  Yates chuckled at the notion.

  — I don’t know if they were deluded enough to believe that old man Austin would be the spark but they did believe his assassination would worsen racial tensions. If they shot him, no matter what the truth of the assassination, every black American would think it was the FBI lynching an outspoken Negro. No one would believe it was a Communist plot, they’d all think it was an FBI hit. The assassination would make the forgotten man famous again; more famous than he’d ever been before, a martyr for the Negro revolution. Malcolm X had been shot only a few months earlier, two Negro assassinations in a year, it looked suspicious, I’ll grant them that. They were hoping, after Austin’s death, that everyone would buy his music and listen to recordings of his speeches. They thought they could breathe life into his career by taking his life.

  Yates smiled through much of Nara’s translation, amused by the ironies, fondly recollecting a time when he had power over life and death.

  — For the plan to work, they needed him in a public place, with the world’s media present. That’s why they tagged this plan onto the concert.

  Leo asked, in Russia
n:

  — But the FBI would simply tell the public it was a Communist plot.

  Nara struggled with the translation but Yates smiled, understanding what had been said.

  — The more the FBI told the public it was a Communist plot, the more the public would believe it was an FBI plot. That’s how conspiracy theories are born. The official version has to sound like a lie even when it’s the truth, and the louder you say the truth, the more people look elsewhere. The Communists couldn’t frame the FBI directly: they didn’t have the means or the capability. They were going to frame your daughter, Elena, pretend that she’d slept with Jesse Austin. White Americans would believe the girl had shot him out of jealousy. Negroes wouldn’t. The plan relied upon innuendo and suggestion: they banked on the fact that the Negro community would automatically believe anything bad about the FBI.

  Yates climbed out of his seat, pocketing the gun and walking to the fridge, fetching another beer. He pulled the top off, letting it land on the carpet. He took a gulp, impatiently waiting for Nara to finish. Hearing the translation, Leo asked:

  — How did you find this out? Elena couldn’t have told you: she didn’t know.

  — I had it all explained to me by a queer Jew Communist called Osip Feinstein. He’d gotten cold feet about his involvement. Like all Communists, he wanted to switch sides. He wanted me to save him, as if he were a damsel in distress.