Agent 6

  — He didn’t want to be involved in the murder of Jesse Austin?

  — Maybe he liked the old man’s music. I don’t know what the reasoning was. But he spilled his guts, ratted out his colleagues.

  — Did he come to you before or after the assassination?

  Yates considered lying then shrugged and said:

  — What happened was Feinstein ran an agency based in New York that organized trips to Communist Europe for rich dumb Red Americans. He’d managed it for years. Suddenly he wanted to talk. So, I turned up and he asked me to stop the murder. He said I could save Jesse Austin. In exchange, he wanted to go into hiding, protective custody, scared that the Russians would kill him.

  Leo said:

  — You did nothing?

  Yates nodded.

  — I did nothing, well, almost nothing. First of all, I didn’t know if anything he said was true. He had switched sides more times than anyone in the history of spying. You couldn’t trust him even as your enemy. Second of all, I figured if the Communists wanted to kill one of their own then why should I get in the way? Why should I save old man Jesse, the guy who wanted to fight Americans? I didn’t want to hear Jesse Austin bad-mouthing this country any more. Why save a Communist who hated America? Why should the FBI save a traitor? In the end, Jesse picked the wrong side. The decision cost him his life.

  — Why didn’t Feinstein tell another officer, if you didn’t respond?

  Yates nodded, appreciating the point.

  — I handcuffed him to a pipe, locked him in his office, to make sure he couldn’t interfere, so he couldn’t tell anyone else. I let Jesse Austin turn up at the demonstration. That was the extent of my involvement. I didn’t orchestrate anything. I didn’t kill him. And I didn’t kill your wife either. All I’m guilty of is letting the whole thing play out.

  Yates leaned against the wall, becoming thoughtful, speaking almost to himself as much as Leo.

  — Did I fail in my duty as an FBI officer? I’d argue that I did not. I’ll tell you why. I knew Austin’s murder wasn’t going to cause a revolution. Even if every Negro out there believed that the President Lyndon Johnson himself had personally ordered Austin’s assassination, there wasn’t going to be any revolution.

  The notion of trying to save Austin because he was an American citizen, an innocent man, didn’t factor into his equation.

  — Most blacks believe in God. They go to church. They pray. They sing. Communists don’t. Communists hate God. In the end, there were never enough Godless blacks – there were never enough Jesse Austins for the riots to ever become an uprising.

  Yates had said most of what he’d wanted to say. But Leo had not yet received an answer to the question that had brought him here.

  — Who murdered my wife?

  Yates widened his eyes, as if he’d forgotten about this part of the story.

  — You already know the answer to that! After Austin was shot we took your wife and daughter into custody. The precinct was mobbed. There was press in the street. There was a protest. When Anna Austin arrived, they didn’t think to search her, the grieving widow. She sat in the office and waited, claiming she had evidence. I’d been interviewing your wife. Soviet diplomats wanted to talk to her. We left the interview room together, walking into the main office. Anna Austin pulled out a gun. She’d always hated me. She must have figured I’d killed her husband. She fired four shots before another officer shot her dead. All four shots missed me. They hit the desk, the walls – one bullet whistled past my ear. It’s a miracle I’m alive. One of those bullets hit your wife by mistake – caught her in the stomach. That’s all there is to it. It was an accident, no mystery to solve. You’ve been waiting all these years but you’ve known the answer all along: the official version is the truth. Anna Austin killed your wife. She didn’t mean to, but she did.

  Pre-empting his reaction, Yates said:

  — There are lots of people that can say it’s so. They saw it happen. They saw Anna pull the trigger. They saw your wife go down.

  Leo mulled over this explanation, asking:

  — Anna Austin never intended to shoot my wife?

  Yates moved closer.

  — Her intention was to kill me. But she couldn’t manage it. She was a lousy shot, probably never fired a gun before. Afterwards we lied about the motives, not about the facts. Jesse Austin was dead. Anna Austin was dead, shot by a police officer. We were in trouble. Two dead Negroes in one night with one shot in the middle of a police precinct? We had to lie. Harlem was going to burn. We were left with no choice. We needed to create a story to confuse the public so that even if they didn’t believe us, they wouldn’t be able to agree among themselves what the truth was. We needed to tie the whole thing together. Powers far above me decided that the story about Austin taking a lover would work. We’d tell the world your wife had an affair with Austin and that she shot him dead out of jealousy. Anna came to the precinct and acted out of revenge. It squared with the facts. There were photos of your wife at the murder scene. We doctored some photos so that we had images of your wife meeting Austin in his apartment, cutting out Elena and replacing her with images of Raisa. Those photos were rushed. Take a look at them closely: the proportions are out of line. Osip Feinstein’s store was burnt down, with him inside it, the Soviet punishment for betraying them. There were small-scale riots. There were civil-rights marches but nothing of consequence and certainly no revolution. In the end, the majority believed the murders were the result of a tragic romance. Only the Negroes doubted it, and even then, most didn’t care. The whole thing worked out so well I couldn’t believe the FBI wanted me to quit. They claimed I should have acted to stop the murder of Jesse Austin.

  Yates shook his head. It was clear that he was troubled not by the murder, nor by the death of three people, but by the fact that he’d lost his job. He was a villain convinced he was a hero.

  As Nara finished the translation, Yates warned them:

  — There’s nothing you can do. It’s history no one cares about. No one will believe you. No newspaper will publish it. There’s no evidence. If you try and cause problems my government will kick you both out the country. I’ve got nothing else to say. If you expected an apology, you’ve wasted your time. The affair cost me my job, a job I loved and a job I was good at, so I paid my dues too. Now, we’re done talking. If you don’t get out of my house right now I’ll make the phone call and have you both sent back to that hell-hole Afghanistan.

  Leo gripped hold of one of the biographies on the table. As Yates moved within range he swung it, striking him across the jaw, knocking the former agent to the floor. Moving at speed, he took the gun from his pocket, kneeling on his chest, pinning him down and saying in Russian:

  — I’ve done worse things than kill a man like you.

  Leo looked up at a terrified Nara, saying in Dari:

  — Translate for me.

  — Leo!

  — Translate!

  He turned back to face Yates.

  — My wife didn’t die instantly. It took twenty minutes. She died from loss of blood. Maybe Anna Austin did shoot her by mistake but you let her die, didn’t you? Maybe you were worried Raisa would tell the world Anna Austin tried to shoot you? My wife was lying on the floor, desperate for help – you saw an opportunity, didn’t you?

  Leo struck Yates across the face with the gun, splitting his lip.

  — Answer me!

  Yates spat blood, listening to Nara as she translated. He was calm, saying:

  — No matter what you do to me your wife will always be remembered as a whore.

  Hearing the translation, Leo cocked the gun, saying in English:

  — Tell me how she died.

  Yates didn’t answer. Leo moved the gun to the exact position where Raisa had been shot, the barrel pressing against Yates’s stomach.

  — Tell me.

  Yates shook his head. Leo pulled the trigger.

  Same Day

  Nara dropped to floo
r beside Yates, moving to help. Leo stopped her, saying:

  — He’s been shot in the same place as my wife was shot. It took her twenty minutes to die. Tell him that he might have that long. But he’s older and the bullet was fired at point-blank range. In all likelihood, he has less time.

  Nara translated, stumbling over the words. Leo continued, calmly:

  — In this soundproofed room no one will have heard the shot. The only way he’s going to survive is if I show him the mercy he failed to show my wife. I’ll consider doing that if he tells me the truth.

  Nara translated, pleading with Yates to speak. Leo directed his Russian at Yates as though he could understand.

  — When Anna Austin fired at you, you fired back, not another officer. You shot and killed her, didn’t you? And once she was dead you realized the trouble you were suddenly in. You’d visited Jesse Austin that same day. He was dead. And now you’d shot his wife. You saw my injured wife as an opportunity: she was injured, seriously, but she wasn’t going to die, not if you’d sought help. The cover-up wasn’t your superior’s idea. It was your idea. But in order for your plan to work my wife needed to die. Isn’t that right?

  Yates squeezed his lips tight, refusing to speak. He tried to stem the bleeding, putting pressure on the wound, ignoring the questions. Leo pulled Yates’s hand away: keeping the wound exposed, blood continuing to flow, saying in Russian:

  — Did you do that to my wife? Did you pull her hand away? You let her bleed?

  Yates’s brow overed with sweat, his body shaking. Leo said:

  — You delayed calling the ambulance?

  Nara translated, no longer stumbling over the words, levelling the accusation at him. She wanted an answer too. Yates said nothing.

  Leo didn’t raise his voice, speaking as though addressing a child:

  — Yates, you’re running out of time. If you don’t answer I will watch you die as you watched my wife. I will consider the events before me a replay of what happened in New York, and I don’t need you to speak in order to understand that night. I’m prepared to watch, like this, as you bleed to death.

  Yates was the master of reading people’s weaknesses and could surely see that there was no uncertainty in Leo.

  — You stayed with her, didn’t you? For twenty minutes, making sure of her death? You came up with the idea of tying the murders together, claiming that Anna killed Raisa, that it was an act of revenge, but not against you.

  Yates sat up, regarding his bloody shirt, red all the way up to his chest, spreading out across the patchwork carpet. Leo said in English:

  — Speak to me.

  Finally, Yates reacted. He nodded. Leo grabbed his face.

  — Not good enough. I want to hear you speak. Tell me: did you let her die?

  Yates’s teeth were bloody. He said:

  — Yes, I let her die.

  Leo’s voice was almost a whisper.

  — My wife spent the last moments of her life with you. Describe them for me.

  Yates had turned ghostly pale. He shut his eyes. Leo slapped him across the face, forcing him to respond. Yates opened his mouth but didn’t speak. Leo said:

  — Her last minutes. I want to know.

  Yates tried to touch the bullet wound but Leo kept a grip on his hand.

  — You don’t have much time.

  Yates spoke. His words sounded like a man struggling to keep afloat, snatched breaths, panicking.

  — I told her there was an ambulance on its way. She didn’t believe me. She knew I was lying. She tried to call out for help. Once she realized there was no help she became peaceful. Her breathing was slow. I thought it was going to take a few minutes but almost fifteen minutes passed. There was a lot of blood. I thought she was ready to die.

  He shook his head.

  — She began to speak. Very quietly, like she was praying. I thought it had to be Russian. But she was speaking English. She was speaking to me. So I moved closer. She asked me to tell . . . her daughter . . .

  — Elena?

  Yates nodded.

  — That she wasn’t angry. And that she loved her. She kept mumbling it over and over. Tell her I’m not angry. Tell her that I love her. And then she shut her eyes. This time she didn’t open them a gain.

  Leo was crying. He let his tears run, unable to wipe them away since he was keeping Yates’s arms pinned down. He composed himself enough to ask:

  — You didn’t tell Elena? You couldn’t even do that?

  Yates shook his head.

  Leo stood up. Freed, Yates pressed his hand against the bullet wound, stemming the bleeding. His anger and confidence returned.

  — I answered your questions! Call an ambulance!

  Leo took hold of Nara’s hand, silently guiding her up the padded stairs. Behind them came the cry:

  — Call me a fucking ambulance!

  In the hallway Leo put the gun down on the side cabinet. The telephone was situated below the wedding photograph, the young, handsome Yates with his beautiful bride, destined for a life together of duty and dislike. Holding the receiver against his ear, ready to dial, staring at this photograph, Leo thought of the details of Yates’s confession, picturing Raisa’s last minutes – the physical pain, the protracted suffering and the grubby loneliness of her death, bleeding on the floor of a police precinct. There was not a doubt in his mind that Agent Jim Yates deserved to die. It was sentimental dishonesty to believe that a show of mercy would result in a change of heart. Men like Yates regretted nothing. They could not repent and were incapable of uncertainty. Contemplation and introspection served only to underscore what they already believed. They would always be able to justify their actions. A voice seemed to shout at Leo, demanding justice:

  Let him die!

  That was why he was here, that was why he’d travelled so far and risked so much. How could he come all this way only to save the man who’d murdered his wife? He was not seeking the moral satisfactionof being a betterperson than his adversary. He would find no sense of pride in saving this man. The anger and anguish he suffered over his wife’s death were as raw today as they were on the day he heard the news – those feelings should be acted upon, rather than a preconceived notion of decency. Knowing the truth of what happened was no tonic to his hurt and provided him with no sense of inner peace. His fury was just as strong, his emotions as unsettled as they had ever been. Maybe if he let Yates die, alone in his basement, a sad and pathetic death, one befitting a man ruled by hatred, he would feel differently, he would achieve the peacehe’d been seeking.

  Let him die!

  Let him die.

  Nara touched his arm.

  — Leo?

  When he turned to her, he did not see Raisa, but she was by his side as surely as Nara was standing there. The truth is that Raisa would have hated Yates even more intensely than Leo. She would never have forgiven Yates for allowing Jesse Austin to die. She would never have forgiven him for not passing on her last words to Elena. His silence had contributed to Elena blaming herself, carrying a burden of guilt that had altered her character and shaped her life. Even so, even feeling that degree of hatred, Leo was sure that Raisa would call for an ambulance.

  He dialled the number, handing the phone to Nara.

  — Tell them the address. Tell them to hurry.

  — Where are you going?

  — To help Yates.

  New York City

  Brighton Beach

  Same Day

  Leo sat on the beach watching the ocean break against the shore. The sunset had contracted to a smudge of red, night closing in on what remained of the day. He rolled a smooth stone from hand to hand, back and forth at regular intervals, as if he were an elaborate timepiece counting down to darkness. One fact was clear to him now – the truth had brought him no comfort. His discoveries did not make Raisa’s death any easier to bear. With grief, there was no resolution, no closure. There was no end to it. He missed her now, today, on this beach, as much as he had ever miss
ed her. He found a future without her as hard to picture as the moments after he’d first heard she was dead. The thought of waking up tomorrow morning without her by his side, after many years of doing exactly that, still made him sick with loneliness. In truth, his investigation had been an elaborate, fifteen-year-long diversion from the fact that he did not know how to live without her. He would never know.

  As contradictory as it might seem, he had been trying to keep Raisa alive by exploring the mysteries surrounding her death, to legitimize obsessing about her by framing that obsession as the work of a detective. In an unsolved mystery there was immortality. Looking back he realized that Zoya had always perceived the true nature of his investigation and had always known it would bring him no comfort. She was right. He had found out who’d murdered his wife, he had found out why and how she’d been killed. He could now picture the events of that night in New York, understanding every detail, fully grasping the motivations. Yet what was important was that he finally grasped the futility of trying to keep Raisa alive, understanding that the unsolved mystery had only ever offered the illusion of her company, a man chasing the reflection of a woman he loved.

  He would never see Raisa again. He would never sleep beside her, or kiss her. And with that thought, he let the smooth, heavy stone roll out of his hand. Night had come. The red smudge of sunset was gone. The lights of Coney Island were bright.

  Hearing footsteps, he turned around. Nara and Zabi were approaching. They arrived by his side, standing over him, unsure what to say. Leo patted the ground beside him.

  — Sit with me a while.

  Nara sat on one side, Zabi on the other. Leo took Zabi’s hand. She sensed something was wrong even if she didn’t understand what it was.

  — Are you leaving us?

  Leo nodded.

  — I have to go home.

  — Isn’t this home?

  — It is for you. I must return to Russiai>

  — Why?

  — My daughters are there. They’re in trouble. They’re being punished instead of me. I can’t allow that to happen.