— Can’t they come here? They can live with us. I don’t mind sharing my room.
— They won’t be allowed to come here.
— I don’t want you to go.
— I don’t want to leave you.
— Can’t you stay until Christmas? I’ve been reading about it at school. I want to celebrate it with you. We can buy a tree and cover it with lights.
— You can still do that with Nara.
— When are you coming back?
Leo didn’t reply.
— You are coming back, aren’t you?
— I don’t think so.
Zabi was crying.
— Have we done something wrong?
Leo took hold of her hand.
— You’re the most amazing girl. You’re going to have a wonderful life here with Nara. I’m sure of that. You can achieve anything you set your mind to. And I’m going to enjoy hearing about your success. But there is something I must do.
ONE MONTH LATER
Soviet Airspace above Moscow
13 December
Peering out of the window of the passenger plane chartered by the Soviet government to bring him home, Leo was disappointed that Moscow was hidden below angry clouds, as if shunning the gaze of the returning traitor, refusing to show him the city that he’d once sworn to protect against all enemies, domestic and foreign. No matter what rationale he applied, he could not deny that he felt ashamed. He was a man who’d fought proudly as a Soviet soldier and he would gladly have died for his country. Yet he had ended up betraying it. While his sense of personal shame was intense, he felt far greater shame that his nation had squandered its opportunity for social progress, instead industrializing darkness, making its citizens complicit in a murderous command economy, building death-factories in every corner of the country, from Kolyma’s gulags to the secret police headquarters, the Lubyanka, a building that lurked somewhere underneath those winter clouds. To the ideals that underpinned the Revolution, they were all traitors to one degree or another.
The journey from New York had been eerie, Leo surrounded by unoccupied seats, the flight empty except for the KGB operatives guarding him and the diplomatic officials sent from Moscow to oversee his return. Upon boarding he’d felt no sense of apprehension, instead pondering the money wasted on his repatriation. As a traitor of international status, he had been granted an entire plane to himself. Recalling the perks he’d once desired as a young agent, he marvelled at the irony that not even the most powerful KGB officer, with the largest dacha and longest limousine, would ever have been granted the use of an entire airliner. It was a simple matter of appearances. Leo’s deportation was taking place upon a global stage before a worldwide media circus and no economies would be tolerated. Just as Raisa had been sent to New York in the nation’s most modern airliner to impress the main adversary, so the defector Leo would be brought home in the most modern Soviet aircraft available, flying direct to Moscow from New York. The Soviet government was keen to show the world that it was not experiencing financial worries. Carefree spending was an attempt to mask the strain caused by the ever-spiralling cost of the Afghan war, a fact Leo had described in detail to the Americans.
In negotiating his return to the Soviet Union, it was clear that the Americans were pleased to be rid of him. He was a troublemaker, a loose cannon, and they’d extracted the information they needed, understanding from his briefings that Soviet failure in Afghanistan would leave their enemies humiliated. Providing aid to the Afghan insurgency would drain Soviet resources, pulling in more troops and making their ultimate and inevitable defeat even more expensive politically.
As for Leo’s incident with former Agent Jim Yates – the attack had been covered up. Yates survived. His revelations would never see the light of day. The history books had been written and they would not be re-written: lies had been chiselled into the encyclopaedias and textbooks. The shooting of Yates in his pleasant suburban house in Teaneck had been blamed on an armed intruder, an opportunistic robbery gone wrong. Leo had assured the American authorities that he would not cause any further problems, or give any statements regarding the death of Jesse Austin, as long as Nara and Zabi were left alone. A pact of silence had been agreed. Leo took some satisfaction from the symmetry of Yates’s shooting being concealed as a matter of convenience, just as Austin’s murder had been. Though Yates had agreed to go along with the story, he’d pointedly told local reporters that all he remembered about the intruder was that he was black.
With regards to the Soviet government, Leo had been unable to obtain any guarantees except for one – if he returned, the punitive measures against his daughters would stop. He had requested that within twenty-four hours of his plane touching down he would be permitted to see them, but he was in no position to insist upon anything. His guilt was not in question. He’d shared sensitive information with the main adversary and was to be tried for treason, a trial whose verdict had already been decided.
As the plane descended, Leo tried to imagine the events of the past eight years, the things that had happened since he was last in Moscow – eight years in which he’d been missing from the lives of his daughters and their husbands. As he thought upon the letters he’d received, it suddenly struck him that he wasn’t anxious about returning to a city filled with memories of Raisa. Something had changed. He was excited. This was the place where he’d fallen in love. He would be closer to his wife here than at any point during his investigation into her death. As the wheels touched down, he closed his eyes. He was home.
Moscow
Butyrka Prison
Pre-Trial Detention Centre
45 Novoslobodskaya Street
One Week Later
Arms and legs cuffed together, secured so tightly that he was forcedto stoop even when standing, Leo had been waiting for several hours in an ancient interrogation room within a prison notorious almost from its inception one hundred years ago. He’d supervised this arrangement countless times: the humiliating restraints, the atmosphere of intimidation and psychological pressures of surveillance, watched by guards in all corners of the room. No threats of violence had been made. Instead, a torture far more astute than physical pain had been applied.
This was Leo’s seventh day in Moscow and he’d not yet seen his daughters. He hadn’t spoken to them by telephone – he’d received no word of their welfare. Every morning upon being woken he’d been informed they would visit him that day. He’d been brought into this interrogation cell and told that they would arrive shortly. He’d waited, eager, feet tapping. Minutes had passed but they’d felt like hours. There was no clock on the wall and no answer ever came from the guards. Part of the torture was the difficulty of judging time. There were no windows, no sense of the outside world. In response, he had devised a way of maintaining his sanity. There was an exposed pipe running across the ceiling. At one of the rusted joints water was leaking, collecting at the line, forming a drop. Once the drop had enough weight it fell and the process began again. Leo counted the seconds of an entire cycle. He then counted them again, and again. There were roughly six hundred and twenty seconds to each drop and he used this number to gauge how long he’d been waiting. So far today he’d been waiting for forty-eight drops, eight hours.
Yesterday he’d sat for twelve hours, counting drops, in a state of great anticipation only to receive word that his daughters were not coming. This excruciating routine was repeated every day, forcing Leo to lurch from hope to despair. He hadn’t been given any information on what the problem was, whether his daughters had been spitefully refused permission or whether they did not want to see him. His tormentors were, of course, aware that Leo would obsess upon the possibility that his daughters were choosing not to visit him and they did nothing to alleviate this corrosive thought which, like a pearl of concentrated acid, bored through his thoughts.
There was a chance his daughters wanted nothing to do with him. Leo could not be sure how they had reacted to the news of his de
fection, or his return. The girls would be angry with him for causing them so many problems – they’d been arrested, questioned, their families collectively punished for his defection. In the six months that he’d spent in America he could not be sure how their careers had suffered, or how their reputations had been damaged. Perhaps they were afraid of visiting him, concerned with how their lives would change. As he ran these thoughts over and over in his mind he could feel every muscle in his back tightening, his hands clenching.
The door opened. Leo stood up as far his restraints allowed, his throat dry, desperate to see his daughters. He squinted at the shadows.
— Elena? Zoya?
From the gloom of the corridor a KGB officer entered.
— Not today.
Same Day
Leo had been given his own cell – not out of kindness, more likely they feared that as an older man he would be at risk of tuberculosis and might not survive until the trial if thr had beto one of the communal cells. At regular intervals the grate in the door slid open and an officer checked that Leo hadn’t tried to kill himself. Since his arrival he’d slept for no more than thirty minutes. As the days progressed he’d almost given up on sleep altogether, pacing backwards and forwards – four steps by two steps were the dimensions of his cell – his thoughts revolving around the prospect that he might never see his daughters again.
The cell lights were turned on. Leo was surprised. He received no visitors at night. The door opened. A man in his mid-forties entered accompanied by a guard. Leo didn’t recognize him although it was obvious from his smart suit and shoes that he was important, a politician perhaps. He seemed nervous, despite his trappings of power. He would not hold eye contact with Leo for longer than a second. They did not close the door, the guard remaining close by the man’s side. It was only at this point that Leo noticed the guard was ready with a truncheon, to protect the visitor.
Plucking up the courage to look Leo directly in the eye, he said:
— Do you know me?
Leo shook his head.
— If I told you my name it would mean nothing to you. However, if I told you the name that I used to go by . . .
Leo waited for the man to continue.
— I used to be known by the name of Mikael Ivanov.
Leo’s first thought was to step forward and crush Ivanov’s throat, assessing the likelihood of success considering his own age and physical condition. Dismissing his instinctive reaction, he managed to control his anger. He had not achieved the one thing he wanted – a visit from his daughters. Whatever blunt satisfaction might come from killing Ivanov, it would guarantee that he would be executed without having seen Zoya and Elena. Apparently relieved that he’d not been attacked, Ivanov pointed out:
— I was forced to change my name.
Leo spoke for the first time.
— A hardship, I’m sure.
Ivanov was irritated with himself.
— I’m trying to explain why you couldn’t find me. Frol Panin advised me to change my identity. He was sure you’d come looking for me, no matter how many years went by. You did. That was why I had to pretend—
— To be dead?
— Yes.
— Panin was wise. It saved your life.
— Leo Demidov, do you believe a person can change?
Leo considered Ivanov carefully, sensing genuine remorse and wondering if it was a trick – another form of punishment. Modulating his tone from outright hostility to deep scepticism, he replied:
— What do you want?
— I didn’t come to apologize. I know how meaningless that gesture would be. Please do not think me vain or boastful when I say that I have become a man of considerable influence and power.
— That does not surprise me.
Leo regretted the insult, which was childish and petty. But Ivanov accepted it.
— It had been decided that you would not be given permission to see your daughters. It was seen as the only punishment that would hurt you. You would not hear from them, see them, or talk to them.
Leo felt weak, unsteady. Ivanov hastily qualified his remark.
— I cannot intervene in your trial. However, I have been able to petition for Zoya and Elena to be granted permission to visit you. I have succeeded. They will arrive tomorrow.
The shift from despair to elation was too much. Exhausted from a lack of sleep Leo sat on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, breathing deeply. Ivanov added:
— In exchange I ask only one thing. Do not tell Elena that I arranged it. Please do not mention me at all. It will ruin it for her.
It took Leo a moment to recover. His voice was weak, the anger and indignation was gone.
— You could have arranged this without telling me?
Ivanov nodded.
— I could have done.
Ivanov turned around, about to leave. Leo called out:
— Why?
Ivanov hesitated, taking out a photograph and showing it to Leo, his fingers trembling. It was a photograph of Mikael Ivanov seated beside his wife. She was pretty rather than beautiful with generous eyes and open features. Leo asked:
— You told her what you were doing?
— Yes.
— Did you tell her why?
— She thinks it’s a random act of kindness, an expression of my good nature.
After studying the couple’s expressions for a moment, Leo returned his gaze to the floor. Ivanov slipped the photograph back in his pocket, adding:
— In her eyes I’m a good man. That’s as close as I can expect to actually being one.
Next Day
Once again Leo sat in the interrogation cell with his arms and legs in restraints waiting for his daughters. Once again several hours had passed with no answer from the guards, no clue as to what was happening. He glanced at the pipe in the corner of the ceiling. The thirty-third drop of water was forming at the rusted joint. Almost six hours had passed. Was it possible that Ivanov had lied to him? No, the remorse he’d seen in his face had been real and impossible to feign. But he might have been manipulated by more important men, lied to and falsely assured that he could deliver the good news only so that the traitor would suffer even more today when they did not arrive. Hope and despair were the torture instruments in play: the authorities switching between the two with such expert cruelty that Leo struggled to breathe as he imagined the future. He would remain here in ignorance, tormented by broken promises. He would never know if his daughters wanted to visit. He would never know if it was their decision to stay away Not knowing would break him and it would break him long before the trial reached its inevitable conclusion. As the thirty-third drop of water fell Leo could no longer fight back his frustrations and he leaned forward, bowing down before his torturers, sinking his head to the table.
Some time later, the cell door opened. Leo didn’t sit up. He didn’t look. If he allowed himself to picture his daughters at the door when they were not there, he might not be able to survive the disappointment. He could feel his heart weakening with the pressure of the past week. However, he could not suppress a faint hope and he listened carefully. He could only hear one set of footsteps – heavy boots – it was the KGB officer. Leo closed his eyes, grinding his teeth in expectation of those awful words:
Not today.
But the guard said nothing. After a moment Leo opened his eyes, scared by the flutter in his chest. He listened again, hearing the unmistakable sound of someone crying.
Leo sat up sharply. His daughters were at the door. Elena was crying, Zoya was holding her sister’s hand. Both of them were beautiful in their different ways, both of them were scared. Leo froze, unable to speak or smile. He would not allow himself to feel happiness until he was sure this was not a dream, or a deception conjured by his sleep-deprived mind. Perhaps he was delirious, imagining his daughters when in fact he was still lying on the table. His mind had played games with him before. He had seen a vision of Raisa in the Afghan cave. She’d be
en a comforting illusion, one that had dissolved and disappeared when tears formed in his eyes.
Leo stood up, his steel restraints rattling. His daughters stepped into the cell, walking slowly towards him. Watching them in motion, observing the details of their posture, he was amazed by the lifelike details of this apparition. But he would not feel joy. He would not laugh or delight in this moment. He could not commit to it. He had no doubt, no doubt at all, that they would vanish as soon as he touched them, or if he closed his eyes their surface would shimmer, the light would break apart and they would be gone and he would be alone. They were a projection from his mind, a mirage, constructed to protect himself from the bleak reality that he would never see them again.
Exhausted, trembling and on the brink of insanity, Leo said to them:
— Make me know that you are real.
He noticed that Elena was pregnant, a fact he had not known, or been told. As he began to cry, his daughters hurried forward, wrapping their arms around him. And finally Leo allowed himself some happiness.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
A special mention must go to my good friend Zoe Trodd who shared her research, her time, insights and support as I wrote Agent 6, particularly with relation to the subject of American Communism, and including guided tours of the relevant locations in New York. Zoe has been an invaluable source of information – she’s a wonderful friend, and a brilliant mind.
I have been lucky to have the support of two great editors, Mitch Hoffman at Grand Central Publishing, and Suzanne Baboneau at Simon & Schuster UK. I’d also like to thank Felicity Blunt at Curtis Brown for all her help with this novel and Robert Bookman at CAA – I owe a great deal to both of them. And finally I’d like to thank Ben Stephenson for his support over the past two years.