Sitting in her hotel room, perched on the edge of the bed, she waited, staring at the phone on the side cabinet. If authorities in Moscow agreed to the request, Leo was going to be brought from their apartment to a phone. Once he was ready, the international call would be put through. Rationalizing both the Soviet and American position, she guessed that they were keen to hear what she had to say. If she made any remark the Soviets didn’t approve of the call would be cut short.
Almost an hour had passed, the students would be finishing lunch soon – the dress rehearsal was due to begin. Time was running out. Raisa stood up, pacing the room, uncertain if the call was going to happen. Belatedly it occurred to her that she’d never spoken to Leo on a telephone before.
The phone rang. She jumped for it. A voice in Russian said:
— We have your husband. Are you ready to take the call?
— Yes.
There was a pause, a click – a sound like the rustling of papers.
— Leo?
There was no reply. She waited. Her impatience got the better of her.
— Leo?
— Raisa.
His voice was distorted, almost unrecognizable. She pressed the phone close to her ear, fearful of losing a sound. It took restraint not to simply spill her emotions: she needed to tread carefully and remember the lies she’d told to set up the call.
— How is your father? Is he feeling better?
There was a long delay and it was difficult to interpret it as either Leo’s confusion or the connection. Finally he replied:
— My father is still unwell. But his condition is not any worse.
She smiled: Leo had not only realized that the lie was a pretext for calling, he’d left the excuse open in case she needed to call again. He asked, failing to conceal his anxiety:
— How is the trip?
Raisa was forced to respond indirectly, stating the points of concern without elaboration.
— Today I met officials at the United Nations, where the first concert is to be held, and they had no questions regarding the plans. Previously they’d been involved very closely. Today they accepted the plans without comment.
Once again there was a delay. Raisa waited, wondering what interpretation he’d offer. Finally he said:
— No comments?
His response was the same as hers. It was unusual for Soviet officials not to stamp their authority on plans, not to interfere.
— None.
— You must be . . . pleased?
— Surprised.
Raisa didn’t know how much time she had. It was essential she bring up the second point troubling her.
— Leo, the girls are nervous. Elena particularly.
— Elena?
— She doesn’t seem herself. She spends a lot of time on her own.
— Have you spoken to her?
— She says nothing’s wrong.
The phone crackled against Raisa’s ear, reminding her of the fragility of the connection, it could be cut at any point. Suddenly frantic, she blurted out:
— Leo, I don’t believe her. What should I do?
The delay was so long that she was sure the call had been terminated. She asked:
— Leo? Leo!
Leo’s voice was firm.
— Don’t allow her to attend the concert. Raisa, youhear me? Don’t allow—
There was a click. The phone crackled. The connection was lost.
Moscow
Lubyanka Square
The Lubyanka, Headquarters
of the Secret Police
Same Day
Leo repeated Raisa’s name, raising his voice each time. The phone was silent. The connection was dead.
The door to the office opened. He’d been left alone during the conversation, an absurd illusion of privacy and a deeply cynical ploy, no doubt in the hope that he would lower his guard. It was simply ridiculous to imagine that his conversation hadn’t been recorded and scrutinized. A woman entered the office, saying:
— I’m sorry, Leo Demidov: the connection was broken.
The woman appeared to be a secretary. She was not in uniform. He asked:
— Can we reach my wife again?
The woman squeezed her lips, compressing them into a feeble imitation of a sympathetic smile.
— Perhaps you can talk tomorrow.
— Why can’t you put me through now?
— Tomorrow.
Her condescending tone, heavy with the implication that she was reasonable and he was not, infuriated Leo.
— Why not now?
— I’m sorry, that’s not possible.
The woman’s apologies were flat and insincere. Leo was still clutching the phone, holding it out towards the woman as if he expected her to bring it back to life.
— I need to speak to my wife.
— She’s on her way to the dress rehearsal. You can talk tomorrow.
The lie increased Leo’s unease. For her to have the authority to lie meant that she was an agent. He shook his head.
— She’s not on her way anywhere. She’ll be doing exactly the same as I’m doing right now, holding the phone, asking to speak to me.
— If you want to leave a message I can try to arrange that she will receive it tonight.
— Connect us, please, now.
The agent shook her head:
— I’m sorry.
Leo refused to let go of the telephone.
— Let me speak to someone here.
— Who do you wish to speak to?
— The person in charge.
— In charge of what?
— In charge of whatever is going on in New York!
— Your wife is in charge of the New York trip. And she’s now on her way to the dress rehearl. You can speak to her tomorrow to find out how it went.
Leo imagined the agents in nearby offices; agents who’d listened to his telephone call and who were now listening to this exchange. He imagined the discussion they were having. They’d established one vital point: he didn’t know what was happening in New York and neither did his wife. There was no chance he’d be allowed to speak to Raisa until she was home, no matter what scene he made, no matter how hard he pressed his demands. She was on her own.
Manhattan
Hotel Grand Metropolitan
44th Street
Same Day
Raisa was still holding the receiver, demanding Mikael Ivanov reconnect her with Leo. Mikael shook his head, as though he personally controlled the telephone exchange. His smug sense of authority was utterly infuriating. Sounding reasonable and measured, he said:
— The dress rehearsal starts in less than an hour. The students have finished lunch. We need to leave. You’re behaving irrationally. You’re here to ensure the smooth running of this concert. That is your priority.
Raisa was taken aback by the intensity of her hatred for this man.
— One minute more isn’t going to make a difference.
— If you didn’t think you could manage your duties without your husband perhaps he should have led this trip rather than you. It’s disappointing to see you so incapable.
It was a shrewd attack; any further request to speak to Leo was a humiliating confirmation of the allegation that she was weak. She would not be allowed a second conversation. She would not beg.
Raisa hung up the phone, remaining by the cabinet, running Leo’s advice through her mind.
— Where’s my daughter?
— As I said, the students finished lunch. They’re in their rooms. They’re waiting to assemble on the coach. We’re all waiting for you.
Raisa noted that he didn’t ask which daughter: he knew she was referring to Elena. How did he know? He’d listened to the call, or perhaps he was also involved, but involved with what?
Without another word, she strode out of the room, past Ivanov, fully aware that he was going to follow her.
— Raisa Demidova!
She reached the end of the co
rridor, knocking on the door to Elena’s room. Ivanov was running to catch up:
— What are you going to do?
Elena opened the door. As Raisa entered, she turned to Ivanov.
— Get the other students in the coach. I’ll be down in a few minutes. My family is none of your concern.
She didn’t wait for a reply, shutting the door in his face.
Zoya and Elena stood side by side, in the clothes they would be wearing tonight – ready to leave for the dress rehearsal. Raisa said:
— Elena, I want you to stay here. If tonight goes well, you can attend tomorrow’s concert.
After a fractional pause, stunned by the news, Elena sprang forward, flush with indignation.
— What are you talking about? How can I not attend the performance?
— I’ve made a decision. There’s nothing more to be said.
Elena’s face reddened. Her eyes glistened with tears.
— I’ve flown from Moscow only to be told I must stay in my room!
— Something is wrong!
— What is wrong?
— I don’t know. But I’ve spoken to Leo and he agrees—
As soon as she mentioned Leo’s name Raisa regretted it. Elena jumped on the idea that Leo was behind this.
— Leo! He’s been against this trip from the beginning. What has he been saying? He’s paranoid. He sees intrigue and deceit and treachery everywhere. He’s sick. Truly, he’s sick to his soul. Nothing bad is going on. I promise you. There is no reason to keep me in my room just because a bitter former agent has forgotten that not everything in the world is twisted and sinister.
Elena referred to Leo as a former secret agent, rather than her father. Raisa had undermined Leo’s relationship with the girls. Elena began to cry.
— Am I the only student to be locked in their room? For no reason? While all the other students perform? I’m going to sit here? My real mother would never have behaved like this. A real mother would understand the humiliation . . .
Zoya reached out and touched her sister’s arm, in a reversal of their usual roles, trying to rein her anger back.
— Elena . . .
Elena pulled her arm free, staring at Raisa.
— No, I will not be told how I should feel. I will not be told how to behave. I’m not a child any more! You can stop me from going to the concert. You have that power. If you do, I will never forgive Leo.
Same Day
Yates struggled to understand the translator’s thick Russian accent. She’d lived in this country for over forty years, was employed in an Ivy League university as a professor of linguistics, yet she couldn’t even speak English properly. He asked:
— The mother gave in?
— The daughter is coming to the concert. She’s been allowed to attend.
— Did the girl mention any plans? Say anything else?
— She denied there was anything sinister about to happen.
— You’re sure?
— I am sure.
— No mention of any plot?
— I’ve been speaking Russian all my life.
This translator didn’t like him and wasn’t afraid to show it, peering over her thick-framed glasses as if Yates were beneath contempt. She’d been the only linguist who’d objected to helping with this operation, stating that she was an academic not a spy.
— Speaking Russian all your life? That is a long time: maybe you still have feelings for the country? Sentimental feelings that might make you omit an important detail or two?
The woman’s face tightened with anger.
— Have someone check the transcript, someone you trust, if there is such a person.
Yates sunk his hands into his pockets.
— How about you just answer my questions? Right now I’m not interested in you. I’m interested in what that family was talking about. Was there any mention of Jesse Austin?
— No.
Yates addressed the entire room, clutching the rushed, handwritten transcript of Raisa’s phone conversation with Leo.
— The Russian woman is a better detective than all of you. She knows something is going on. She can feel it in her gut. I agree with her. I need you to do your jobs!
He picked up the file they had on Raisa Demidova and her daughters. It contained nothing more than the official information provided by the Soviet authorities, statistics such weight and academic grades. He threw it down again.
An officer called out:
— The students are boarding the coach. Do you want to go with them?
Yates considered.
— Have our agents keep contact with that family. I want them watched every step of the way from the coach to the United Nations building. Don’t let them out of your sight, even for a moment.
As the agents busied themselves with the movement of the students to the coach, Yates paced the line of translators’ tables, frustrated that he couldn’t even approximate an answer to the question of why the Soviets were so keen to arrange for Jesse Austin to attend the concert. They’d sent this girl: they’d risked her slipping out of the hotel. Jesse Austin’s presence wouldn’t even make the news. He called out:
— I want to know if we’ve had any activity in Harlem recently.
A field agent approached.
— The team watching a suspected Soviet operative reported that he was in Harlem this morning. Normally he’s pretty good at giving us the slip on the subway. Not today, they followed him.
— Where did he go?
— West 145th Street.
— Who was he?
— His name is Osip Feinstein.
Manhattan
Global Travel Company
926 Broadway
Same Do kont>
In the storeroom behind his office, Osip Feinstein developed the photographs he’d taken of Jesse Austin towering over the Russian girl, the rumpled bed sheets in the background appearing to carry the fossilized impression of their sexual encounter. It would’ve been preferable for Jesse’s hand to be clasping her arm rather than the other way round. No matter, the sordid implications were striking. What couldn’t be seen in the photograph was Austin’s wife. She was out of shot. Nor would anyone know that the bed had been unmade before the girl had arrived. Those passing judgement were unlikely to spend time analysing it: the snap response would be outrage. The roles of the villain and victim were clear. Though the meeting had been entirely innocent, the photograph produced showed striking guilt and moral compromise – an exploited, fragile white girl pathetically bidding farewell after a squalid escapade with a lecherous old Negro.
Osip dropped his head in shame, staring at his wrinkled hands clasped around the photographs. He noted with interest that he still had the capacity to feel shame. He wasn’t entirely dead inside, numbed with opium but not yet oblivious to his failings. This was not the life he’d sought when he’d come to America, to frame a man he admired, a man of great integrity.
A long time ago Osip had been a man of integrity too. Though he was now a spy, the truth was that he had no love for the Soviet Union and plenty of affection for the country he was betraying. He reconciled the contradiction, to some degree, by smoking opium – which helped a lot – and rationalizing – which helped a little. When he’d arrived in New York as a young man, he’d felt certain that success of some kind was inside him. He’d achieved success but not the kind he’d expected. At the age of fifty-nine, Osip had become one of the longest-serving Soviet spies to work in ‘the main adversary’, spy slang for the United States of America.
As a young man, forty years ago, Osip had been an ambitious nineteen-year-old living in the Ukraine, attending Kyiv University, with aspirations to spend his life in academia. Feeling the grip of prejudice around the neck of his fledgling career – the door to his room defaced, the Star of David scratched into it, the contempt of his tutors – it was evident that he would never achieve a professorship. Sitting in his cold room, looking over a snow-covered street, he co
uld no longer imagine a future in Kyiv. Without close family to root him in the city, he made the decision to leave, motivated less by a sense of fear than a determination to fulfil his potential. He’d originally intended to travel to France. However, leaving Kyiv was akin to stepping off a cliff and falling into the ocean, buffeted by the waves, with no control over his direction. He eventually washed up on the shores of the American consulate at Riga, Latvia, where he’d remained in the State Emigrant House for two days, suffering the indignity of being examined and disinfected. He’d paid his entire worldly fortune to the Sovtorgflor Company, which specialized in arranging travel for emigrants. Clutching his transit papers and doctor’s certificate, six months after he’d made the decision to leave, he’d boarded a boat. For the first time he could imagine a future again: his future was New York.
He arrived in 1934 – the worst period in living memory to look for work. To make matters worse, his gifts were intellectual. Even so, he’d failed to complete his degree, meaning that the only work open to him was as an unskilled labourer, yet he lacked the physical strength to compete within the vast and desperate labour pool. Frm the window of his run-down room, shared with five other men, he’d watch the Unemployed Union marching through the streets, slow-moving lines of jobless workers that filed south on Broadway. He’d scratched together a meagre, desperate existence for a couple of years, living hand to mouth, before chancing across Communist activists trying to tap into the disenchantment of the unemployed. His survival instincts had taken over and sensing an opportunity he approached them, explaining his history. Since he was Jewish and fluent in Russian, they presumed he had an predisposition to Communism. He’d lied about the reasons he’d left the Soviet Union, explaining that he’d come to the USA in the depths of the Great Depression certain that the capitalist society was in crisis and wishing to ferment a revolution. Familiar with the jargon, the slogans, aphorisms and theory, he’d dazzled his audience. Though the Communist Party of the USA didn’t know it, they were at the apogee of their success. The Communist presidential candidate William Foster and his Negro running mate James Ford had received over a hundred thousand votes in the 1932 election – claiming to be at the forefront of change: progressive socially and offering a radical alternative to the broken capitalist system that had driven workers to jump from office windows and families to live in shanty towns in Central Park. Almost everyone involved with the CPUSA hoped the Depression was the beginning of the end for capitalism, everyone, that is, except for their newest recruit, Osip.