Under her gaze Leo abandoned his intention to slip the diary back without her noticing and instead offered it to her. Raisa didn’t take it, looking down at the cover. He remarked:
— It’s Elena’s.
Elena was their younger daughter, seventeen years old, adopted early in their marriage.
— Why do you have it?
— I saw it under the mattress . . .
— She’d hidden it?
— Yes.
Raisa thought about this for a moment before asking:
— Did you read it?
— No.
— No?
Like a novice in an interrogation, Leo capitulated under the slightest pressure:
— I read the first line and then closed the book. I was about to return it.
Raisa moved to the table, putting her shopping down. In the kitchen she filled a glass with water, turning her back on Leo for the first time since coming home. She finished the water in three long gulps and placed the glass in the sink, asking:
— What igirls had returned instead of me? They trust you, Leo. It’s taken a long time but they do. You’d risk that?
Trust was a euphemism for love. It was hard to be sure if Raisa was talking solely about their adopted daughters, or if she was indirectly referring to her own emotions. She continued:
— Why remind them of the past? Of the person you used to be? And the career you used to have? You’ve spent so many years putting that history behind you. It’s not part of this family any more. Finally the girls think of you as a father, not an agent.
There was calculated cruelty in the detail of her response, laying out their history with unnecessary elaboration. She was angry with him. She was hurting him. For the first time in the conversation Leo became animated, wounded by the remarks.
— I saw something hidden under the mattress. Wouldn’t any man be curious? Wouldn’t any father have acted as I had?
— But you’re not just any father.
She was right. He’d never be an ordinary husband. He’d never be an ordinary father. He would have to guard against the past as surely as he had once guarded against enemies of the State. There was regret in Raisa’s eyes. She said:
— I didn’t mean that.
— Raisa, I swear to you, I opened this diary as a father worried about his family. Elena has been acting strangely. You must have noticed?
— She’s nervous about the trip.
— It’s more than that. Something is wrong.
Raisa shook her head.
— Not this again.
— I don’t want you to go. I can’t help feeling this way. This trip—
Raisa interrupted him.
— We made a decision. Everything is arranged. I know your feelings about the trip. You’ve opposed it from the beginning without giving any good reason. I’m sorry you’re not coming. I would love you to be there. I would feel more at ease with you by my side. And I petitioned for you to come with us. But it was impossible. There’s nothing more I can do. Except to pull out, without giving any reason, at the last minute, which would be far more dangerous than going, at least in my view.
Raisa glanced at the diary. She was tempted by it too.
— Now, please, put the diary back.
Leo clutched it, reluctant to let it go.
— The first entry troubles me—
— Leo.
Raisa hadn’t raised her voice. She didn’t need to.
He put the book back, positioning it carefully under the mattress, spine facing him, roughly half an arm’s depth away from the edge – the exact position he’d found it. He crouched down, examining to see if the mattress appeared disturbed in any way. Finished, he stepped back from the bed, conscious that Raisa had been watching him throughout.
Next Day
Leo couldn’t sleep. In a few hours Raisa would be leaving the country. Only in exceptional circumstances had they been apart for longer than a day. He’d fought in the Great Patriotic War – was a war hero decorated for bravery – yet the prospect of being alone unsettled him. He turned on his side, listening to the sound of her breathing. He imagined that she was breathing for both of them, timing his own breath with hers. Slowly he reached out and gently laid his hand on her side. Remaining asleep, she reacted to his touch, taking hold of his hand and pressing it against her stomach as if it were a precious keepsake. After a gentle squeeze of his hand her breathing returned to its rhythm. His anxieties about the trip almost certainly sprang from the fact that he didn’t want her to leave. It was possible he’d conjured worries about their plans, developed arguments about why they should stay at home – voiced opinions relating to safety and security merely for selfish reasons. He gave up on the idea that he might snatch even an hour of rest and slipped out of bed.
Navigating in the dark, his feet kicked her suitcase. It was packed and ready, at the foot of the bed as if eager to be on its way. He’d bought this case fifteen years ago, when he’d been an agent, when the exclusive shops were open to him. It was one of his first purchases, having been told that his duties would involve extensive travel. Excited by the prospect, puffed up by the importance bestowed upon him, he spent his entire weekly wage on this smart case, picturing himself criss-crossing the country, serving his nation wherever duty called. That proud, ambitious young man seemed a stranger now. The few luxury items he’d accumulated during his career had almost all been lost. This case, deposited at the back of a wardrobe, gathering dust, was all that remained from those days. He’d wanted to throw it out, and had expected his wife to welcome the decision. Despite having nothing but hatred for his former career, Raisa would not allow the luxury of such a symbolic gesture. With their current wages they’d never be able to replace it.
He checked his watch, holding it up to the window, catching the moonlight. Four in the morning – in just a few hours he would accompany his family to the airport, where he would say goodbye, remaining in Moscow. In the dark he dressed, stealthily leaving the bedroom. Opening the door he was surprised to see his younger daughter seated at the kitchen table in the dark. Her arms were in front of her, hands clasped, as if she were praying – deep in thought. Seventeen years old, Elena was a miracle to Leo: seemingly incapable of spite or malice, her character showing few scars, in contrast to Zoya, his elder daughter, who was often brusque, surly and aggressive, with a temper that could flare at the slightest provocation.
Elena looked up at him. He felt a shudder of guilt at the thought of discovering her diary, before reminding himself that he’d put it back without reading more than the opening sentence. He sat beside her and whispered:
— Can’t sleep?
She glanced across the room in Zoya’s direction. To avoid turning on a light and waking her, Leo lit a short stubby candle, tipping wax into the base of a tea glass and fixing the candle inside. Elena remained silent, hypnotized by the refracted light of the flame. His earlier observation that she was acting oddly was accurate. It was quite unlike her to be tense and reticent. If this had been an intervias part of an investigation Leo would have been sure that she was involved in something. But Leo was not an agent any more and he was annoyed that his thoughts were still organized according to the disciplines he’d been taught.
He took out a deck of cards. There was nothing else to do for the next couple of hours. Shuffling the deck, he whispered:
— Are you nervous?
Elena looked at him oddly.
— I’m not a child any more.
— A child? I know that.
She was angry with him. He pressed her:
— Is anything wrong?
She considered for some time, looking down at her hands, before answering with a shake of her head.
— I’ve never flown before, that’s all. It’s silly, really.
— You would tell me? If there was something wrong?
— Yes, I’d tell you.
He did not believe her.
Leo dealt the first hand o
f cards, trying and failing to reassure himself that he’d done the right thing in not refusing to allow the trip. He’d protested as far as he was able, capitulating only when it seemed as if he was opposing the plan merely because he’d not been allowed to go with them. His decision to leave the KGB was a permanent mark on his record. There was no prospect of his ever being granted papers for travel abroad. It did not seem fair that his circumstances should hold them back. Opportunities to visit foreign countries were exceptionally rare. It was possible they’d never get another chance.
They’d been playing cards for no more than thirty minutes when Raisa appeared at the door. She smiled, which evolved into a yawn, and sat down with them, indicating that she wanted to be dealt in, muttering under her breath:
— I didn’t think there was much hope of getting a full night’s sleep.
Across the room there was a loud and deliberate sigh. Zoya sat up in bed. She pulled back the cloth dividing screen and surveyed the game. Leo was quick to apologize.
— Did we wake you?
Zoya shook her head.
— I couldn’t sleep.
Elena said:
— Were you listening to our conversation?
Walking towards them, Zoya smiled at her sister.
— Only in an attempt to fall asleep.
She took the remaining seat. The four of them, with hair dishevelled, lit only by the flicker of a candle, were a comical sight. Leo dealt to each player. He watched his family take up their cards. Had it been in his power he would’ve frozen time, halting the approaching dawn, stopping the sun from rising and delaying for eternity the moment when he’d have to say goodbye.
Manhattan
2nd Avenue Subway Station
Same Day
Leaving the subway station, Osip Feinstein walked slowly, ambling in a haphazard fashion, taking on the air of an eccentric gentleman down on his luck, an effective trick because it was not too far from the truth. His slow walk was a crude measure designed to expose anyone shadowing him, normally young FBI agents who were physiologically incapable of appearing casual, remaining stiff and upright as if their skin had been starched rigid along with their shirts. Normally Osip was followed once a month in what seemed to be routine FBI harassment rather than a concerted attempt to build a case against him. However, for the past month he’d been followed every day. The step-up in surveillance was dramatic. Members of the Communist Party of America were reporting a similar increase in FBI activity. Osip felt sorry for them. The vast majority weren’t spies. They were believers, nurturing dreams of revolutions, equality and fairness – card-carrying supporters of a legitimate political party. It didn’t matter that Communism was not a crime. Their political allegiance resulted in their lives being placed under intense scrutiny. They were plagued with accusations. Their employers were presented with dossiers containing nothing more than speculation regarding their employees’ out-of-hour activities, dossiers that concluded:
A company or firm is judged by the behavior of its employees.
Underneath there was a telephone number. Every employer was being asked to spy for the State. So far this year three men had lost their jobs. One had suffered a nervous breakdown as his family, friends and casual acquaintances were brought in for questioning. One woman no longer left the house, certain she was being watched.
Osip paused, glancing back, assessing the people behind him. None of them stopped or looked at him. He crossed the street abruptly then ambled at a slow pace for some hundred or so metres before breaking into a brisk walk. Turning down another street, then another, he’d almost looped back to where he’d started. He reassessed the people behind him before continuing on his way.
The location for the meeting was an ugly low-rise, cooked by the summer sun, filled with beaten-down immigrants, just like him. Maybe not just like him; he doubted many of them were working as spies, although you could never be sure. The entrance area was busy, people lingering outside, squatting on the steps in the balmy evening. Osip’s clothes were appropriately threadbare, his face sallow. No one paid him any attention: maybe he fitted in or maybe they just didn’t care about a down-and-out fifty-seven-year-old man. He entered the apartment building, his shirt becoming sticky with perspiration as he stepped into the corridors. The evening was humid and the putrid muggy air hung around him like a shroud. Climbing the stairs, he wheezed his way up to the seventh floor. Even with the lowest of expectations, he was surprised at how awful this place was. There were stains on the walls as if the whole building were sick, suffering rashlike symptoms. He knocked at apartment 63. The door gave a little.
— Hello?
There was no reply. He pushed the door wide open.
The dregs of sunset, filtered by filthy net curtains, threw skewed shadows about the room. A narrow corridor passed a narrow bathroom leading narrow bedroom. There was a single bed, a fold-down table and a chair. An exposed light bulb hung from the ceiling. The bed linen hadn’t been changed in months, shimmering with grease. The smell was oppressive. Osip pulled out the chair and sat down. In the soupy warm air, he closed his eyes, drifting off to sleep.
Faintly aware of a figure in the room with him, Osip awoke from his sleep, straightening up and closing his mouth. There was a man at the door. The sun had set. The light from the overhead bulb was weak. Osip wasn’t sure whether it had been turned on by the man or whether it had always been on. The man locked the front door. He was carrying a cracked leather sports bag. He surveyed the room, the greasy bed linen. From the disgust on his face it was obvious the apartment didn’t belong to him. The man pulled the comforter across the bed before perching on the edge. He was in his late thirties, or early forties; everything about him seemed substantial, his arms, his legs and chest, his facial features. He rested the bag on his knees, unzipping it, taking out something small – tossing it towards Osip, who caught it. In his palm was a wrap of opium. In a movement perfected over many years, he secreted the wrap into an inside pocket of his jacket with a small hole that enabled it to drop into the lining. Many agents had addictions, some to gambling, some to alcohol. Osip smoked most nights until he passed out, lying on his back and feeling the most wonderful sensation in the world – nothing at all. Dependency on the drug served a secondary purpose. It made his superiors, and those in the Soviet Union reviewing his activities, less suspicious. His addiction allowed them to feel in control of him. They owned him. He depended on them. His code name was Brown Smoke. Though it conveyed a degree of contempt, Osip liked it. It made him sound like a Native American, which for an immigrant spy was an irony, he supposed.
It was doubtful that this man was an FBI undercover agent. He hadn’t said a word. An undercover agent would have already told a hundred nervous lies. He reached into the bag for a second time. Osip leaned forward, anxious to see what he would pull out next. It was a camera, with a telescopic lens. Osip said:
— This is for me?
The man didn’t reply, placing the camera on the table. Osip continued:
— I think there’s been some mistake. I’m not a field operative.
The man’s voice was coarse and low, more like a growl than speech.
— If you’re not an operative, what are you? You provide us with no useful information. You claim that you are developing spies. These spies give us nothing.
Osip shook his head, pretending to be indignant.
— I have risked my life—
— A calculated risk from a man with nothing to lose. You’re an expert in doing as little as possible. Time has caught up with you. Many thousands of dollars have been paid to you, and for what?
— I am happy to discuss what more I can do for the Soviet Union.
— The discussions have already taken place. We’ve decided what you must do.
— Then I’d counsel that those demands be aligned with my skills.
The man scratched his chest through his shirt then looked at his nails, surprisingly long, and spotlessly clean.
/> — Something very important is about to happen. For it to succeed two things need to be done. You were given a camera. Let me show you what I was given.
The man placed a gun on the table.
Airspace over New York City
Same Day
The cloud cover parted as neatly as if a hand had pulled back a theatrical curtain revealing New York City to the audience circling in the sky. The Hudson River split like a tuning fork around the narrow island of Manhattan, on which the fabled skyscrapers were so neat and numerous that the city appeared as a geometric creation composed entirely of straight lines. Raisa had expected New York to be vast, even from the sky, a colossus of steel, with eight-lane roads and cars in ant-like lines that stretched for miles. Regarding the United States for the first time, she found herself holding her breath, an adventurer who’d finally reached a place of lore and legend – comparing myth with reality. This was not only her first glimpse of America, it was her first time in an airliner, the first city she’d ever seen from the sky. The moment was dreamlike although Raisa had never actually dreamt of coming here. Her dreams, modest as they were in scope, had always been confined within the borders of the USSR. The prospect of visiting America had never crossed her mind. Of course, she’d speculated about the nation vilified by her government, posited as their greatest enemy, a society upheld as an example of corruption and moral degeneracy. She’d never believed these assertions outright. Occasionally it had been necessary as a teacher to repeat the statements, striking a tone of anger and outrage, fearful her students would denounce her if she moderated the descriptions of the United States. Yet whether she believed them or not, these lies must have influenced her. This city and this country were a concept, not a real place, an idea controlled by the Kremlin. The Soviet media was only allowed to publish photographs of soup kitchens, lines of the unemployed, juxtaposed beside images of the vast homes of the rich, men whose stomachs strained against the cut of their bespoke suits. After years of mystery, the city was sprawled beneath her, fully exposed, like a patient on a surgical table, ready for her without comment or qualifications, without the accompaniment of a polemical propaganda narration.