Agent 6 ld-3

by Tom Rob Smith

  Nara was surprised.

  – I thought you weren’t doing that for a couple of months.

  – They want me to go immediately.

  – Why?

  The reason was simple: they didn’t think Leo would be in America for much longer. Leo kept this secret, merely shrugging.

  – I don’t know.

  He added, weakly:

  – I do as I’m told.

  Zabi asked:

  – Are you leaving us?

  Leo couldn’t look her in the eye. He toyed with a spoonful of ice cream.

  – I’ll only be gone a few days.

  Washington DC FBI Headquarters J. Edgar Hoover Building 935 Pennsylvania Avenue

  Next Day

  Leo was due to stay in Washington DC for a few days, depending on how the work progressed. Resigned to the fact that his time in the United States had been suddenly and dramatically cut short, he was impatient to return to New York – there was now intense pressure on his investigation. In all likelihood he had weeks, not months, before the Soviet Union took further action against his daughters. If they went as far as to arrest Zoya and Elena then he would not be able to hold out – more likely, he would begin to make arrangements to return that same day. A once benign trip to the archive was now a costly distraction.

  A friendly man called Simon Clarke had met him at the airport, introducing himself as the archivist, an owlish-looking individual in his fifties with round gold-framed glasses and a gently protruding stomach curving out from his body like a pleasant hillside. He spoke fluent Russian, grammatically perfect, but with an American accent and Leo guessed that he’d probably spoken to very few native Russians. Kind and mild-mannered, Clarke hoped that Leo could illuminate many of the discoveries that had been collecting dust, mysteries that they’d failed to unravel about Soviet espionage protocols launched against the main adversary. Clarke had used Soviet spy slang – the main adversary› – keen to show that he was acquainted with their secret code.

  On a brief tour of the city, before heading to the archive they stopped outside the FBI headquarters. The building was modern, concrete, quite unlike the Russian secret police headquarters, the Lubyanka, with its grand historical facade in the centre of Moscow. The architectural principle of the Hoover Building seemed not that it should appear impressive but that it should appear unbreakable. There was nothing ornate or decorative about the design: it was a hybrid of a parking lot and a power station, as if the FBI were in the same utilitarian category. The archive, not marked on any map or listed in any official registry, was located three blocks back, on 8th Street. There was no sign, no reception, merely an unremarkable door that opened directly onto the street like a fire escape. The entrance was sandwiched between two large offices: a door without a number or mailbox, like a magical portal that everyone on the street walked past oblivious to the secrets it held.

  Clarke took out his keys, opening the door, turning on the lights and revealing a narrow staircase. He ushered Leo inside, locking the door behind them before descending the stairs. The air was dry, machine-processed. At the bottom of the stairs was a small drab office where Clarke turned off an alarm system. To the side of the office was a steel door, sealed shut, like a bank vault. After entering a code, there was a faint hiss as the door opened. Lights automatically turned on, fluorescent bulbs slowly flickering one after another in quick succession, revealing the archive’s full dimensions.

  Far larger than Leo had expected, the archive stretched for hundreds of metres with row upon row of steel shelves. Unlike a library there were no books. Everything was stored in uniform brown cardboard boxes, side by side – thousands of them, each with the same gap between them. Leo looked at Clarke:

  – All this?

  Clarke nodded:

  – Seventy years’ worth of material, most of it understood, some of it not.

  Leo moved forward. Clarke put a hand on his shoulder.

  – Before we start, there are a couple of rules. I’ve been instructed to search you upon leaving. Please don’t be insulted: this is standard policy and applies to all visitors. You must wear these gloves when touching anything. Other than that, you’re free to look at whatever you like. Except no fountain pens, or ink of any kind. You don’t have any pens on you?

  Leo shook his head, taking off his jacket, hanging it in the office. Clarke noted:

  – You might want to keep that with you. The chamber is cold, air-conditioned for preservation purposes.

  Seventy years’ worth of refrigerated spy secrets, thousands of attempts to betray, deceive and murder, preserved as though they were mankind’s finest achievements.

  The ceiling was not particularly high, but the room was remarkably wide, giving it surreal proportions, the shape of squashed shoebox. The entire archive was concrete, resulting in two colours dominating, the grey concrete and the brown cardboard boxes. There was the hum of air and occasionally slight vibrations from a passing subway train. A passage ran through the middle of the archive from end to end. Each aisle was marked with a number. There were no signs, no written explanations. Clarke must have guessed his thoughts, remarkold/p›

  – Don’t worry! We don’t want you to look through everything. I have put aside several boxes that I thought you might be able to shed some light upon. But you’re free to walk around and see if anything catches your eye. Why don’t you familiarize yourself with the archive before we sit down with the material I’ve selected?

  Despite the suggestion that he was free to explore, Clarke had not left his side.

  Feeling self-conscious, Leo stopped by one of the aisles, picking one at random. Each box had a sticker with a number written on it, a long code that meant nothing to a casual glance. Every box had a lid, making it impossible to browse. Clarke commented:

  – There is a reference catalogue in the office that matches up the codes with a description of the contents. Not everything is stored in boxes, though: some odd-shaped objects, or oversize items, stand on their own. They’re located further down, near the back. Let me bring a copy of the catalogue: that might help.

  Clarke turned around and hurried towards the office. Leo circled, restless – his thoughts dwelling upon the investigation. Idly he opened the nearest box. It was filled with money, wads of five-and ten-dollar bills, low denominations, but pristine, unused, a small fortune. Leo suspected the money was Soviet-produced forgeries. One wad of money was inside a plastic bag labelled CAUTION. The notes probably contained a chemical of some kind, perhaps even a toxin. Putting the lid back on, he moved down to the next aisle, selecting another box and lifting the lid. This box was filled with scientific equipment, a microscope and other apparatus that Leo didn’t recognize. The objects were dated, perhaps fifty or so years old. Once again there was no explanation: no written documents. After the third and fourth box it dawned on him that the bulk of this archive would prove to be banal. It appeared as if the Americans had collected everything even vaguely connected to Soviet spy protocols.

  About to turn around and wait for Clarke to return, Leo spotted the oversize objects. He walked towards the back of the archive, finding a walking cane made out of gnarled wood. He toyed with it for a while, wondering if there was a secret compartment, some secondary function, a poison spear perhaps. Giving up, he returned it to the shelf. There was an old-fashioned transceiver, perhaps used to make secret communications, as large as a television. Next to that was a suitcase.

  Leo crouched down, his hands shaking as he placed them on the case. Though his hands had changed markedly over the years, this case had not. It was old fashioned with a leather-clad handle and rusted steel locks. Despite the fact that he hadn’t seen it for sixteen years there was no doubt that it was the same case he’d bought when he was a young secret-police officer.

  It was the suitcase Raisa had taken to New York.

  Same Day

  Leo stood up, peering through the boxes, checking to see if Clarke was close by. There was no sign of him.
Returning to the case, his hands still shaking in nervous anticipation, he clicked the locks open and looked inside.

  The disappointment was crushing. The case was empty. Recovering his composure, he breathed deeply. He ran his fingers along the lining, searching for a noe, a letter hidden in the fabric. There were no knife cuts, no stitched compartments. He examined the outside, turning it upside down, feeling the base and the corners. He could hear Clarke’s footsteps on the concrete floor.

  – Mr Demidov?

  The case offered no more clues. He checked the objects nearby: there were at least twenty other suitcases. He recognized none of them. Surely Zoya and Elena’s belongings were also here. They’d been confiscated: the girls had returned to Russia with only the clothes they were wearing, everything else had been taken. Leo memorized the item number of Raisa’s case. Clarke’s footsteps were getting closer: he was only metres away. As he came into view, Leo stood up, moving away from his wife’s case.

  Clarke smiled at him.

  – Find anything?

  – No, not really.

  It was a weak denial. Clarke didn’t pick up on it. He was carrying a large hardback book protected with plastic.

  – Here’s the catalogue.

  Leo took it from him, saying nothing about his discovery, trying to remain calm and unflustered, opening the book and flicking through. Clarke put a friendly hand on his shoulder.

  – I’ve taken the liberty of putting together a few boxes of items I’d like your opinion on.

  The reading area was near the office, situated inside the archive since no items could be removed. A table had been provided. There was a desk lamp, a chair and several boxes filled with items to look through. Clarke chatted to Leo for a while, explaining his interest in the contents. Leo barely listened to a word, tortured by the delay, desperate to look up the reference number of the suitcase in the catalogue. Finally, Clarke left him alone and he was able to study the entries. The numbering system was complex. From memory he scribbled down the code number of the suitcase. He found the entry log. The description read: INVESTIGATION RED VOICE 1965 NY

  He checked the vocabulary in his dictionary. The use of the word RED was almost certainly a reference to Communism, a prominent Communist voice – surely it referred to Jesse Austin.

  Leo stared at the codes trying to figure out how to trace the other documents connected to the same investigation. Unable to crack the system, and reluctant to ask for assistance, he had no choice but to work through every entry, running his finger down the descriptions. He was halfway through the catalogue, constantly checking to see if Clarke was approaching. His finger stopped, pressed against the words: INVESTIGATION RED VOICE

  He wrote down the location for the box – code 35 / 9 / 3.3 – and shut the catalogue, slipping the paper into his pocket.

  Standing up, he edged forward, seeing Clarke nearby in the office. He was occupied and Leo took his chance, moving quickly, hurrying towards aisle 35. Reaching the aisle he turned right, his hand moving across the numbers, finding the ninth unit. The box was on the top shelf, third along. He took hold of it, his arms trembling with emotion. The box was heavy and he struggled with it before managing to set it down. As if he was handling a box of precious treasure, he slowly removed the lid.

  Inside was a mass of documents, details of the United Nations concert, a programme, official letters written from the Kremlin regarding the trip, discussing the Student Peace Tour, the proposals and protocol. As a former agent, Leo’s sense for what was important had been developed over many years of searching through papers and personal belongings. These were formal state documents. They revealed only the surface gloss of the tour. His hand touched the bottom of the box, feeling something hard, the spine of a book – it was a diary.

  Leo read the first entry, remembering the words as surely as if he’d written them himself: For the first time in my life I feel the need to keep a record of my thoughts.

  Harlem Bradhurst West 145th Street

  Three Days Later

  In the back of a cab Leo clutched a notebook in which he’d transcribed the most important details from Elena’s journal. Unable to steal the diary in its complete form, he’d studied the pages in the archive at every unsupervised opportunity. The timeline ran up until the afternoon before the concert, the last day Raisa was alive. After coming back to the hotel from her meeting with Jesse Austin, Elena had been escorted to her room. Getting ready for the dress rehearsal, she’d snuck into the bathroom and made one final entry. This scribbled, hastily written page was unquestionably the most important. Leo had ripped it from the journal, stuffing it into his sock along with the other notes he’d taken and smuggled them out from the archive.

  Most of the diary contained information Elena had already told him when she’d returned to Moscow, including the way in which she’d been approached by the propaganda officer, Mikael Ivanov, and how the relationship had developed between them. It was heartbreaking and infuriating in equal measure to track her emotions, reading descriptions of how she fell for the fiction of her betrayer’s love and his noble, lofty intentions. She genuinely believed her mission was to show the abandoned and maligned Jesse Austin that he was still loved by Communist Russia. The depth of her idealism was matched only by her adoration of Ivanov. Everything she’d done – every mistake – had been motivated by love. Leo could only presume that her capacity for love was the reason she’d been targeted and selected for the operation. Reading the honey-dipped words Ivanov had used to seduce his daughter, Leo couldn’t help but wonder whether he’d failed as a father, failed to protect his children from the world of deceit that had been his profession. If there was one thing he could have taught them it was how to spot a lie.

  Elena had been aware that keeping a diary was risky, particularly considering the secretive nature of her octives, and she’d resorted to a crude code, numbers for names and a shorthand system of description. If he had not been her father it would have been difficult to make sense of the contents, but he was able to replace numbers with names in the majority of cases. The propaganda officer Ivanov was number 55. Number 71 was Jesse Austin, the number reversed, 17, was his wife, Anna Austin, a choice of code that revealed a great deal about Elena’s romanticism. There were a few numbers Leo couldn’t identify by name and there was no question in his mind that they were the most important: AGENT 6. In her rushed entry she’d described him merely by saying: He scares me.

  The code referred to an FBI detective Elena had seen in Harlem emerging from Jesse Austin’s apartment, the man who’d followed her back to the hotel.

  This time Leo wasn’t going to Harlem alone. Seated beside him was Nara. As a trainee in Kabul she’d only ever been involved in one case – the arrest of a love-struck defector that led to his execution. It felt appropriate that Leo should offer her the chance to close her brief detective career with a case against someone who deserved to be caught. That high-minded notion aside, the truth was he needed her. Nara’s command of English was far more advanced than his own. She’d worked tirelessly to improve it, keen to fit in, to make New York City her home and to find a job. In addition to her fluency in English, she was beautiful and charming, whereas he was gruff and scraggy, and she might succeed in persuading people to talk where he had failed. Logically he should have asked for her help from the outset but he’d felt uncertain whether it was wise to involve her. She would feel obliged to support him, regardless of whether or not she agreed with the investigation. As it was a clear violation of the terms of their asylum, seeking sensitive information, he did not want to incriminate her.

  Returning from Washington DC, Leo accepted that he didn’t have time to waste and couldn’t do this without her. Nara listened as he told her everything, the research in the library, his failed interviews in Harlem. She was shocked that his many hours away from home had not been spent exploring the city but delving into the past. As expected, he could tell that she was concerned about upsetting their American hosts
. After all, she was a mother now and had Zabi’s future to think of. However, she felt a duty to support Leo. She owed him her life. It was with mixed emotions, a sense of foreboding and reluctance, as well as a sense of duty and curiosity that she agreed to participate in the search for Raisa’s killer.

  The cab stopped. Leo stepped out, holding the door for Nara. He reached into his pocket to pay the driver. Pressed beside his money were the notes he’d copied from the diary and the page he’d ripped loose. In that final, crucial entry, Elena had mentioned that a man had shown her into Jesse Austin’s apartment, an angry old man referred to as number 111. Jesse Austin had explained the man’s anger to Elena by pointing out that he owned a local hardware store and considered Communism bad for business and bad for the community. It wasn’t much of a lead.

  Leo decided to go to number 111 on 145th, hoping it would be a hardwarestore, only to find it wasn’t a store, it was an apartment block. After managing to sneak into the communal areas, Leo knocked on door 111. He and Nara spoke to the owner, an elderly man who’d lived in the apartment most of his life, had never owned a hardware store and couldn’t understand why he was being asked he if had. Taking a chance, Leo asked whether he knew Jesse Austin anyway. The old man looked at Leo with a peculiar gaze. It was obvious that he knew him, perhaps even knew him well, but he shook his head and shut the door. Glancing at Nara, Leo said, exasperated:

  – This is what I’m up against. No one wants to talk. They haven’t forgotten him, but they don’t want to talk about him.

  She merely replied:

  – There might be a reason for that.

  Leo was not in the mood for compromise.

  – There’s also a good reason for wanting them to talk.

  Walking down the street, Leo raised his hand, gesturing at a run-down hardware store, a ramshackle, old-fashioned affair. The store window was cluttered and dark. Nara looked at him.