Moscow

Novye Cheremushki - Khrushchev’s Slums

Apartment 1312 - Same Day

The elevator was still broken, and forced to walk up thirteen flights of stairs, Elena began to feel weak, her legs trembling. Coming up the final flight she could see their door. She stopped, unable to go any further, panicking at the thought of the man inside the apartment. How had Leo changed? She sat on the step.

—I can’t do it.

Leo had never hurt them, never raised his hand in anger or even shouted at them. Yet she was scared. There had always been something about him that had unsettled her. From time to time she would catch him sitting on his own, looking down at his hands as if wondering if they belonged to him. She would catch him staring out of the window, his mind elsewhere, and even though everyone drifted into daydreams with him it wasn’t idle thoughts. Darkness collected around him like clumps of static dust. If he realized he was being watched he would force a smile but it would be brittle, on the surface only, and the darkness remained. The thought of Leo without Raisa frightened Elena.

Zoya whispered:

—He loves you. Remember that.

—Maybe he only loved us because of Raisa?

—That’s not true.

—Maybe he only wanted children because of her? What if everything we love about him was because of her?

—You know that’s not true.

Zoya did not sound entirely convinced. Frol Panin crouched down.

—I’m going to be with you. There’s nothing to worry about. They reached the landing. Frol Panin knocked on the door.

Despite neither trusting Panin nor knowing anything about him, Elena was glad he was here. He was calm and measured. Physically he was no match for Leo; however, she couldn’t imagine it would be easy for anyone to ignore his instructions – they were spoken with such authority. The three of them waited. Footsteps could be heard. The door opened.

The man standing before them was unrecognizable as their father. His eyes were swollen with grief and appeared to be inhumanly large. His cheeks were sallow, sucked inwards. There was insanity in his movements. His hands w>

Disorientated by the long flight, the time difference, the emotions of the past week and this reunion, Elena briefly wondered if she’d walked into a different apartment. The furniture had been moved, their beds stacked up, chairs pushed aside as if to make space for a dance. The kitchen table had been positioned in the centre of the room directly under the light. The tabletop was covered with clippings from Soviet papers about the murder of Jesse Austin. There were sheets of intricate handwritten notes, photographs of Jesse. There were photographs of Raisa. A chair had been placed opposite the table. The set-up was unmistakable. It was ready for an interrogation. Leo’s voice was scratched and hoarse:

—Tell me everything.

Fingers knotted tightly together again, Leo listened with ferocious concentration as Elena recounted events in New York. She became emotional, muddling some of the points, confusing names and offering rambling justifications. At such points Leo interrupted, asking for nothing more than the facts, requesting clarification and demonstrating a pedantic desire for exact details. He didn’t lose his temper, he didn’t shout, and this absence of emotion was perturbing. Something has died inside of him, Elena thought, as she reached the end of her account. Leo said:

—Please give me your diary.

Elena looked up, confused. Leo repeated the request:

—Your diary, give it to me.

Elena looked up at her sister, then back at Leo.

—My diary?

—Your diary, yes, where is it?

—Everything was confiscated by the Americans, they took our clothes, our suitcases, everything. My diary was in it.

Leo stood up, pacing the room.

—I should have read it.

He shook his head angry with himself. Elena didn’t understand.

—My diary?

—I found it before you left, under your mattress. I put it back. It would have contained information about this man Mikael Ivanov. Am I right? You would’ve speculated on his feelings for you. You would have detailed what he’d asked you to do. You were in love. You were blind. I would have seen the relationship was a fraud.

Leo suddenly stopped walking, raising his hands to his face.

—If I’d read the diary I could’ve figured it all out. I could’ve stopped the whole thing. I could’ve stopped you from going. Raisa would be alive now. If I’d just behaved as an agent. I thought it would be wrong to go through your things. But that is who I am. Tt I do. Those are my only skills. I could have saved Raisa’s life.

He was speaking so fast his words were running into each other.

—You love him, this man, Mikael Ivanov, who worked for this secret department? He told you his motivation was equality and justice. Elena, he didn’t love you. Love was how you were manipulated. Some people want money. Some people want power. You wanted love. That was your price. You were bought. It was planned. The love was a lie, the most obvious and simple of tricks.

Elena wiped away her tears, feeling a wave of anger for the first time.

—You can’t be sure of that. You don’t know what happened.

—I am sure. I’ve planned operations like this myself. What’s worse, they knew that only a person who wasn’t aware of the plot could have persuaded Jesse Austin to attend the concert. They needed someone in love. They needed someone full of love and optimism. Otherwise, Jesse Austin would have sensed a trick. He would have sensed if you were lying to him, or if you didn’t really believe the things you were saying. He would never have attended that concert if you hadn’t asked him to.

Elena stood up.

—I know it’s my fault! I know!

Leo shook his head, lowering his voice.

—No, I blame myself. I taught you nothing. I let you into this world naked and naive and this is what happened. Raisa and I wanted to shelter you from those things – lies, deceit, trickery – but they are the truths of our existence. I failed you. I failed Raisa. I had only one thing to offer her, protection, and I couldn’t even provide that.

Leo addressed Frol Panin.

—Where is Ivanov now?

—I know that right now he is on a train. I don’t know where that train is heading.

Leo paused, sensing this was the truth but suspicious of it all the same.

—Who killed my wife?

—To the world, the answer is Anna Austin.

—That is a lie.

—We don’t know what happened.

Leo became angry.

—We know that the official version of the events is a lie! We know that much.

Frol Panin nodded.

—Yes, that version seems unlikely. However, to avoid a diplomatic crisis we have agreed not to contradict the American version of events.

—Who killed Jesse Austin? Was it us? Was it the Americans? It was us, wasn’t it?

—As far as I know, the plan was merely to have Jesse Austin turn up outside the United Nations. The hope was that he would be arrested, dragged off by the police, and if one of the students could become embroiled in the ruckus that would be useful from a propaganda point of view. It was a plot conjured up by a department that is desperate to make some inroads into the anti-Communist senti a de that prevails in the United States. They wanted to repair Jesse Austin’s career. They wanted him to be famous again.

Leo began pacing the room again.

—I knew all along it would be impossible for you not to try something. You couldn’t merely stage a concert. You had to go further. You had to do more.

—It was an ill-conceived plan that has gone badly wrong.

—Let me go to New York. Let me investigate.

—Leo, my friend, listen to me: what you ask is impossible.

—I must find out who murdered my wife. I must find them and kill them.

—Leo, you will never be allowed to go. It will not happen. There is nothing you can do.

Leo shook his head.

—There’s nothing else! This is all that’s left for me to do! I promise, I will find her killer. I will find the person responsible. I will find them.