– 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 of 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
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
