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
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.
Suddenly fearful that she’d made a mistake in bringing her daughters to this strange new world, Raisa regarded Elena, beside her, peering through the small window as the airliner circled.
– What do you think?
Elena was so excited she didn’t hear the question. Raisa tapped her shoulder, suggesting:
– The city is smaller than I expected.
Elena turned around, able only to say:
– We’re really here!
She returned her attention to the window, staring down at the city. Raisa stood up, looking over the back of her seat at her elder daughter in the row behind. Zoya was also pressed up against the window, like a young child, her eyes hungry for every detail. Raisa sat back down, reassured that she’d done the right thing in bringing them to New York – it was a remarkable opportunity.
The pilot announced their approach, explaining that preparations were being made for their arrival at the airport, no doubt a ceremony of some kind. At an elaborate departure ceremony in Moscow they’d been told that the pilot was the same man who had flown Khrushchev to the United States on his countrywide visit in 1959 and that this was the exact same plane used by the Premier, one of the few planes that could travel such a distance without needing to refuel. Concerned about their international image, the Kremlin had insisted that the delegation land in New York in the most advanced airliner in the world.
As the Tupolev 114 circled out to sea, readying to land at John F. Kennedy airport, Raisa caught sight of a smaller island located off the lower tip of Manhattan. She pressed her finger up against the window, telling Elena:
– You see that?
Elena face was still close to the window, fearful that she might miss some wonder:
– Yes, I see it. What is it?
Raisa squeezed her daughter’s arm.
– It’s the Statue of Liberty.
Elena turned around for the first time since the cloud had parted.
– What is that?
At nearly seventeen years old Elena had no idea about the city she was about to arrive in. While Raisa had been prepared to risk her own life reading banned books and illegally imported magazines, she would never have allowed her daughters to read them. In the conflict between her instincts as a teacher and her instincts as a protective mother, the mother always won out. She’d deliberately sheltered her daughters, shielding them from any knowledge that might taint them. By way of explanation she merely said:
– A famous New York landmark.
Glancing at the excited faces of the Soviet students who filled the cabin, Raisa couldn’t deny that she felt a sense of pride muddled with her anxiety. She’d been intimately involved in the planning and development of this trip. Her position on it hadn’t been won through political connections. In fact, the opposite was true: she’d needed to overcome serious questions about her past. Leo was a pariah in the complex political landscape of Moscow: his reputation was ruined by his refusal to work for the State security forces. Over the last ten years he’d maintained a low profile while she’d become an increasingly prominent figure in the education system. Promoted to director at her secondary school she held regular meetings with the ministry on topics such as literacy levels. Her school had achieved improvements that she would’ve dismissed as propaganda had she not been involved. It was a peculiar reversal of fortunes. Leo, once powerful and well connected, was now isolated, cut off from advancement, while her career had grown, pushing her closer to the corridors of power. Yet there was never any suggestion of jealousy. He was far happier now than she’d ever known him. He loved his family. He lived for them. He would die for them: of that there was no doubt. She felt a pang of sadness that he was not here to share this experience with them. She wasn’t sure whether he’d enjoy New York, he’d almost certainly be on edge, alert for plot and intrigue, but regardless, he would always enjoy being with them.
Considering the level of hostility between the two countries the trip had been labelled as naive by many commentators. A delegation of Soviet students was to perform concrts in New York and Washington DC in an effort
