Company, selling tourist packages for Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union. Under this cover, Osip was tasked with importing potential spies from the Soviet Union, academics and scientists who could infiltrate key military and scientific operations in the United States. The American authorities would accept the applicants because they would be too brilliant to pass over. He’d run this tourist agency, which lost thousands of dollars, ever since.
The store bell was ringing. He had a customer. There were very few legitimate customers: rarely more than four or five a week. Osip wiped his hands and stepped into the store regarding the customer, a man in his forties. He was wearing a crumpled suit. The cut was poor and his shoes were cheap and scuffed but he wore his clothes with a swagger and bravado that concealed many of their faults. He was an FBI agent and Osip was sure it was the man he’d seen outside Jesse Austin’s apartment. The agent had yet to look at him, flicking through one of the brochures. Osip said:
– Can I help you?
The agent turned, answering with mock formality:
– I was wondering how much it would cost for a one-way ticket to the Soviet Union? First class, of course, I only want to see Communism if I can travel in luxury.
He switched into his regular way of speaking.
– Isn’t that how it works in rackets like this, people with lots of money paying to see how people live with none?
– The point is for the traveller to experience a different way of life. What they make of that society is entirely up to them. We merely make the arrangements.
Osip offered his hand to shake.
– My name is Osip Feinstein. I’m the owner of this agency.
– Agent Yates.
Yates produced his credentials but didn’t shake Osip’s hand. Instead, he sat on a chair, slumped, as though he were at home in front of his television. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled and said nothing more. Osip stood, waiting.
– I take it you’re not here for the travel.
– Correct.
– How can I help you?
– You tell me.
– Tell you what?
– Listen, Mr Feinstein, we can bounce this back and forth all day long. Why don’t I lay my cards on the table? You’ve been under surveillance for many years. We know you’re a Communist. You’re described as a cautious man and a canny operator. Yet today my men are able to follow you to Harlem. You go into an apartment building not too far from a man called Jesse Austin. After several hours you left, returning to the store with a camera slung over your arm. We saw it all. That’s what troubles me. It’s not your style to be this careless. It feels like you’re flirting with us, Mr Feinstein. If I’m wrong, if I have insulted you in some way, that’s fine: I’ll walk out of here right now and say sorry for taking up so much of your time, I’m sure you’re busy selling these tours.
Yates stood up, walked towards the door. Osip called out:
– Wait!
He had not intended to sound so pitiful. Yates turned around, slowly, a toxic smile on his face.
Osip tried to ascertain quickly what kind of man he was dealing with. He’d hoped for someone businesslike. This agent seemed emotional and angry.
– You queer, Mr Feinstein? In my experience most Communists are either queer, Negro or Jew. I know you’re a Jew. I can see you’re no Negro. I’m not all that expert at guessing queers, though. Sure, there might be other kinds of Communists, but the ones who aren’t ashamed to stand up and say ‘I’m proud to be a Communist’ are always queer, Negro or Jew.
Yates sucked on his cigarette and exhaled, jabbing it at Osip’s chest.
– I’ve been following your career with interest, Mr Feinstein. We’ve known for some time that this tourist agency is a cover. Did you think we were stupid? Those spies you sent us? We let them in. Why? Because we were confident as soon as they arrive in this country and start living in a nice house, and driving a nice car and eating nice food, they’re going to forget about that god-awful Communist hole they left behind. They’re going to be loyal to us because our lives are better than yours. And you know what? We were right. You’ve arranged for what, maybe three hundred people and their families to come over?
The exact number was three hundred and twenty-five. Yates sneered:
– How many have given you anything confidential? How many have given you even a scrap of information or a single blueprint?
Despite his doubts about Yates, there was no way back. Osip had to proceed with his plan.
– Agent Yates, I left the Soviet Union fearing for my life. I have no love for that regime. I began working as a spy for the Soviet Union only because I couldn’t get any other work in New York. I was hungry. It was during the Great Depression. The CPUSA had money. I had none. That is the truth. After I joined them, there was no going back. My card was marked as a Communist. I had to behave as one. The men and women whose visas I arranged were never likely spies. They were people in danger, scientists and engineers. They feared for their lives and the lives of their children. I never expected them to become spies. I never expected them to provide a scrap of information, as you say. I used Soviet resources to get them to safety under the guise of infiltrating American universities or factories or even the military. That is the truth. The measure of my success was not how many spies I created, but how many lives I saved.
Yates stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray.
– Mr Feinstein, that’s an interesting story. Makes you sound like an American hero, is that what you’re saying? I should be patting you on the back?
– Agent Yates, I no longer wish to work as a Soviet agent. I wish to work for the United States government. In saying this, my life is now in terrible danger, so you should have no reason to doubt my word.
Yates moved close to Feinstein.
– You wish to work for the United States government?
– Please, Agent Yates, follow me. I can prove my sincerity.
Osip escorted him through to the temporary darkroom, showing him the photographs of Jesse Austin. Only now did Osip notice that Yates had drawn his gun, fearing a trap. Keeping the gun by his side, Yates asked:
– Why did you take the photographs?
– They’re part of a plan drawn up by a Soviet department called SERVICE.A. The Soviet authorities intend to exploit these concerts for their own benefit. They have asked Jesse Austin to speak outside the UN tonight.
– They’ve been trying to get him to attend for months now. So what?
– He turned down every request, so they sent this girl, a Russian girl, an admirer of Jesse Austin. They want him to address the crowd. The world’s media will be present.
– The world’s media will be inside the hall, not on the sidewalk. You’re telling me their plan is to persuade a washed-up singer to shout about his Communist brothers to a rabble on the sidewalk? Let him speak! I don’t give a shit.
Yates began to laugh, shaking his head.
– Feinstein, is this really what you brought me over for?
– Agent Yates, after tonight, Jesse Austin will be more famous than ever, more famous than you can possibly imagine.
Yates stopped laughing.
Bradhurst Harlem West 145th Street
The night was as hot as the day. Red-brick walls baked in the full glare of the sun leached the heat back out, slow-cooking the residents. For about an hour either side of sunrise there was some respite, when the bricks were
