Agent 6

Manhattan Outside the United Nations Headquarters 1st Avenue amp; East 44th Street

Jesse Austin was carrying an apple crate that he’d taken from Nelson’s restaurant kitchen. He’d spoken on street corners before and without elevation of some kind he didn’t stand a chance of being heard, even as a tall man and a practised orator. Every performer needed a stage and though an apple crate wasn’t much of one, it was better than a sidewalk. Arriving from the subway, he saw that part of 1st Avenue was closed to traffic. Instead of subduing the atmosphere, the absence of cars heighteed the sense that the demonstration was out of the ordinary. Surveying the scene before him, set against the backdrop of the United Nations building, he saw hundreds of people gathered, far more than he’d expected. Anna took hold of his free hand. She was nervous.

The police were positioned in a perimeter formation: some were wearing full riot gear, several were on horseback, patrolling the front line of the protest, their horses snorting as if disgusted by the rabble. The protestors were barricaded in, like cattle, garish homemade banners rising up among the crowd: bed sheets stretched tight over wooden posts, brilliant colours – a tapestry of different material. Letters had been cut out individually, unevenly, giving them a childlike naivety. Reading the slogans, Jesse deduced the protestors were a muddle of different groups. There was something he’d never seen before in New York, anti-Vietnam-War demonstrators with guitars and drums side by side with clean-cut men and women in starched shirts attacking the Communist Party, some with placards demanding that Hungary be liberated from Soviet rule, others using the tired phrase: THE ONLY GOOD RED IS A DEAD RED

It was reproduced so many times that Jesse wondered why they couldn’t think of something else to say – it made him want to speak even more. The more they threatened him, the stronger he became: that’s what he’d always believed.

He was too late for the most prominent locations in the demonstration, and he wouldn’t be able to plant himself near the gate as Elena had requested. He and Anna would have to make do with the far side, down towards the scraggly end of the crowd. It was less than ideal and he was annoyed with himself for not getting there earlier. As they began to walk down the length of the demonstration, a voice called out:

– Jesse Austin!

Turning around, he saw a man near the gate gesturing for him to come over. They obeyed, despite having no idea who the man was. He was young, with a pleasant smile.

– This spot is for you! I saved it!

The space was beside the main entrance, as Elena had requested. He took hold of Jesse’s crate, lifting it over the barricade. He tested it to see that it was stable, before looking up at Jesse.

– Climb over!

Jesse laughed.

– Thirty years ago maybe!

Holding Anna’s hand, he moved into the crowd, slowly working his way through the people until he reached the crate. The man was protecting the makeshift stage from other protestors, several of whom were trying to push their way onto it. Seeing Jesse, he put a hand on his shoulder.

– This is your time. Give them everything! Don’t hold back!

Jesse shook his hand.

– Who are you?

– A friend. You have a lot more of them than you know. ing Jeht="0"›

Yates left the United Nation’s premises before the concert finished. Normally a demonstration wouldn’t have been allowed so close to the headquarters, but redirected to Ralph Bunche Park or Dag Hammarskjold Plaza at 47th Street and 1st Avenue, one block away from the visitors’ entrance, four blocks away from the entrance used by top-level diplomats. The decision to allow the demonstration unprecedented proximity to the United Nations was symbolic, the idea being that unlike the Soviet Union, America had nothing to fear in the face of open criticism. And there he was – Jesse Austin, making full use of the liberties granted by this nation, freedom of speech, a freedom that didn’t exist in the nation he so extolled.

Exiting onto the street, Yates saw a uniformed cop approaching Jesse, interrupting his speech and pointing at the crate he was standing on. Yates hurried forward, grabbing the supervising officer by the arm and shouting over the din:

– Tell your officer to pull back! No one moves Jesse Austin!

– Who is Jesse Austin?

The name meant nothing to this police officer. Yates was pleased.

– The tall man, the Negro standing on the box! He stays where he is!

– He’s not allowed to be so high, not so close to the main entrance.

Yates lost his temper.

– I don’t care about your rules. You listen to me! That man is not to be moved. The Soviets have invited him here hoping that we’ll force him to leave. If we do, he’ll resist and we’ll end up on the front page of every newspaper dragging him away. That’s what he wants! That’s why he’s here! He’s a famous Communist sympathizer, a popular Negro figurehead. Five white police officers manhandling an old Negro singer is not the kind of image we want. We’re in the middle of a propaganda war. I don’t want any displays of force tonight. I don’t care what the provocation is. Do you understand? No one moves that man!

Same Day

Jesse couldn’t believe that the police officer was backing down, walking away, allowing him to remain on the crate. He glanced at Anna. She seemed equally puzzled, but with the press here, their orders must be to show restraint, not to interfere, to allow the demonstration free rein, a tactical decision to show off the notion of American free speech, a cynical decision: but if free speech was being granted, even if it was a one-night-only show, he intended to exploit it.

From the apple crate he could see over the entire demonstration, hundreds of faces, some painted like flowers, others contorted with anger and outrage. Jesse began to speak. Timid at first, no one apart from his wife was listening to him, not even those closest to his crate. It was less like a speech and more like a crazy old man talking to himself.

– I’m here tonight…

A faltering start, unsure whether to read his material or to improvise. Deciding to use the material he’d written in his apartment, he tried to ignore the fact that no one seemed to care and concentrated on a fixed point in the crowd, pretending that he was back on the big stage with an audience of thousands of paying guests. However, his rhythm was thrown out of kilter by the incessant banging of the war protestors’ drums. His words were jumbled: he stopped midway through one point and began making another. He stopped again, returning to his first point only to wonder whether it mattered if he spoke Russian or English since no one was listening anyway. Despondent, he felt Anna take his hand. He looked down at her. She squeezed his palm and advised him:

– Just say what you feel. Talk to them like you talk to me, from the heart, that’s why people have always listened to you. Because you never lie, you never pretend, you only ever say something if you believe in it.

Jesse blocked out the sound of the drums, preparing to speak, raising his hand. Before he said a word a man called out, one of the elderly war protestors with sinewy arms, a scruffy beard and a guitar hanging around his neck. His chest was bare, painted with a red peace symbol.

– Jesse Austin!

Being recognized took him by surprise and Jesse lost his train of thought. Before he could recover, the protestor had pushed through to him, shaking his hand and saying:

– Always loved your music. Tell me, Jesse, did they kill Malcolm X because he opposed the Vietnam War? I’m sure of it. They’ll kill anyone who speaks out against this war. Malcolm X said every black man and woman should support the Vietnamese, not the US soldiers, that’s got to be why they shot him, don’t you think? Who do you support? The Vietnamese or the Americans?

Malcolm X had been shot at the beginning of the year. It had crossed Jesse’s mind that his murder might be more than it seemed. To blame the Nation of Islam was a convenient explanation, and normally when there was a convenient explanation the truth was somewhere else. As he began to answer, the man called out to his friends:

– Hey! It’s Jesse Austin!

Though people hadn’t reacted to the sight of him on a crate, at the sound of his name people turned around and paid attention. Voices shouted out from the anti-Communist crowd, coarse with disgust:

– How come you said America wasn’t your home!

– You said you’d be glad to fight American troops!

The old protestor winked at Jesse.

– Better be careful what you say.

Jesse called back:

– I never said anything of the sort! I believe in peace, not war.

The first accusation had burst a dam, more insidious lies poured out, increasingly extreme, from the group of anti-Communist protestors who knew Jesse better than anyone, as a figure of hate and ridicule.

– Isn’t it true you seduced a bunch of white girls?

– Why don’t you pay taxes?

– Haven’t you been in prison?

– Don’t you cheat on your wife?

– I heayou hit her when you’re drunk!

Jesse couldn’t always see the faces of his accusers, voices disconnected. He struggled to control his anger, in contrast to his accusers, and answered the allegations:

– I pay my taxes! I’ve never spent a day in prison, except to visit those people in need of help. And I never touched any white girl, not like that, just like I never hit a person, let alone my wife, the woman I love more than anyone else. What you’re repeating is nothing more than slander! A campaign of hate and lies!

His voice was trembling. The pain of these lies welled up inside him, the memory of being helpless, watching his reputation being destroyed.

Sensing he was in trouble, Anna stepped up onto the crate with him, putting an arm around his waist to steady herself.

– Would I be standing beside my husband if it were true? Would I have stuck with him when the government took our home? When they took our jobs? When they took our money and the food from our table? We lost everything. Now, you’ve gladly listened to the lies. Let me tell you the facts. Jesse’s never hurt another person in his life. He’s never been in a bar fight, or street altercation. He’s never raised his voice against me! As for war, he couldn’t dream of taking up arms against another soul. He doesn’t believe in violence. He believes in love! He believes in love deeper than anything! He believes in fairness for all men and women, no matter where they’re born or the colour of their skin. You can disagree with what we believe in if you want. You can tell us we’re fools for our ideas. But don’t tell us that we don’t love each other.

As she stepped down from the crate, Jesse saw how her words had turned the crowd in his favour, pulling more attention his way. He regretted his retreat from public speaking. He’d allowed insinuation to fill the silence. It was his duty to put the truth out there even if the mainstream channels were closed to him. It was his duty to stand up to his enemies no matter how heavily the odds were stacked against him. He’d been beaten down into believing that the truth had no value. It did: it was stronger than their lies and the audience heard it in their voices when they spoke. Encouraged, he tried to move from a conversation to a polemic. It was time to say what he’d come here to say.

– Now that we’re done rebutting the false allegations, can we speak about what really matters? What matters to millions of Americans up and down this great country? The unfairness, the bias, the intolerance and the institutionalized discrimination not only of black Americans but of all poor Americans!

He put aside his prepared material, speaking off the cuff. Just as his Russian had come back to him in satisfying, rolling waves of words and phrases, so did the words of outrage perfected over hundreds of speeches, years of protests. His audience swelled, unified in his direction, men and women of different ages and races. Some of the anti-war protestors joined him, putting down their drums, allowing his words to be heard. It was the biggest audience he’d addressed in nearly ten years and they weren’t there for his songs, or to be entertained, they were there to change the world. And the crowd continued to grow, more and more people arriving, pressing into the area behind the steel barricades.

An angry woman called out:

– If you love the Soviet Union do much why don you go back with them to Russia!

His confidence growing, Jesse relished the adversary.

– Why would I go anywhere when this is my home! I’ve lived here all my life. My parents are buried here! Their parents are buried here! I’m as American as you are, perhaps more so, surely more so, because I truly believe in freedom of speech, in equality, concepts I doubt you even think about. You’re too busy waving the American flag to think about what that flag symbolizes!

The woman was joined by a breakaway group of anti-Communist protestors, taking turns to heckle Jesse, shouting above the noise, some of their comments disappearing, some breaking through.

– You live in America and you insult our country!

– The only people I’ve ever insulted were people like you, people who don’t understand that every man and woman on this earth shares a common humanity. While you may not understand it, the hope for a better life is understood all over the world. The desire to be treated fairly does not change depending on where you live, or what language you speak.

Jesse gestured at the United Nations Headquarters.

– That building represents the world under one roof. That is the reality of our existence. We live under one sky. We breathe the same air. We get warmth from the same sun. Government policy does not create human rights. Those rights came first! Governments exist to serve and protect those basic human rights. Those rights have nothing to do with how you vote in an election, where you live, the colour of your skin or the money in your wallet. Those rights are inalienable. I’ll fight for those rights as long as I have air in my lungs and blood in my heart!

Jesse knew the concert would finish soon. The Soviet delegation would exit onto the street, the young students spilling into the crowd, surrounding him. He could only smile at the thought.

Global Travel Company

926 Broadway

Same Day

Cuffed to the radiator in the back office, locked in the dark, Osip Feinstein had lost track of the time. He was now sweating from withdrawal sickness. Normally by this time he’d be smoking opium and his body’s desire for the drug overpowered all other sensations, including the emotion any normal person would be feeling in these circumstances – fear. His trousers were soaked where he’d wet himself. His wrist was hurting as the metal dug into his skin. He could no longer move his fingers. The photographs of Jesse Austin and the Russian girl had been taken and Osip’s initial impression of Agent Yates had proved to be correct: the man was extremely dangerous.

In his dazed state he became aware of someone outside the office. Slowly the door opened. He blinked at the light. Standing over him was the Soviet operative who’d given him the camera. As Osip’s eyes adjusted to the light he saw that the man was holding a gun.

– Trusting the FBI was a poor decision, an unexpected misjudgement considering how shrewd you have been in the past.

Osip did not have the energy to resist – he did not even have the energy to fight for his life.

– I’ve ben running from you for thirty years.

– No more running, Osip.

The man picked up a bottle of hydroquinone, one of the chemicals used to develop film, highly flammable, and poured it over Osip’s clothes and face, splashing it down his throat and into his eyes. It was a powerful bleach and Osip’s skin stung as painfully as though it were burning, even before the man had set him alight.