Agent 6

Manhattan United Nations Headquarters 1st Avenue amp; East 42nd Street

Raisa’s awe came not from the architecture – the United Nations headquarters were not particularly tall or beautiful – but simply from being here. It was her first full day in New York City and the experience of being abroad, in the nation described as their Main Adversary, was overwhelming. Waking up in her hotel room in the middle of last night she’d been disorientated, searching the bed for Leo. When she couldn’t find him, she’d opened the curtains to reveal a view no more glamorous than a back alley and a fragment of city skyline, the edge of an office tower – a view of windows and air-conditioner units. Yet she’d stood in dumb wonder as if stretched out before her were snow-capped mountains.

She entered the lobby of the United Nations Headquarters, the only member of her delegation to attend these preliminary meetings, inspecting the General Assembly Hall where tonight’s concert was to be staged. She was to discuss the event with key Soviet diplomats, the men involved with the complex and ongoing negotiations with the American authorities. She expected the meeting to be tough. They would want to pick through every detail of her plans. Tonight’s concert was to be a gathering of United Nations envoys, representatives from almost every country and the key diplomatic event of the tour. A second concert was planned for tomorrow, intended for a public audience. It was to be filmed then broadcast around the world. After that, the delegation would travel by train to Washington DC for a final set of concerts.

As part of the chess-game-like negotiations, the Soviet authorities had insisted that the group not be taken on a tourist trail of New York City or Washington DC. Officials in Moscow were keen to avoid photos of Soviet students staring in amazement at skyscrapers or the Statue of Liberty, or salivating over hot dogs and pretzels as if they were starved and deprived. Such photos would be exploited. Despite the stated peace agenda, both sides were hunting for an iconic image that would define the tour in one nation’s favour – the image that would be remembered and disseminated around the world. These fears had resulted in two officials being appointed to stage-manage the group’s public appearances, evaluating any situations set up by their American guides. Raisa had no interest in these games being played and was annoyed that despite being in New York, the only visit she would probably ever make to the city, many of the sights were off limits. She was giving serious consideration to the idea of sneaking Elena and Zoya out of the hotel at night and taking them on an unofficial tour. It would be difficult to slip past the security and perhaps her instincts as a teacher were asserting themselves too strongly. There would be a risk. She pushed the thought aside for now, concentrating on the upcoming meeting.

Although she lived in Moscow and held a prestigious job she was concerned that she’d seem provincial. Granted a generous allowance, she’d bought a new outfit. She was wearing it for the first time today, a steel-coloured suit. She felt uncomfortable in it, as if she were wearing someone else’s clothes. In Moscow the exclusive stores had been temporarily opened to her and the other teachers on the trip, a strictly one-off event in order to ensure they were presentable. Even so, she had no sense of international fashions and while the staff working in the store had lectured her on what executives in New York would wear, she suspected they didn’t know what they were tal="0" about. The diplomats she was about to meet spent their lives immersed in a society of the most important people in the world. She imagined walking into the room, being assessed in an instant as a woman of limited means who rarely travelled outside of Moscow. They would smile, polite, condescending – certain that she’d been plucked from obscurity, from mediocrity, and pushed onto an international stage. And this would be gleaned from a quick glance at her plain shoes and the cut of her jacket. In ordinary circumstances she wouldn’t have cared what a stranger made of her appearance. She was not vain. On the contrary, she preferred not to be noticed. But in a situation like this she needed to command respect. If they didn’t trust her, they’d be tempted to interfere in her plans.

In the elevator, Raisa stole a final glance at herself. The guide caught sight of her nervous self-appraisal. The young man, educated, with hair slicked to the side, wearing a no doubt expensive suit and polished shoes, afforded her a patronizing smile as if to confirm that her anxieties were exactly correct: her shoes were plain, her clothes poor and her appearance not to the standards typical of those working in this building. Worse was the implication that he was being generous to her, understanding the limits of her situation and making necessary allowances. Raisa remained silent, feeling out of her depth. She composed herself, doing her best to dismiss the incident, before stepping into the offices of the Soviet representative to the United Nations.

Two men, in immaculate suits, stood up. She knew one of them already, Vladimir Trofimov, a handsome man in his forties. He worked for the Ministry of Education, where the plans for the trip had been formalized. She’d met him in Moscow. While she’d expected him to be a political creature, largely indifferent to the children, he’d proved to be gregarious and friendly. He’d spent time with the students, engaging them in conversation. Trofimov introduced Raisa to the other man:

– Raisa Demidova.

He switched into an imitation American accent:

– This is Evan Vass.

She hadn’t expected any Americans in the meeting. The man was tall, in his late fifties. Vass stared at her with such intensity that she was momentarily taken aback. His eyes didn’t casually wander over her clothes, or note her simple shoes. She reached out to shake his hand. He took hold of it, loosely, as if it were something awful. He didn’t shake it: he merely held it. She found herself wanting to pull away. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was making her feel uncomfortable. Though she’d been practising, Raisa’s English was limited.

– It is my pleasure to meet you.

Trofimov laughed. Vass did not. He answered in perfect Russian, releasing her hand:

– My name is Evgeniy Vasilev. They call me Evan Vass as a joke. It is a joke, I suppose? I have never found it funny.

Trofimov explained his joke:

– Evan has been in America so long and is so corrupted by American ways we have renamed him.

Even this light exchange left Raisa confused – to claim someone was corrupted by American ways was hardly a laughing matter, yet it seemed the remark were no more than banter. These men existed in a rarefied atmosphere where even serious accusations carried no danger. As Trofimov poure glass of water she reminded herself that no matter what leniency they showed each other she was not of their level and rules that did not apply to them still applied to her.

Putting the disconcerting introduction behind her, Raisa reiterated the plans for the concert, pointing out the significance of the arrangements, from the choice of songs to the blocking. There had been one meeting in her hotel last night with her American counterpart: she was about to have a second meeting in the Grand Assembly Hall. There would be a dress rehearsal in the afternoon. Trofimov smoked throughout, smiling and nodding, occasionally watching his cigarette smoke swirl in the air-conditioned currents. Vass gave no reaction, regarding her with unmoving coal-black eyes. As she finished, Trofimov stubbed out his cigarette.

– That sounds excellent. I have nothing to add. You seem to have everything under control. I’m sure the concerts will be a great success.

The men stood up. It was her cue to leave. Raisa couldn’t believe it, standing uncertainly.

– You don’t have any comments?

Trofimov smiled.

– Comments? Yes, good luck! I’m looking forward to the concert. It will be a great success. A triumph, of that I have no doubt. We will see you tonight.

– Won’t you be attending the dress rehearsal this afternoon?

– No, that won’t be necessary. And it might spoil the experience. We trust you. We trust you completely.

Trofimov stepped forward, showing Raisa to the door. The young guide was waiting outside, ready to escort her to the General Assembly Hall. Trofimov said goodbye. Evan Vass said goodbye. Raisa nodded, heading towards the elevator, perplexed by their response. They hadn’t interrogated her. They hadn’t imposed their authority. They’d behaved as if the concert that they’d spent so long seeking diplomatic permission for was of absolutely no concern.

She touched the arm of her guide, saying in English:

– Where is the bathroom?

He changed direction, taking her to the bathroom. She entered, checking that she was alone before leaning on the sink and looking at her reflection, regarding her ugly, unfashionable set of clothes, registering the tension in her shoulders. Leo’s instincts about this trip had been correct.