Agent 6

Bradhurst Harlem West 145th Street

Agent Yates leaned against the frame of the door, as close to the inside of the apartment as he could physically manage. As though in response, Jesse Austin’s wife stepped forward, joining her husband, shielding as much of their apartment from view as possible – a human barricade. The gesture amused Yates. He knew there was nothing illegal that they wanted to hide, no dope or stolen property like most of the other families around here. This was defiance for the sake of it; the pair were fighting for privacy – a splinter of dignity – pitifully trying to assert themselves against his authority.

Jesse was a big man, tall and broad. Once strong, not any more, his back was hunched, muscle had turned slack – tightness turned not to fat but baggy flesh. In contrast, his wife had lost weight. Fifteen years ago she’d been beautiful with a full figure and elegant curves. Now she was manual-labour thin, skin drooped under her eyes and deep lines ran across her forehead. As for the apartment, it wasn’t much to be protective about: a bedroom that doubled as a living room, a living room that doubled as a kitchen, a kitchen that doubled as a dining room. There were only a couple of paces from the bed to the stove and a couple more to the bathroom. To be fair, it was a little neater and nicer painted than some of the other rat-infested slum apartments he’d seen in his time. The stand-out difference, the only sign that this apartment had a story to tell, was the occasional expensive items of furniture like museum pieces salvaged from the wreck of a sunken career. Out-of-place antique cabinets and decorative side-tables, fallen on hard times, wept for their former Park Avenue homes.

Yates directed his attention at Jesse’s wife – Anna Austin. She was too composed and too savvy to lose control. He admired this lady, he really did. She had been beautiful once, photographed at prestigious events, dressed in furs and jewels like a princess, hanging off her traitor husband’s arm. Looking at the photos Yates could’ve sworn her teeth were carved out of ivory, a perfect smile, unnaturally white. How the mighty had fallen, reduced to this – from diamonds to dust, splendour to squalor. Despite this hardship, this self-imposed poverty, this unnecessary misery of Jesse’s creation, she was still hooked to her husband’s arm. Except now she was more like a broken Christmas decoration, a cracked bauble that had lost its glitter and sparkle.

Yates watched as Jesse reached down and took hold of Anna’s hand. Was that a way of reminding him that they were together despite everything he and his colleagues had thrown at them – including rumours about adultery and accusations that he’d molested white girls? Those allegations had been easy to manufacture. There were plenty of photos of Jesse after concerts, surrounded by admirers, most of them female, some of them young. He was a tactile man, always putting his hands on people’s shoulders, wrapping arms around pretty young girls. The dirt had stuck. Enough newspapers had run with the story, enough girls had come forward claiming he had behaved inappropriately. Of course, they’d only done so after a little encouragement from Yates’s men, a nudge, a threat, worried they’d be accused of being a Communist sympathizer. Anna had never wavered, calling them liars every chance she’d got, publicly pitying them for not having the moral courage to stand up to the FBI. If only she’d been a weaker person, if only she’d left Jesse then he would’ve been broken for sure. She’d stayed true, steadfast and constant – values a woman should show to her husband. Still in love, still by his side, still holding his big hand as if it could protect her. She needed to get real: those big gentle hands hadn’t protected her, they’d done more damage to her than if they’d slapped her. Jesse and Anna were so proud of their love, so proud of their relationship, that it was as though someone had told them about Yates’s useless, crazy wife. Speaking his thoughts aloud, Yates said:

– Who fucking cares?

They both looked at him like he was as strange as he was scary. Yates liked the idea that he was scary.

He felt his pocket for cigarettes. They were in the car. He realized he was still a little drunk from the night before.

– Big Old Jesse, tell me, you got any plans to hook up with your Soviet friends while they’re in town? They’ve been trying to make contact with you, over and over again. Letters, invites… We intercepted them but there’s always a chance one or two slipped past. Or maybe they sent someone in person?

Jesse’s face was blank. In the absence of a cigarette, Yates took out a match, picking his teeth.

– Come now, no games, you and me go back too far. You trying to tell me you don’t know about a bunch of Soviet Communist kiddies singing their hearts out at the UN tonight? They’re singing about peace and world harmony and all the things we know Communists love. I thought I’d stop by, see if you were going to make an appearance.

Anna replied:

– We don’t know anything about that.

Yates turned his face close to hers, forcing her to step back into the apartment.

– You don’t?

Jess answered:

The- No, we don’t. You have no right to interfere with our mail.

Jesse had answered but Yates kept his eyes on Anna.

– I normally find you attractive when you’re being coy, Mrs Austin. Might even have worked twenty years back, when you strutted around town with your long fake eyelashes, attending galas and making the magazines. I might have fallen for it. I’m a sucker for a pretty lady. I would’ve struck a deal with the Devil and fucked you just to take the heat off your husband. I bet you would’ve enjoyed it but told yourself, as your nails scratched my back, that you were doing it for him.

Yates noticed Jesse’s fist was clenched. Anger was bringing the old man to life. He didn’t move, didn’t dare step closer. Yates said:

– Go ahead, Jesse. Stand up for her. Be a man. Take a swing. Might even make up for this shit-hole apartment you’ve forced her to live in.

Jesse’s face quivered with hatred, like a cello string being plucked. He managed to keep his cool, just about, repeating what Anna had already said:

– We no longer have any contact with the Soviet authorities. We know nothing about their arrival here, or their plans.

Yates nodded condescendingly.

– You don’t even read the papers? You probably don’t even know where Russia is, am I right? Soviets singing? What could be more your taste, Jesse, than a bunch of pretty young Communist girls singing songs? Am I right in thinking you used to sing? Didn’t you used to do something along those lines?

– I used to, Mr Yates, you put a stop to that.

– Nothing to do with me. It’s no crime to sing a song. Just so happens that some songs are popular and some songs, your Communist-loving songs, don’t seem to get any audience these days. Times change, tastes change: people are forgotten, don’t you find, Jesse? It’s sad. Don’t you find it sad? I could cry a river, there’s so many sad things going on in the world. Careers coming to nothing, talent going to waste, sad, sad, sad, so very fucking sad.

Anna flinched, her eyes on Jesse, sensing that her husband might say something imprudent. Yates certainly hoped so. She said:

– Why are you here, Mr Yates?

– I could almost be offended. I don’t think you’re listening to me very carefully. The Soviets have invited you to this concert. We might have intercepted a couple of their attempts to make contact but they don’t give up easily. They want you there. I want to know why. It’s my job to keep an eye on men like you Jesse interrupted:

– And what kind of man is that?

Yates grew tired of the playfulness.

– What kind of man am I talking about? A man who went on record saying that he’d refuse to fight for America if war broke out with the Soviets, a man who lives in this country and expresses his disloyalty to it every chance he gets. What kind of man am I talking about? A Communist, that’s the kind of man I’m talking about.

Yates lookd down at Jesse’s shoes. They were old, worn, but excellent quality, maybe Italian, or something fancy, another relic from the days when he earned a lot of money, more money in a year than Yates would earn in his life. But who would know it now? Still looking at the shoes, he said:

– Jesse, you know what really makes me angry?

– I’m sure a lot of things make you angry, Mr Yates.

– That is true. A lot of things get me hot under the collar. But more than anything else, it’s people who have done well in this country, people like you, coming from nothing, making all this money, having all this success, people who turn around and get into bed with another regime. The Soviets have given you nothing. They can’t even feed their own people. How can you love them and not us? How can you sing about them and not about us? You’re the American dream, Jesse: don’t you get it? You’re the American fucking dream. And what a shame that is.

Yates wiped his brow. His heart was thumping hard. This wasn’t fun any more. He breathed deeply.

– So hot in here, I don’t know how you sleep. I don’t know how you breathe. Must have different sort of lungs.

Anna replied, her voice soft:

– We breathe the same as you do, Agent Yates.

Yates curled his lip, as though he wasn’t convinced.

– Your last place had air conditioning? You must miss that.

Neither of them replied and Yates lost interest in goading them further.

– Listen, I’m done here. I’m going to leave you two alone. Before I go, I have a final question, a philosophical question, for us all to think about. In the Soviet Union do you think there must be people who hate their country? Don’t you think the world would be a whole lot simpler if those people lived here and you went and lived there?

Jesse said immediately:

– Mr Yates, insult me any way you want. But you can’t tell me this country isn’t my home as much as yours. It’s Yates interrupted, turning to leave.

– Not only am I going to tell you that, Jesse, I’m going to make you understand it too. And take it from me: you’d be smart to keep far away from that concert. You’d be really smart.