Agent 6

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

Elena left the United Nations Headquarters without being stopped. Preparations had been made, the route arranged, passage through security, a blind spot in the building leading to an exit where she escaped without being questioned. As she stepped out she’d been handed a dark red coat with a hood to conceal her face. Nothing had been left to chance. She’d been siphoned off from the main group as soon as the concert was finished. Mikael was not going with her. It was important he was not involved in the photo graph since the presence of a propaganda officer would undermine its authenticity. During the dress rehearsal the plans had changed. Mikael had explained it was impossible for a small group of students to join the demonstration: they could only manage to sneak Elena out. The American authorities had arranged for a coach to take the students doorstep to doorstep: straight from the United Nations to the hotel. FBI agents were going to drive it. Elena would have to go alone. The operation rested on her shoulders: a chance to redefine Communism in the eyes of the world, to create a modern progressive image that would be embodied in the photograph of a young Russian hand in hand with an older American, two nations, two generations bridged. The photograph would carry a powerful message of an inclusive ideology, reminding the world of the Soviet Union’s ability to embrace different races and cultures across a vast geographical space. Finally Elena would step out from the shadow of her sister, proving to Mikael that she was worthy of his trust and love.

The exit from the United Nations was located up the street, away from the main body of the demonstration. To reach Jesse she would have to walk past the police line. Hood up over her head, she hurried towards the protests, terrified of being intercepted. She kept her face down, her heart beating fast, glancing up to see Jesse on the crate. He was oblivious of her approach, engrossed in his speech. The easiest way to reach him would be to climb over the barricade but, fearful the police officers would swoop and arrest her, she joined the main body of the crowd. Surrounded by people, she breathed deeply, dropping her hood, feeling far safer than she did exposed on the street. Pushing forward, making slow progress, bustled by the protestors, she observed that this wasn’t a chaotic crowd but an attentive audience – they were facing the same way, listening to Jesse Austin, the tallest of the speakers and by far the most prominent, throwing his voice over the crowd. He had no microphone, no prepared notes in his hand. He was altogether a different person from the quiet, polite gentleman she’d met in his apartment. Addressing the crowd he was angry, powerful. Elena was captivated by his performance: the protest was elemental to him, as natural to him as taking a breath.

Compared to the stultified concert inside, the carefully selected and inoffensive songs washed clean of any provocation or genuine desire for change, this was noisy and raucous and the better for it. Elena had never been part of a demonstration before. She’d never seen one in Moscow and couldn’t imagine such a protest being allowed with the militia standing by idle. The New York police officers were concentrated in the street, not the sidewalk, seemingly having surrendered to the crowd, patrolling it, holding their distance, curiously disengaged. The substantial police presence didn’t seem to worry Austin. On tiptoes, Elena watched as his arms moved with the rhythm of each sentence, his hand punctuating each phrase. He was wearing a white shirt, his sleeves rolled up as if speaking was an act of intense physical labour. His communication transcended words – there was magic to it. Compared with the moody introspection of Leo, his cynicism, Jesse Austin was most intensely alive individual she’d ever seen.

Moving forward was like swimming against the current, her small frame shunted from side to side, jostled by an audience that didn’t want to part. No one wanted to lose position near Jesse. Elena didn’t have much time. The authorities would soon realize that she was missing and when they caught up with her she would be punished. It didn’t matter as long as she managed to pose with Jesse. From her pocket she pulled the Soviet flag. This was her opportunity to make a difference: her way of proving to Jesse how much his efforts were appreciated and how he would never be forgotten. She would embrace him, flag flapping behind them, achieving the photograph they desired – the two of them side by side. Abandoning good manners, Elena forced her way through, clawing the audience aside. Jesse saw her as she breached the front rank. He reached down and took her hand, pulling her up onto the crate. For a man his age he was remarkably strong. Elena saw his wife for the first time. Mrs Austin did something she hadn’t done earlier: she smiled.

At the sight of Elena on the crate, the crowd broke into a chorus of comments. Elena didn’t understand what they were saying but she knew exactly what she had to do. She released the flag, its full length spreading behind her. Jesse caught it. For a second there was fear in his eyes; he understood its provocation. Elena wondered if he might even fold it away. But he let go of the flag, allowing it hang behind them. The audience surged forward, like the crash of a wave against the crate. There were multiple flashes of cameras across the crowd, journalists asking questions, furious protestors and delighted supporters. Jesse cut his hand through the air, as if his arm were a scythe:

– I want to introduce you all to a friend of mine. She’s a young student from the Soviet Union!

He was forced to raise his voice as the audience roared, some in approval, some in disgust. The audience were scandalized, unable to believe the scene before them. Elena couldn’t help but laugh. Austin lifted her hand, still gripping the flag, into the air.

– We could not be from more different backgrounds. Yet we are united in our desire for equality. We were born on different continents yet we believe n the same things! Fairness! Justice!

Cameras continued to flash. Elena was euphoric with her success. The moment was everything she’d hoped for.

The deafening noise brought Jesse Austin and the entire crowd to silence, a noise like a clap of thunder, so loud and sudden it was as if the entire island of Manhattan had split in two. The crate shook. Vibrations travelled through her leg. Stunned silence remained after the sound stopped and this was as shocking and strange as sunlight breaking through the night sky. The silence lasted no longer than a second, replaced by a painful ringing that seemed to grow louder and louder until her ears hurt. She smelt smoke. She smelt metal. Some of the demonstrators were standing dumbstruck, motionless and frozen. Others had their mouths wide open. Elena slowly lowered her arms – the Soviet flag was gone, it lay on the sidewalk, spread out like a picnic blanket. Austin was standing beside her with one hand on his chest as though the national anthem were playing. He moved nearer to Elena, closer, leaning into her, about to whisper some secret. But he didn’t say a word, falling, knocking into her, toppling like a tree, a giant ancient oak. They both fell to the sidewalk, pushed in different directions. Austin clattered into the steel barriers, while Elena fell into the protestors, her head against someone’s chest, grabbing on to clothes to slow her descent, before hitting the sidewalk.

Elena lay among the demonstrators’ feet, kicked as panic took hold and the crowd stampeded. She wrapped her arms around her head and watched through the feet and legs as Mrs Austin dropped to her husband. The crowd broke free of the confines, pouring onto the street, smashing down more of the barricades. A handmade banner landed on the ground near her. She stood up, only to be kicked down to her knees. She tried again, her ears still ringing, managed to get to her feet. From the opposite direction the police marched forward, batons raised, protestors smashing into them.

Elena limped forward before falling beside Jesse. His white shirt had turned red, the colour spreading at speed, conquering every visible patch of white. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard Mrs Austin cry out:

– Help us!

The police were forming a circle around the scene of the crime. Only a few demonstrators remained.

Someone took hold of Elena’s face, looking into her eyes.

– Elena! Are you hurt?

The woman was speaking Russian.

*

Checking her daughter, Raisa couldn’t see blood on Elena’s shirt or see any sign of injury. She pulled off the red coat she was wearing, a coat Raisa had never seen before. There was something heavy in the pocket. She reached in, taking hold of a cold metal handle. It was a gun.

She knew immediately, and without any doubt, that this was the gun that had shot Jesse Austin.