Moscow

House on the Embankment

2 Serafimovich Street - Next Day

Leo’s was one of three teams working independently to ensure Austin’s itinerary went according to plan. The danger was not to his life, but to his high opinion of the State. To that end, the principle of three overlapping teams, each tasked with the same objective, was to inject a competitive element into the operation as well as factoring in redundancy – should one team fail another team would pick up the slack. The extraordinary precautions underscored the importance of his visit.

They’d been given the use of a car. It was only a short drive from the Lubyanka Square, the headquarters of the secret police, to Serafimovich Street and the exclusive residential complex where Austin was staying. It had been expected that he’d take a room in the Moskva Hotel, on the fifteenth floor with a view over Red Square, but he’d declined, stating his desire to stay in one of the communal housing projects, preferably with another family if there was a spare bedroom. He wanted to be:

Neck deep in reality.

The request had caused great anxiety since their role was to e that Austin was shown a projected vision of Communist society, a representation of its potential, rather than the reality of that society as it stood now. A principled idealist, Leo reconciled the dishonesty by rationalizing that the Revolution was still very much a work in progress. The time of plenty was only a few years away. Right now, a spare bedroom was unheard of in a city suffering from a chronic housing shortage. As for the idea of living with a Russian family: it was too much of a risk. Aside from the conditions, which were typically cramped, they might speak out of turn. Creating an idealized family for the benefit of Austin was too difficult to stage-manage at this short notice. Mr Austin had only requested the change on the way from the airport.

In panicked improvisation they’d put him here, at No. 2 Serafimovich Street. It was an outlandish notion, passing off a housing project designed for the political elite at the cost of over fourteen million roubles as typical of the many communal housing projects being built. In contrast to the layout of most apartment blocks, with small rooms side by side, shared cooking facilities and outside toilets, this had only two large apartments on each floor. The living room alone covered one hundred and fifty square metres – a space that would normally have been home to several families. In addition to the extra space, the apartments were furnished to the highest specification, equipped with gas cookers, running hot water, telephones, radios. There were antiques and silver candlesticks. For a guest sensitive to inequality, Leo was troubled by the proximity of an extensive network of servants who provided residents with everything from laundry to cooking and cleaning. He had managed to persuade the other residents to allow the servants time off during Austin’s visit. They’d agreed, for no matter how powerful or wealthy a citizen, they feared the secret police as much as the poor, if not more. The previous occupants had hardly been ordinary citizens of the Soviet Union, including Communist theoretician Nikolay Bukharin and Stalin’s own children, Vasily Stalin and Svetlana Alliluyeva. The life expectancy of the occupants was perhaps even less than those living in the worst kind of deprivation. Luxury was no protection from the MGB. Leo had himself arrested two men from this building.

Having parked the car, Leo and Grigori hurried through the snow towards the grand entrance. Stepping inside, Leo unbuttoned his jacket, showing his identity papers which were checked against a list of those granted access to the building. They headed downstairs, into the basement, where a cellar housed a team of agents maintaining twenty-four-hour surveillance, technology that had been in place long before Austin arrived. Since these apartments were home to some of the most important people in Soviet society it was essential the State knew how they behaved and what they spoke about. Austin was staying five floors above, in an apartment wired with listening devices in every room. Among the surveillance team was a translator – one of three, working eight-hour shifts. In addition, an attractive female agent had been posted to the apartment itself, in a separate bedroom, ostensibly as the occupant. She was pretending to be a widow, prepared with a story about how her husband had died during the Great Patriotic War. According to their profile of Austin such a story would be particularly endearing. He hated Fascism above all else and had many times stated that the defeat of Fascism was largely a Russian victory, bought with Communist blood.

Leo glanced through the transcripts of all Austin’s conversations since he’d arrived – a chronology of his ten hours in the apartment. He’d spent twenty minutes in the bath, forty-five minutes for dinner. There were exchanges with the female agent about the Patriotic War. Austin spoke excellent Russian, a language he’d sought to learn after his visit in 1934. Leo considered this an additional complication. The agents would not be able to communicate openly. Austin would understand any slips. Flicking through the transcripts, it seemed their guest had already questioned the discrepancy between the enormous apartment and the single occupant. The agent had made a reply about it being a reward for her husband’s valour in battle. After dinner, Austin had phoned his wife. He’d spoken to her for twenty minutes.

In reply his wife had told him that his instincts had never let him down before and she loved him very much.

Leo handed the transcript to Grigori.

—He’s changed. He’s not the same man we saw visiting the farm. He’s having a crisis of confidence.

Grigori read through the pages. He handed them back to Leo.

—I agree. It doesn’t look good.

—That’s why he waited until the last minute to change his accommodation arrangements.

The agent posing as the widow entered the surveillance centre. Leo turned to her, asking:

—Was he interested in you?

She shook her head.

—I made several suggestive remarks. He either didn’t notice or ignored them altogether. I pretended to become upset thinking about the death of my husband. He put an arm around me. But it was not sexual.

—You’re sure?

Grigori crossed his arms.

—What is the point of trying to trap him?

Leo replied:

—We’re not judging him. We must know our friends in order to protect them. We’re not the only ones spying on him.

In the corner an agent raised his hand:

—He’s awake.

***

The party officials congregated in the marble hallway – a clump of middle-ranking, middle-aged men, suits and smiles, just like the group who’d shown Austin round the village. As important as Austin was, it was decided against arranging meetings with high-ranking Soviet personnel in case it played into the FBI’s hands, enabling them to portray Austin as a Soviet crony, interested in the elite, rather than a man enamoured with the system itself.

Austin appeared at the foot of the stairs, dressed in a knee-length coat, snow boots and a scarf. Leo assessed his tailored clothes. They were not flamboyant yet were no doubt excellent quality. Jesse Austin was wealthy. Reports estimated his annual inme to be in excess of seventy thousand dollars. Austin assessed his reception. Leo saw a hint of displeasure in his expression. Perhaps he felt he was being surrounded and crowded, overly managed. He addressed them in Russian:

—Have you all been waiting long?

His Russian was excellent, fluent, but it followed American patterns of speech and despite his good accent, his words sounded foreign. The foremost official stepped forward, replying in English. Austin cut him short:

—Let’s speak Russian. No one speaks it back home. When else am I going to practise?

There was laughter. The official smiled and switched from English into Russian.

—Did you sleep well?

Austin replied that he had, unaware that everyone already knew the answer.

The group left the House on the Embankment, making their way through the snow, guiding their guest towards the limousine. Leo and Grigori broke off, heading towards their car. They would follow the party, rejoining them at their destination. As Leo opened the door, he looked back to see Austin eyeing the limousine with disdain. He began to petition the officials. Leo couldn’t hear what they were saying. There was a disagreement. The officials seemed reluctant. Ignoring their protests, Austin hastened away from the limousine, arriving beside Leo and Grigori.

—I don’t want to be driven around behind tinted windows! How many people in Russia drive cars like that!

One of the officials caught up.

—Surely, Mr Austin, you’d be more comfortable in the diplomatic vehicle? This is just a standard working car, nothing more.

—Standard working car sounds great to me!

The official was flummoxed by this alteration of their carefully laid plans. He hurried back to his group, discussing the matter, then returned and nodded.

—Very well, you and I will travel with Officer Demidov. The others will go ahead in the limousine.

Leo opened the door, offering the front passenger seat to Austin. But once again Austin shook his head.

—I’ll sit in the back. I don’t want to take your colleague’s seat.

Putting the car in gear, Leo glanced in the rear-view mirror at Austin, his tall frame cramped into the ungenerous proportions of the car. The official peered at the rudimentary interior with dissatisfaction.

—These cars are very basic. They were built for work not for leisure. I imagine they compare badly to many of your American cars. But we have no need for excess here.

That sentiment may have carried more weight had the official not five minutes ago tried to impress his guest with the luxury of a limousine. Austin replied:

—It gets you there, doesn’t it?

The official smiled, a smile designed to cover his confusion.

—Gets us where?

—Wherever it is we’re going.

—Yes, it will get us there. I hope!

The official laughed. Austin did not. He disliked this man. Already the plans were unravelling.