The store bell was ringing. He had a customer. There were very few legitimate customers: rarely more than four or five a week. Osip wiped his hands and stepped into the store regarding the customer, a man in his forties. He was wearing a crumpled suit. The cut was poor and his shoes were cheap and scuffed but he wore his clothes with a swagger and bravado that concealed many of their faults. He was an FBI agent and Osip was sure it was the man he’d seen outside Jesse Austin’s apartment. The agent had yet to look at him, flicking through one of the brochures. Osip said:

—Can I help you?

The agent turned, answering with mock formality:

—I was wondering how much it would cost for a one-way ticket to the Soviet Union? First class, of course, I only want to see Communism if I can travel in luxury.

He switched into his regular way of speaking.

—Isn’t that how it works in rackets like this, people with lots of money paying to see how people live with none?

—The point is for the traveller to experience a different way of life. What they make of that society is entirely up to them. We merely make the arrangements.

Osip offered his hand to shake.

—My name is Osip Feinstein. I’m the owner of this agency.

—Agent Yates.

Yates produced his credentials but didn’t shake Osip’s hand. Instead, he sat on a chair, slumped, as though he were at home in front of his television. He lit a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled and said nothing more. Osip stood, waiting.

—I take it you’re not here for the travel.

—Correct.

—How can I help you?

—You tell me.

—Tell you what?

—Listen, Mr Feinstein, we can bounce this back and forth all day long. Why don’t I lay my cards on the table? You’ve been under surveillance for many years. We know you’re a Communist. You’re described as a cautious man and a canny operator. Yet today my men are able to follow you to Harlem. You go into an apartment building not too far from a man called Jesse Austin. After several hours you left, returning to the store with a camera slung over your arm. We saw it all. That’s what troubles me. It’s not your style to be this careless. It feels like you’re flirting with us, Mr Feinstein. If I’m wrong, if I have insulted you in some way, that’s fine: I’ll walk out of here right now and say sorry for taking up so much of your time, I’m sure you’re busy selling these tours.

Yates stood up, walked towards the door. Osip called out:

—Wait!

He had not intended to sound so pitiful. Yates turned around, slowly, a toxic smile on his face.