—Agent Yates, I no longer wish to work as a Soviet agent. I wish to work for the United States government. In saying this, my life is now in terrible danger, so you should have no reason to doubt my word.

Yates moved close to Feinstein.

—You wish to work for the United States government?

—Please, Agent Yates, follow me. I can prove my sincerity.

Osip escorted him through to the temporary darkroom, showing him the photographs of Jesse Austin. Only now did Osip notice that Yates had drawn his gun, fearing a trap. Keeping the gun by his side, Yates asked:

—Why did you take the photographs?

—They’re part of a plan drawn up by a Soviet department called SERVICE.A. The Soviet authorities intend to exploit these concerts for their own benefit. They have asked Jesse Austin to speak outside the UN tonight.

—They’ve been trying to get him to attend for months now. So what?

—He turned down every request, so they sent this girl, a Russian girl, an admirer of Jesse Austin. They want him to address the crowd. The world’s media will be present.

—The world’s media will be inside the hall, not on the sidewalk. You’re telling me their plan is to persuade a washed-up singer to shout about his Communist brothers to a rabble on the sidewalk? Let him speak! I don’t give a shit.

Yates began to laugh, shaking his head.

—Feinstein, is this really what you brought me over for?

—Agent Yates, after tonight, Jesse Austin will be more famous than ever, more famous than you can possibly imagine.

Yates stopped laughing.

&mdyoull me everything.

Bradhurst

Harlem - West 145th Street

Same Day

The night was as hot as the day. Red-brick walls baked in the full glare of the sun leached the heat back out, slow-cooking the residents. For about an hour either side of sunrise there was some respite, when the bricks were cool and the sun wasn’t yet beating down, the only time of day that was fresh and human. Jesse sat on the window ledge with no expectations of a breeze. Outside the sound of children playing ball or skipping ropes no longer cut the air. Having sold its day’s stock the clam wagon was pushed off, arthritic, rusty wheels creaking into the distance. Beggars, who’d set up position next to it in the hope of catching loose change, were moving off, breaking into different directions, looking for somewhere to sleep or for new places to beg. The card players took their games from the shade onto the sidewalk, on fold-out flimsy tables. Those who’d slept during the day came alive with the night. There was drink and dope and laughter – the light side of the night, the first drink, the first smoke and it was always a good time. Later the fights would start, the arguments and shouting, the women crying and the men crying too.