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.