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.

AUSTIN: I really wish you could be here. I wish you could experience the things I’m experiencing and tell me if I’m being blind. I worry I’m seeing things the way I want them to be and not the way they are. Your instincts are what I need right now.

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.