—I don’t know if they were deluded enough to believe that old man Austin would be the spark but they did believe his assassination would worsen racial tensions. If they shot him, no matter what the truth of the assassination, every black American would think it was the FBI lynching an outspoken Negro. No one would believe it was a Communist plot, they’d all think it was an FBI hit. The assassination would make the forgotten man famous again; more famous than he’d ever been before, a martyr for the Negro revolution. Malcolm X had been shot only a few months earlier, two Negro assassinations in a year, it looked suspicious, I’ll grant them that. They were hoping, after Austin’s death, that everyone would buy his music and listen to recordings of his speeches. They thought they could breathe life into his career by taking his life.

Yates smiled through much of Nara’s translation, amused by the ironies, fondly recollecting a time when he had power over life and death.

—For the plan to work, they needed him in a public place, with the world’s media present. That’s why they tagged this plan onto the concert.

Leo asked, in Russian:

—But the FBI would simply tell the public it was a Communist plot.

Nara struggled with the translation but Yates smiled, understanding what had been said.

—The more the FBI told the public it was a Communist plot, the more the public would believe it was an FBI plot. That’s how conspiracy theories are born. The official version has to sound like a lie even when it’s the truth, and the louder you say the truth, the more people look elsewhere. The Communists couldn’t frame the FBI directly: they didn’t have the means or the capability. They were going to frame your daughter, Elena, pretend that she’d slept with Jesse Austin. White Americans would believe the girl had shot him out of jealousy. Negroes wouldn’t. The plan relied upon innuendo and suggestion: they banked on the fact that the Negro community would automatically believe anything bad about the FBI.

Yates climbed out of his seat, pocketing the gun and walking to the fridge, fetching another beer. He pulled the top off, letting it land on the carpet. He took a gulp, impatiently waiting for Nara to finish. Hearing the translation, Leo asked:

—How did you find this out? Elena couldn’t have told you: she didn’t know.

—I had it all explained to me by a queer Jew Communist called Osip Feinstein. He’d gotten cold feet about his involvement. Like all Communists, he wanted to switch sides. He wanted me to save him, as if he were a damsel in distress.

—He didn’t want to be involved in the murder of Jesse Austin?