The orchestra began to play. Austin’s first choice was the Friends’ Song, written for the Communist Youth with lyrics that called for the building of new cities and the laying of new roads. It had been modified for orchestral backing, transforming it from little more than a propaganda hymn into a musical performance. To Leo’s surprise, the performance overcame the rigid polemic of its lyrics. Austin’s voice was powerful and intimate at the same time. It filled the cavernous space. Leo was sure that if he’d asked anyone in the audience they’d have stated that Austin appeared to be singing directly to them. Leo marvelled at what it must be like to have a voice that could move men to tears, a voice that could hush and soothe a room filled with athousand tired workers. Among the front row, he sought out Raisa. She was concentrating on Austin, under the spell of his voice. He wondered if she would ever look upon him with the same admiration.

As the song finished, a disturbance broke out at the back of the warehouse. Members of the audience turned around, staring into the darkness. Leo stepped forward, straining his eyes, attempting to identify the source of the noise. A man appeared from the shadows, wearing an MGB uniform, his shirt pulled out, his trousers scuffed with dirt. He was a mess, staggering wildly from side to side. It took Leo a moment to realize this man was Grigori – his protégé.

Leo hurried forward, running past other agents in order to intercept him. He took his trainee by the arm. He stank of alcohol. Despite the danger of his predicament, Grigori seemed not to notice Leo. He was applauding Austin with loud, slow, erratic claps. When Leo tried to pull him away, out of the warehouse, Grigori growled like a feral dog:

—Leave me alone.

Leo clamped his hands on Grigori’s face, staring him in the eye, speaking with genuine urgency.

—Pull yourself together. What are you doing?

Grigori replied:

—Get out of my way!

—Listen to me—

—Listen to you? I wish I had never heard you speak.

—What has happened to you?

—To me! No, not to me, to someone else, Leo, the artist, Polina, you remember her? The woman I love? They arrested her. Even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the offending page…

Grigori raised the page from the diary, complete with the doodle of the Statue of Liberty.

—Even though there was nothing in that diary, they arrested her, even though I disobeyed you and ripped out the page, they still arrested her!

He was repeating himself, slurring his words, running the sentences into each other as though they were a chant. Leo tried to cut him short:

—Then they’ll free her and the matter will be over.

—She’s dead!