At once everyone unbuckled their seatbelts, rushing to the windows and peering out. Raisa was ordered by the cabin attendant to hurry the students back into their seats, an instruction she ignored, unable to resist sneaking a look out of the window herself. There were thousands of people outside. There were balloons and banners, written in English and Russian.

WELCOME TO AMERICA!

Raisa said:

—Who are those people for?

The cabin attendant replied:

—They’re for you.

The plane came to a standstill. The doors opened. As soon as they did, a school brass band began to play, the noise filling the cabin. In a state of dumb bewilderment the passengers lined up in the aisle. Raisa was at the front. The school band was at the foot of the stairway, playing with great gusto rather than great finesse. Raisa was nudged down the stairs, one of the first to step onto the tarmac. The press was to one side, perhaps as many as twenty photographers, flashbulbs popping. Raisa turned around, unsure what she was meant to do or where she was supposed to go. They’d been told to leave their bags onboard so they would be free to enjoy the reception. A welcome party greeted them, smiling and shaking their hands.

Raisa saw a small group of men, apart from the others. They were wearing suits, hands deep in their pockets. Their faces were hostile. She knew without seeing a badge, or a gun, that they were America’s secret police.

***

FBI agent Jim Yates watched the Soviet delegation form three neat rows, the shortest at the front, tallest at the back. The band, the balloons, the audience, the photographers flashing their cameras like these kids were film stars, and not one of them smiled, their expressions rigid, their mouths narrow. Like machines, he thought, just like machines.

Manhattan

Hotel Grand Metropolitan - 44th Street

Next Day