Yates watched as Jesse reached down and took hold of Anna’s hand. Was that a way of reminding him that they were together despite everything he and his colleagues had thrown at them – including rumours about adultery and accusations that he’d molested white girls? Those allegations had been easy to manufacture. There were plenty of photos of Jesse after concerts, surrounded by admirers, most of them female, some of them young. He was a tactile man, always putting his hands on people’s shoulders, wrapping arms around pretty young girls. The dirt had stuck. Enough newspapers had run with the story, enough girls had come forward claiming he had behaved inappropriately. Of course, they’d only done so after a little encouragement from Yates’s men, a nudge, a threat, worried they’d be accused of being a Communist sympathizer. Anna had never wavered, calling them liars every chance she’d got, publicly pitying them for not having the moral courage to stand up to the FBI. If only she’d been a weaker person, if only she’d left Jesse then he would’ve been broken for sure. She’d stayed true, steadfast and constant – values a woman should show to her husband. Still in love, still by his side, still holding his big hand as if it could protect her. She needed to get real: those big gentle hands hadn’t protected her, they’d done more damage to her than if they’d slapped her. Jesse and Anna were so proud of their love, so proud of their relationship, that it was as though someone had told them about Yates’s useless, crazy wife. Speaking his thoughts aloud, Yates said:

—Who fucking cares?

They both looked at him like he was as strange as he was scary. Yates liked the idea that he was scary.

He felt his pocket for cigarettes. They were in the car. He realized he was still a little drunk from the night before.

—Big Old Jesse, tell me, you got any plans to hook up with your Soviet friends while they’re in town? They’ve been trying to make contact with you, over and over again. Letters, invites… We intercepted them but there’s always a chance one or two slipped past. Or maybe they sent someone in person?

Jesse’s face was blank. In the absence of a cigarette, Yates took out a match, picking his teeth.

—Come now, no games, you and me go back too far. You trying to tell me you don’t know about a bunch of Soviet Communist kiddies singing their hearts out at the UN tonight? They’re singing about peace and world harmony and all the things we know Communists love. I thought I’d stop by, see if you were going to make an appearance.

Anna replied:

—We don’t know anything about that.

Yates turned his face close to hers, forcing her to step back into the apartment.