Agent 6 by Tom Rob Smith Page A

LANNERS FOR TONIGHT’S EVENT had toyed with the idea of staging the concert within the factory itself, capturing footage of Jesse Austin singing surrounded by machinery and workers, creating the impression of a concert that had sprung up spontaneously, as though Austin had burst into song while touring the premises. It had proved impractical. There was no clear stretch of floor space to act as an auditorium. The heavy machinery would block the view for many, and there were questions about whether the machinery was suitable for international scrutiny. For these reasons the concert would take place in an adjacent warehouse emptied of stock and more traditionally arranged. A temporary stage had been set up at the north end in front of which were a thousand wooden chairs. In order to preserve the notion that this was a concert in contrast to those performed in the West, the workers were being ushered directly from the factory floor, given no time to go home and change. The organizers not only wanted an audience of workers, they wanted an audience that looked like workers, with oil on their hands, sweat on their brows, and lines of dirt under their nails. The event would offer a stark contrast to the elitism that typified concerts incapitalist countries with tiered ticket prices that resulted in a stratification of the audience, where the poor were so far away they could hardly see the show while the truly impoverished lingered backstage, in the service corridors, waiting for the concert to finish so they could sweep the floor.
    Leo supervised the movement of workers from the factory to the warehouse, his thoughts on Raisa. He’d cut a particularly unimpressive figure today at her school, desperate and dishonest. However, he was in a position of power and Raisa had proved herself to be astute: It was possible she would weigh up the offer to attend the concert purely in practical terms, and those were favorable to him. He wondered what she thought of his occupation. Mulling over the possibilities, he urged the people around him to hurry up and fill whatever seats were available. There were no tickets. The concert was free. The men and women dutifully occupied any remaining places, some of them shivering as they sat down. The warehouse was little more than a steel shell, the roof too high and the space too large for the gas heaters to warm the entire area. Workers seated at midway points between heaters were discreetly handed gloves and jackets. Leo rubbed his hands together, searching the crowd—there was not long to go and Raisa had still not arrived.
    The program had been arranged in advance, although it was hard to know if Austin would change those plans too. The proposal was for him to take to the stage with a number of songs interspersed with short polemical speeches. His speeches would be in Russian. With a couple of exceptions, the songs would be performed in English. Leo glanced across the sweep of the audience, picturing how the scene would appear on the propaganda film, intended for distribution across the Union and Eastern Europe. Leo snapped at a man seated a couple of rows back:
    —
Take off your hat.
    Gloves wouldn’t be seen in the film. Hats would be. They didn’t want to give away that the auditorium was bitterly cold. As Leo was making the final checks for anything that might appear out of place, he saw a worker rub some of the dirty grease from his boot across his face, blackening it. Leo didn’t need to hear what was being said as several men seated nearby began to laugh. He pushed into the auditorium, reaching the man and whispering:
    —
You want this to be the last joke you ever make?
    Leo stood over him as he wiped the grease from his face. He looked at the men who’d laughed. They hated him, but not as much as they feared him. He sidestepped out of the row, returning to the front of the stage. After thirty minutes of shuffling, the seats were filled. There were workers standing crowded at the back.