Agent 6 by Tom Rob Smith Page B

features hidden beneath a warm hat, her hair tied back – her skin pale and without makeup. Misunderstanding the nature of the concert, she’d dressed smartly. She was wearing a dress. Though her clothes were hardly extravagant, they were dazzling when contrasted with the workers. Among the dirty shirts and ragged trousers worn by most of the audience, she walked nervously. She felt exposed, out of place and overdressed. The eyes of the workers followed her, and for good reason. Tonight she seemed more beautiful than ever before. Arriving in front of him, Leo dismissed the other officer.
    — I’ll take our guest from here.
    Leo guided her to the front, his throat dry.
    — I’ve saved you a seat, the best in the house.
    Raisa replied, a hint of anger in her voice:
    — You didn’t tell me the concert was so informal.
    — I’m sorry. I was flustered earlier. But you look lovely.
    She registered the compliment and her anger seemed to dissolve.
    — I wanted to explain why I lied about my name.
    He noted the tension in her voice, politely cutting her explanation short.
    — There’s no need to apologize. I’m sure men ask for your name regularly. It must be a nuisance.
    Raisa remained silent. Leo added, keen to stop the silence from becoming too long:
    — Anyway, it’s I who owe you an apology. I surprised you today. Austin wanted to see a school. I put you on the spot. It was unfair. You could have embarrassed me.
    Raisa turned her head away.
    — It was an honour to have such important guests.
    A formality had crept into the way she spoke to Leo, no longer brusque or dismissive. She glanced about the auditorium.
    — I’m looking forward to hearing Mr Austin sing.
    — So am I.
    They arrived at the front.
    — Here we are. Like I said, the best seats in the house.
    Leo stepped back, faintly amused at the incongruity of her radiance among the exhausted factory workers.
    The warehouse lights were switched off and bright stage lights turned on, flooding the structure in a yellow glow. The cameras began to roll. Leo took position on the steps to the stage, looking out over the audience. Austin entered from the other side, striding up the stairs in huge bounds. His energy was remarkable. Onstage he seemed even taller and more impressive. With a small wave of his hand he modestly requested the applause to come to an end. Once there was silence he took the microphone, speaking in Russian.
    — It is an honour to be here, in Moscow, to be invited to sing in your place of work. The welcome you give me is always special. I don’t feel like a guest. The truth is, I feel at home. At times, I feel more at home than I do in my own country. Because here, in the Soviet Union, I am loved not only while I sing, not only while I’m onstage and while I entertain you. Here, I’m loved offstage. Here, the fact that I’m a singer makes me no different from all of you even though our occupations could not be more different. Here, regardless of whether I am singing, regardless of my success, I am a Communist. I am a comrade, like all of you. The same as all of you! Listen to those sweet words. I am the same as all of you! And that is the greatest honour of all . . . to be different and yet treated the same.
    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