Free Agent 6 by Tom Rob Smith

record of my thoughts.
    Leo shut the book with a snap. He was no longer an agent: he no longer firstd for the secret police. This was not the apartment of a suspect – it was his home. And this diary belonged to his daughter.
    About to return the diary to its ill-considered hiding place, Leo heard the key in the front door. With a flush of panic, he calculated that he didn’t have enough time to return the book – he’d be caught in the act. Instead, he placed his hands, and the diary, behind his back. He took a step towards the door, away from the bed, looking up, like a soldier coming to attention.
    Raisa, his wife, regarded him from the doorway, a bag by her side. She was alone. She shut the door, stepping into the apartment and disappearing into shadow. Even in the dark, Leo could feel her eyes judging him. His cheeks turned hot with embarrassment, different from the heat of the day, a burning sensation under his skin. Raisa had become his conscience. He could not lie to her and rarely made a decision of any importance without imagining how she’d react. She exerted a moral force, a pull upon his emotions as powerful as the moon on tidal forces. As his relationship with Raisa had developed, his relationship with the State had weakened – he wondered if he’d always suspected that would be the case, that by falling in love with her he knew his marriage to the MGB would end. Leo now worked as manager of a small factory, overseeing shipments, processing receipts, with a reputation among his staff as being scrupulously fair.
    She took a step closer, coming out of the shadow and into the sunlight. To Leo’s mind she was more beautiful today than she had been as a young woman. There were faint lines about her eyes and her skin was no longer as taut and fragile as it had once been. Softness had crept into her features. Yet Leo loved these changes more than any ideal of youthful beauty or perfection. These were changes he’d witnessed: changes that had occurred while he’d been by her side, the marks of their relationship, the years they’d spent together, reminding him of the most important change of all. She loved him now. She had not loved him before.
    Under her gaze Leo abandoned his intention to slip the diary back without her noticing and instead offered it to her. Raisa didn’t take it, looking down at the cover. He remarked:
    — It’s Elena’s.
    Elena was their younger daughter, seventeen years old, adopted early in their marriage.
    — Why do you have it?
    — I saw it under the mattress . . .
    — She’d hidden it?
    — Yes.
    Raisa thought about this for a moment before asking:
    — Did you read it?
    — No.
    — No?
    Like a novice in an interrogation, Leo capitulated under the slightest pressure:
    — I read the first line and then closed the book. I was about to return it.
    Raisa moved to the table, putting her shopping down. In the kitchen she filled a glass with water, turning her back on Leo for the first time since coming home. She finished the water in three long gulps and placed the glass in the sink, asking:
    — What igirls had returned instead of me? They trust you, Leo. It’s taken a long time but they do. You’d risk that?
    Trust was a euphemism for love. It was hard to be sure if Raisa was talking solely about their adopted daughters, or if she was indirectly referring to her own emotions. She continued:
    — Why remind them of the past? Of the person you used to be? And the career you used to have? You’ve spent so many years putting that history behind you. It’s not part of this family any more. Finally the girls think of you as a father, not an agent.
    There was calculated cruelty in the detail of her response, laying out their history with unnecessary elaboration. She was angry with him. She was hurting him. For the first time in the conversation Leo became animated, wounded by the remarks.
    — I saw something hidden under the mattress. Wouldn’t any man be curious? Wouldn’t any