Joseph Kanon - Defectors

He turned and walked over to GUM, then looked back. No hat, which was somehow worse, a man who could disappear. GUM wasn’t open yet and in any case there’d be nothing to buy, so he kept walking toward St. Basil’s, surprised that the square didn’t end there but continued downslope to the river. He stopped and looked up at the onion domes, what any tourist would do. If in fact anybody was watching.

“Mr. Weeks?” An American voice. But nobody was supposed to contact him.

Simon turned. The same hat, now pushed back a little, a young man’s gesture. A thin face with a permanent five o’clock shadow, someone in his thirties.

“Hal Lehman. UPI.”

“Oh.”

The man held up his hand. “Don’t worry. Off the record.”

“What is?”

Hal smiled. “It’s not secret, is it, why you’re here? You sent out a press release when you signed the book, so I figured—”

“How did you find me?”

“I took a chance they’d put you up at the National. There, or the Metropol. Big cheese place. So I waited to see who came out.” Pleased with himself.

“And followed me.”

Another smile. “At least I’m the only one.”

“You sure?”

“Pretty sure. After a while you get a sense.”

“Then how about letting me enjoy my walk. Off the leash. Really, I don’t have anything to say. On or off the record.”

Hal nodded. “That’s okay. I was hoping you’d take a message for me.”

“To—?”

“Your brother, who else? All these years, it’s no, no, no. No interviews. But now. You do a book I figure you want interviews, some press. So why not UPI? We get picked up everywhere. I mean, you’re his publisher. Don’t you—?”

“That’s really up to him.” Simon paused. Not anybody. UPI. “Anyway, we’ve got a long time to go before pub. You’re early.”

“Look, just ask him. I’ve been trying to get this since I got here. And that’s eighteen months, so who knows how much longer? Two years would be a long run. They usually throw you out before that.”

“Really? Why?” Simon said, curious.

Hal shrugged. “You’re bound to write something that offends somebody in two years. Khrushchev’s wife, somebody. And by then you might have some contacts, you might be able to do some reporting. So, out. New guy comes in, he’s just got the press handouts to work with. They like it that way. You have a cigarette? They’re hell to get here.”

Simon hesitated, then offered him one from the pack. No longer a stranger asking for directions, if anyone was watching. A meeting, a conversation.

“So why the interest in Frank?” Simon said, watching him light the cigarette. “All this time. It’s an old story now.”

Hal inhaled. “Nice. You should see the stuff they smoke here. It’s not just him. I’m interested in all of them. Not what they did—you’re right, that’s old news. What they’re doing now.”

“What they’re doing now.”

Hal nodded. “Now that they’re ghosts. Kind of a ghost story.”

“Why ghosts?”

“They’re here and not here. Like ghosts. Look, you work for UPI you go to everything. Parties. Receptions at Spaso House. Everything. But you never see them.”

“You really think the American ambassador is going to invite Frank to a Fourth of July? He’s a—”

“Traitor. Right. So not the ambassador’s. But there’s other stuff, and you never see him. Any of them. You don’t see them with Russians either. You don’t see them at all. Once in a while you spot one at the Bolshoi, but that’s because I’m looking. I’m interested. The others don’t care. Time. The Post. You know they give us offices in the same building. Out on Kutuzovsky. So they can keep an eye on us, I guess. And that means we see each other all the time. So I know. The Brits—they’ll get to somebody like Gareth Jones once in a while. But the Americans don’t care. They’d rather do rockets. The space race. But I still think it’s a story. Being ghosts. I mean, what do they do all day? Gareth gets loaded, but what about the others? Do they like it here? I’m interested. So if he’s going to talk to anybody, it would be great if it’s me. I’d appreciate it, if you could help set it up.”

Simon looked at him. “I’ll give him the message. You should know that Look has serial rights. He can’t talk before that. So it could be a while.”

“It’d just be background if that’s better for him. You know, with his people. You heading back? Mind if I walk with you?”

Simon smiled. “I was about to say it’s a free country, but it isn’t, is it?”

“No, but interesting. You have to give it a little time. Thanks for this,” he said, indicating the cigarette. “I ran out a while ago, so I have to wait for the next Helsinki run.”

Simon looked at him, a question.

“To get things we can’t get here. Not even in the Beryozka—the hard currency stores.”

“Helsinki. People can just come and go?” Simon said.

“Well, they can’t,” Hal said, nodding toward the mausoleum queue. “And you use your press visa too many times, you’re asking for trouble, so we take turns. Maybe one trip a year. Everybody makes a list. And vegetables.”

“You drive to Helsinki for vegetables?” Simon said, fascinated now.

“Try getting through a winter. They even run out of cabbage. You can have things sent in, if you can afford the dollars, but something always falls off the truck, so it’s better to go get it yourself. Anyway, Nancy needed a new coat so we took the last run. My wife,” he said, seeing Simon’s expression.

“You’re here with your wife?” Simon said, something he hadn’t imagined. Vegetables and new winter coats and ordinary life.

Hal nodded. “I know. Everybody thinks it’s a bachelor’s job. And mostly it is. The Russians don’t like it. It means a bigger apartment. Usually it’s: here’s your forty square meters and here’s the key. Turn up this way. I’ll show you around a little if you have the time.”

“I should get back.”

“Well, we’ll make it short then. Just the highlights. It beats Intourist. They like to tell you how many tons of concrete the builder used. Look.” He stopped, tossing the cigarette. “I’m not expecting Weeks to jump at this. He—doesn’t. I mean, he never has. Just tell him it’s not about—what he did. He can keep his secrets. Whatever they are.” He looked up. “Unless he puts them in the book. But I’m not holding my breath.”

They had already turned the corner at the north end of GUM into Nikolskaya, a narrower street with attractive nineteenth-century buildings whose plaster fronts were grimy and cracked. A few cars.

“It was Nancy who got me into it,” Hal was saying. “The defectors. She said it would make a good story and nobody had done it. They get on a plane or a ferry or something and they just—vanish. But they don’t. They’re here. I mean, there she was, getting her hair done at the Pekin and Nancy recognizes her.”

“The Pekin?” Simon said, trying to imagine it, a row of hair­dryers, the remodeled interrogation rooms upstairs. Green light, red light.

“She likes the girl there. Anyway, Marzena was there too and Nancy recognized her so they talked and we got to know them a little.”

“Who?”

“Sorry. Perry Soames and his wife.”

“Perry Soames. The one Fuchs—?”

“Right. You can’t get to them. Usually. The atomic spies. They send them straight to Arzamas and nobody talks there. Nobody.”

Simon looked at him again, eyebrows up.

“The nuclear lab. Off-limits. Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? Considering.”

Simon thought for a minute. “But his wife’s at the beauty parlor here?”

“Well, that’s the thing. Of course, this is all later. After he moved to Moscow. But why leave Arzamas in the first place? I mean, people don’t. Unless they’re—”