Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Nightcap?” he said, the American voice somehow at odds with his Russian bulk and features.

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”

“Have one anyway,” he said. “Just one.” He guided him toward the bar and signaled the bartender, who brought two small brandy snifters. “Armenian,” he said. “The vodka will make you blind.”

“This a social visit?”

“Delivery.” He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Simon. A thick cream-colored invitation with an embossed American eagle at its top. The ambassador requests your presence—

“Spaso House. I’m moving up in the world.”

“Bring the invite with you. They check them at the door.”

“Any idea why?”

“Me? I’m just the delivery boy. To make sure you get it. Make sure you come.”

“To meet—?” He looked at the name on the card.

Novikov shook his head. “That’s who the reception’s for. ­Theater people. My guess is somebody else wants to meet you.”

“Your guess.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing all day. You come in, send a cable, and the next thing I know the telex is going like you just started World War III. Did you?”

Simon smiled. “Not yet.”

“And that’s as much as you’re going to say.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, I like working in the dark. Keeps you on your toes. Look,” he said, suddenly serious, “you need anything, you just ask, right?”

Simon nodded. “I appreciate it.”

“And maybe someday you tell me what it was all about.”

Simon took a sip of brandy. “Who am I supposed to meet?”

“Tomorrow? Just show up,” he said, nodding to the envelope. “My guess is, he’ll find you.”

The embassy had been ugly and barely functional, but Spaso House, the ambassador’s residence, was a handsome mansion in a quiet Arbat square, just a block or two off the noisy main street. Simon had taken a taxi, which he assumed was the same as riding with Boris but at least gave the illusion of independence. They swept past a church with a tall white bell tower and pulled up to the residence’s outer gate. People were already spread across the lawn and a circular porch ringed with Ionic columns. A soldier checked invitations.

The reception was being held for a visiting American theatrical troupe, and the sounds from inside, almost a tinkling effect, seemed livelier than the usual diplomatic cocktail party with its polite bows and apologies for missing wives. There was an informal receiving line, easily ignored, and waiters passing with drinks trays. Simon stood for a minute, looking around the reception hall, a two-story room so large that the rest of the house seemed an appendage, the vast space sitting under a gold and crystal chandelier that looked as if it required a special staff to keep it gleaming. There were a few gray-suited Russians, presumably from the Theatrical Union, talking to each other, and a good turnout of what Simon guessed was the expat community, correspondents and embassy workers. And Pete DiAngelis, leaning against a pillar with a drink in his hand, watching him. Simon took a drink from a tray and waited.

“I didn’t expect you,” he said when DiAngelis came over to him.

“That was a pretty powerful smoke signal you sent. Pirie thought I’d better come see what it meant. What the fuck is going on?”

“You get Kelleher?”

DiAngelis nodded. “So to what do we owe the favor?”

“Have you seen the lawn?” Simon said.

“A few days and he’s a field op. Okay, let’s go have a smoke. You’re here but that doesn’t mean the ambassador wants to pose for any pictures with you.”

“I’m not Frank.”

“Close enough. And now you’re going to embarrass everybody with his book. That puts you right off the guest list.”

“Unless you put me back on. And who are you? Here, I mean.”

“GSA. In town to go over the embassy books. Make sure your tax dollars are going where they’re supposed to. Light?”

They walked across the porch, past women in cocktail dresses and pearls, and onto the lawn.

“How old do you think it is?” Simon said, looking up at the giant shade tree, one of whose lower branches was propped up with a pole.

“So what was Kelleher?” DiAngelis said, ignoring this.

“A down payment.”

DiAngelis drew on his cigarette, eyes squinting, taking this in. “What’s the joke?”

“No joke. He wants to go home.”

DiAngelis said nothing, his expression blank, preoccupied, as if he were rifling through a card catalogue of responses.

“This your idea?”

“His idea.”

“I mean, we didn’t send you here to talk him into—”

“You didn’t send me here. I told you I’d keep my ears open, that’s all. It’s the last thing I expected.”

“What makes him think he can do it?”

Simon shrugged. “He thinks he can. He didn’t tell me how. The question is what kind of reception committee does he get at the other end.”

“Why would we want him back? His intel’s about ten years late.”

“Why did you come then?”

DiAngelis dropped his cigarette, rubbing it out with his shoe.

“He said Pirie would know what it meant—when he gave you Kelleher. What else he knew. What he could tell you. Isn’t that why Pirie sent you?”

“And he’s going to give us the whole organization chart. All his buddies. Why? He doesn’t like the winters here anymore?”

“His wife is sick. He thinks she’ll get better there. This would be for two. And new identities when they get there. Protection.”

DiAngelis nodded. “He’s going to need it. So what’s he offering, exactly?”

“Ask him. I don’t know. I’m just supposed to set up a meeting. One. Someone with authority to make an agreement. That’s you, yes?”

“It could be.”

“It better be. Or you’ll lose him. You don’t want him to get away again.”

“And what if it’s a trick? A little disinformation for the Agency.”

“It’s a little late for tricks. Once he leaves— But you decide. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve seen his wife. And—I know him. He wouldn’t ask me to do this if he didn’t mean it.”

“And nobody knows about this but you.”

“And you.”

DiAngelis looked at the ground, thinking. “Nothing thicker than blood, is there? So he gets you to front this.”

“No. He talks to you. You work it out between you.”

“Nobody’s ever done this before,” DiAngelis said, still looking at the ground. “A switch back.” He smiled to himself. “The Russians will go out of their minds. Right out of their minds. Almost worth it, just to see their faces.” He looked up. “Nice for you too, huh? With the book. He’ll be famous again.”

“In hiding. With you. Different kind of famous.”

“How’s he going to do this? We can’t exfiltrate him. Operate on Russian soil.”

“I don’t know. He says he has a plan.”

“Something he worked out in his leisure time. And now he drops it into our laps. You know what I think? I think it’s going to be a fucking mess. And for what? Kelleher? We were going to get him anyway. KGB ops on the ground in 1949? Some old boy network stuff. Maybe a seating plan for the Third Directorate. The current one, or the one used to drive Pirie nuts? While your brother was taking notes—” He stopped. “Fuck. He’ll want to do it, won’t he?”

“Who?”

“Pirie. He never got over that time. None of them did. And now your brother’s going to bring it back for them. Who did what to who and who gives a fuck? They do.” He looked at Simon. “Let me talk to Washington. I’ll have all the authority he needs. When’s all this supposed to happen, by the way? He got his suitcases packed yet?”