Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“I don’t know. The important thing is for the two of you to meet. Work things out.”

“What, and then you negotiate the fine points?”

Simon shook his head. “It’s not a book contract. I wouldn’t even know what to ask.”

“But you’re a quick study.” He smiled. “Christ, we ask you to keep your ears open and the next thing, we’ve got this.” He looked across the lawn, hesitant. “You know what I said before, nothing thicker than blood? You don’t want to forget who you’re working for.”

“I’m not—” He stopped, not worth it. “I’m not working for anybody. You or Frank.”

“Right now it looks like you’re working for both of us. It’s hard, working two sides. It gets complicated.”

“Let’s keep it simple, then. Do you want this meeting or not?”

DiAngelis nodded. “My boss would.”

“I’ll let you know where, then. Where are you staying?”

“Here,” DiAngelis said, nodding toward Spaso House. “Some place, huh? We figured if the GSA cover got too thin, they’d still cut me a little slack if I’m here with the ambassador. Nobody wants to make trouble. You see inside? A fucking palace. Must annoy the hell out of them, the Russkies. They’re living in barracks and we’re—”

“So how do I contact you? I can’t come here again. I’d have no reason.”

“Give me a day. Work things out with Washington. Then maybe a few of us have a nightcap at the National. To celebrate, but they don’t know what. You could run into us. It’s that kind of place.”

Simon nodded. “Tomorrow night. Keep in mind, when you talk to Pirie, it’s for two people. He won’t leave without her, so it has to be for two.”

“I’d still like to know how he plans to pull this off.”

“He says he has it worked out. He didn’t want to leave it to you.”

“Nice.”

“He just meant he knows it here. How things are.” He paused. “He’s working for you now.”

“He did that before.”

They went back to the house separately, Simon circling around the porch with a now empty glass. More people had crowded into the reception hall. How long before he could decently go? The ambassador didn’t want him there anyway, tainted now by Frank. But in a second he was trapped by the telltale clinking against glass, the signal for a toast. People on the porch stood still, half-listening. A meaningful cultural exchange, a bridge between two great peoples. Meanwhile canapés floated by. Nothing particularly fancy—cheese puffs and triangles of tea sandwiches and water chestnuts wrapped in bacon—but here, in the dreary, gray city, a spread of defiant opulence. A Russian from the Cultural Ministry was welcoming the troupe’s director.

“Mr. Weeks.” A voice to his side. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Hal Lehman, remember?”

“Of course. I’m getting you an interview. After Look.”

“Funny you should say that, because he’s here. Look, I mean. Oh, my wife Nancy. Nancy, Simon Weeks. You remember I told you—”

“That Weeks? As in Francis?”

“Guilty. Except I’m not.”

She half-laughed, not sure where to go with this. Blond, teased hair and a flowery summer dress with a full skirt. A nice open face, someone you might meet at a barbeque. Who drove to Helsinki for lettuce.

“Simon’s a publisher, honey.”

“But you’re his brother?” she said, not letting it go. “What was that like? I mean, when it happened.”

“It was a rough time. For the family. But that’s a long time ago.”

“And he lives here now? All these years. I’ve been here a year, more, and I’ve never even seen him.”

“Well, he doesn’t go to a lot of parties at Spaso House,” Simon said pleasantly. “In fact, neither do I. I should be going.”

“No, wait, meet Tom.”

Simon raised his eyes.

“Tom McPherson. Look. The photographer.”

Hal craned his neck, then signaled that he’d be right back.

“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t— He’s your brother. I didn’t mean—”

“That’s all right. It happens.”

“And you came here to see him? What was that like?”

Simon hesitated, as if he were thinking this over. “What you don’t expect? You still have the same jokes. You laugh at the same things. The way you always did. Of course, it’s sad too. You see him and you think, I’ll probably never see you again.”

Embroidering the cover story, seeing how well it fit.

“You won’t come back?”

“I’m here on a special visa. No guarantee they’ll—”

“No, they’re like that. Even for family, I guess. So unfair.”

“Well, he’s the one who came here,” Simon said gently. “I can’t blame them for that.”

“No,” she said, confused now.

“Here he is. Tom, Simon Weeks.”

“Pleasure,” the man said, shaking his hand. Young, not yet thirty, hair looking as if it had been combed by a hand brushing through it, shirt open, the only man at the party without a tie. “I was going to leave this at your hotel, but now you’ve saved me the trouble.” He handed him a business card. “Mr. Engel was hoping I could get the pictures while you’re still here. He said you knew what we’re looking for. Kind of thing that’d go with the excerpt.”

“In other words, run interference with Frank.”

McPherson grinned. “Well, I was told he might be shy.”

“No. He knows about this. Let me check with Jo. His wife. Give her time to arrange the furniture.”

“Just the way they usually are,” McPherson said. “A typical day—”

“I know what you want.”

Frank in his study, Frank and Jo having breakfast, comfortable, not going anywhere. Boris in the other room, taking it in, the cover holding.

“I’ll set it up. Promise.”

“And then the interview?” Hal asked.

“I’ll ask.”

Frank would object, but why not? Another stitch in the cover, a man with a book coming out, at home in Moscow. As settled as he’d been in Washington.

The next morning they worked on Frank’s escape to Moscow—the tense race to the airport, the last-minute change of flights, the car to Mexico.

“I was terrified the whole time.” He looked over at Simon. “But I’m not going to say that.”

“Were you?”

“Well, that’s part of the game, isn’t it? Get the adrenaline flowing. Beat the clock. Anyway, we did.”

“How did you feel when you got here? Your first impressions. You don’t say.”

“I was relieved. I thought they saved my life, the Service. And gave the finger to Hoover, which was a nice bonus.” He looked toward the living room, Boris deep in Izvestia. “I was excited. The whole thing had been—”

“A once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Simon said, looking at him.

Frank caught the look and held it for a second. “Well, how about some lunch? Boris,” he called to the other room. “What say we go to the university after, show Simon the view. Take the Metro. Look at a few stations.”

“Komsomolskaya is in the other direction.” Evidently a showcase.

“Plenty on the way. Arbatskaya, Kropotkinskaya. You’ll be impressed,” he said to Simon. “Best subway in the world.”

It turned out that Boris’s father had once worked for the Metro system, so he took a proprietary interest and loved showing it off. They stepped out onto ornate station platforms to see the design, then caught the next train, the next station, like field agents hopping on and off to lose a trail. The university, the tallest of Stalin’s gothic wedding cakes, was a hike from the station, through a formal park. The tower sat on the top of the hill with a lookout terrace just below and in front, all of Moscow beyond, dotted with more Stalin skyscrapers. A couple were being photographed from a tripod, the girl with flowers in her hair, the boy in a boxy suit and tie.