Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Newlyweds,” Frank said. “They come here right after the ceremony.”

“Quite a view.”

Frank nodded. “The highest point in the city. The Lenin Hills. Khrushchev’s building a children’s center over there.” He pointed over to the right. “Near the circus. God knows what they’ll call it. They have a mania for naming things. These used to be Vorobyovy Gory,” he said, the Russian deep, a voice change. “Sparrow Hills. Which, with all due respect to Lenin, fits them better. But there you are.”

Boris had drifted toward the end of the rail, as absorbed by the view as the newlyweds.

“We can talk now,” Frank said. “What was all that about a once-in-a-lifetime trip? You don’t think I can do this?”

“You act as if nothing could go wrong.”

“You have to stay positive with something like this. Keep looking over your shoulder, you might trip.”

“It’s more than that. You’re enjoying it.”

Frank looked at him. “All right. I am. I want to see if I can pull it off.”

“It’s a hell of a risk to prove—whatever you think you’re proving. You’ve got a life here. What are you going to have there?”

Frank was quiet for a minute, looking out to the skyline. “You know, when I first came here, the Foreign Ministry was still being built. Now you look—it’s a different city. Or maybe I’m different.”

“You’re older.”

“Not yet.” He turned. “I’m still me, not one of those men you see at the Pond, sitting on a bench. But it’s a different city. I don’t fit in anymore. It’s time to move on.”

“And take their files with you.”

Frank smiled. “Airfare, that’s all.”

Simon turned back to the view. “And what kind of life is she going to have there? Hiding.”

“Only at first. She’s been through it before. You don’t go anywhere. A Russian identity. You’re not here. But gradually you adjust. They adjust. It gets better.”

“But it hasn’t for her.”

“No. But that was about Richie. Everything’s been about Richie,” he said, his voice quieter. “Not Moscow. You can’t blame Moscow for that.” He turned and moved closer to Simon. “Point at something, so Boris thinks you’re sightseeing. I wonder who my new Boris will be. Eddie. Joe. That’s one thing about this life, you’re never alone.”

“Frank—”

“You want me to recant,” he said, lingering on the word. “You want that to be the reason. Lost my faith. Finally came to my senses. Oh, don’t bother,” he said, holding up his hand before Simon could speak. “I know you. That would make everything right. Instead of the way it is.” He leaned against the balustrade. “But I can’t. Then there’d be nothing. All of it for nothing.” He looked up. “But I’ll give you this. A little doubt. Of course there is no such thing. As a little. Once doubt comes into it, the whole thing’s in play.” He forced out a small smile. “Or it makes you stronger. That’s what they say anyway.”

“What did you doubt?”

“Well, not the revolution,” he said, wanting to be light, then turned away from Simon’s stare. “When Richie was sick. The best hospital. The Service hospital.” He pointed to his forehead. “In the front part of my mind I knew we were doing everything we could. Logically. It wouldn’t have made any difference in Bethesda, wherever we were. I knew that. But in the back of your mind, you think, what if? What if we could have saved him at home? No sense to it, but once it starts—and where do you go from there? He’s here because of me. I killed him—”

“Frank.”

“I know. I know it’s not true. Maybe it’s just—to distract you, take your mind off what’s really happening. Which is that he’s dying. Nothing prepares you for that. Not other people dying, even family. It’s not the same. A child. He’s not supposed to die. So, at the back, it starts nagging you. Your fault. Your fault. This place. The system. What else? Who else can you blame?”

“Frank,” Simon said, putting his hand over Frank’s on the rail. “Jesus Christ.”

“I know. But you still think it. Jo did. She says she didn’t, but she did. We cleaned out all his stuff. Just kept some pictures. But he’s still all over the place. He’s here. My fault. Until you want to be someone else. That’s when I started thinking about all this. Leaving. Be someone else. So give me a name. Joe Blow. Harry Houdini. Somebody else. Then I don’t have to think about it. Let them stash me somewhere, that’s okay. It takes a little time. And Jo will be someone else too. A new life. How else to do it? Live with this.” He looked at Simon, the moment suddenly close, as if they were embracing. “It’s worth the risk. Worth it to me. I’m sorry that it probably means I won’t see you.” He tried for an ironic smile. “No family visits if you’re an alias. But maybe you’d prefer it that way. At least I wouldn’t be here. With the enemy.”

“Don’t.”

“Jimbo, I wish—” His shoulders slumped, as if the years had weight. “Well, I wish. I wish. But that doesn’t make it happen. We’re going to lose each other again. But who else would have helped me? It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it? There’s nobody else I can trust. All these years and nobody else. And after everything. After I wrecked your life.”

“You didn’t wreck my life,” Simon said, then turned away. “You wrecked yours.”

Frank stepped back, as if the words had actually hit him, surprised. For a moment he said nothing. “Maybe I did,” he said finally. “And Jo’s. But maybe I can fix it.” His voice wrapping around the words, the way it did in Russian, drawing Simon closer, an undertow pull. “It’s not too late,” he said, a kind of question.

“No,” Simon said, lowering his eyes, ending it. “Where’s the meeting?”

Frank hesitated, wanting to say more, then pointed down the steep wooded slope. “There,” he said, finger out. “That’s why I brought you here. So you could see it.”

Another wedding party had arrived and they moved to avoid it.

“See the onion domes? There by the curve of the river. Past the stadium. The Novodevichy Convent.”

“You want to meet DiAngelis in a convent?”

“Former convent,” Frank said, smiling at this. “Although somebody told me there are still nuns there. But you never see them. Invisible nuns,” he said, toying with it.

“Let’s hope you’re invisible too. Why there?” he said, peering down. A red brick bell tower, high white cathedral, a few other churches and outbuildings, all surrounded by fortress walls. Trees between the buildings, an enclave.

“It’s a major attraction. Sort of place we’d go. Or DiAngelis, if he has to explain himself. The iconostasis is famous. See outside the wall over there? The Novodevichy Cemetery. They’re connected through a gate. Lots of exits. Here comes Boris. DiAngelis sees you tonight? Let’s say Friday, that gives us an extra day’s cushion. After lunch, two. In the cathedral. The Virgin of Smolensk.”

“The Virgin—?” Simon said, the name suddenly implausible.

“Don’t be disrespectful,” Frank said, enjoying himself again, a commando leader.

“And if Boris sticks close?”

“He won’t. He’s a good Soviet, hates anything religious. He’ll wait in the grounds somewhere and have a smoke. I’ll take care of him. Just tell DiAngelis to be inside, waiting. We won’t have much time. Just a few minutes overlap, coming and going.”

“And what if there are other people there?”

“They’ll be praying to the icons. Relax, Jimbo, it’s going to be fine. The nuns will look out for us.”

“In a church?” DiAngelis said at the bar. “In public?”