Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Get somebody from the embassy to take you sightseeing. No taxis. Maybe the Kremlin first, your pick. But be at Novodevichy before two. We’re only talking about a few minutes.”

“No. We have rules in Moscow. Three cars, safe house, two tails. There’s a protocol. You think we don’t know how to do this?”

“This time, his rules. He knows how to protect himself.”

“Right out in the open. What is this, the fucking Hardy Boys?”

“You talked to Washington. Everything’s okay?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“How he wants to get out of here.”

“He says he has a way.”

“So let’s go meet in church and discuss it. Let’s let everybody know.”

“He’s KGB. He knows what he’s doing. Give him that. If you’re that worried about being seen, what are we doing in the National bar?”

“You’re not him. We talk, it could be anything. Me talking to him? Either I’m here to kill him or turn him.” He looked at Simon. “I could still go either way.”

“Be early then. You’ll need the time.”

THEY TOOK THE METRO AGAIN, a quick walk down the Garden Ring to Krasnopresnenskaya, then a change at Park Kultury, all orchestrated by Boris to show off more stations. “No car,” Frank had said. “There’s only one parking lot and the embassy car will be tailed. We don’t want to go anywhere near it.” Their stop, Sportivnaya, served the big stadium nearby, but the street itself was leafy and unassuming, a quieter Moscow. At the end Simon could see the bell tower and onion domes of the convent grounds. At the first big intersection a small convoy of trucks rumbled by, followed by an official Zil.

“You can take this straight back to the Kremlin,” Frank said. “Different names. Same street. Here, Bolshaya Pirogovskaya,” he said, the Russian easy, matter-of-fact. They began to follow the big street down to the convent, past the entrance. “We’ll use the back, through the cemetery. Nobody sees us go in. Take a look at the parking lot. Anybody we know? Diplomatic plates?”

But they were walking too quickly to pick out any detail. A car. A school bus, presumably for visiting students, and a battered utility truck toward the end. The high convent wall was to their right now, beyond it the famous octagonal bell tower, blood-red with white trim.

“That must have been their car,” Simon said. “By the bus.”

“Let’s hope so. They should be here. Seeing things. You want to know something?” Frank said, his voice suddenly low. “I’m nervous. Shaking. It’s been a while. Being in the field. It’s the kind of thing—you don’t want to get rusty. Not now. Christ, look.” He stretched out his hand to show it trembling.

Simon slowed a little, then put his hand on Frank’s arm, squeezing it until the hand became steady, not saying anything. Boris, already ahead, didn’t turn.

“You know what it means if anything goes—”

“It won’t,” Simon said quietly. “You’ve done this before.”

“Not over here.” He stopped, then looked away. “Well, listen to me. A little case of the willies,” he said, sounding embarrassed, young.

“Now what?” Simon said, straightening his shoulders, body language.

“The cemetery,” Frank said as they passed the end of the convent wall. “Chekhov’s here. Gogol. Lots of generals. See the back entrance there? Under the church. It had to be big enough for a hearse.”

Simon looked up. More domes, one gold, the others green.

“If you need to get out,” Frank said, almost a whisper, “use this gate. Not the main entrance. They’ll block the parking lot.” He touched Simon’s shoulder. “Here we go.”

They passed through the street gate into the cemetery, leaving Boris outside on a bench with a newspaper and a full pack of cigarettes. There were some maintenance buildings and after that rows and rows of graves, some topped with elaborate statuary or, in the Russian fashion, with a photograph of the deceased embedded in the stone.

“You’d think he’d have used an earlier picture,” Simon said, pointing to a jowly face.

“Maybe that was his best,” Frank said, almost playful, some scheme they were cooking up in their grandmother’s yard, laughing at the neighbors.

“Who gets to be buried here?”

“The great and the good. Maybe me. If I stayed. Well,” he said, shrugging this off. “Through here.”

He led Simon along the passageway under the church and into the convent grounds, old trees lining the paths, moving a little with the breeze, the only sounds birds and a groundskeeper’s shovel, uprooting something near one of the other churches. Across the compound a few children’s voices heading back to the bus.

“No guards,” Simon said.

“No. Stalin gave it back to the church. For loyalty during the war. So officially it’s church property.” He raised his arm to the white cathedral that was the centerpiece of the complex. “See how high the gables are? Like the Cathedral of the Assumption in the Kremlin. See anybody?”

“They’re supposed to be inside.”

“Walk around to the bell tower first. Let’s see who else is here.”

But they seemed to be alone, even the children’s voices now gone, nothing but birds, the quiet of a churchyard. Frank glanced at his watch, then pointed up again at some architectural feature, another gesture. But what if no one was looking? It occurred to Simon, a kind of dismaying joke, that Frank, all of them, might be acting for cameras that weren’t there.

The cathedral was built on a raised piece of ground, its own natural dais, so they had to walk up to enter. At the doorway there was the usual clerical gloom, the far aisles in dim shadow, then flickering candles, and a cluster of massive columns soaring up to the onion domes, their sides covered with frescoes, an Oriental swirl of color. Farther in, a bright center nave held a chandelier shining on the five-tiered iconostasis, each holy face framed in gold. DiAngelis was standing in front, looking up with a tourist’s wide eyes, fingering the brim of his hat. Novikov was at his side, his bulk somehow incongruous in all the filigree. They both turned at the sound of footsteps.

“My brother, Frank Weeks. Pete DiAngelis,” Simon said, an unnecessary introduction. “And Mike—what was your last name again?”

“Novikov.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake hands,” DiAngelis said. “Around the Agency you’re—”

“Let’s make this fast,” Frank said, all business. “We might pass each other in here, but we don’t stay long enough to do anything else. You have authority from Pirie?”

“You’re speaking to him. Through me.”

“I wonder what that’s like. For you,” Frank said, a sly look to Simon.

DiAngelis hesitated, not getting this, then said, “I have all the authority you need.”

“Good. Would you mind?” he said to Novikov, a sign to move away.

DiAngelis nodded. “And yours?” he said, as if Simon and Novi­kov were seconds at a duel.

“My witness. Since we won’t have anything in writing.” He didn’t wait for DiAngelis’s reaction. “Basics, I think already understood: my wife comes with me, so two of us, immunity from any prosecution, new identities, security coverage for at least a year, more if we think we need it. Agreed?”

“Go on.”

“A pension. Just enough to cover living expenses. I won’t haggle. Pirie will just lowball it anyway. I’ll take base. I’ll be swimming in royalties.” He smiled at Simon. “From an account they can’t trace. The book, by the way—I want your guarantee you won’t interfere. I want Simon to come out ahead on this, whatever happens.”

Simon looked at him, oddly pleased, part of Frank’s plan.