Joseph Kanon - Defectors

Simon stared. The hair was receding, but not gone. The face tighter, lines spreading out from his eyes, lived in. But voices never change, the same flip intimacy that drew everybody in, and for a second the face matched the voice, lines smoothing out, the way he’d looked before, before all the lies.

“Simple Simon,” Frank said, the old teasing name, his eyes suddenly soft.

Simon stood still. Simple Simon. As if nothing had happened. What did they do now? Shake hands?

“Frank,” he said, light-headed. The same crinkly smile, someone who’d just been away for the weekend.

Frank nodded. “It’s me,” he said, as if he were reading Simon’s mind.

“Frank—”

And suddenly there were arms around him, chest pressed against his, wrapping him in the past. Frank. Then he was being held by the shoulders, inspected. Frank tipped his head toward his glasses.

“Specs? Since when? Or are they just to make people think you read the books you put out?” He glanced at Simon’s clothes. “You’re dressing better. Hart Schaffner?”

Simon looked down at his suit, as if he’d just noticed he was wearing it. “Altman’s.”

“Altman’s. And for only a few dollars more— Just like Pa.” He dropped his hands. “You’ve met Boris Borisevich? Boris Jr., literally. I call him that sometimes, don’t I, Boris?”

The colonel nodded, smiling, apparently a joke between them.

“Anything you need, he’s your man. Driver. Tickets to the Bolshoi. Anything. He likes pulling rabbits out of his hat.”

Simon looked at him, disconcerted. The KGB as concierge.

“Of course he’s really here to protect me. In the beginning, you know, we couldn’t be sure—if the Agency might try something. I told them that really wasn’t much in our line. But of course it is in their line, so naturally they’d think— Anyway, that was then. Now I just go about my business. But always nice to know somebody’s got your back. Right, Boris? Here we go,” he said, starting to get in the car, then turning, putting his hand on Simon’s shoulder again. “It’s good to see you. I never thought—” He paused. “Look at you. Gray.” He touched Simon’s temple. “And here I am writing memoirs. So when did that happen, all the years?”

Colonel Vassilchikov put the luggage in the trunk then sat up front with the driver, leaving Frank and Simon together in the back.

“In the beginning,” Frank picked up again, wanting to talk, “before we knew we didn’t have to worry, the Service gave us new names. Maclean was Fraser. Like that. No addresses, of course. No Time correspondent turning up out of the blue for a drink. That wasn’t too hard. There’s no telephone book in Moscow and nobody to tell them where I was. So in a way, I wasn’t really here.”

“Now you’re Weeks again?”

“Mm. Whereabouts still unknown. I assume the Agency doesn’t know where the flat is or I’d have spotted someone lurking.”

Actually thinking they’d tail him now, twelve years later, a footnote to history.

“Like him?” Simon said, nodding to Vassilchikov up front.

“He doesn’t lurk. He comes right in.”

“He lives with you?”

“He visits.”

“You know we’ve promised Look pictures. They’ll want you in the flat. At home. How you live. All that. Is that going to be a problem?”

“No. In for a penny. My cover’s blown now anyway. About time, I suppose.”

“Blown how?”

“Well, you’ll have to tell them. When they debrief you. You supposed to make a note or just keep it up here?” He put a finger to his temple.

Simon said nothing.

“Yermolaevskiy Pereulok. 21. You can write it down later. Very comfortable. My own study. Well, you’ll see.” He made a signal to the driver to start. “I got them to put you up at the National. They had you down for the Ukraina and I said no no, too far away from the flat. And the rooms aren’t much to write home about. One of Stalin’s wedding cakes. Not as bad as the Pekin, but still.”

“What’s wrong with the Pekin?” Simon said, playing along.

Frank smiled, enjoying himself. “Well, they built it for us, the Service. New offices. But that didn’t work out for some reason. So, a hotel. Except the rooms can be a little—odd. Red light, green light over the door. To call a maid, they say now. But they were built as interrogation rooms. You know, red if someone was still being interrogated.” He stopped, catching Simon’s expression. “Anyway, the Chinese don’t seem to mind. Very popular with delegations. Not a bad restaurant either. If you’re in the mood for Chinese. We can go one night if you like.”

“I’m not here that long.”

“A week anyway. At least. And you have to come out to the dacha. Joanna’s looking forward to it.”

“Jo,” Simon said quietly, another thing he seemed to have forgotten. Once all he thought about. “How is she?”

“A little under the weather. She wanted to come tonight, but I said you’d be there bright and early, no need to rush things. I think she’s a little—nervous. Seeing someone from the States. What you’ll think. You’re the first. From before.”

“But she likes it?” Somebody who’d been to El Morocco, her long hair swinging behind her when she danced. White shoulders, a broad lipstick smile. Don’t be so serious, she’d say, pulling him onto the dance floor, anyone can do it. Not like her.

“Well, like. She doesn’t like anything really, since Richie died,” he said, almost mumbling, as if the words were being pulled out of him. “It’s been hard for her.”

“I’m sorry. I should have said first thing—”

Frank dismissed this. “It’s all right. It’s a while ago now. You think it’ll never get better, but it does. Even something like this.”

“He was sick?”

“Meningitis. There wasn’t anything anybody could do. The best care. The hospital in Pekhotnaya.” He looked over. “It’s the Service hospital. The best care.”

“The Service hospital. The KGB has its own hospital?”

Frank nodded. “I know what you’re thinking. Maybe you’re right. But when it’s you—your son—who needs the privilege, you’re grateful. You have to understand how things are here. All that,” he said, waving his hand at the window, “you have to imagine what it’s going to be. How far we’ve come. But the Service was always something—apart. Professional. Out there you wonder sometimes, does anything work? But inside, in the Service, everything works.”

“You don’t write about it. Richie. In the book. Or Jo. You never mention her.”

“No. It’s my life in the Service, how I managed to do it, play against the house. Jo’s not part of that. She never knew.” He looked at Simon. “It’s not a soap opera. You haven’t come to make it one, have you? Because I’m not going to write that.”

“She never knew? But she came?”

“I didn’t force her,” Frank said simply. “It was her decision. But it’s understood about the book? She’s entitled to her privacy.” He looked up at Simon. “I don’t want to upset her. Not now.”

“All right,” Simon said, retreating.

“Anyway, there’ll be plenty of other things to work on,” Frank said, abruptly cheerful, switching gears. “Like old times. You whipping my papers into shape. What was the one we did for old Whiting? I left it to the last minute and—”

“The British Navy. In the seventeenth century.”

“Your memory. The British Navy. A whole semester. On old boats.” He shook his head. “Whiting. You had to have three people sign up or the course was canceled, so I figured he couldn’t afford to lose anybody. All you had to do was show up. And then he got serious about it, wanting papers. Ass. But we pulled it off. Well, you did. So now this.” He indicated Simon’s bag. “You made notes?”