Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Better get going then. Skip the cemetery. Just go back to the car. Anybody tail you?”

“I assume. You’re supposed to be good at that.”

“The best.”

DiAngelis, unsure how to react to this, signaled Novikov.

“I’ll see you on the boat,” he said to Frank, then put on his hat and walked toward Novikov.

Frank watched them go, eyes following them out the door, making sure. A sudden silence, broken only by bells from one of the other churches, maybe calling the sisters to prayer.

“Take a look at the ciborium,” Frank said. “Wood. Mention it to Boris.”

“Shouldn’t we go?”

“Let them get to the car.” He paused. “You trust him? You think he’ll do it?”

“Yes.” He looked over at Frank. “Now it’s dead letter drops. Meetings at the bar. I’d be in real trouble if—”

“I know,” Frank said, cutting him off. “I said I’d have your back.” He stopped for a second. “I need you out there.”

“Your field agent.”

Frank smiled a little. “That’s right. I’m running you.” He put his hand on Simon’s sleeve. “I know what I’m doing.”

They moved toward the outside light of the entranceway, white after the soft yellow of the candles. At the door they heard running footsteps, someone racing up the stairs to the church. Frank stepped back, out of the light. A girl in uniform, knotted kerchief at her neck. A Young Pioneer? Some youth group. She stopped short, almost bumping into them, then lowered her head. “Izvinite,” she said, indistinct, a whisper, then hurried along the outer aisle, looking for something. A minute later she stopped and picked up a knapsack. Simon watched as if he were seeing a spool of silent film, no sound, everything in her face. She turned toward the frescoed columns and went still for a second, eyes wide. A quick intake of breath to cover her surprise, then she glanced toward Simon and Frank, trying to work something out. Nothing else, just a girl’s expression, seeing something. Someone. Frank froze, putting his hand up, quiet, more silent film. The girl lifted the knapsack onto one shoulder and ran back, ignoring them, eager to be outside. Simon looked at Frank. Frank mimed a shh signal, then cocked his head, listening. No footsteps, no sounds at all. But not alone, the air filled with it now, another presence.

He signaled to Simon to go where the girl had been, then stepped carefully toward the center, paralleling Simon but coming up to the columns from behind. He passed the first, and waited for Simon to come into his line of sight before going on. Almost where the girl had been. He stepped softly around the next column and stopped. A man was pressed against its flat side, his head turned toward the outer aisle where Simon was moving, footsteps faint but audible. Frank could feel him holding his breath, straining to hear. Not some casual visitor, wandering around the icons. Hiding.

As Simon came closer, the man crept backward, clearly intending to slide behind the column, out of sight. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Another step, his back still to Frank and then stopping, aware now of someone behind him. Simon stepped into view, eyes surprised, someone he knew. Trapped now, between them, the air alive, almost trembling, a frightened rabbit about to leap away. Before he could bolt, Frank grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him, hand at his throat, pinning him against the column. The sound of panting, then an involuntary squeaking noise, a trapped rabbit again. “Don’t.” Frank pushed him harder against the column, choking him, so that he sputtered. “Stop.” Finally staring at him, Gareth’s face pale, skin pushed back, twisting under Frank’s hand.

Everything went still for a second, even the birds. Simon felt the tips of his fingers tingle, as if the blood had drained away, rushing to his head. He could see it all at once—the terror in Gareth’s eyes, Frank’s panic, both in it now, caught.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frank said, low, hoarse.

“Stop,” Gareth said, a gasp. He moved his hand up to grab Frank’s away, and Frank relaxed his grip for a second, letting Gareth’s head move forward, gulping air, then shoved him back again, in a vise now, his head hitting the column. “Stop.”

Simon saw them scrambling against each other, twisting, like the two scorpions in the story, locked in a bottle, safe if neither of them attacked the other. But one always did.

“What are you doing here? You followed us?”

Gareth shook his head, then signaled that he’d talk if Frank loosened his hand.

“I live here,” he said, rubbing his neck where Frank’s hand had been, his voice breathy, still racing. “Up the street. As you’d know if you’d ever accepted an invitation.”

Frank looked at him, disconcerted, the answer surreal. He dropped his hand. “What?”

Gareth’s eyes darted past him, the relaxed hand the opening he’d been looking for, and lunged left, starting to run. Without even thinking, Simon stepped forward, blocking him, then pushed him back against the wall, holding one shoulder while Frank held the other. Gareth kept gulping air, almost whimpering, looking from one to the other.

“You too,” he said to Simon. “Get off. What do you think you’re doing?”

“That’s your question,” Frank said. “What?” He shoved him again. “Now.”

Gareth winced, looking at his shoulder. “Beast. It was an accident.”

“What was?”

“Being here.” He looked at him, suddenly defiant. “Though not in your case. ‘See you on the boat.’ Now, what boat would that be? The one down the Moscow River? Kremlin views?” His breath still ragged, but no longer gasping.

“What are you doing here?” Frank said again.

“I told you, I live here. Just up Pirogovskaya. Very handy to the stadium, though in my case—” He stopped, aware of Frank’s eyes. “I can see across to the parking lot. Look, if you want to hear this, take your hands off. We’re all friends here,” he said, trying it.

Frank said nothing to this, another surreal moment, but dropped his hand.

“And you?” Gareth said to Simon. “The good brother. Just beavering away on the book. Nothing else. Really.”

“Talk,” Frank said, his calm a kind of menace.

Gareth blinked. “So I take a look from time to time. Being an old snoop. It passes the time. And then today, what? An American embassy car. And who? Novikov. What’s he doing here? I said to myself. Come to see the nuns? And who’s that with him? I had to take a look, didn’t I? It’s my job. So I came down and there they were, looking at icons with the Girl Guides or whatever they call themselves and I thought, I’d better find out who he is, the new man. The Service would want to know. They didn’t come to see the Virgin of Smolensk. It must be a meeting. And so it was. But I never thought—it was an accident.”

“But now it isn’t.”

“No,” Gareth said, looking up. “Maybe best forgotten.”

“But you have such a good memory. You think you know something.”

Simon glanced over, Frank’s voice a disturbing low register.

“No I don’t. Really. Maybe it’s your brother meeting with his people. They would, wouldn’t they?”

“But I wouldn’t be here.”

“No.”

“So what do you think you know?”

“Look, it’s not me meeting with the Americans. You act as if I were the one—”

“But that’s exactly what I’d have to say.”

“What?”

“Until about five minutes ago, you thought you’d struck gold. All those years with your little bits of gossip, snitching on this one and that—finally, a real strike. Isn’t that right?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Gareth said, eyes alarmed now.