Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“But that’s not the way it’s going to play out.”

“Frank, I—”

“Nobody’s going to say anything.”

Gareth shook his head. “No.”

“I should. I should report this. But you know what it would mean. We both do. I don’t want to do that to you.”

“Do what?”

“Report your meeting.”

“My—?”

“Try it this way. The tail on the embassy car saw two things—Novikov and his friend going in and then you going in a few minutes later.”

“Frank—” he said, jumpy now.

“Funny thing. When Simon and I came into the church, what did we see? The three of you, thick as thieves, so I thought I’d better listen in. I couldn’t quite get it all, but the new guy was American, making some kind of deal. With you. I thought, why not a Brit? That would be the obvious thing. But that’s where you’re clever. Nobody would think you’d go to the Americans. With your little bits of business. And you almost got away with it. If I hadn’t been here. I’d have to do my duty.”

“Your duty.”

“And who do you think they’d believe? You or me? With the Order of Lenin?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’d have to. I’m sorry. I know what it means. Afterward. Not pleasant.”

“Except I know what really happened. What you’re planning to do.”

“So you did hear. I needed to know that.”

“Frank—”

“Of course you’d be grasping for straws at that point. Any story that pops into your head. Even an implausible one. Why would I do that, when I’m so well settled here? Yes, it would be just like you to make trouble for me. And yes, to be on the safe side, they’ll watch me closely for a while. But when nothing happens—and it won’t—they’d be right back where they started. And who would they believe? Your word against mine.”

“They’d kill me,” Gareth said quietly.

“Yes. I’d look for another way out if I were you.”

“Such as.”

“I’d keep my mouth shut. Could you do that, do you think?” he said, staring at him, reading his face. “Keep quiet? That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“Keep quiet. I was a spy, for God’s sake. You don’t have to—”

“But this would be such a coup for you. The Service would be so grateful—if they believed you.”

“Take your hands off me,” Gareth said, rallying. “Nobody has to say anything.” He looked up at him. “You’ll never get away with it, you know. Sticking it to the Service. They won’t need me. You’ll never make it to the boat.” He looked over at Simon. “And you. Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you?” he said, his mouth twisted, almost sneering.

“Leave him out of it.”

“They won’t. No, they’ll have a lovely time with you. Think of the trial. Like Mr. Powers. The great pilot. Oh, they’ll love that.” He turned to Frank. “I admit I was surprised. To see you. The great Francis Weeks.” He let out a pretend sigh. “It’s a wicked old world, isn’t it? You never know.” He started straightening his coat. “All right. No proof anyway. Your word against mine. So, checkmate. Nobody says anything.”

Frank looked at him, considering. “I don’t think you can do it,” he said slowly.

Gareth’s eyes darted from Simon to Frank, then around the room, trapped again.

“So what do we do?” Frank said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gareth said, twitching. “That’s not really in your line, is it?”

“No, but it’s nothing to Boris. He’s just outside.”

Gareth gulped some air, taking a deep breath, then suddenly pushed away from the column, knocking Simon aside, and started to run back toward the entrance.

Simon leaped after him, catching his coat, pulling on it, both of them staggering down the aisle, Frank now behind. Gareth twisted, trying to wrench free, the coat twisting with him, pocket turned upside down. Something metal fell to the floor, a clang echoing in the empty church. Simon looked down, then let go of the coat and scooped up the fallen camera.

“No proof!” he shouted, imagining the pictures inside, trial exhibits.

Frank swept past him, catching Gareth and shoving him up against the first pillar, smashing his head back, arm at his throat, Gareth going limp, like a doll. “No proof,” Frank said, then to Simon, “Open it.” Simon flipped open the back, pulling out the film, exposing it. “Now where’s your proof? Bastard.”

“Stop. You’re—”

Frank pushed harder. Gareth made a choking sound, trying to pull Frank’s arm away from his throat, then pushed at his face, ducking to get away. Frank brought up his knee, a fast kick that made Gareth crumple, raspy screams, pulling at Frank until they both toppled over, on the stone floor now, rolling. Simon shoved the camera into his pocket, stuffing in the loose remnant of film. A shine of blood on the column where Gareth’s head had been. Simon could feel his heart beat, breath coming faster. No pulling back. Not just a show trial, his life at stake. Frank’s. He looked down. Frank was sitting on him now, knees on either side, his hands on Gareth’s windpipe, Gareth gasping, making sounds, a kind of gurgling. Then he stopped, his head moving to one side, and Frank moved his hands away, shaking, his whole body shaking.

“Oh God,” he said, to himself, to nobody.

Simon stepped over and took his hand, helping him up.

“I’ve never done that,” Frank said, his face distant, hands still shaking, the last few minutes now one spasm rippling through him.

“There’s some blood over there. I’ll wipe it off,” Simon said, taking out a handkerchief, hearing himself, not really there.

Frank stood looking at Gareth. “I had to, didn’t I? He would have—”

“Put the coat under his head. In case there’s more blood.”

“Still,” Frank said, eyes fixed on Gareth. Who would have ruined everything. The scorpion striking first, his nature.

Suddenly there was a faint moan, indistinct as a night sound, a slight movement of Gareth’s head, and Frank involuntarily reared back. Simon looked at Gareth, beginning to move, then at Frank, still stunned.

“Finish it,” Simon said, seeing everything in a flash. The men in leather coats, the fast car and back entrance, the beatings in the cell, the trial, after. “We have to finish it.”

Frank stared at him, shaking. Simon dropped to his knees, what had to be done, hands on the warm neck, thumbs pressing into the windpipe. Gareth’s eyes opened, maybe a panicked recognition, maybe just some abstract disbelief as air left him, struggling a little, kicking his feet against nothing, Simon pressing down now, what had to be done, harder, the last gasps barely audible, no wind, the eyes rolling back, closing, and suddenly the only things moving were Simon’s hands, pressing, everything else still. He stopped, staring down, the lifeless face slightly contorted, not peaceful. What murder looked like.

He got up, staggering on one knee, unexpectedly weak, drained. Frank was staring at him, still dazed, someone at an accident.

He looked down again. Not just still, dead, a different stillness, skin already going gray, mouth open, unnatural. In one second. No. Take it back. Not dead, a figure in a First Aid manual. Drop to your knees, spread your hands against the rib cage, push, don’t panic, a rhythm, in and out, be his lungs, the face turned to the side for the water to run out, your hands breathing for him until you heard the choking sounds, signs of life. Take it back.

“We have to get him out of here,” Frank said, matter-of-fact, coming back.

“Should I get Boris?”

Frank shook his head. “Nobody. But we can’t leave him here. They’ll find him.”

“They’re going to find him.”