Joseph Kanon - Defectors

Simon nodded. “The cathedral was beautiful. You should have come.” Nothing in his voice to give anybody away.

Boris shrugged. “The opiate of the masses,” he said flatly. No irony, no self-consciousness.

Simon looked at him, a good Soviet man, and suddenly wanted to laugh, about to fly off again, another not funny joke, the whole country full of them, the women in the hotel hallways, the listening chandeliers, the men plotting in the Kremlin, Stalin feeding on his own, check mark by check mark, a city without maps.

They were crossing the intersection. Simon looked up at what he guessed was Gareth’s building, with its view of the parking lot. A high rise with concrete beginning to crack. Did Sergei live there too? Waiting for him to come home. He looked over at Frank, who was talking to Boris in Russian, idle chat by the sound of it. I have an alibi. You.

Now the Metro again, the palatial stations. If he stayed on, could he go all the way to the airport? And then what? Visas and questions about why he was leaving. So soon? Before the book was done? Why was that? And for a second he felt what everyone here must feel, living under house arrest. For imaginary crimes. And he had just killed a man, a real crime, and no one knew. All the grisly apparatus of a police state and no one knew. An outing with Boris, on the KGB’s watch.

During the war, at his desk on Navy Hill, he had wondered what combat would be like, how it would feel to kill somebody, whether he could go through with it. But it had been easy, an instinct, even when Gareth’s eyes opened. Save yourself. Only now his stomach was filled with it, churning with dread. It’s going to be all right. Was it? Frank had thought that before and ended up here. If nobody gets spooked. Simon clenched his fist, some gesture of control, as if he could hear Frank’s tail scratching against the bottle.

To his surprise, it was Tom McPherson who turned up for DiAngelis at the National bar.

“Doesn’t Look give you enough to do?”

“In Moscow? Everything happens behind closed doors. No access. Ever. So a little moonlighting. Makes it more interesting.”

“Does Look know?”

McPherson ignored this, his pleasant, bland features turning serious, full of purpose. “We need to set a date for the shoot. I’m going to have a package for you and they don’t want to use the dead letter drop. Direct handoff.”

“Monday. We’re away this weekend. What’s in the package?”

“No idea. I’m just the mailman. Ordinarily I’d guess visas, papers, kind of thing you don’t want to leave in the men’s room. But in this case—I don’t know. You already have yours. So it must be—whatever you’re talking to the Agency about.” He turned to the bar, ordering a brandy. “Mind if I ask you a question? Were you close, you and your brother?”

“Why?”

“It’s unusual, that’s all. You being with him. And working for the Agency. Does he know? No offense. I was just curious. What time Monday?”

“Ten,” Simon said, then, “He doesn’t tell me anything.”

McPherson shrugged. “But here we are. And you’ve got a delivery coming. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a story. It’s strictly pictures with Look. Lehman’s the one you want to watch out for. He’s been trying to get a story on the defectors since he got here.”

Simon looked up, a sudden thought. “He do this kind of work too?”

“Not that I know of. But then I wouldn’t know.” He finished his drink. “Look who’s here,” he said, his voice lower, glancing toward the end of the bar where Gareth’s Sergei was questioning the bartender. “Mr. Jones must be out on a toot.”

What people would think, the body still not found. Simon looked at Sergei, his face troubled, not sure what to do. Had Gareth done this before? It must be a small circuit of watering holes. Moscow wasn’t New York. The National, the Metropol, the Aragvi. But then what? The apartment suddenly quiet, empty. People like Sergei didn’t go to the police. Simon imagined him sitting alone, waiting. Getting up to look out the window. Now he noticed Simon, a flicker of recognition. For a second Simon thought he’d come over, ask if he’d seen Gareth, another layer of lies, but evidently the bartender’s word was all he needed. He turned and darted out of the room, heading for the Metropol.

“They say the KGB fixed them up,” McPherson said. “Keep Jones happy.”

“Who says?”

“People. You know. Must have taken, though. It’s been years.” Now over, cut off like the air in Gareth’s throat.

“I’d better go up,” Simon said. “Anything else?”

“You tell me. I’m here, if you want to get word to anyone.”

“Monday at ten.”

“We might want to do another. Shoot. It’s a good excuse to talk.” He put down his glass. “Sorry about before. It’s just the logic of it. If you’re not reporting on him, what are you talking to the Agency about?”

He looked at McPherson, the eager, open face.

“This and that,” he said.

THEY DROVE WEST OUT of the city on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, a showcase street lined with new apartment buildings.

“The Friday ritual,” Frank said, looking at the swarm of black cars, the first traffic Simon had seen in Moscow. “Even in the rain.”

It had been drizzling all afternoon, the air heavy and wet, forming condensation on the car windows.

“It’s supposed to clear up,” Joanna said, next to Frank in the back. “Anyway, it’s good for mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms,” Frank said, dismissing this, not worth talking about.

“It’s all wasted on Frank. The country,” Joanna said, smiling. “When they offered us the dacha he didn’t want to take it. At first.”

“What made you change your mind?” Simon said.

“I didn’t want anybody to think I was ungrateful. It’s considered a privilege.”

“The vegetables are,” Joanna said. “In the summer you can eat out of the garden.”

“Why is it so hard? To get vegetables.”

“The distribution system,” Frank said, not really paying attention. “It’s better than it used to be.”

Simon, up front with Boris, looked at Frank in the rearview mirror, a doubling effect, their features so similar at this distance. His jaw, Frank’s. The same high forehead, wrinkled, preoccupied, neither of them looking forward to the weekend. Simon kept seeing the groundskeeper stacking rakes in the utility shed, smelling something. How long? Frank was sitting forward, hands on his knees. Square, long-fingered, like Simon’s. Did it matter whose had been on Gareth’s throat? The same hands.

“You’ll like the Rubins,” Joanna was saying. “He’s nice.” As if they were simply neighbors, not on Hoover’s wish list.

“When are they coming?”

“Tomorrow lunch. I couldn’t face it tonight, all that work and everyone stays so late. So, just us.”

“I have some people coming before dinner,” Frank said.

“Who?” Joanna said, annoyed.

“Some people from the office.”

“You might have said.”

“I just found out. Boris got a call.” He nodded toward the front.

“They’re coming to the dacha? What’s so urgent? Oh, don’t tell me. Why start now?”

“I’m planning a trip,” Frank said pleasantly. “I thought we’d take Simon to Leningrad. See the Hermitage. Then Tallinn, Riga. Doesn’t that sound—?”

“Riga?” Joanna said.

“It’s supposed to be very attractive. Lots of Art Nouveau. We haven’t been away in so long. I thought you’d enjoy it, with Simon here.”

“You’re full of surprises.” She looked forward to Simon. “Did you know about this?”

He half-turned, facing them. “Frank said maybe after the book— I’d hate to leave without seeing some of the country.” What he thought Frank wanted him to say. Just a trip. He glanced back to see his reaction, but Frank was facing Jo, juggling again.