Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Maybe you’re imagining things.”

She shrugged. “Watch tomorrow. Then you tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What’s that like? When it doesn’t mean anything?” She wiped her eyes again, then cheeks. “So unfair. Men just look the way they look. We have to—” She glanced up. “You know that song? Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off. I used to think that was me. But it keeps getting harder. Each time—knocks something out of you. I thought after Richie—” She gave back the handkerchief. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have— You won’t say anything to Frank. Promise?”

“He doesn’t know?”

“That I know?” She shook her head. “My secret, for a change. Everybody else has one, why not me? Watch me tomorrow. Not a clue. What would be the point? We’d just argue and how would that end? I don’t have a lot of options here. Or haven’t you noticed.”

But you will, he wanted to say. A fresh start, a whole new life. With Frank? In hiding too? What Frank assumed. But the Service wouldn’t care about her. Just Frank, the defector. What would happen if she did have options? Why hadn’t he told her?

“There, how do I look?” she said. “Let’s go give the comrades a drink. Funny, coming all this way just to go over timetables.”

“Jo—”

She put her hand on his arm. “I’m okay. Really. Sometimes it’s nice to have a shoulder, though.”

He smiled, not knowing what else to say. “Any time.”

“But nothing to Frank. I know how you are. But not this. My secret.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

She raised an eyebrow, dismissing this. “Yes, what if.”

As they walked across the lawn, they could see Frank saying good-bye to the visitors, leaning into the car window for a final word, then waving them off.

“I thought you’d be hours,” Joanna said.

“No, we’re all set. I told them the Astoria in Leningrad. You liked it the last time.”

“Marzena was here,” Joanna said, her voice flat.

“Already?”

“Her fridge is on the blink or something. And would you take a look.”

“Why doesn’t she just call the gate? Send a maintenance—”

“But you’re right here. I said you might be tied up, so you have an out.”

“No, she’ll just come back. Want to take a walk?” he said to Simon. “It’s not far. Have a cigar before dinner.” He pulled one out of his breast pocket. “Cuban.” An enticement. “The boys brought some.”

Simon had been watching them, an innocent volley, neither giving anything away, but now Frank’s eyes were more insistent. Come with me.

“You’d better put on some boots. It’s wet,” Joanna said, turning to go, done with it.

They took the path past the garden, through trees and then a small clearing, no other houses in sight.

“We have the go-ahead for Wednesday. That give you enough time to wrap up the book?”

“Wednesday,” Simon said.

“I moved the time up. Just in case,” he said, looking at Simon, not saying more. “We’re on the night train. The Red Arrow.” He took a puff on the cigar. “Always popular with foreign visitors. They like the cover, by the way. I knew they would. What would I be doing poking around the Baltics by myself? Now the Agency won’t suspect—”

“But they know.”

“Stay on our side of the board. The Service operation.”

“Which is what, exactly? You never say.”

“It’s better to—” He stopped, catching Simon’s look.

“I think I’m entitled to know. Now.”

Frank nodded. “The Agency’s been in touch with a dissident group. Now they’re coming to make contact. And we’ll be there.”

“Are they?”

“Of course not. They’re coming to get me,” he said, explaining something to a child. “There is no Agency operation. Except the one I planned. A typical operation, like the ones I used to run, the same details, so it’s plausible. Everything has to be plausible. We round up the group, then we intercept the boat. And something else happens. The last minute, when it’s too late.”

“On the boat.”

“Right.”

“From Leningrad.”

“No, we’re tourists in Leningrad. What we want the Agency to think.” He looked at Simon. “If they were watching. Which we want the Service to think. Keep the board straight. Then Tallinn, next stop, then Riga. But we never get to Riga. Just the boat in Tallinn.”

“Why Tallinn?”

“I know the Service chief there. He’s like Pirie, thinks he’s God’s gift and doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. He’ll go along with anything he thinks the Service wants. The station chief in Leningrad is good. He might have a question or two. We can’t risk that. And it’s further away from international waters. The Agency wouldn’t dream of trying to make contact near Leningrad. But Estonia—”

“It’s still the Soviet Union.”

“But they don’t think so, bless them. You know how the Agency is about that. Still fighting the good fight.”

Simon glanced over at him. Almost a hum in his voice.

“Besides, there really is a group of dissidents in Tallinn. Estonian nationalists. Everything plausible, remember?”

“Like the Latvians,” Simon said, half to himself. He looked up. “What happens to them?”

“What’s going to happen to them anyway. But this way it works for us.”

“Jesus, Frank—” Simon said, his stomach turning.

“If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else. The Service knows about them. They really are enemies of the state.”

“This state.”

“That’s right. My last job for the Service.” He turned. “It buys us out, Jimbo. We’re in this. They’re going to find Gareth. We don’t have time to change plans now. Just get out. Don’t worry, you won’t have anything to do with the Estonians. Your hands are clean.”

Simon looked down at them, not just hands in a metaphor. Pushing against his windpipe.

“Why don’t I leave now then? Tomorrow. Just go. You don’t need me anymore.”

Frank stopped, alarmed. “You try to leave now, it throws a red flag before the play starts. The Service already approved the trip. Any change— You’re the cover. For the Agency.”

“But the Agency—”

“Stay on our side of the board. You make everything plausible. Besides, I need you to take Jo out.”

“What?”

“The boat’s a Service operation. Armed. I’m supposed to be bringing the Agency in. So how would I explain either of you? You’re going to take the ferry to Helsinki. I have it all timed. All planned.” He dropped the cigar and put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “One more meeting with DiAngelis. We’re almost there.”

Marzena’s dacha was more modest than Frank’s, a three-room cottage with only tarred shingles for insulation, a summer place. The problem with the refrigerator turned out to be a blown fuse, easily fixed. Simon looked for some trace of guile, the fridge an excuse to see Frank, but there was nothing but wide-eyed gratitude, electrical switches a genuine mystery. They were familiar with each other, neighbors, no more. Or maybe it was because he was there, a chaperone. Frank’s idea.

The talk over the thank-you drink was idle, about nothing, so Simon watched the conversation in their faces, the way he used to watch Diana and her men, waiting for the second he wasn’t supposed to see. A chance encounter at a restaurant, a party, and then a look between them and Simon would know. He used to wonder how it had started, what signal. A glance? A shift in the air? What had they said? A kind of sexual recruitment, maybe the way Frank had been recruited to the Party, with promises.

But he saw none of that here, not even the studied politeness Diana used to cover things, giving herself away by not looking at all. Instead Frank seemed amused by her, by the charm in her vanity, but also wary, someone unpredictable. Then what had Jo seen? Her own fears, maybe. A look misinterpreted. Or something real, now part of the past. He looked over at Marzena, suddenly feeling an odd sympathy for the left behind. Whatever she had been, she wasn’t part of the plan. Not even a good-bye.