Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“It was different in the field,” Saul said. “The Bureau had guys everywhere. And if you were caught, you were caught. They gave the Rosenbergs the chair. You don’t want to forget that.”

“You couldn’t take anything out of Harwell,” Ian said suddenly. “Not a scrap.”

“So how did you—?” Frank said.

“I memorized it.”

“Arzamas was like that,” Marzena said. “Someone always watching. But they couldn’t watch up here.” She tapped the side of her head.

“But it wouldn’t matter,” Ian said. “Nobody’s trying to get anything out here.”

“No, that’s right,” Marzena said quickly, a confused backpedaling.

“There’s never been a leak. Not from there. Harwell either, except for me. You know, you do something for years, you’d think you’d build up a little credit. Like something in the bank. But they never trust you. Not just Elizaveta. How can they not trust us? After everything?”

No one answered, fidgeting, uncomfortable.

“It’s important to be careful,” Boris said finally. “All loyal Soviets.” He spread his hand to take in the table. “But it’s always possible—just one. Think how serious that would be.”

“You think any of us would betray the Party?” Ian said.

Why not? Simon wanted to say. You’ve already betrayed once, everything you knew.

“Not you,” Marzena said, patting his hand, a side glance to Frank. “No one would think that.”

“It’s important to be careful,” Boris said again.

Everyone looked away, not wanting to meet his eye, used to it now, being suspect, watched. Would Boris file a report? Someone else? Simon looked around the table, trying to remember what he’d said, how it would look on a typed page. But he hadn’t said anything. Everything was still safe inside, like Ian’s memorized secrets, the sound of Gareth gasping for air.

“Fine talk for a party,” Joanna said. “Who wants some more wine?” Filling her own glass.

“Are your parents still living?” Hannah said to Simon, a polite afternoon tea question.

“My father.”

“Ah. Well, maybe he’ll come too now. After you tell him it’s not so terrible.”

“No. I’m afraid—”

Frank looked up, a flicker of shadow on his face, some stray internal cloud.

“He’s too old to make the trip now. He’s very frail.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. But you two must have so much to talk about. Catching up. How much longer will you be here?”

“Just a few days. We’re almost finished with the book.”

“The book. I’d forgotten. That’s why you came.” She turned to Frank. “They’re really letting you—?”

Frank nodded. “Their idea. Not mine. Of course, they can always change their minds. But so far they seem to like it. Right, Boris?”

“Is excellent.”

“Am I in it?” Marzena said.

“No. No one here. Just in America, before I came.”

“But you must be,” Hannah said to Simon.

“Just in passing. I wasn’t part— Frank used other sources.” When he wasn’t using me. Lunch at Harvey’s. How’s everything at State?

“He’s lucky to have you. A publisher in the family.”

“We’re all lucky,” Joanna said, sipping her drink. “And now you’ll go and we won’t see you again, will we? I hadn’t thought about it before. Leningrad. And then—poof.”

“You’re going to Leningrad?” Hannah said, interested.

“And Tallinn,” Joanna said. “And Riga. See Riga and die.” She giggled. “One of Frank’s trips. And then he’s gone. No more Simon.” Looking at him.

But it was the trip the table wanted to know about. When? Where were they staying? Had it been difficult to get permission? They leaned forward, eager for details. Any travel. Somewhere away from the compound, the pine woods, the men at the gate. Away.

“You have to see the Hermitage,” Hannah said. “And the Peterhof. The fountains. Such a nice time of year too. I remember I couldn’t sleep, it was still so light.”

“Shall I come too?” Marzena said. “I’ve never been to Riga. Is it nice? I could meet you there.” Playing with it, not meaning it, all of them packing imaginary bags.

“Oh, just like that,” Hannah said. “Just get on a train.”

“Yes, why not?”

“And your travel documents, please?” A conductor’s voice.

“I don’t need any. A Polish passport. That’s why I kept it. You can come and go with a Polish passport. One good thing about Comecon, yes? Soviets, you have to have this and that, but Poles—we can leave anytime we want. No exit visas. Just the passport. That’s all I need.”

Simon looked up. But everyone else would need a visa, Soviet citizens now. He glanced over at Frank, only half paying attention to this, one of Marzena’s whims. Everything planned, the times, the ferry. Jo would have to have an exit visa there. The first thing DiAngelis arranged. But Frank had been surprised, dismissive, something she wouldn’t need.

Simon took off his glasses, wiping them again, trying to think. Why not? Everything else planned, the whole trip arranged through the Service. Why not? He looked up again, the table a blur in the bright light.

“You’ll have to bunk in with Simon,” Joanna was saying, teasing Marzena, happy with drink. “No room at the inn.”

Marzena laughed, flirtatious. “So, and then what would people say? To go all the way to Riga to—”

Simon stopped listening, looking through the blur at Joanna. Who had never been told the plan, everything too risky. Who needed a new life. Just a short ferry ride from Tallinn. Where she’d need an exit visa. Which Frank hadn’t arranged, said they wouldn’t need. Why not? He looked down the table, Frank’s features coming into focus, and Simon felt himself begin to flush, the moment sweeping through him like blood. Because she wasn’t going, had never been going. He stared at Frank, then lowered his head, fiddling with the glasses, hiding his face. The smart one. Think it through. The plan from the beginning. But everything had been about her. The one hook Simon would never refuse. He looked sideways at Marzena, still having fun with her fantasy trip. Or maybe Frank had meant for her to go. Hadn’t he already left a country behind? New life, new woman, something Joanna had known just sniffing the air.

“Oh, but what about Pani?” she was saying. “Can we take Pani?”

Frank was looking away, his mind somewhere else. No. Not Marzena. But not anyone else either. Simon looked down again, his arms tight against his body. Joanna wasn’t going. Nobody was going. But DiAngelis was coming to get them, streaming into the trap Simon had helped build. Killed for. Following Frank again. Who always knew what to do. But this, would he do this? Simon saw his face at Harvey’s, casual, intimate. How’s everything at State? Drawn in again. I can’t do this without you. The smart one. Think what to do. He looked over at Frank, feeling him slide away, a second skin sloughed off, leaving Simon bare and wriggling. On his own.

TOM MCPHERSON ARRIVED WITH two heavy cases of equipment—lamps and filters and folding reflector discs for backlighting, all of it nestled in loops of wires that took half an hour to untangle and set up.

“I thought it was going to be just you and a Brownie,” Frank said, amused.

“Not for Look.”

“Is all this supposed to make me look better?”

He was wearing the cardigan, as promised, and waiting placidly behind the typewriter while McPherson adjusted the lights, the study now an obstacle course of tripods and cables. Joanna had made them tea and then retreated.

“How about you and your brother,” McPherson said to Simon. “Working on the manuscript.”