Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Come on, Jimbo,” Frank said. “Are we supposed to look at the pages or up at you?”

Simon stood by the desk, reluctant to sit down.

“Come on. This was all your idea in the first place,” Frank said smiling.

Act as if nothing had changed. Simon took the chair next to him.

“A little closer,” the photographer said.

“I won’t bite,” Frank said, slightly puzzled, Simon still holding back, at the edge of the picture.

“Okay, this way,” McPherson said, and in the flash that momentarily blinded him, Simon saw his father looking at the magazine, head down, shamed by a notoriety that now included both boys, not just one. Making a profit on treason.

“How about one by the radio?” McPherson said. “Where you listen to the news.”

Frank turned toward the old console with its mesh speaker and Bakelite knobs and leaned in, concentrating on the news.

Boris, usually in the other room, stayed with them in the study, fascinated by it all, the screen test prompting and the paraphernalia, examining McPherson’s case as if he were looking for contraband. When he finally got bored and went out to get more tea, McPherson took an envelope from his breast pocket and slipped it to Simon. Documents, presumably the exit visas for Frank and Joanna. What DiAngelis knew they needed. What Frank hadn’t asked for.

“They said to check the—” McPherson began, cut off by Frank’s pointing up to the chandelier.

“One more by the radio?” Frank said, still in character, nodding to McPherson.

Simon shoved the envelope into his briefcase, evidence now, buried under manuscript pages, safe from Boris’s snooping, but how could it be explained? Illegal documents. Prepared by the Americans. He looked at Frank, turning the radio knobs again. For a trip nobody was going to take.

Think it through. What he’d been doing since that night at the dacha, staring up at the ceiling, suddenly alone. Run to the embassy and tell DiAngelis? With some Service ear listening. There had to be one, maybe more, who’d ring alarm bells straight back to Frank. And what would Frank do? Wave him off fondly at Sheremetyevo? Shrug as DiAngelis got away? Explain it to the Service? A scheme that went wrong, Simon the X factor? They’d never listen, never forgive. Frank couldn’t let him go, not yet. He’d never make it to the airport. Only to the Lubyanka. He saw Gareth’s face in the church, stunned, Frank ready to accuse him, turn the truth inside out. Who do you think they’d believe, you? Not Simon either, the Agency tool, luring his brother back. Another Gary Powers, caught red-handed, the pieces of evidence right there in his briefcase. Would Frank actually do it? He’d have to. He couldn’t just run away this time, leaving a mess. He’d have to save himself. And if they didn’t believe him? Simon thought of the Rubins, all of them at the lunch, tentative, nervous, the Service like a scythe hanging over them. And if it struck, or didn’t, Joanna was trapped forever, would die here, lost in a haze, even her privileges gone. Some plan, one that let Frank’s play out to the last minute, both sides of the board unaware that they were now part of a different game. Too late to stop now, not this close. Be the smart one. Work out the details. Back at his desk at the OSS, planning operations. There was still time, a few days. Enough to think it through.

“The telephone,” Boris said, coming back with a tea mug. “The office.”

“Now what,” Frank said, but getting up eagerly, summoned. “Why don’t you get a few shots of Boris?”

“It’s not permitted.”

“Oh, I’ll get it cleared,” Frank said, waving his hand.

“Not for the magazine,” Simon said. “The book. We’re going to use some of the pictures for an insert. Don’t you want to be in the book?”

Boris had only half-followed this but got the end and smiled, pleased. “Yes, in the book,” he said, then went over to stand against a bookcase, shoulders back.

“And Mrs. Weeks?” McPherson said, still shooting Boris.

“She’d rather not. She’s not in the excerpt, so—”

“But you’ll want her in the book.”

What could Simon say? Plenty of time for that later?

“We’ll use some old pictures. From when she actually appears in the story.” There must be some, not just the ones in his head.

“Boris, you look like a commissar,” Frank said, coming back, breezy, in good spirits. “Take a few, so we have a choice. How much longer, do you think?” he said to McPherson. “I’ve only got the morning now. Have to go to the office this afternoon.”

“The office?” Simon said.

“Don’t worry about the book. We can finish it on the train or something. Anyway, you’ll need to pack. Good news. We leave tonight. The Red Arrow. I was afraid the train would be—but it’s all right. All fixed. We’ll have to skip Riga, though. They want me back by the weekend. Lucky I could get away at all. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Tonight?” Too soon. What about the meeting with DiAngelis? He couldn’t just pick up the phone. DiAngelis would have things to arrange on his end. Too soon.

“Well, pack light. It’s Jo I’m worried about. Where else would you like me?” he said to McPherson, professional again.

“We’ve got plenty of books. How about outside, in front of the building?”

“Can’t. Believe it or not, it’s supposed to be a secret. Where I live. In case the CIA wants to kidnap me. Or worse. I know, but back then— Anyway we never changed it, the rule. What about Patriarch’s Pond? I walk there a lot, and you’ve got the water. Just down the block. Maybe Jo would like to come too. Some fresh air.”

“So we leave midnight?” Simon said, trying to form a timeline in his head, Frank ahead of him again. Ahead of everybody, taking the board back, not giving anyone time. Did he know? Had he seen it in Simon’s face, the eyes opening behind the blur?

Frank nodded. “That’s right. The overnight train. You keep saying you’ve got to get back, so the sooner the better, no?” Simon’s idea now. “I thought we’d do something special this evening. You know, your last— And the Service came through.” He opened his hand, voilà. “Seats at the Bolshoi. You can’t leave Moscow and not see the Bolshoi. Fyodorovna doing Swan Lake.” He turned to McPherson. “They tell me the embassy’s got a bunch of season tickets. Diplomatic perk. You have any friends there, tell them this is the night they want to use them.” Said casually, but his eyes steady on McPherson. “You don’t want to miss Fyodorovna. They should definitely go tonight. Everybody’ll be there. Even us,” he said, amusing himself, with a quick glance to Boris to see if he’d been too direct, insistent.

“I’ll do that,” McPherson said, message received.

Simon looked at Frank. Another feint, in plain sight, as clever as a card trick. Ahead of them.

“My last night,” Simon said to himself, thinking.

“Yes,” Frank said. “Doesn’t seem possible, does it? The time just—went.” His voice affectionate, no longer breezy, as if the idea of Simon’s leaving had just hit home. Even the tone right, how a brother would feel. And for a second Simon wanted it to be true, not something for Boris and McPherson, for him, the old voice.

“Whose last night?” Joanna said at the door.

“Simon’s. Well, not last. You’ll have to come back to Moscow to fly home. We’re moving up the trip,” Frank said to Jo. “The Red Arrow tonight.”

“Tonight? Why the change?”

“I have to be back this week. And we don’t want to rush Leningrad. I know it’s last-minute—”

“Everything is these days,” she said, disconcerted, trying to read his face. She turned to Simon. “Usually it takes months to arrange anything. See what a VIP you are. Oh, but Simon, you’re going?” A crack in her voice.