Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Not yet.”

“I mean, I knew you would, but not so—”

“All the more reason to make the most of it now,” Frank said. “We’ve got the Bolshoi tonight.”

“We do? You hate the ballet.”

“Maybe the Metropol first?”

“To celebrate,” Jo said vaguely, still looking at Frank, trying to work something out.

McPherson moved a standing lamp. “Now that you’re here,” he said to Jo, “would you mind? How about the two of you sitting over there?” A quiet evening at home.

“With my knitting,” Jo said, sarcastic.

“We were going down to the Pond,” Frank said, conciliatory. “Maybe something there?” He paused. “For the book.”

She glanced at Simon, then nodded. “Let me put on some lipstick. I’ll catch up.”

“Better bring that with you,” Frank said to Simon, indicating the briefcase. “Ludmilla tidies up—she means well but then you can’t find anything. You don’t want her near the book.”

Or the exit visas. Left behind for anyone to find. An amateur’s mistake, the kind Frank didn’t make. Think.

They walked to Patriarch’s Pond in pairs, Boris trailing.

“What’s going on?” Jo said to Simon.

“What do you mean?”

“He’s scarcely been into the office for months and now all of a sudden he has to be back? Nobody makes travel plans at the last minute. This is Russia. There are channels.”

“The Service—”

“Oh, the Service. I know. Always pulling rabbits out of hats. But why now? I know him. He’s got that voice that goes over his voice. Has he said anything?”

“Honestly, I don’t—” The words sticking in his throat, lying to her. But what was a lie now?

“He trusts you. He never tells me anything. I’m a drunk. I’m not reliable.”

“You’re not a drunk.”

She looked at him, a small smile. “Not the way he thinks I am. Maybe that’s why I do it. If I’m unreliable, he won’t tell me things. So have a drink. But you noticed. How far it goes. He doesn’t. You notice things.” She laughed to herself. “You’d make a good spy.”

“I doubt it,” he said, uneasy. “My mother used to say my face was an open book.”

She turned to him. “Not anymore. I watched you at lunch. You hated them all, but you never let on.”

“I didn’t hate—”

“Disapproved, then. You disapproved. But you kept it to yourself. You do that. I should be grateful. Imagine how I’d feel if I knew—you disapproved.”

“Jo—”

But she was turning away. “Would you do something for me? A favor? Don’t make a fuss about these pictures. I don’t want to. So they can see what I look like now? Poor thing. But what can you expect? No, thanks.”

“You look fine.”

A half smile. “Well, you’re supposed to be goofy about me. Were, anyway.” She stopped, her mood shifting. “I can see. I know what I look like.” She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t make a fuss, okay? They’ll listen to you. I really don’t want to.”

He imagined her stepping off a plane, surrounded by flashbulbs.

“You’re part of the story, you know,” he said gently. “I can’t change that.”

“The first part. Not now.”

“So we use the same old pictures. The ones the papers ran after you left.” He looked up, as if the idea had just occurred to him, not a detail on a checklist. “How about your passport? Do you still have it?”

“My passport?”

“Your American one. The one you used to get here. It’s exactly when you leave the story. I’d get it back to you.”

“That doesn’t matter. It expired.”

“But you still have it?”

She nodded. “I don’t know why. Memento, I guess.”

“But the picture—”

“Oh, Simon, it’s a passport picture.”

“Which makes it authentic. Like a time capsule.” He paused. “The way you looked at the time.”

She stared at him for a second. “Now you’re doing it too. What Frank does, the voice on top of the voice. The two of you—” She stopped. “All right, fine. Do you want Frank’s too? Two mug shots. Like an FBI poster.” She brushed his arm before he could speak. “But none today, promise? Just the old ones.”

“Promise. Dig them out later, okay, so we don’t forget?”

She hesitated. “Simon, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If something were—I don’t know, wrong, anything?”

“You’re imagining—” he started, not trusting his voice. Deflect. “By the way, when I was noticing things? At lunch? I think you’re wrong about Marzena.”

Jo raised her eyebrows, waiting.

“She’s not his type.”

“Oh, his type,” she said.

“You’re his type.”

She looked at him, stopped by this.

“Still,” he said. Catching her, what she wanted to hear. What Frank would have done.

McPherson was fixing a camera on a tripod at the edge of the pond, framing the yellow pavilion across the water. Boris had found his bench near the bronze statue of Krylov and was lighting a cigarette just as he had that first day—how long ago now? Days. Everything different except the pond.

“How about you and Mrs. Weeks walking toward me?” McPherson said.

“We’ll do Jo another time,” Simon said, taking her place with Frank. “One more of us? How far away do you want us?”

“Go up halfway and start walking back. When I signal,” McPherson said.

“What’s wrong with Jo?” Frank said.

“Camera shy. Anyway, we need to talk. The Bolshoi?”

“It’s plausible. For DiAngelis to be there. Everybody wants to see Fyodorovna. Then plausible to have a pee at intermission. You too. It’s a long first act. McPherson will tell him to wait if you’re not there, wash his hands again, something.”

“Me.”

“I can’t be seen with him. Not even by accident. So it has to be you.”

“And what do I say to him?”

“You give him the meeting time and coordinates.”

“The coordinates.”

“For the boat.” He pointed to a toy sailboat idling in the middle of the pond. “Like an address on the water. Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth, except coordinates. Nautical locations. You’ll have to remember them, nothing in writing, but they’re easy. Anyway, you have a steel-trap memory—you still do, don’t you?”

“I’ll remember.”

“You don’t want to get it wrong. If you’re off by even—”

“I’ll remember. Does this give him enough time?”

“He’ll have to scramble,” Frank said, smiling a little. “But he will. And now there’s less chance of a leak. People hang around waiting, they talk. This way it’s just him. The coordinates stay up here.” He tapped his head. “No one else. He should know that, but it doesn’t hurt to remind— No one else.”

“Except me.”

Frank nodded. “So any leak, it’s from his side. Better remind him of that too. No leaks. If he wants me alive.”

Weaving another strand, all of it real to him.

“But don’t your people know? Somebody must. If you’ve organized this—a boat, all the rest of it.”

“We don’t have leaks. You don’t think the Agency has anybody inside the Service, do you? The Service would never let that happen.” Still proud, closing ranks.

“Unless he’s one of their own.”

Frank glanced at him, uncomfortable. “That’s right. Now, what’s wrong with Jo?”

Simon shrugged. “Vanity. She doesn’t want anybody to see—”

“The little wrinkles. I know.” He paused. “It’s not that. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with the book. With me.”

Simon looked over, a crack, an opening. “When are you going to tell her?” he said, asking something else. When are you going to tell me? Tell me I’m wrong, it’s all just as you say. Not a scheme, a real plan. There’s still time to fix things. You can fix anything. Tell me I’m wrong.