Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“You trying to scare me?” Lehman said, not sure whether he should be amused.

“Warn you.”

“So, what? This is the story on your brother?”

“Part of it.”

“And this is coming from him or from you?”

“Me.”

“With strings attached.”

“And some incentive. You’ll be out of a job here but the story will get you back to New York. With a book contract when you get there. Keating & Sons.” He looked at Lehman. “There’s some risk.”

“A book contract,” Lehman said. “With you dangling it. And this is—what? You’re the devil. And I’m being tempted?” he said, holding up his hand to mime a paper dangling.

“Something like that. No eternal life, though.”

“Just a story.”

Simon nodded. “Look, I need your help. It’s worth a contract to me. But you have to decide if it’s worth it to you. Like I said, there’s some risk.”

Lehman stared at him. “How about we start over? What story?”

“I have your word? If you’re not interested, this never happened?”

Lehman waved this away.

Simon looked around the study, like standing at the end of a dock. Jump.

“Frank is going to defect.”

“What?” Lehman said, just to make a sound.

“It’ll be your story. Exclusive.”

“Defect,” Hal said flatly.

“He wants to go home.”

“Home.” Another echo effect.

“And you’re going to help. So, your story.”

Lehman said nothing.

“Want to hear more or do you want to go?” He lifted his fingers. “No strings yet. Your choice.”

“He can’t. He can’t do it.”

“No, but I can. That’s why I came.”

Another long stare, Hal’s mind trying to catch up, not even aware of the sound of Russian coming into the room. The two women. Simon pointed to the adjoining washroom where the shoemaking tools had been.

“See the bicycle? He didn’t take it up until he was in his sixties. Physical fitness kick. Come this way.” Nodding to the women and putting his hand on the small of Lehman’s back to steer him down the stairs, an English-speaking guide, perhaps, or two foreign Tolstoy enthusiasts.

Still, English, something suspect. The women stopped. And then luckily there was the sound of more Russian, a tour group clomping through the dining room.

“What do you think this is?” Simon said, pointing to the small room off the back stairs. “Pantry? Can you read the Cyrillic?”

Lehman said nothing, still slightly dazed, then leaned forward to read the card next to the doorjamb. “Pickling room,” he said.

“That explains the barrels. Imagine a whole room just for pickles.” Chatty, turning his head slightly to see if the women were listening. But they now seemed to be fascinated by the writing desk.

“Boris is outside. We have to talk here. You have to decide today—you’ll see why in a minute. If it’s no, just leave some kind of message for me at the National. Anything, it doesn’t matter what. Otherwise, I’ll assume we’re in business, okay?”

Lehman nodded.

“I’ll tell you how this is going to work. Then you figure out the odds yourself. No contract is worth the wrong odds. So you decide. All right?”

Lehman said nothing, still calculating.

“Hal?”

“Tell me.”

A large, noisy Intourist group had taken over the Metropol’s dining room, but the maître d’ said he’d arrange for some food in the bar.

“We won’t make the ballet if we wait for a table,” Frank said. “Anyway the point is just to see this.” He pointed to the vast room, a tsarist relic of tables grouped around a central fountain, potted palms, and lamps on tall gold standards, all dwarfed by a vaulting stained glass ceiling, bright blue, a glass sky. “Paris had the Ritz and Vienna had the Imperial, so Moscow had to have one too. To keep up.”

“Hard to imagine now,” Simon said, taking it in, the worn red velvet, the usual Soviet dinginess. “That must have been the string quartet.” He nodded to a raised platform at the end of the room.

“While they stuffed themselves with caviar. And outside people were starving,” Frank said. “The good old days.” He looked over at Simon. “Nobody starves now. So there’s that. Let’s have a drink. Jo won’t be here until the last minute. Hairdresser,” he said, touching his own hair. “To look nice for the trip. All packed?”

Simon nodded.

“Almost there,” Frank said, putting a hand on Simon’s shoulder to lead him to the bar. “Got the coordinates?”

Simon repeated them.

“Let’s hope old Pete’s memory’s as good as yours.”

“We’ll only have a minute in the men’s room.”

“Say something twice and it’s yours. So make him say it twice.”

They were on the second glass of Georgian wine when the waiter came with small plates of food.

“Will I be followed? At the Bolshoi?” Simon said.

“No, you’re with me. He will be, though. So make it quick. Just what you’d do in a men’s room. Wash your hands. Get a towel. Excuse me. Beg pardon. Like that. In and out.”

“Like that.”

“Don’t worry, it will be.”

“And if he has a question? Wants to change the meeting spot—something.”

“He won’t. It’s like I showed you on the map. They’ll still be in international waters. They’d never cross into Soviet territory. Agency rule. I know, I wrote it. They’d never risk that. So we go to them.”

“Outside Soviet waters. And the Service has no problem—”

Frank brushed this away. “It’s not like a fence. Just water. Sometimes it’s hard to know which side of the line you’re on. And he’ll be close enough to make them think he’s over. If he follows the coordinates.

“So your people intercept—outside Soviet territory.”

“They don’t have to know that. They just know there’s an American boat out there up to no good. And coming in. Better to act and figure out your location later. For the record.”

“When it’s your word against DiAngelis’s.”

Frank looked at him. “Except I won’t be here.”

Simon sipped his wine. “What if DiAngelis says he can’t make that time. For whatever reason.”

“Then he’ll miss the high point of his career,” Frank said smiling. “Don’t worry, Jimbo, he’ll make it. The leverage is on our side. They want me. It would be a coup for them.”

“And vice-versa.”

Frank looked up.

“DiAngelis would be a coup for you. If it worked the other way.”

Frank said nothing, not sure how to respond. “But it’s not the other way,” he said finally.

“No. So what could go wrong? Just in case.”

“Come on, Simon. You see somebody in the men’s room, that’s all. Say a few words and out you go. Mission over.” He looked down at his watch. “She’s cutting it close.” He raised his head, taking in the other end of the bar. “Well, look who’s here. Back at the old watering hole.”

Simon half-turned. Sergei, nursing a drink.

“How does he afford it?” Frank said.

“Doesn’t he get Gareth’s—?”

“No. Next of kin. Except there is no next of kin.”

“So what happens to him now?”

Frank shrugged. “He finds somebody else.”

“Or the Service does,” Simon said, curious to see Frank’s response. “A new friend.”

“That’s not how it works. Gareth picks somebody up, we have to vet him. Make sure he’s not—a plant. But we don’t provide.” Still we.

“Let’s go before he sees us.”

“We just sat down.”

“I’d rather not, that’s all. Considering.” Glancing down at his hands, seeing them squeezing.

“Considering what?” Frank said blandly. “Nothing happened.” Each word emphasized. Simon looked up at him. And nothing had, Novodevichy not even a bad memory. “Anyway, he’s seen us. He’s coming over. Sergei,” he said, raising his voice, public. “I’m sorry we’re going to miss the funeral. We’ll be in Leningrad.”