Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“No funeral. They don’t want to attract attention.”

“They?”

“The office. You know. They’re afraid the foreign press—” He hesitated. “So, for the obituaries, he died after a long illness. And that’s the end of Gareth. A long illness. I asked, could he be buried in Novodevichy—you know, so close to us and he liked to go there. But they said no. Somewhere out near Izmaylovo Park. So far. Who goes there? An hour on the Metro if you want to visit the grave.”

“I’m sorry. But maybe it’s for the best,” Frank said, his voice steady, reassuring.

“Yes,” Sergei said, polite, not believing it, then looked up at Frank, hesitant again. “I know we’re not supposed to say, but I wanted to thank you. What you’re doing for him.” Simon looked up.

“Me? I don’t—”

“I know. Everything’s a secret there. But people talk. So I just wanted to say thank you, that’s all. Now they’ll find him.”

“Find him?” Simon said, not following.

“The murderer. I thought at first, it’s like the funeral. Sweep it away. Pretend it never happened. But now they have to do it. They’ll listen to you. And to bring her in—it sends a message. Gareth used to say there was no one like her. A bloodhound. So now maybe we’ll find out.”

“Sergei,” Frank said quickly. “You don’t talk—office business. Not in front of—”

“No. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Nervous now, guilty. “Excuse me. It’s just—” He turned to Simon. “I wanted to say thank you, that’s all. Your brother, he’s a hero to me. Gareth, too. He always liked you. And now to do this for him. I know what the others think, how they laughed at him. But now something will happen. Justice.”

“Let’s hope so,” Frank said smoothly, a kind of dismissal.

“So please go on with your drink,” Sergei said, about to move away, and then grasped Frank’s hand and shook it. “They said today, nothing so far, but maybe soon. Justice. How pleased he would be, Gareth, to know it was you. Excuse me.”

Simon watched him go, heading toward the ornate lobby and out into the Moscow night. He pressed his fingers to the bar, holding himself in, and looked at Frank.

“He talks too much,” Frank said. “Everybody talks too much. Most secret organization in the world and everybody talks too much. What Pa used to call an irony. Come on, let’s finish here.” He tossed back the rest of the wine.

Simon kept looking at him, not sure how to begin. “Brought who in?” he said finally, already knowing.

“Elizaveta,” Frank said, looking back.

“To investigate Gareth’s murder.”

Frank nodded. “Under me. Would you rather have someone else in charge? She’ll look at everybody but me. It warms the heart to see it, how grateful she is. To be back at the office. The Service is like that—once it’s in your blood. And now she owes it to me. One of the foreigners. Another irony. All of them suspect now except one.”

“Until there’s no one else.”

“But by then I’ll be gone. We couldn’t let this get in the way. It would have ruined everything.”

“And if you don’t go?”

“What do you mean?”

“Hypothetically. If you were still here. You couldn’t call her off now. How would that look? What happens if she doesn’t come up with anyone?”

“But she will. The Service always does. Someone will have to pay. But not me.” He looked over. “Not you either. I told you I’d look out for you.”

Simon turned back to his drink, stomach clenching again.

“What did he mean about today? Nothing so far today.”

“There was an interrogation.”

“Ian,” Simon said quietly.

“Yes.”

“That’s why you were there today.”

“Well, you have to show a certain amount of interest. Especially in the beginning. Before you let her off the leash.”

“You interrogated him?”

“I was there.”

“Did he know, on Saturday, that it would be you?”

“No, of course not. It’s better this way.”

“Better?”

“It throws them off balance. Even your friends suspect you. Why? What did you do? You think about everything you’ve ever said, how it might sound. You go over it and over it. You’d be amazed what comes up, all those things you thought you forgot. That might explain it. Why you’re there.”

“And then you get tired. Say things.”

Frank nodded. “It’s not my favorite part of the job—”

“But he didn’t do it.”

“We have to give Elizaveta somewhere to look.” He paused. “I never said it was pretty. But neither’s Norilsk. Freeze to death. Starve. Or a bullet. You pick.”

“And when she doesn’t find anything?”

“We’ll be long gone. But she’s very good, you know. And she needs a win. She just might pull it off.”

With Frank still here, helping her.

“When were you going to tell me this?”

“I wasn’t. If Sergei hadn’t opened his—” He stopped. “You’re not used to it, the business. I didn’t want you to be—distracted.”

“Distracted? Frank, we killed a man. And now we’re making someone else—”

“Listen to me,” Frank said, grasping his arm. “We didn’t do it. That’s right, isn’t it? We didn’t do it. So somebody else must have. Or do you have a better plan?”

Prince Siegfried had already celebrated his birthday and was off with his hunting bow to Swan Lake before Simon could pay any attention to what was happening on stage. Up to now it had just been part of the blur—the lines of black Zils with Party officials, the lamps in Theater Square, Jo all dressed up, turning heads, as if she had stepped out of the Metropol’s fantasy of itself, how people used to look. They had crossed the square into another piece of tsarist Moscow, red velvet and gilt, the royal box still like a throne room at the center of the mezzanine.

“Stalin never used it,” Frank said. “He used to sit there, on the side.”

“Man of the people?”

“No. Afraid somebody would take a shot at him. In the tsar’s box. Sitting target.”

“But not in his box?”

“Well, he used to sit back, away from the railing. I didn’t say it made sense. He was crazy. That’s the way he thought.” He smiled at Simon’s expression. “My loyalty was to the Service, not him. I used to think, if we can survive this—and we did.”

“At a cost.”

“That’s right. At any cost. First you have to survive. Right?”

Simon stared at the curtain for a second, then turned to him, his voice low. “Frank, promise me something.”

Frank waited.

“Ian. Promise you won’t let him be—I mean, it’s bad enough, Gareth—” He stopped, glancing across to Jo, but she was looking around the theater, distracted.

“But you can somehow talk yourself into believing that was self-defense,” Frank finished. “Is that it? But not Ian. Even though it comes to the same thing.”

“No, it doesn’t. It’s not right.”

Frank looked at him. “Not right. Still Mt. Vernon Street. One of Pa’s dinner problems. Right. Wrong. You think it matters?”

Simon said nothing.

“Anyway, in a few days I’ll be suspect number one, not Ian. Unless you forget the coordinates.” Trying to be playful.

“Promise me anyway.”

“What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know. Bad luck, maybe. We don’t need another—”

“You’d rather they think it was me.”

Simon looked at him. Turn the board. “You’ll be gone. What difference does it make?”

Frank held his gaze for another second, caught off guard, then turned. “Fine. Ian didn’t do it. Feel better?”

“You’ll make sure?”

Another curious look.