Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Boris is meeting us with the bags.”

“Oh,” she said, filing this away, even stray information worth something. What? “I’m always hours early. Saul says it’s a thing with me. But I don’t miss the train either. Go, go,” she said, shooing him off. “I’ll see you upstairs.”

He started through the crowd, taking in faces in glimpses, like snapshots. No one he knew. Late now, but DiAngelis had been told to wait. Near the men’s room door, a man with a cigarette stared at him, then looked away. The Service? But so was Hannah. Who just happened to be here. Maybe he was being passed along, one observation post to the next. Why not Hannah? A woman who hid the atomic bomb design in her hat. And got on the train. Me, I’d be a nervous wreck.

DiAngelis wasn’t in the men’s room. Simon peed, then took his time washing his hands, looking at people in the mirror. A few looking back, at his suit. Everything noisy, toilets flushing and people talking in Russian, stall doors banging. DiAngelis wouldn’t be in one of those. He needed to be seen. Simon wiped his hands on the towel, people passing on either side of him. He couldn’t stay here much longer. Maybe DiAngelis had already come and gone, just outside in the vestibule, waiting. The line for the urinals inched forward. Novikov’s crew cut, his head looming over the line. The last thing Simon wanted, somebody who’d recognize DiAngelis, see them meet. Leave. But Novikov had spotted him, made eye contact. When Simon passed, he nodded.

“How are you?” The English low but audible as something separate. “Enjoying it?”

The man behind Novikov was looking away, pretending not to listen. Novikov leaned toward Simon, his voice almost a whisper.

“Have a cigarette. Outside. Last pillar on the left.” Then louder, pulling his head up again, “The second act is supposed to be even better.”

Simon went out to the vestibule, packed now, the crowd spilling out to the portico, the sky still light. No one was supposed to know but DiAngelis, no leaks. Unless Novikov was literally just a messenger, repeating words. Last pillar on the left. A few people, but not so many as near the central columns. Simon went to the very edge of the portico, where it began to sweep down to the square, and stopped at the last pillar. He lit a cigarette.

“Over here.” DiAngelis, leaning against the building. “Go around to the side.” He motioned his head left. The Maly Theatre side, another long portico, not as grand as the main entrance, just somewhere to stay out of the rain.

“I thought you weren’t coming.”

“With the ambassador? Whose idea was that? Tell Frank he’s getting rusty. Moscow rules. Two changes of cars. No tails. Usually takes the whole evening, just to shake them. So when?”

“Thursday. We go to Leningrad tonight. Tomorrow we see the sights. Wednesday, the Peterhof. Then Tallinn. Boat goes out at six. Memorize these.” He gave him the coordinates. “Do it twice, make sure. That’s the meet the Agency’s expecting. And the Service. Now these. Lat 60.7095 by Longitude 28.734.”

DiAngelis looked up. “That’s in Russia.”

Simon nodded. “You’d make a good sailor. Vyborg. You won’t even need the coordinates. Just head for the port.”

“What the fuck’s going on?”

“Wednesday. An alternative boat. This one you arrange. Yourself. No leaks.”

“The Agency doesn’t have—”

“Just assume. Thursday is still the plan. But if anything happens, if we have to move faster, then Wednesday. Vyborg. Where nobody’s expecting us. Except you.”

“In the Soviet Union. I can’t do that.”

Simon nodded. “Send locals. A fishing boat. Finnish. Maybe they need some repairs. Wednesday, late morning. If we don’t show, they go home.”

“Why Vyborg?”

“Close to Finnish waters. If we have to make a run for it. The port’s not far from the train station. An easy walk for us.”

“How do you know?”

“I can read maps.”

“You or Frank?”

“Get someone who’s never heard of Frank, or the other plan. Keep them separate.”

DiAngelis looked up, his face a question mark.

“The Lubyanka’s been jumpy. They lost a man and that makes them crazy. Especially about the foreign agents. So we have to be careful. We’re assuming it’s still a go Thursday. But if anything happens, we need an escape hatch. In case.”

“And I’m supposed to arrange all this in a day.”

“You’re the Agency. Start tonight.”

DiAngelis started to say something, then stopped. He dropped his cigarette. “He’d better fucking be there.”

“He will. One or the other. Let’s hope it’s Thursday. So you can haul him in yourself. Your big fish. You already have the boat?”

DiAngelis nodded.

“Then we’re set. Oh, one more thing. I need a gun.”

“A gun. Where do you think you are? This is the Soviet Union. You get caught with that—a foreigner—and you don’t leave. Ever.”

“That’s something to keep in mind.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. You even know how to use it?”

“It’ll come back. I was in the OSS.”

“In an office.”

“After training. We’re wasting time. I need the gun.”

“What for?”

“Protection. What do you care? I’m delivering Frank. I don’t want to get nervous.”

“And where the fuck am I supposed to get it?” He glanced at his watch. “At this hour?”

“You’re the Agency, aren’t you? You can do anything.” He put up his hand to cut off DiAngelis’s reply. “Just get it to me. We’re on the Red Arrow tonight. Compartment 62. Or the Astoria in Leningrad tomorrow. I don’t care how you get it to me, just do it. Before Wednesday. Or the whole thing’s off.”

“Off?”

“One that works. I don’t want to blow my hand off. Have Mata Hari leave it on the train. However you want to do it. You must have Moscow rules for this too. Or use your imagination.” He looked over. “I don’t move him without it.”

DiAngelis said nothing for a second. “I thought he was moving himself.”

Simon looked at him. “And I’ll make sure he gets there. Anything else? I was just supposed to give you time and place and go.”

“Then that covers it. Tell him I got the message.” He paused. “You don’t want to let all this go to your head. The cloak and dagger. People get hurt with guns.”

“Want to give me the coordinates one more time?”

“Go fuck yourself.”

He waded back through the crowd in the vestibule, feeling a little dizzy, as if he’d been holding his breath and could now exhale. He’d done it. And no one knew. The stares, the curious looks, were for his suit, not him. Nobody followed him in from behind the pillar, trailed him up the stairs, even thought him capable of espionage. In the heart of Moscow.

Frank and Jo were still in the main foyer, smoking near the open windows.

“I thought you got lost,” Frank said.

“There was a line.”

“You just missed Hannah,” Jo said. “She said she ran into you downstairs.”

“Everything okay?” Frank said, unable to resist.

“Yes, fine. Just crowded, that’s all.”

“Think what it’s like for us,” Jo said. “All the clothes. And back then. Those skirts. Oh, there’s Melinda. And Donald. I’d better say hello. They get wounded if you don’t.”

“No Scrabble,” Frank said, then when she’d moved away, “No Scrabble. So that’s one thing to look forward to. Everything went all right?”

“He’ll be there Thursday.”

Frank breathed out. “Well, that’s that, then.” He looked around the bright room, as if he were saying good-bye, then turned to Simon. “Thanks, Jimbo.”

Odette’s lookalike came to seduce Prince Siegfried, the swans now in black, and the ballet went on and on, Simon trying to keep his eyes fixed on the stage, not be obviously restless. Would Frank sense something, guess what was happening? Used to reading people, the rhythms of an interrogation. But Frank just seemed bored, restless himself, his mind elsewhere, but not on Simon. Thanks, Jimbo. Odile twirled. What exactly would Ian’s motive be? The simple, the plausible. Gareth had caught him making contact with MI6, the move Elizaveta had been expecting for years. But why would Frank suspect? Simple. Something Perry had said, no longer here to contradict, another scientist, a man willing to sign letters. Let’s go over it again. He wouldn’t have to plant evidence, just the suspicion. Hannah already believed it. Sitting somewhere behind them watching Siegfried betray Odette. The setup by Von Rothbart. The air they breathed here. One more day.