Joseph Kanon: Defectors

Simon turned to the window again. Dark now, an occasional window light from the side of the road. “What a fucking mess,” he said quietly.

“What?”

“All of it.”

Frank was quiet for a minute. “I don’t see it that way,” he said finally. “Spain was a mess. The war was a mess. Pirie sending those Latvians in on some cockamamie suicide mission, that was a mess. I think things are getting better. I think we’re building something here. And I helped.” He turned. “I’m not asking you to agree with me. Just let the book speak for itself. That’s all. Fair enough?” Closing the sale, everything but a handshake. “Here, try one of these,” he said, offering the cigarette pack.

Simon inhaled. Russian smoke, so rough it clawed at his throat.

“It wasn’t a suicide mission. Someone betrayed them. As long as we’re telling the truth.”

Frank looked at him. “Not all of it. Then we’d have to say what they were planning to do. An assassination was involved, as I recall. Reprisal. In hopes that would lead to more trouble. All the old grudges. ‘Destabilize’ was the word Pirie used, wasn’t it? But we knew what it meant. More people killed. Luckily they didn’t get to start anything. Somebody stopped them.”

“Somebody might have stopped them sooner. Before they left. Since the op was doomed anyway.”

“Somebody might have. But that would have been revealing, wouldn’t it? And who’s to say they wouldn’t have tried again? Not exactly angels, that bunch.” He rubbed out his cigarette. “Look, you don’t really want to pick at old scabs, do you? We had no business sending those goons in. What the hell did Pirie think was going to happen? An uprising? Pick up your pitchforks and march on Riga? This wasn’t some client state. It was the Soviet Union. Russian soil. And we were sending in armed fighters.”

“Who didn’t think it was Russian soil. Who thought it was their country.”

“Their country,” Frank said. “So take on the Soviets. With us cheerleading in the background. Not to mention supplying the guns. You really want me to put this in the book? Hard to say who comes out worse. Pirie and his merry band of invaders or me, doing my job.”

Simon said nothing for a minute. “I think it’s important for the reader to know what you did. It wasn’t just passing papers. Who said what at a meeting. It wasn’t harmless. People got hurt. The reader wants to know how you felt about that.”

Frank turned to him. “You mean you do.”

“All right. I do.”

“Which version would you prefer? How all this dirty business tied me up in knots? All those sleepless nights? Or the truth? I never gave it a second thought. What were the Latvians thinking? What were we thinking to let them think it? They wanted to make war. The Soviets had a right to defend themselves. All pretty clear-cut, as far as I could see. No trouble sleeping. Not over them.” He took out another cigarette and toyed with it. “Still, I don’t know that one actually wants to say that. In a book. Hard to get the tone right.” He paused. “Christ. You’re only here an hour and we’re already doing this. Let’s not fight. Tonight, I just wanted—to see you. Catch up.”

“Like alums. A reunion.”

“That’s right. How’s business?” A mock slap on the back in his voice. “How’s the wife and kids?”

“Well, you know about the business. You’ve seen the books.”

“They were just protecting their interests,” Frank said, a little embarrassed.

“Did they actually break into the office to do it?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Frank said. “Let’s hope things pick up next year. With My Secret Life. You like the title, by the way? You never said.”

“I just got here.”

“It doesn’t feel that way, though. It feels like old times.”

Simon looked at him. The easy grin, like turning on a light.

“Anyway, how are the wife and kids?”

“Diana’s fine. No kids. She didn’t want them.” Just lovers, the ones Simon wasn’t supposed to know about.

“I have to say, I’m surprised. That you’re still together. You don’t mind my saying that?”

“You’ve said it. Why surprised?”

“I never thought she was your type, that’s all. But obviously I was wrong. Not the first time,” he said, a kind of apology for the argument before. “And lucky for me. The boss’s daughter. Just when I need you there. Making me respectable. Unless that’s just a front. Is that it? Still working for Don Pirie?”

“I never worked for Pirie. You did.”

“So I did. And he survived it. Well, shit always floats to the top. I have to say, the fact that he’s head of section is one of the few things that gives me comfort in my old age. The Main Adversary doesn’t seem as threatening with old Don in charge.”

“The main adversary?”

“What we call the States. Sort of code name.”

“Do you miss it?” Suddenly intimate.

“I don’t think about that. What would be the point? I didn’t buy a round-trip ticket. We’re here.” The words almost wistful, hanging in the air.

Simon said nothing, staring at him.

“And Moscow’s a fascinating city. Lots of nooks and crannies. You have to see some of it while you’re here. If I know the Service, they’ve booked you a Kremlin view, so that’s a start.” The concierge Service again. “And you know we travel, so I get around a fair amount.”

“Travel where?”

“Black Sea. Budapest. Dresden last year. Anywhere I like, really. In the socialist bloc.”

Simon nodded to Vassilchikov. “Does he go with you?”

“Once, to the Crimea. That was back when we thought someone might try to take a potshot at me. Now it’s usually just a local. To liaise. Help me with things.”

“How does Jo feel about this? Having someone around all the time?”

“Well, it’s not all the time.” He looked away. “She doesn’t always go. She prefers the dacha.”

“That doesn’t sound like her.”

“No,” Frank said. “Well, we change over the years.”

But he hadn’t. Simon watched him brush back the hair on the side of his head, a gesture so familiar that for a second you could believe he hadn’t changed at all. Still Frank. Whoever that had been.

“Why didn’t she want kids?” Frank said, a stray afterthought.

“She did. We couldn’t have them. So she said that.” Something he hadn’t told anyone, not even his secret to keep.

“Not your fault, I hope.”

“No.” A botched operation neither of them talked about, not sure whose child it might have been.

“That must have been a relief. Remember when Ray had to go through all that? Sperm counts. God, how embarrassing. Beating off in a cup.”

“What’s the difference? Nobody’s watching.”

“Then you hand it to a nurse.” He shuddered, playing. “And she’s looking right at you. Ray told me.” Another face, genuinely squeamish.

Simon smiled. “He look back?”

“What? Oh, at the nurse. Well, Ray. Not exactly Mr. Sensitive. He probably asked her out. Here.” He held out an invisible cup. “Like it was roses. Something she’d go for.” Both of them smiling now, Ray an old joke between them, the car easy again, no more scratchiness in the air. “Whatever happened to him anyway? Do you know?”

“Last I heard he was still at Bill’s law firm. Trusts.”

“Trusts. A guy who parachutes into France and makes it back. Funny how things turn out.”

Simon looked at him, but Frank had moved on.

“That’s the Kremlin. Almost there.”

They were coming down a sweeping broad street, eight lanes, Simon guessed, curiously empty of cars, just a few black shapes gliding by. At the bottom an open square and behind it the familiar fortress walls and gate towers, each tower topped by a glowing red star.