Joseph Kanon - Defectors

The applause lasted for several curtain calls and gifts of flowers, as endless as the ballet itself. Finally the row began to move toward the aisle, joining the stream out. Simon checked his watch. Plenty of time. Novikov’s head again, behind him the ambassador and his wife. They paused to let people out into the aisle, then looked up and stopped, recognizing Frank. A flash of surprise, then embarrassment, Frank’s being there something that couldn’t be acknowledged. The ambassador looked away, as if he hadn’t seen anyone, and took his wife’s elbow. More than just a social snub, a turning away, afraid to make contact. What Frank was now, a pariah.

Simon glanced back to see if Joanna had noticed. A slight flush, biting her lower lip, following the ambassador’s wife, her back like a closed door. What it would be like, a line of turned backs. But what was it like here? She looked down, shoulders dropping, and Simon saw her on the dacha couch, turning pages. The album. It hadn’t occurred to him. She’d be leaving with the suitcase she’d brought to Leningrad, no pictures, no Richie. Impossible to get them now, a detail overlooked. What else hadn’t he done? All planned, but he’d forgotten the pictures, something she’d miss for the rest of her life. Pointless to think they could be sent on later, with the Service hunting for Frank.

A car took them to Leningradsky Station, one of three railway terminals surrounding Komsomolskaya Square. After the Metropol and the Bolshoi, Simon somehow expected another piece of nineteenth-century extravagance, built for the Age of Steam, but Leningradsky was gritty and functional, a hangar-like shed with scratchy loudspeakers and passengers looking for the right train. Boris was waiting for them on the platform, the bags already inside. The Red Arrow, Simon saw, really was red, a splotch of bright color in the gray station. Inside, the compartments were red too, swagging drapes with tassels, even the folded white bed linens, stacked neatly, trimmed in red.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Boris said to Simon. “We will have to share. The train—so crowded. I’ll take the upper berth. So you won’t be disturbed.”

“You’re coming? But I thought—what happened to Sochi?”

“Sochi later. It was decided I should go to Leningrad.”

“Decided?”

“Just to be on the safe side,” Frank said blandly. “You know, since Gareth. The office was a little nervous—traveling by ourselves.”

“So. You don’t mind, for the one night?”

“No, of course not,” Simon said, an automatic response, calculating. He looked into the compartment. What if the gun had already been delivered? But there was nothing, just the stowed bag and his briefcase with the manuscript. And the visas. But Boris wouldn’t have bothered with that. He knew the briefcase.

“Better get out your earplugs,” Frank said, genial. “I’ve bunked with Boris. You get the full orchestra. Well, why don’t we all have a nightcap?” He pointed to the fold-up table under the compartment window, laid out for tea and snacks. “I put a bottle in the small bag,” he said to Boris. “Or are you on duty?”

Boris made a show of checking his watch. “On holiday.”

Frank smiled. “So. Your place or ours?”

In the end they went to Frank and Jo’s compartment, clinking glasses as the train pulled out, Simon’s mind still on the briefcase next door. Locked, but that wouldn’t stop anyone. Why leave the visas there? Then where? Carry them with him to the Bolshoi? He had expected to have the night to himself, to sort things out. Now Boris, a few feet away.

After another round, conversation stalled. At home Boris was part of the furniture, just there. Now, facing one another in the small compartment, they felt awkward, strangers thrown together.

“When does the porter make up the beds?” Simon said. “I need to get some sleep.”

“No porter. Soviet train. I make beds,” Boris said, standing up.

“No, no, you don’t have to do—” Simon started, then was hushed by a wave of Boris’s hand.

“Good night,” Boris said, a formal nod to Frank. “So, I am next door.” He turned to Simon. “A few minutes only for the beds.”

“A Soviet butler,” Frank said, amused, as Boris closed the door.

“Is he going to be with us all the time?” Simon said to Frank.

“Can’t be helped. It’s going to be like this—until they find who killed Gareth. A precaution.”

“Am I allowed to go to the ladies’ alone?” Jo said, picking up a cosmetic bag. “Take off the war paint. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, send the posse. Good night, Simon. Never mind about Boris. You get used to it. You think you do anyway.”

“Was this your idea?” Simon said to Frank when she’d gone.

“In Leningrad the station chief would be worse. Very by the book. Easier to provide our own man. But in Tallinn we’ll let the locals take over.”

“He’ll get in trouble. At least in Sochi he’d be—”

“Boris is a big boy. He can take care of himself.” He finished his drink. “First Ian, now Boris. All these scruples. Jimbo, you can’t. Not in this business. They’ll trip you up.”

“I’m not in this business.”

Frank smiled. “So you keep saying.” He looked up. “Don’t worry about Boris. I have his back.”

Simon’s bed, made up on the pulled-out settee, was half again as wide as the upper berth.

“Are you sure—?” About to propose drawing matchsticks.

“I can sleep anywhere. You learn in the war.”

He was sitting on the facing settee, smoking one of his strong Russian cigarettes, already undressed for bed. A thick old robe that looked as heavy as a carpet, pale, oddly thin legs sticking out, the top open to reveal an undershirt. The casual intimacy had taken Simon by surprise, but how could it be otherwise? Roommates. And now what? Change in the bathroom at the end of the car? That would only embarrass them both. He turned his back and started undressing. Boris, indifferent, gazed out the window at the flat, dark landscape.

“You have seen that film Ballad of a Soldier? Was very popular in America.”

“Yes. Everywhere.”

“They sleep in the hay. In the freight car. A luxury compared to how we had to sleep.” He drew again on the cigarette, blowing smoke toward the open window vent. “A sentimental film. The soldier with the one leg? And the girl is happy to see him. You think it was like that?” He shook his head. “It was hard.”

Simon turned, belting his robe. “Your wife died, you said.”

Boris nodded. “An air raid. So at least quick. At the front people would lie there, waiting. Sometimes they would ask you to shoot them. To stop the pain.” He poured himself another glass, settling in. “You were in the war?”

“Not like that. At a desk.” He sat on his bed, lighting his own cigarette, shaking his head no to the offered bottle.

“Hm,” Boris said, almost a grunt. “A desk.”

“Like Frank. Operations planning,” Simon said, as if that explained anything.

Boris looked up. “You worked together?”

“No. Frank got involved in the operations. I was strictly a desk man. An analyst.”

“He likes that. The operations. The risk.”

“Well, he didn’t actually go on any. He was a desk man too.”

“But think of the risk for him. Every day. At that desk.” He put out his cigarette. “Passing documents. You know there were so many they would pile up here? So many to read. But for him each one could have been a death warrant. If he had been caught. So a man who took risks.”

Simon said nothing for a minute, looking at him. “What’s wrong, Boris?”

Boris raised his eyes, meeting Simon’s.

“Why should anything be wrong?” Moving a man into place.