Joseph Kanon - Defectors

Simon shrugged his shoulders. “No reason.”

“No,” Boris said, lighting another cigarette. “No reason. A man who’s a hero of the Soviet Union. Now a book. Thanks to the good brother.” He dipped his head. “Soon famous everywhere. Such a man should retire. What’s the English? On his laurels.”

“I thought he had.”

“That’s what he tells you?”

“He doesn’t tell me anything. First of all, he’s not allowed. And second, I don’t ask. I don’t want to know. He’s not a hero to everybody.”

“But you’re his brother.”

“And?”

“You would want to protect him.”

“From what?”

Boris shrugged, out of specifics. “From risks.”

Simon waited. Another piece being moved.

“You know, the Service, it’s an office of secrets, but if you listen, sometimes you hear things.” He paused. “Something here, something there. An operation—there’s an excitement. People talk. Maybe just a little, but they talk.”

“What operation?”

Another shrug. “I asked myself, why Tallinn? Riga? Of course interesting, but the brother, he’s a man of books. Why not Yasnaya Polyana? So I listened. About Tallinn, Riga. Then no more Riga, so Tallinn. And the office approves, they want him to go. At such a time, when all the foreign—”

“You think he’s running an operation? Why not just ask him?”

“That’s not possible. So I ask you.”

“Me? He’d never tell me anything like that. Anyway, isn’t he getting a little long in the tooth for that?”

A puzzled look.

“Old. Frank doesn’t run operations anymore. Not according to the book anyway. That was years ago.”

“Unless there’s a special expertise he can bring. A familiarity.”

“Familiarity?”

“To know the enemy so well, it’s an advantage. To know the patterns, how they do things.”

“Who’s the enemy? Us?”

Boris smiled a little. “Always you. The Main Adversary. But this time closer to home. You remember in the book, the story of the Latvians? Like that, very similar. But now Estonians. It’s always the same there. Nationalists. Sentimentalists. Even a few can make trouble. So of course the Main Adversary encourages them. But if we can stop them before they—” He let the thought finish itself.

“And you think Frank’s involved with this?”

“I think he offers his expertise. But plans—that’s one thing. What happens is another. Not so predictable.” He looked over. “For a desk man.”

“So that’s why they sent you? To watch him?”

“No. They sent me to watch you.”

He had raised his eyes so that for a second they seemed to be looking over a handful of cards, and Simon saw that it wasn’t chess they were playing, but some elaborate game of poker, all of them playing, all of them cheating.

“Me,” he said, his tone flat.

“The Agency allows you to publish this book. Perhaps you do a favor for them.”

Simon shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. They don’t ‘allow’ me. Anyway, what kind of favor?”

“The usual kind. Make confusion. Misdirect. So the operation doesn’t succeed.”

“Work against Frank, you mean. Do you think I’d do that?” All of them cheating.

“The Service is careful.” He looked down. “Me? No.”

“Then why—?”

“I’d like your help.”

“What, watching Frank?” Rearranging the cards now, out of order.

“A shorter trip. Leningrad only. You can suggest it. He’s making this trip for you.”

“But I thought you said the Service wants him to go to Tallinn.”

“Not everyone in the Service is his friend.”

They looked at each other for a moment.

“You know that he won’t listen to me if the Service has asked him to do something. He can’t.”

“Suggest anyway. Then we know. Then I know how to help him.”

“What’s wrong, Boris?” Meaning it this time.

“An instinct. You learn that in the war too. You feel it. Get quiet. Don’t move. Why? Because something tells you.”

“All right. I’ll ask,” he said, getting up. “But you know he won’t.” Another minute. “You look after him, don’t you?”

“It’s my job.”

Later, when he lay in bed, nodding to the clicking of the wheels, he realized it was quiet enough to hear footsteps in the corridor, someone’s late night visit to the bathroom. So Boris didn’t snore after all. Unless he was lying awake too, listening.

A VOLGA WAS WAITING for them at Moskovsky Station, the driver holding an umbrella against the morning drizzle. They headed straight down Nevsky Prospekt, the city flashing by between sweeps of windshield wipers. Leningrad, at first glance, was a faded beauty that had stopped wearing makeup—all the buildings, the pastel façades, needed paint.

“Rain,” the driver said. “Very unusual this time of year. The afternoon will be better.”

More a hope than a forecast, Simon thought. The rain, the mist over the canals, seemed part of a deeper melancholy. The imperial scale of St. Petersburg, without the crowds, the old government ministries, made the city feel empty. Moscow, by contrast, hummed with purpose. This was more like a ballroom after a party, just streamers left, and half-filled glasses.

The Astoria, a grande dame hotel overlooking St. Isaac’s Square, was busy with an Intourist group of Chinese, some wearing Mao tunics, all of them looking weary, sitting on suitcases while they waited for the one interpreter to sort out their rooms. Simon glanced around the lobby. An ornate cage elevator, marble floors, a tea salon with potted palms. A man in a suit reading a newspaper. No one else. But it was early. He wouldn’t be here yet.

Boris jumped the line to get them checked in, the Chinese watching without expression.

“Are we bunking together again?” Simon asked.

“No, no, down the hall.” He handed Simon a key. “A corner room, on the square.” Then another to Frank. “This faces the cathedral.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Frank said.

“It was already arranged.” He checked his watch. “The guide is here in one hour.”

“Oh, good,” Joanna said. “Time for a bath.”

They started for the elevator, bellboys following with the bags, and waited for the cab to descend behind the grille of lacy metalwork. French doors, opening out.

“Oh.” A woman’s voice, breathy, as if she’d been caught at something.

“Marzena,” Frank said, equally thrown.

“Oh, I wanted to surprise you at lunch.”

“You’ve surprised us now,” Joanna said, so drily that Frank flashed her a scolding look. “I mean, I thought you weren’t—”

“No, but then I said to myself, why not? It’s so hard to travel alone. But with friends— You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. How nice,” Frank said, a quick recovery, but still rattled, only Simon sensing the displeasure underneath. Club manners, like Pa’s, real feelings tamped down. “We were just going up. Then off to the Hermitage.”

“The guide comes in one hour,” Boris said, unruffled, the only one taking her presence in stride.

“Oh, Joanna, you don’t mind? I’m not a party crasher?”

“No party to crash,” Joanna said, smiling a little, watching Marzena maneuver. “Always room for you.”

“So. One hour. Here in the lobby?”

“Unless you’d rather—”

Marzena ignored this. “Now maybe a manicure,” she said, looking at her hands.

“What made you change your mind?” Joanna said.

“I don’t know. To see the art, I guess.”

In the elevator, everyone was quiet, preoccupied. The kind of turn that changed everything, rain at a picnic. Simon’s floor was first.