Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“One hour,” Joanna said, using Marzena’s voice. “In the lobby. Watch out for my nails.”

Simon smiled. “I will.”

“Well, I didn’t ask her,” Frank said.

“And yet here she is,” Joanna said. “For the art.”

Simon’s room looked down on the street, then catty corner across the giant square to the Mariinsky Palace. There were a few parked Intourist buses and official Zils, but otherwise it seemed another of those empty Soviet spaces, designed for parades. The room itself was bigger than his room at the National, but with the same period furniture. A fruit basket and mineral water were waiting on the writing desk and, at the foot of the bed, a wicker shirt basket with some folded laundry. Except he hadn’t sent out any laundry.

A pillowcase, ironed and folded. He reached underneath. The cool touch of metal. He pulled out the gun, then checked for bullets, a silent nod to DiAngelis. As ordered. But now what? You couldn’t just leave a gun lying around a Russian hotel room. Not in the briefcase. Not on top of the armoire. He glanced out the window at the drizzle. A break after all. His raincoat with deep pockets, where a bulge wouldn’t show. Still in his suitcase.

He jumped at the knock on the door, then put the gun back in the basket and covered it. The bellboy had trouble with the luggage rack, but finally opened it, then started to explain the room’s features in Russian, Simon nodding as the boy pantomimed the use of the drape chords, the light switches. Simon glanced at the laundry basket. Would he wonder why it was there? A newly arrived guest with laundry? What were the rules about tipping? Not in restaurants, but a bellhop? He took out a bill and handed it to the boy. A second’s hesitation, as if it might be some kind of test, then a quick blur as he slipped it into his pocket. A whispered spasibo. When he was gone, Simon sat on the bed with the gun again, his body still tense, and took a deep breath. No possible explanation for a gun, not here. Supplied by the CIA. He opened the suitcase to take out his raincoat. Maybe it would rain all day.

The guide, a serious young woman who wore her hair in a bun, was called Nina and had textbook English for which she kept apologizing. They walked down to the Admiralty in a huddle of umbrellas, then along the embankment of the Winter Palace, the broad Neva choppy and breezy, almost a seafront effect. Simon looked left. If you got in a boat here, the current would sweep you out to the Gulf of Finland, out of Russia. Get through the day.

At the Hermitage they were asked to check their coats. Simon had forgotten: a Russian fetish, no coats indoors. He draped it over his arm, but the woman insisted. He turned his back, making a pretense of shaking the wet out and switched the gun to his jacket, letting it hang open so the bulge wouldn’t show. He looked over at Boris. He must have one, out of sight in a holster. His job. The sort of thing he’d be trained to notice, bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

Nina was knowledgeable, leading them briskly through a maze of galleries, then lingering in the Raphael Loggias. “You see here where the papal coat of arms is replaced with the Romanov eagle.” More galleries of Italians, then Flemish and Dutch, Rubens and Rembrandts. After another hour even Nina began to flag and they stopped to rest on some strategically placed benches.

“But did they look at them?” Marzena said to no one in particular. “Did they enjoy them?”

“They enjoyed getting them,” Joanna said. “Having them. I don’t know that they ever looked at them.”

“I would have,” Marzena said, fanciful. “I’d come every night in a gown, like Catherine, and look at my pictures.”

“By candlelight. Squinting,” Joanna said, then stood up, out of sorts but trying to hide it, going over to look more closely at a small still life.

They were all on edge, in fact, Marzena’s presence an unexpected irritant. Frank was quiet, preoccupied, so she’d turned her attention to Simon, harmless remarks about the paintings which he barely heard, thinking about tomorrow, the weight in his pocket. Only Boris seemed to be enjoying himself, seeing the tour as a kind of patriotic act.

“It’s the greatest collection in the world.”

“Well, the Louvre,” Frank said.

“No. The greatest.”

When they left the gallery, Frank hung back with Simon, just far enough behind not to be heard.

“We have to get rid of her. She’ll ruin everything.”

“How?”

“It’s one thing here. But Tallinn—”

“How?” Simon said again.

“She has to go back. You’ll have to take her.”

“Me?”

“Make something up,” Frank said, thinking out loud. “You have to be back to fly home. You just wanted to see the Hermitage.” He looked at him. “Flirt with her. Make her think—”

“What? How far do you want me to go?” he said, sarcastic. “For the Service.”

“I don’t care. Just get her out of here. There’s always some hitch, isn’t there?”

“What about Jo? The ferry?” What he would logically say.

Frank shook his head. “I’ll have to take her with me on the boat. I’ll work it out.”

“And I’m sitting in Moscow when you go missing? They’ll think I—” Playing the story out.

“Fly back Thursday morning. The boat doesn’t leave until six. Get somebody at the embassy to put you on a plane out.” He looked over. “We said our good-byes here. I go to Tallinn, you go home. It’s not ideal, but it’s still plausible. The Service wants me to go to Tallinn. You’ll still have your trip to Leningrad. We’ve got today, the Peterhof tomorrow. That should give you enough time.”

“Time?”

“To talk her into going with you. Get her out of here.”

Simon looked down, as if he were thinking this through. “This still puts her in a hell of a position. After you disappear. Just having been here.”

“I didn’t ask her to come.” He touched Simon’s arm. “She’ll be all right.” Knowing she would be. Everybody cheating.

They headed into the Winter Palace, stopping at Rastrelli’s marble staircase, sweeping up on two sides.

“My God,” Marzena said, dazzled. “To live like this.”

Nina rattled off dates, some architectural history, while they stood gaping, then began moving them up to the state rooms. Simon saw him first, starting down the other side, a blond woman next to him. The wife. What was her name? Nancy. But why bring her? Another complication. It was then that Lehman noticed him, their eyes meeting across the open space between the staircase wings. Simon made an almost invisible nod, then looked away, turning to Marzena. But aware of him now, moving in the corner of his eye, the same rhythm, one going down, the other up, like figures in a mechanical clock. So he was here.

After lunch they went to the Church on Spilled Blood and walked along the canals and finally balked at a plan to cross the Neva to see the Peter and Paul Fortress, pleading exhaustion. Disappointed, Nina led them back to the hotel, stopping to point out the building where Dostoevsky had lived. “Interesting for book publisher.”

Upstairs, finally rid of the weight of the gun, he lay on the bed with a sense of relief, his mind floating. Were they really listening through the chandelier, the phone? But there was nothing to hear. No slips. He wondered if this had been part of the attraction for Frank, to see if you could play the part perfectly, not just the words, the emotions, all the senses heightened, actually believing it. Hal had arrived on schedule. Marzena had been unexpected but didn’t matter, not after tomorrow. He went over the map in his head. How long it took would depend on the roads, probably two-lane with crumbling shoulders, Russian roads, stuck behind a tractor. Plan more time.