Joseph Kanon - Defectors

They should have been in a holiday mood at dinner, but instead the evening felt strained, all of them somehow scratchy, tired of one another. Marzena had dressed for a party, full makeup and flashy earrings, but the effort seemed wasted. Frank was distant, Joanna almost scowling with irritation. She had already had a few vodkas before dinner and had kept pouring more, ignoring Frank’s glances, and was now moody and thin-skinned. Boris had retreated into one of his watchful silences. Which left Simon, an audience of one.

Marzena was making the most of it, drawing him out with questions, leaning in, a kind of coquetry as dated as the hotel, something out of old St. Petersburg. Make a man talk about himself and he’s yours. She was impossible to ignore, or discourage, but the private asides had the effect of making Frank think Simon was flirting with her, his plan in action.

“Simon’s not a very good long-term investment,” Joanna said, looking at Marzena. “Are you? Back to the States and—poof.” She opened her hand. “Gone.”

No one knew how to respond, Marzena bewildered by the suddenness of it, like a slap.

“So let’s enjoy him while he’s here,” Frank said, bland as a greeting card.

“But you’ve hardly seen anything,” Marzena said. “You should stay longer.”

“I’ve got a business to run.”

“A capitalist answer,” Marzena said, making a joke.

“Maybe next time.”

“But there isn’t going to be a next time, is there?” Joanna said, brooding.

“That depends on whoever’s handing out the visas. Here, I mean.”

“They wouldn’t give you one before.” She looked up. “Or maybe you never asked. ”

“But the book—”

“Yes, they want the book,” Joanna said. “So open the gates. And here you are. Now you’ll need another excuse. Maybe when we die. A compassionate visa. Just long enough to attend the funeral.”

“Such talk,” Frank said.

“Would you come for that?”

“Jo,” Simon said.

“Oh, all right,” she said, leaving it, looking out at the dining room, most of the tables filled with the Chinese group. “What do you think they make of it all? The Romanovs.”

“They had Romanovs of their own,” Frank said.

“Malachite,” Joanna said, not listening. “Gold on the walls. And they were surprised when the revolution came.”

“A backward society,” Boris said quietly. “But not now.”

“No, now we are in space,” Marzena said, enthusiastic, a Young Pioneer.

“Is it hard for the Chinese? To get visas?” Jo said, still looking at them. “What’s it like for them? Always in a herd like that. They don’t know Russian, do they? I mean the alphabet.”

“Neither do we,” Simon said.

“I can teach you,” Marzena said. “It’s not difficult.”

“Language lessons,” Jo said, drawing it out. “Hard to say no to that.”

“They need to have an interpreter,” Frank said, answering seriously. “Guides. So that limits how many. And it’s an expensive trip to make. A hotel like this. Must be a special group.”

“Chinese VIPs,” Jo said, playing with it. “I never thought. Is there a Chinese Social Register?” Her old voice, finding the world amusing.

“It’ll be the Cubans next,” Frank said. “Friendship tours.” He looked over at Simon. “The Agency made a real cock-up there, didn’t they? Was Pirie involved? Just the sort of half-assed idea he’d go for.”

Boris raised his head, interested.

“I wouldn’t know,” Simon said.

“I’ll bet he was.” Frank shook his head. “One fiasco after another. One more and there’d have to be a real shake-up.”

“Just what the Service ordered,” Simon said, then, catching Boris’s glance, “I mean, they’d like that, wouldn’t they? A little confusion on the other side.”

“The way things are going, they won’t have to do a thing. The Agency will do it for them.”

“Oh, we’re going to talk shop,” Joanna said.

“Not much longer,” Frank said. “I’m beat. What is it about museums—?”

Simon felt a second of panic. Not yet. They had to meet first tonight.

“But so beautiful,” Marzena said. “What did you like the best?” This to Simon.

“There’s so much—”

“But if you had to pick,” she said, pressing, a coy smile.

“The Dutch, I guess. The portraits.”

“Oh, Jimbo. So Boston. Good burghers in black and white?”

“But the faces. You know everything about them.”

“Well, what they want you to know.”

Simon looked away, before his own face would show too much. There was a roar of laughter from the next table, everyone in his cups.

“Chinese jokes,” Joanna said. “God, what do you think they’re saying?”

And then he was there, gliding past the Chinese tables with his wife, surprised to see Simon.

“Mr. Weeks,” he said. “You probably don’t remember—Hal Lehman.” Offering his hand. “Imagine running into—”

“Of course,” Simon said, standing. “Spaso House. Nancy, isn’t it?” She blushed, pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“Just seeing the sights. You owe me a call.”

“I know. I’ve been meaning to—”

Hal turned to the table. “I didn’t mean to barge in—” Expecting to be introduced.

“Frank, this is Hal Lehman. UPI. He’s been wanting to meet you and I promised him an interview, so be nice.”

Frank dipped his head.

“The first interview. After Look took pictures. Did they?”

“And this is—” Simon began the introductions, going around the table.

“A great pleasure,” Hal said, shaking Frank’s hand.

“Really? I thought I was a bad hat to all of you.”

“An interesting bad hat. I’d really like to talk to you. Your feelings about the book, Moscow, whatever you’d like to talk about. Nothing—well, nothing you don’t want to talk about. I promised Mr. Weeks that.”

“You did.”

“It’s UPI. That’s over four hundred pickups. It would be great for the book.”

“And not bad for you either, is that the idea?”

“You’ve never given an interview. So this would be a first, yes. Mr. Weeks said they’d given you permission to do it. For the book. And they look at everything we send out anyway, so there’s no problem there.”

“For you.”

“You review the copy.”

“Frank, I promised,” Simon said. “We need to present this right.”

“So I don’t look like a complete shit,” Frank said, a wry smile.

“The book’s going to be out there. There’s bound to be plenty of—so start with me.”

Frank sighed. “All right. Since Simon promised. We’re back in Moscow next week,” he said smoothly.

“Mr. Weeks said I wasn’t allowed to come to the flat. The address is still an official secret or something. What about tomorrow? Right here? We could do it in the lobby,” he said, ignoring a new round of laughter from the Chinese. “Maybe lunch? Mr. Weeks could sit in, if that makes it easier.”

“No, we’re away tomorrow. The Peterhof. Tsarskoe Selo.”

“But so are we. I mean, that’s where we were planning to go—”

“Moscow,” Frank said. “I don’t want to traipse around the summer palace wondering if that’s you behind the fountain.”

“How about this,” Simon said. “We go out in two cars and you ride with Hal. Do it on the way. What would that be, an hour? And then that’s it. You’re done.” He looked at Frank, eyes signaling for him to go along with this. “It’s important for the book, Frank. I told you we’d have to do some of this here. Since we won’t have you in the States.”

Frank met his eye, a private exchange.

“You understand I can’t talk about the Service,” he said to Hal. “There are rules about that. We’re leaving at eight. And I don’t answer anything I don’t want to.”