Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“My escort,” she said. “Are you going to kiss me good night? Maybe now, so the old dragon with the keys can’t see us.”

He leaned to give her a kiss on the cheek, but she moved her hands to the back of his head, pulling him toward her, opening to him. He felt the rush of blood to his head, the smell of smoke and perfume, everything warm, his mouth on hers. “So nice,” she said, whispering, hot against his skin, and then kissing his face, moving over it. He moved down to her neck, nuzzling her, and she arched back, letting him have more, something he remembered from the weekend, something only she did.

“It’s so nice with you,” she said, still kissing him. “I could come with you. To your room.”

His face still in her neck, the elevator slowing, his head dizzy with her, and for a second he thought they could, that he could change the plan, even last minute, just the two of them.

“Jo,” he said, out of breath.

“I would. I would come.”

The elevator stopped. He pulled his face away, brushing her hair.

“We can’t.”

She looked at him, then backed against the elevator wall. “No, we can’t. What am I doing?” She put her hand to her forehead, a child hiding herself.

“Come on. It’s your floor.”

He opened the metal door. The floor concierge glared at them, handing him her key. Another report, but what would she say?

“Now I feel embarrassed,” Joanna said.

“No. We’ve just had too much to drink.”

“Oh, drink.”

“But thank you for the offer.”

She stopped next to her door. “You still can’t decide.”

He shook his head slowly, then kissed her forehead. “I always knew.”

“What am I going to do?” she said to no one, to the hall. “I can’t leave him.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know. You think it’s a love affair. Maybe once. Now—”

“You’ll never leave him. I know that. Better than anybody. You’re—tied.”

She looked up at him, her eyes darting, moist. “Nobody else remembers him. Richie. Nobody else can talk about him. Keep him alive for me. If I lose Frank, there’d be no one. You can’t talk to yourself, it’s not real. He’d be gone.”

He looked at her, his stomach falling, a kind of physical sadness, flowing through him and out to the tired hallway, so that it was finally everywhere, all you could breathe. The air itself a gray punishment, the way she lived every day.

He called Boris a little before seven.

“I hope I didn’t wake you. I just had breakfast with Frank. Joanna’s not feeling well.”

“She’s sick?” Boris said, his voice groggy.

“Hungover. She’s going to need a little time. Would you call the guide and have her come later? Frank said you’d have the number.”

“Yes, I have,” he said, disgruntled.

“Nine o’clock, then. In the lobby. I’ll tell the others. Sorry to wake you.”

An hour’s start. Enough distance. He went over the room again to make sure he had everything he needed. Visas. Raincoat, just in case, a convenient pocket for the gun. He’d have to leave the manuscript, but his notes, folded, slipped easily into the other pocket. No luggage, just a day at the Peterhof, admiring the fountains.

He opened the door and froze. Down the hall a woman was slipping out of Boris’s room, her back to Simon as she closed the door. Still in last night’s dress, her hair tangled, holding her shoes. Marzena turned, looking up and down the hall, a cat burglar, and started for the elevator. Simon watched her through the crack of his doorway. Had he been the assignment? Stick to Simon. Tell me what he says. Do what you have to do. But when had it started? A woman suddenly alone, her privileges—the flat, the dacha—now at the whim of—? Or had she listened to Perry too? Listened to Frank. Boris keeping watch. Her protector now. Everybody cheating. She passed Simon’s door, eyes focused on the end of the hall, raising her head and trying to ignore the woman with the keys, a last gasp of dignity. At least she wouldn’t be going down to the lobby. A change, a bath, a new meeting time. Two down.

The breakfast buffet was at the far end of the lobby but screened off from it. The Lehmans were just finishing, Frank and Jo not yet down. Simon ignored the spread of food and gulped some coffee, chewing on a brick of dark bread.

“Car ready?” he said to Hal.

“Out front.”

“It’s going to be a squeeze.” A glance toward Nancy.

“I thought there were two cars,” she said.

“But we’re going in one,” Simon said, looking at Hal, a question mark.

“She knows,” Hal said. “Honey, you could still take the train. Finland Station. Do a Lenin in reverse. Meet me in Helsinki.”

Simon shook his head. “How do we explain it to Frank? We’re all going to the summer palace. We’ll have to manage somehow.”

“I couldn’t stay in Moscow,” Nancy said. “Not without Hal. Besides, it would look funny. Wives always go on the Helsinki runs. We do the shopping.”

“Ah, there you are,” Frank said, coming in with Jo. “Bright and early.”

“Not that early. Boris has already finished. Better hurry.”

“God, how can they eat all that,” Jo said, looking at the buffet, avoiding Simon. She poured coffee.

“Apparently Marzena had a rough night,” Simon said. “It’s going to take her a while. Boris said he’d wait. We should start and they’ll catch up.”

“He wants us to leave without him?” Frank said.

“But not alone. There’s another car following. To make sure we get there.”

“By the book. Didn’t I tell you?” Frank said. “The station chief here—”

“I can go with them, if you like,” Simon said, chancing it, keeping it plausible. “So we won’t be so crowded.”

“No, no, you have to be referee. Make sure he asks the right questions.” He smiled at Hal, the full Frank charm.

“I’ll go,” Joanna said.

“It’s only an hour, less,” Frank said. “We’ll be all right.”

“We’ll meet you out front then,” Hal said, getting up. “It’s the Volvo.”

“Really?”

“We bought it in Helsinki. It was either that or a Saab.”

“No, I mean, it’s your car? You drove here?”

“We’re going on to Helsinki after. Shopping run. It’s cheaper to bring the stuff back with you than to have it shipped. And sometimes it gets—lost. Stockmann’s will ship, but it doesn’t always arrive.”

“Stockmann’s?”

Hal grinned. “The Macy’s of the north.”

“And what do you buy?” Frank said, curious.

“Whatever you can’t get in Moscow. People make a list. The other correspondents, I mean, not Russians. You have to have foreign currency.”

“I had no idea,” Frank said.

“Well, you have your own stores. You don’t need—” He stopped, a sense of overstepping. “That’s what I’ve heard anyway.”

“And thank God,” Joanna said. “Otherwise you’d never see a vegetable in the winter.”

Simon glanced at her. Service hospitals. Service food stores. Where they lived. A Russia inside the other one.

The Volvo was at the curb, next to the bus waiting for the Chinese. Frank got in front with Hal, so they could talk, Simon in the back, wedged between Jo and Nancy. “The rose between the thorns,” Jo said, but halfheartedly, still not catching his eye. They drove out of the broad square, leaving St. Isaac’s behind.

“Where do you want to start?” Frank said to Hal.

“Let’s start with the book. As far as I know, you’re the first KGB officer who’s ever written one. Why’d you do it?”

“Am I the first? I hadn’t realized,” Frank said, his public voice. “I suppose I wanted to set the record straight. We all want to do that, don’t we? We just—most of us—don’t get the chance.” Concentrating, finding the right word, oblivious to the city outside his window.