Joseph Kanon - Defectors

Simon took a breath. The first gamble, hoping that Frank didn’t know Leningrad, wouldn’t see its geography in his head, just streets and canals and bridges. He worried when they crossed the Neva, away from the route to the Peterhof, but Frank didn’t seem to notice, deep in the interview now, one bridge like another. He was enjoying himself, the familiar anecdotes told like moves in some version of cat and mouse, a game. After the Tuchkov Bridge there were few landmarks and no directional signs, no way to tell they were heading up to the shore road. How did anyone find it unless they’d driven it before? But Hal had.

“Late night,” Jo said to Simon, dipping a toe in.

“You all looked like you were having such a nice time,” Nancy said, just to say something.

“Well, we’ve known each other forever,” Jo said, deciding to be pleasant, make the best of it. “I hope I didn’t keep you up,” she said to Simon, some kind of apology.

“No, I enjoyed it,” Simon said. “Feel all right?”

“You mean do I have—?”

“It’s an early start. That’s all I meant.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, a quick thank-you glance.

“Why won’t they let the defectors talk to the press?” Hal was saying.

“What makes you think we want to? What good would that do? Getting misquoted. It’s always trouble.”

“Why misquoted?”

“Well, people do—get misquoted. Not by you, let’s hope, but you have to admit it happens. Anyway, what would you want us to say? That we were wrong? You think that. We don’t.”

“None of you? No regrets?”

Frank lit a cigarette, taking a minute. “It’s a funny word, defector. Latin, defectus. To desert. Lack something. Makes it sound as if we had to leave something behind. To change sides. But we were already on this side. We didn’t leave anything.”

“Your country.”

“Countries don’t matter. In a way, I was already here.”

“But Mr. Weeks—”

“Frank.”

“Frank. Then why—?” Catching Simon’s frown in the mirror. Not yet.

Frank waited.

“I mean, you didn’t want to come to Moscow, did you? If you hadn’t been exposed?”

“I wanted to be wherever I’d be useful.”

“And the Rubins? Perry Soames. Gareth. Burgess. Maclean. They all came because their cover was blown. Wouldn’t you all have stayed right where you were if that hadn’t happened? Not come to Moscow?”

“I don’t think anybody thought about it. You don’t think about—getting caught. You’re too busy not getting caught.”

“But you were.”

“Professional hazard. And not my fault. For the record. None of us expected Malenko to turn. But then if you’re lucky, you end up here. Where you can still be useful. Look at some of the others. Alger. Harry. Wouldn’t they have been better off here?”

“The Rosenbergs.”

“Well, yes. The Rosenbergs. You know, when you start, you don’t think, can I get away with this for the rest of my life? You don’t think. You just do it. It feels—urgent. People are depending on you. Right now. You don’t think about later.”

“Alger,” Hal said. “That’s never been confirmed.”

“It’s not being confirmed now either. Hypothetical.”

“It would be a big story.”

“You’ve already got one. My first interview.”

Hal smiled. “And it’ll be a lot bigger when—” Another look from Simon.

“When what?” Joanna said.

“When it runs,” Simon said. “UPI’s in four hundred papers.”

“What did you think when you first got here?” Hal said, moving on. “Was it what you expected?”

“Oh, that’s all in the book,” Frank said, swatting this away.

“Okay, tell me something that isn’t in the book.”

“I can’t,” Frank said, fencing now. “If the Service is involved.”

“That doesn’t leave us with much.” He paused. “Who do you think killed Gareth Jones?” A left jab, unexpected.

Frank was quiet for a minute. “I don’t know.”

Simon raised his head. Through the looking glass again.

“I don’t think it was political,” Frank said, “if that’s what you’re implying. MI6 didn’t do it because they can’t. Not here. And I don’t think we did it. Why would we?”

“Then why the witch hunt at the Lubyanka? Bringing Elizaveta back.”

“Have they?”

“I heard you were the one who—”

“You should check your sources then.”

Hal let this pass. “We’re on the same side here, aren’t we?”

Frank sighed. “I don’t know about Gareth. Really,” he said, easy as breathing. “A guess? Off the record? I think he met someone he shouldn’t have. These things happen.”

“There is no crime in the Soviet Union.”

“But there are accidents. We’ll have to leave it at that.” He turned to the window. “Where are we? More Khrushchyovki. Khrushchev slums,” he translated for Simon.

Rows of concrete apartment blocks, already cracked and stained with damp. Then pine trees and allotments. The farther they got from Leningrad, the poorer the countryside, sagging wooden farmhouses and muddy ditches, the same land he’d seen from the plane, open to tanks. They must be more than halfway there now. Vyborg had been a Finnish port before the Soviets snatched it. Simon imagined pitched tiled roofs and cobbles. A train station with a park in front, a quayside with a boat waiting.

“What happened to our friends?” Frank said idly, turning around. “I thought they were following.”

“Probably behind a truck,” Simon said. Not yet.

Frank went back to Hal, a question about wartime Washington, batting it back and forth (“the drop was in Farragut Square”), something he could answer without thinking, old stories. Then he sat forward, looking out the window, one side, then the other, working something out.

“The water’s on the left,” he said.

“What?”

“The Gulf. It’s on the left. It should be on the right. You’re on the wrong road.”

“No.”

“We should be south of it. Going west. It should be on the right.”

Hal looked up into the rearview mirror. Frank followed the look and turned in his seat to face Simon, puzzled, then alarmed.

“We’re going the wrong way.”

A moment, suddenly tense. Now.

“DiAngelis changed the plan,” Simon said evenly.

“Who? What plan?” Jo said.

“He’s sending a boat to Vyborg,” Simon said, watching Frank’s eyes, panicky, just for a second.

“He can’t go to Vyborg. It’s Russia.”

“He’s sending some Finns. They’ll pick us up there.”

“But no DiAngelis.” Sorting this out. “When was this decided?” The eyes his own again, calculating.

“Too many people knew about Tallinn. It’s safer.”

“Simon, Simon, what are you doing?” Focused on him, trying to see through him. “Not like this. We can’t.”

“That’s the way he wants it.”

“So he tells you? But you don’t tell me.”

“I was his contact. It’ll work. It’s a better plan.”

“It’s not the plan.”

“A backup. The one nobody expects.”

“What?” Jo said, upset now. “What plan?”

Simon and Frank stared at each other. Whose move? Finally Simon turned to her. “We’re leaving. We’re going home.”

“What do you mean, home? Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“We’re going to Finland. Then home. The States.”

“Are you crazy? We can’t.” She turned to face Frank. “What is he talking about? Did you know about this? Did you?” This to Hal. Finally, almost a squeal, to Nancy, “Did you?” Nancy turned her head away. “Who am I supposed to be, the crazy lady?”

“I didn’t want to—” Frank began, and Simon saw that he wasn’t going to tell her—say that he hadn’t told her because it wasn’t going to happen—because he was trapped in his own story now, the ­double lie.