Joseph Kanon - Defectors

“Unless they follow us.”

“They won’t leave the station,” Frank said. “Not until somebody tells them to.”

“Let’s go.”

Hal put the car in gear and began to pull away from the curb, then stopped. “Look.”

A car coming fast, screeching to a stop in front of the station. The same road they’d taken. Boris jumped out, looked around, as if he were trying to pick up a scent, then crossed over to the stakeout car, asking questions, in a hurry. The man in the car climbed out, shaking his head. More questions. The man now pointing in the direction they’d gone, his arm making a sweep to the left, around the park. Boris looked up.

“He knows about the car,” Frank said. “The Volvo.”

“How? You didn’t until this morning. Why not a hired car?”

“There would have been someone in St. Isaac’s. Covering the hotel. See us leave. And in what.” He looked at Simon. “It’s the Service. This isn’t going to work.”

“Or maybe you signaled the guy at the station.”

“I didn’t. But either way, we’ve got Boris now. Call it off.”

“Let’s go,” Simon said to Hal. “Quick.”

Hal pulled out into the street and headed to the port, away from the park.

“He’s coming,” Nancy said, looking out the window. “He went back to his car.”

“Alone?”

“The other man’s still standing there. But he’s driving fast, the new man. Around the park. He knows where we are.”

“Call it off,” Frank said. “I can still fix it.”

“Listen to you.”

They could see cranes and masts now, the port straight ahead. Hal went another block, then swerved left, then left again, a parallel street, backtracking.

“Is he behind?”

“No.”

A major street ahead, big enough for trucks. Hal turned left again, shooting north, toward the castle. An island. A truck behind them, blocking them from view. They passed the road to the station.

“He’s there,” Simon said, head turned to the rear window.

“Hold on,” Hal said, veering sharply, across the incoming traffic. A horn, loud. Back to the port. “We’re supposed to be heading for a boat, right? Not the border. So we’d want to lose him somewhere down here.”

“If we can,” Frank said.

Port buildings, warehouses and repair shops, the streets a grid, oddly drowsy away from the noise of the port. On the quay itself people barely looked at the car, locked into themselves, as if they’d been deafened by the winches and clanging chains, dropped metal and hissing repair blowtorches. Hal weaved in and out, accessing the quay, then moving away from it. An alleyway. Hal glanced in the rearview mirror, nobody, and pulled in. Not an alley, a driveway, L-shaped, swooping around to a loading area, hidden from the street. A man in overalls came out, waving them away.

“We can’t stay here. It’s a dead end,” Simon said.

“Give it a minute. Make him think he’s lost us.”

The man came over, a flood of Russian. Frank answered back.

“What’s Frank saying?” Simon said to Hal.

“He’s asking directions. Says we got lost. It’s okay.”

Now a laugh, Frank charming the watchman. Nobody else around.

Hal turned the car and swung back into the driveway. Nothing at the end. He nosed out into the empty street then headed quickly toward the port again. Another left onto a parallel street, the maneuver from before.

“He’ll be looking for us on the quay,” Hal said.

No one saw it coming, just some blurry motion from the side street, then Boris’s car crashing into theirs, pushing the Volvo into the wall, a scrape of metal, wedged in. Boris flew out of the car, as if he were being carried by the momentum of the crash. He tore at the back door, flinging it open, a gun in his hand.

“Get out.” Pulling Nancy out to get to Simon. “Get out. Bastard.”

He grabbed Simon’s arm, yanking him out, the raincoat flung aside on the backseat.

“CIA bastard. I knew. From the first.” He slammed Simon against the car, face pushed down, an arrest. “You all right?” he said to Frank.

Frank nodded, getting out of the car.

“You think I didn’t know?” Boris said, twisting Simon’s arm up, immobilizing him. An involuntary grunt, the pain shooting through him. “At the Bolshoi. You think we didn’t know who he was? Why such a meeting? What, what? On the train, so innocent. Me, worried about Tallinn. But not you. The Agency had a new plan. But we have ears, so now I know too. Bastard.” He turned to face Frank. “I told you not to trust him. One step in that boat and they have you. And who puts you there?” he said, looking back at Simon, giving his arm another twist. Simon gasped, the words rushing by him, driven by their own logic, the story they’d want to believe. “I always knew. To send his brother. Who would believe it? Not even him.” A nod to Frank. “But I knew. And you,” he said to Hal through the front door, still open, Frank standing next to it, “another press cover. Another one. Don’t they have new ideas? Another one to send home. But not this time. This time it’s serious. To kidnap an officer of the Service. What should we do about that? What should be Soviet justice?”

“No,” Nancy said from the car.

“Be quiet,” Frank said.

Simon turned his head toward him, Frank not meeting his eye, blank, taking everything in. And now the pain in his arm spread through the rest of him, how everything would feel when they broke him, the bones of his face smashed, kidneys throbbing until he said what they wanted him to say. Everybody did, even the old Bolsheviks, confessing to anything. Just to have an end. A crowd in the Hall of Unions. Or maybe not. Maybe something simpler. He looked at Frank’s blank face, his expressionless eyes. But why should he be any different? How many had Frank killed now? The hapless Latvians. How many hundreds of others, just by leaving something folded in a newspaper on a park bench. Collateral damage, nothing personal.

“Where are the others?” Frank said to Boris.

“Two down there,” Boris said, nodding to the port. “Two back at the station.”

“What about the boat?”

“Taken care of.”

“The station, then. We can call from there. I’ll drive. Hold him in the back.”

Simon stared, his body beginning to shake. Don’t pee. Really happening now, a louder scratching against the glass, Frank still expressionless, not savoring it, just business, saving himself.

“What about—?” Boris motioned toward the others.

“Oh, I think they’ll stay right where they are. Won’t you? Otherwise, you’d be resisting arrest. Shot trying to escape. For real. Keep an eye on them, Jo.”

“Oh,” Nancy said, a kind of yelp.

“Frank—” Simon started, cut off by Boris pushing him more tightly against the car.

“You should have thought about this before.” Bloodless. “You have him?” he said to Boris. “I’ll just get my coat.” He bent down to reach into the backseat, gathering up the raincoat.

First the explosion, the air clapping over his ears, so loud that it seemed to go through him, his whole body knocked forward. Something sticky running down the side of his head, still pinned against the car, Boris slumping over him. No pain, the liquid coming faster now, hot. A groan, Boris’s body lying on his, dead weight, and then sliding down, pulling Simon with him, falling back, a thud on the pavement. Another groan, still alive. Frank stepped over, the gun in his hand, Boris’s eyes open wide, astonished, one last second and then the gun fired again and Boris’s head split open, dark liquid oozing out.

Simon, weaving, tried to stand up, moving away from the car, feeling the side of his face, the streak of blood, not his. He looked up, eyes locked with Frank’s. Nancy screamed, then covered her mouth, as if a scream might bring someone running, only the gunshots drowned out by the clanging noise on the quay. Joanna stepped out of the car in slow motion, dazed, staring at Frank.