Joseph Kanon - Defectors

Frank raised a finger, then wagged it. “Scruples.” He turned to go.

“I could stop you. I still have the gun.”

Frank stopped. “And I’d get rid of it soon if I were you. It’s evidence.”

“I could use it.”

“But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s me. And what would be the point? Much easier this way. I’ll just serve out my time here.” He looked to the other side of the car. “Jo.”

“Where are you going?” she said, getting out.

Frank looked at Simon, a signal, and started walking away. Simon went over to her. “He told you, remember? He’s going back to Moscow.”

“He’s leaving me?”

“No. He’s just going back.”

“How can he leave me?”

“He doesn’t want to live in hiding.” Making Frank’s case, everything inside out again.

“Oh, look, they’re coming to pick him up.”

Simon turned. A black car heading for the crossing, the barrier pole still raised. The car from the station. Or any car. But coming fast, tearing down the road, running late, then screeching to a stop just before the barrier, some invisible line they couldn’t cross, jumping out of the car, guns. The soldier guards pulled back, startled. Frank was almost at the barrier now, holding his hands in the air, the universal sign.

“Comrades!”

Not one shot, two, then more, thudding into Frank, who stopped, knocked sideways by the bullets, then fell.

“No!” Joanna screamed.

Simon grabbed her, ducking, pushing her back into the car. “Stay down.”

“What the hell—?” Hal said.

But the firing had stopped, the men just standing there, the soldiers still wide-eyed, everyone staring at the figure lying on the road. Still in Finland. Simon thought they would grab the body and drag it back, but no one moved. He ran to Frank, rolling him over. Still alive, a flicker of the eye, then a wince.

“Help me!” Simon yelled, but they stayed in place. Footsteps behind him, Hal, the women holding each other back at the car.

“Frank. Can you hear me?”

“They never tell you how much it hurts,” he said, the words jerky, coming in gasps. “Getting shot.”

“We’ll get you some help.”

He shook his head slowly, some blood now at his mouth, and grabbed Simon’s hand. Simon looked down. Frank’s stomach was welling with blood.

“Jimbo, don’t be mad. It’s me,” he said, clutching him, and suddenly Simon’s eyes were filled, as if they were welling blood too, everything blurry. And then, out of nowhere, in his mind’s eye, he saw the train between their old rooms, connecting them.

“Don’t talk. You’re hurt.”

“I know. So—” Opening his eyes, trying to focus. “Tell Pa I’m sorry. I—” Gripping him tighter. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

Simon looked up, frantic. “Call a doctor.”

The men from the car stood there, not sure what to do. Service suits. Probably racing since Vyborg, afraid of losing them, even firing over the border, against Service rules. Or was it? What rules? Why not just snatch Simon? All of them? But nobody moved. And when he looked down again, it didn’t matter, Frank had gone. He kept his hand for another second, then released it, prying the fingers away. He stood up, blood rushing to his head, dizzy for a moment, swaying.

Jo rushed from the car, her face wild, chest heaving. “Oh my God.”

“We have to move him,” Simon said. “Hal, take her back to the car. Wait. I need you to speak Russian.”

“I speak English,” one of the men said.

Simon nodded. “Then help me move him. He was coming back. He was walking back to Russia. You made a mistake.”

The men looked at each other, paralyzed.

“He’s a hero of the Soviet Union. A famous man. You made a mistake. Call Moscow. The Lubyanka. Everyone knows him. He didn’t want to be in Finland. He was forced. I forced him. He’s an officer of the Service,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “A colonel. He wanted to be buried at Kuntsevo. Full honors. Do you understand? Full honors. Now help me carry him. He wants to be in Russia.”

No one moved, staring at the border as if there were an actual line, some primitive arrangement of stones, a taboo.

“Okay,” Simon said, moving around and lifting Frank under the shoulders. Carrying Boris, carrying Gareth, now doing it alone, having to drag him, shoes scraping against the road. Not far. Where would the line be? Where the pole was raised. The soldiers still stared at him. He stopped. Another foot and he’d be in Russia. He twisted slightly, heaving Frank onto the dividing line, careful not to cross it himself, then let the body fall out of his hands. Only the feet now in the West. He picked them up and pushed them across, following the rest of the body. Now theirs.

“Have him buried in Kuntsevo.” No one said anything. He turned to go, then half-turned back. “He made a mistake too. He thought you were worth it.”

And now he did turn, walking back, head high, almost daring them to come after him. As he walked he wondered what he was going to tell them, Jo, Hal, DiAngelis, what story would work, what Frank would want them to hear. But when he got back to the car he didn’t say anything at all.

JOSEPH KANON is the Edgar Award–winning author of Leaving Berlin , Istanbul Passage , Los Alamos , The Prodigal Spy , Alibi , Stardust , and The Good German , which was made into a major motion picture starring George Clooney and Cate Blanchett. He lives in New York City.

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LEAVING BERLIN

ISTANBUL PASSAGE

STARDUST

ALIBI

THE GOOD GERMAN

THE PRODIGAL SPY

LOS ALAMOS

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