Defectors

by Joseph Kanon

  Simon slowed a little, then put his hand on Frank’s arm, squeezing it until the hand became steady, not saying anything. Boris, already ahead, didn’t turn.

  “You know what it means if anything goes—”

  “It won’t,” Simon said quietly. “You’ve done this before.”

  “Not over here.” He stopped, then looked away. “Well, listen to me. A little case of the willies,” he said, sounding embarrassed, young.

  “Now what?” Simon said, straightening his shoulders, body language.

  “The cemetery,” Frank said as they passed the end of the convent wall. “Chekhov’s here. Gogol. Lots of generals. See the back entrance there? Under the church. It had to be big enough for a hearse.”

  Simon looked up. More domes, one gold, the others green.

  “If you need to get out,” Frank said, almost a whisper, “use this gate. Not the main entrance. They’ll block the parking lot.” He touched Simon’s shoulder. “Here we go.”

  They passed through the street gate into the cemetery, leaving Boris outside on a bench with a newspaper and a full pack of cigarettes. There were some maintenance buildings and after that rows and rows of graves, some topped with elaborate statuary or, in the Russian fashion, with a photograph of the deceased embedded in the stone.

  “You’d think he’d have used an earlier picture,” Simon said, pointing to a jowly face.

  “Maybe that was his best,” Frank said, almost playful, some scheme they were cooking up in their grandmother’s yard, laughing at the neighbors.

  “Who gets to be buried here?”

  “The great and the good. Maybe me. If I stayed. Well,” he said, shrugging this off. “Through here.”

  He led Simon along the passageway under the church and into the convent grounds, old trees lining the paths, moving a little with the breeze, the only sounds birds and a groundskeeper’s shovel, uprooting something near one of the other churches. Across the compound a few children’s voices heading back to the bus.

  “No guards,” Simon said.

  “No. Stalin gave it back to the church. For loyalty during the war. So officially it’s church property.” He raised his arm to the white cathedral that was the centerpiece of the complex. “See how high the gables are? Like the Cathedral of the Assumption in the Kremlin. See anybody?”

  “They’re supposed to be inside.”

  “Walk around to the bell tower first. Let’s see who else is here.”

  But they seemed to be alone, even the children’s voices now gone, nothing but birds, the quiet of a churchyard. Frank glanced at his watch, then pointed up again at some architectural feature, another gesture. But what if no one was looking? It occurred to Simon, a kind of dismaying joke, that Frank, all of them, might be acting for cameras that weren’t there.

  The cathedral was built on a raised piece of ground, its own natural dais, so they had to walk up to enter. At the doorway there was the usual clerical gloom, the far aisles in dim shadow, then flickering candles, and a cluster of massive columns soaring up to the onion domes, their sides covered with frescoes, an Oriental swirl of color. Farther in, a bright center nave held a chandelier shining on the five-tiered iconostasis, each holy face framed in gold. DiAngelis was standing in front, looking up with a tourist’s wide eyes, fingering the brim of his hat. Novikov was at his side, his bulk somehow incongruous in all the filigree. They both turned at the sound of footsteps.

  “My brother, Frank Weeks. Pete DiAngelis,” Simon said, an unnecessary introduction. “And Mike—what was your last name again?”

  “Novikov.”

  “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake hands,” DiAngelis said. “Around the Agency you’re—”

  “Let’s make this fast,” Frank said, all business. “We might pass each other in here, but we don’t stay long enough to do anything else. You have authority from Pirie?”

  “You’re speaking to him. Through me.”

  “I wonder what that’s like. For you,” Frank said, a sly look to Simon.

  DiAngelis hesitated, not getting this, then said, “I have all the authority you need.”

  “Good. Would you mind?” he said to Novikov, a sign to move away.

  DiAngelis nodded. “And yours?” he said, as if Simon and Novi­kov were seconds at a duel.

  “My witness. Since we won’t have anything in writing.” He didn’t wait for DiAngelis’s reaction. “Basics, I think already understood: my wife comes with me, so two of us, immunity from any prosecution, new identities, security coverage for at least a year, more if we think we need it. Agreed?”

  “Go on.”

  “A pension. Just enough to cover living expenses. I won’t haggle. Pirie will just lowball it anyway. I’ll take base. I’ll be swimming in royalties.” He smiled at Simon. “From an account they can’t trace. The book, by the way—I want your guarantee you won’t interfere. I want Simon to come out ahead on this, whatever happens.”

  Simon looked at him, oddly pleased, part of Frank’s plan.

  “And what do we get?”

  “Whatever you can squeeze out of me during our cozy fireside chats. Don may want to do that himself. For old times’ sake. A little ancient history.”

  “So, out-of-date intel.”

  “No, that’s just for Don. New intel for you. For a start, I’ll update your Who’s Who. Of the Service. Thumbnails, bios, you’ll have a field day, don’t worry.”

  “Agents?”

  “I gave you Kelleher.”

  “We could leave it there, you know,” DiAngelis said, glancing at him, a poker look.

  “But you won’t,” Frank said, meeting his eyes.

  “We’d need the agents.”

  Frank nodded. “I don’t know everybody. Just out of my department. It’s set up that way. So those, yes. In the States. I can’t give you a roll up, just those.”

  “How many?”

  “How many would you like?”

  DiAngelis glared, offended.

  “Look, we don’t have time to do this here,” Frank said. “I’ll give you the DC names, the ones I know. You have my word.”

  “Your word.”

  “Then not my word. My self-interest. By the time Don gets his sweaty hands on me, I won’t have a lot of leverage. So, yes, agents. What else?”

  “How are you going to do it? Get out of here. Everyone’s curious about that.”

  “You’re going to help. You’re going to pick me up.”

  “Here? Are you crazy?”

  “Not here,” Frank said, a small smile. “That would be impractical.”

  “We don’t exfiltrate. We don’t set foot on Russian soil.”

  “Because you can’t. I know. But you’ll still have to pick me up. I can’t swim to the States.”

  “Where?”

  Frank hesitated. “I’ll let you know. Not here. There’s a great big socialist empire out there. I’m allowed to travel. Maybe even take my brother on a trip.”

  Simon looked up at this, surprised.

  “Are we talking about Eastern Bloc countries? And how is that supposed to be better than Russia? You still have the KGB crawling all over the place.”

  “Or their sister agencies. Always a little intimidated. Always cooperative. Especially if it’s a Service operation. So eager to liaise.”

  “If what’s a Service operation?”

  “My little scheme. I’m going to run it. For the Service. The KGB’s going to get me out. They don’t know it, but who better? Then you pick me up.”

  “You’re going to set up a KGB operation to get yourself out.”

  “It’s the safest way. Nobody suspects. My operation. I direct it. Everybody cooperates, gets me to where I need to be.” He looked at DiAngelis. “Then you get me out. Agreed?”

  “In the West?”

&
nbsp; Frank shook his head. “I can’t manage that. So you’re going to have to get your feet wet a little. It’s a risk, but not a big risk. I wouldn’t set it up this way if I didn’t think you could do it. That’s the deal.” He looked over at DiAngelis, waiting for a reaction.

  DiAngelis stared at him, as if he were reading his face for clues.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Frank said.

  “I’m just wondering if you’re worth it. We do this, we could end up with a mess on our hands.”

  “And I could end up dead. So who’s taking the risk?”

  “For some old intel and maybe a cypher clerk in a basement somewhere.”

  “What did Pirie say? He’s not interested?”

  “He told me to use my own judgment.”

  “Then use it. We’ve already been here too long.”

  “You set up a KGB operation, a front, so nobody thinks you’re trying to fly. And it gets you somewhere near us and you just slip away. With our help. Do I have that right?”

  “More or less.”

  “What’s the operation?”

  “Some dissidents we suspect are getting Agency backing,” he said, turning his head toward Simon.

  “So it’s an operation against us.”

  “Of course. You’re the Main Adversary, as we say. I’m going to swoop down and pick your team up. Except, instead, you pick me up. And I disappear.” He made a movement with his fingers. “Thin air. A triumph for the Agency. Their first defector in years. Except for Sokolov. And he was a plant.”

  DiAngelis jerked his head up. “What?”

  “That’s my second payment. On account. Don can stop wondering. If he’s still wondering. So. Agreed? Is there a problem?”

  “I don’t like operating anywhere behind the Curtain.”

  “Well, technically you won’t be behind it. Just nearby. I said you’d get your feet wet a little. In the boat. You pick me up on the water. Open sea, not Soviet territory. That safe enough for you? The question is, do you want me or not?”

  DiAngelis stared again, not saying anything.

  Frank took a quick look at his watch, then sighed. “All right, shall we sweeten the pot? How about a Who’s Who at Arzamas?”

  DiAngelis blinked. “The nuclear facility? How would you have that?”

  “I didn’t. I had a friend who had it.” He pointed to his temple. “Up here. He drank, we talked. I made notes. He died. So now I have it.” He touched his head again. “And a few papers he took with him. Which he shouldn’t have done. He was going to get them to the West. A great believer in the scientific community. Disarmament. But he only got them as far as me. Of course, strictly speaking, I should have turned them over right away to the Service. And I would have. Except I thought they’d make a nice calling card. Overcome any—qualms you might have. Do they?”

  “Perry,” Simon said, half to himself, watching Frank, a new prickling on his neck.

  Frank pretended not to hear. “Do they?”

  DiAngelis turned to the icons, as if, oddly, he were looking for spiritual guidance.

  “Where do we do this? When?”

  “Soon. I’ll give you time, don’t worry. Meanwhile, we communicate through Simon.” Simon looked up, but said nothing. “We should set up a dead letter drop. Nothing fancy. Simple. Say the men’s room at the National bar. Last stall. Use one of your people in Moscow. Not him,” he said, nodding toward Novikov. “Not embassy.”

  “We don’t have anybody on the ground in Moscow.”

  “Pete,” Frank said, sarcastic, drawing it out, then moved on. “If you need to talk to Simon for any reason, use the bar. Simon will make it a point to be there. But only if you have to. Meanwhile, arrange for the boat. Stockholm or Helsinki, either would work.”

  “You’re coming out on the Baltic?”

  “You need a boat big enough to cross and fast enough to get the hell out after the exchange. And armed. It’s the only tricky part, how my colleagues are going to react. You want to have enough firepower to make them think twice about any heroics. Problem?”

  “No.”

  “Good. When I have the exact time and pickup point, you’ll have it too. Want to shake now?” He extended his hand. DiAngelis looked at it for a second, then took it. “How do you like working with the Service? Everything planned. Clean.”

  “You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”

  Frank looked at him for a second, then dropped his hand. “Just get the boat ready. You come, by the way. Nice if Don could be there, but I suppose he’s beyond all that now. I want a face I know. Let’s see if you can get this going without making any noise. Pirie only. Nobody else at the Agency, not until it’s done. Or it won’t happen. The Service has lots of ears, some even I don’t know about. So you be as quiet as you can. We do have one advantage. If you fuck up, I’ll hear about it. I’m inside. But it’s not much of an advantage. If they find out what you’re up to, they’ll start connecting the dots back to me. So, quiet. Understood?”

  “We know how to run an operation.”

  “I’m counting on it. Anything else?”

  DiAngelis just stared.

  “Better get going then. Skip the cemetery. Just go back to the car. Anybody tail you?”

  “I assume. You’re supposed to be good at that.”

  “The best.”

  DiAngelis, unsure how to react to this, signaled Novikov.

  “I’ll see you on the boat,” he said to Frank, then put on his hat and walked toward Novikov.

  Frank watched them go, eyes following them out the door, making sure. A sudden silence, broken only by bells from one of the other churches, maybe calling the sisters to prayer.

  “Take a look at the ciborium,” Frank said. “Wood. Mention it to Boris.”

  “Shouldn’t we go?”

  “Let them get to the car.” He paused. “You trust him? You think he’ll do it?”

  “Yes.” He looked over at Frank. “Now it’s dead letter drops. Meetings at the bar. I’d be in real trouble if—”

  “I know,” Frank said, cutting him off. “I said I’d have your back.” He stopped for a second. “I need you out there.”

  “Your field agent.”

  Frank smiled a little. “That’s right. I’m running you.” He put his hand on Simon’s sleeve. “I know what I’m doing.”

  They moved toward the outside light of the entranceway, white after the soft yellow of the candles. At the door they heard running footsteps, someone racing up the stairs to the church. Frank stepped back, out of the light. A girl in uniform, knotted kerchief at her neck. A Young Pioneer? Some youth group. She stopped short, almost bumping into them, then lowered her head. “Izvinite,” she said, indistinct, a whisper, then hurried along the outer aisle, looking for something. A minute later she stopped and picked up a knapsack. Simon watched as if he were seeing a spool of silent film, no sound, everything in her face. She turned toward the frescoed columns and went still for a second, eyes wide. A quick intake of breath to cover her surprise, then she glanced toward Simon and Frank, trying to work something out. Nothing else, just a girl’s expression, seeing something. Someone. Frank froze, putting his hand up, quiet, more silent film. The girl lifted the knapsack onto one shoulder and ran back, ignoring them, eager to be outside. Simon looked at Frank. Frank mimed a shh signal, then cocked his head, listening. No footsteps, no sounds at all. But not alone, the air filled with it now, another presence.

  He signaled to Simon to go where the girl had been, then stepped carefully toward the center, paralleling Simon but coming up to the columns from behind. He passed the first, and waited for Simon to come into his line of sight before going on. Almost where the girl had been. He stepped softly around the next column and stopped. A man was pressed against its flat side, his head turned toward the outer aisle where Simon was moving, fo
otsteps faint but audible. Frank could feel him holding his breath, straining to hear. Not some casual visitor, wandering around the icons. Hiding.

  As Simon came closer, the man crept backward, clearly intending to slide behind the column, out of sight. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Another step, his back still to Frank and then stopping, aware now of someone behind him. Simon stepped into view, eyes surprised, someone he knew. Trapped now, between them, the air alive, almost trembling, a frightened rabbit about to leap away. Before he could bolt, Frank grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him, hand at his throat, pinning him against the column. The sound of panting, then an involuntary squeaking noise, a trapped rabbit again. “Don’t.” Frank pushed him harder against the column, choking him, so that he sputtered. “Stop.” Finally staring at him, Gareth’s face pale, skin pushed back, twisting under Frank’s hand.

  Everything went still for a second, even the birds. Simon felt the tips of his fingers tingle, as if the blood had drained away, rushing to his head. He could see it all at once—the terror in Gareth’s eyes, Frank’s panic, both in it now, caught.

  “What the hell are you doing?” Frank said, low, hoarse.

  “Stop,” Gareth said, a gasp. He moved his hand up to grab Frank’s away, and Frank relaxed his grip for a second, letting Gareth’s head move forward, gulping air, then shoved him back again, in a vise now, his head hitting the column. “Stop.”

  Simon saw them scrambling against each other, twisting, like the two scorpions in the story, locked in a bottle, safe if neither of them attacked the other. But one always did.

  “What are you doing here? You followed us?”

  Gareth shook his head, then signaled that he’d talk if Frank loosened his hand.

  “I live here,” he said, rubbing his neck where Frank’s hand had been, his voice breathy, still racing. “Up the street. As you’d know if you’d ever accepted an invitation.”

  Frank looked at him, disconcerted, the answer surreal. He dropped his hand. “What?”

  Gareth’s eyes darted past him, the relaxed hand the opening he’d been looking for, and lunged left, starting to run. Without even thinking, Simon stepped forward, blocking him, then pushed him back against the wall, holding one shoulder while Frank held the other. Gareth kept gulping air, almost whimpering, looking from one to the other.