Defectors

by Joseph Kanon

  “You too,” he said to Simon. “Get off. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “That’s your question,” Frank said. “What?” He shoved him again. “Now.”

  Gareth winced, looking at his shoulder. “Beast. It was an accident.”

  “What was?”

  “Being here.” He looked at him, suddenly defiant. “Though not in your case. ‘See you on the boat.’ Now, what boat would that be? The one down the Moscow River? Kremlin views?” His breath still ragged, but no longer gasping.

  “What are you doing here?” Frank said again.

  “I told you, I live here. Just up Pirogovskaya. Very handy to the stadium, though in my case—” He stopped, aware of Frank’s eyes. “I can see across to the parking lot. Look, if you want to hear this, take your hands off. We’re all friends here,” he said, trying it.

  Frank said nothing to this, another surreal moment, but dropped his hand.

  “And you?” Gareth said to Simon. “The good brother. Just beavering away on the book. Nothing else. Really.”

  “Talk,” Frank said, his calm a kind of menace.

  Gareth blinked. “So I take a look from time to time. Being an old snoop. It passes the time. And then today, what? An American embassy car. And who? Novikov. What’s he doing here? I said to myself. Come to see the nuns? And who’s that with him? I had to take a look, didn’t I? It’s my job. So I came down and there they were, looking at icons with the Girl Guides or whatever they call themselves and I thought, I’d better find out who he is, the new man. The Service would want to know. They didn’t come to see the Virgin of Smolensk. It must be a meeting. And so it was. But I never thought—it was an accident.”

  “But now it isn’t.”

  “No,” Gareth said, looking up. “Maybe best forgotten.”

  “But you have such a good memory. You think you know something.”

  Simon glanced over, Frank’s voice a disturbing low register.

  “No I don’t. Really. Maybe it’s your brother meeting with his people. They would, wouldn’t they?”

  “But I wouldn’t be here.”

  “No.”

  “So what do you think you know?”

  “Look, it’s not me meeting with the Americans. You act as if I were the one—”

  “But that’s exactly what I’d have to say.”

  “What?”

  “Until about five minutes ago, you thought you’d struck gold. All those years with your little bits of gossip, snitching on this one and that—finally, a real strike. Isn’t that right?”

  “I didn’t hear anything,” Gareth said, eyes alarmed now.

  “But that’s not the way it’s going to play out.”

  “Frank, I—”

  “Nobody’s going to say anything.”

  Gareth shook his head. “No.”

  “I should. I should report this. But you know what it would mean. We both do. I don’t want to do that to you.”

  “Do what?”

  “Report your meeting.”

  “My—?”

  “Try it this way. The tail on the embassy car saw two things—Novikov and his friend going in and then you going in a few minutes later.”

  “Frank—” he said, jumpy now.

  “Funny thing. When Simon and I came into the church, what did we see? The three of you, thick as thieves, so I thought I’d better listen in. I couldn’t quite get it all, but the new guy was American, making some kind of deal. With you. I thought, why not a Brit? That would be the obvious thing. But that’s where you’re clever. Nobody would think you’d go to the Americans. With your little bits of business. And you almost got away with it. If I hadn’t been here. I’d have to do my duty.”

  “Your duty.”

  “And who do you think they’d believe? You or me? With the Order of Lenin?”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “I’d have to. I’m sorry. I know what it means. Afterward. Not pleasant.”

  “Except I know what really happened. What you’re planning to do.”

  “So you did hear. I needed to know that.”

  “Frank—”

  “Of course you’d be grasping for straws at that point. Any story that pops into your head. Even an implausible one. Why would I do that, when I’m so well settled here? Yes, it would be just like you to make trouble for me. And yes, to be on the safe side, they’ll watch me closely for a while. But when nothing happens—and it won’t—they’d be right back where they started. And who would they believe? Your word against mine.”

  “They’d kill me,” Gareth said quietly.

  “Yes. I’d look for another way out if I were you.”

  “Such as.”

  “I’d keep my mouth shut. Could you do that, do you think?” he said, staring at him, reading his face. “Keep quiet? That’s the question, isn’t it?”

  “Keep quiet. I was a spy, for God’s sake. You don’t have to—”

  “But this would be such a coup for you. The Service would be so grateful—if they believed you.”

  “Take your hands off me,” Gareth said, rallying. “Nobody has to say anything.” He looked up at him. “You’ll never get away with it, you know. Sticking it to the Service. They won’t need me. You’ll never make it to the boat.” He looked over at Simon. “And you. Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you?” he said, his mouth twisted, almost sneering.

  “Leave him out of it.”

  “They won’t. No, they’ll have a lovely time with you. Think of the trial. Like Mr. Powers. The great pilot. Oh, they’ll love that.” He turned to Frank. “I admit I was surprised. To see you. The great Francis Weeks.” He let out a pretend sigh. “It’s a wicked old world, isn’t it? You never know.” He started straightening his coat. “All right. No proof anyway. Your word against mine. So, checkmate. Nobody says anything.”

  Frank looked at him, considering. “I don’t think you can do it,” he said slowly.

  Gareth’s eyes darted from Simon to Frank, then around the room, trapped again.

  “So what do we do?” Frank said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Gareth said, twitching. “That’s not really in your line, is it?”

  “No, but it’s nothing to Boris. He’s just outside.”

  Gareth gulped some air, taking a deep breath, then suddenly pushed away from the column, knocking Simon aside, and started to run back toward the entrance.

  Simon leaped after him, catching his coat, pulling on it, both of them staggering down the aisle, Frank now behind. Gareth twisted, trying to wrench free, the coat twisting with him, pocket turned upside down. Something metal fell to the floor, a clang echoing in the empty church. Simon looked down, then let go of the coat and scooped up the fallen camera.

  “No proof!” he shouted, imagining the pictures inside, trial exhibits.

  Frank swept past him, catching Gareth and shoving him up against the first pillar, smashing his head back, arm at his throat, Gareth going limp, like a doll. “No proof,” Frank said, then to Simon, “Open it.” Simon flipped open the back, pulling out the film, exposing it. “Now where’s your proof? Bastard.”

  “Stop. You’re—”

  Frank pushed harder. Gareth made a choking sound, trying to pull Frank’s arm away from his throat, then pushed at his face, ducking to get away. Frank brought up his knee, a fast kick that made Gareth crumple, raspy screams, pulling at Frank until they both toppled over, on the stone floor now, rolling. Simon shoved the camera into his pocket, stuffing in the loose remnant of film. A shine of blood on the column where Gareth’s head had been. Simon could feel his heart beat, breath coming faster. No pulling back. Not just a show trial, his life at stake. Frank’s. He looked down. Frank was sitting on him now, knees on either side, his hands on Gareth’s windpipe, Gareth gasping, making sounds, a
kind of gurgling. Then he stopped, his head moving to one side, and Frank moved his hands away, shaking, his whole body shaking.

  “Oh God,” he said, to himself, to nobody.

  Simon stepped over and took his hand, helping him up.

  “I’ve never done that,” Frank said, his face distant, hands still shaking, the last few minutes now one spasm rippling through him.

  “There’s some blood over there. I’ll wipe it off,” Simon said, taking out a handkerchief, hearing himself, not really there.

  Frank stood looking at Gareth. “I had to, didn’t I? He would have—”

  “Put the coat under his head. In case there’s more blood.”

  “Still,” Frank said, eyes fixed on Gareth. Who would have ruined everything. The scorpion striking first, his nature.

  Suddenly there was a faint moan, indistinct as a night sound, a slight movement of Gareth’s head, and Frank involuntarily reared back. Simon looked at Gareth, beginning to move, then at Frank, still stunned.

  “Finish it,” Simon said, seeing everything in a flash. The men in leather coats, the fast car and back entrance, the beatings in the cell, the trial, after. “We have to finish it.”

  Frank stared at him, shaking. Simon dropped to his knees, what had to be done, hands on the warm neck, thumbs pressing into the windpipe. Gareth’s eyes opened, maybe a panicked recognition, maybe just some abstract disbelief as air left him, struggling a little, kicking his feet against nothing, Simon pressing down now, what had to be done, harder, the last gasps barely audible, no wind, the eyes rolling back, closing, and suddenly the only things moving were Simon’s hands, pressing, everything else still. He stopped, staring down, the lifeless face slightly contorted, not peaceful. What murder looked like.

  He got up, staggering on one knee, unexpectedly weak, drained. Frank was staring at him, still dazed, someone at an accident.

  He looked down again. Not just still, dead, a different stillness, skin already going gray, mouth open, unnatural. In one second. No. Take it back. Not dead, a figure in a First Aid manual. Drop to your knees, spread your hands against the rib cage, push, don’t panic, a rhythm, in and out, be his lungs, the face turned to the side for the water to run out, your hands breathing for him until you heard the choking sounds, signs of life. Take it back.

  “We have to get him out of here,” Frank said, matter-of-fact, coming back.

  “Should I get Boris?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nobody. But we can’t leave him here. They’ll find him.”

  “They’re going to find him.”

  “But not yet. No connection. Take a look outside. See if there’s anyone—”

  Simon half ran to the door, grateful to be doing something. The grounds were quiet, no Young Pioneers, no nuns, not even the groundskeeper, gone for a smoke or a siesta, leaving his wheelbarrow near the uprooted shrub by the red church.

  “There’s a wheelbarrow,” he said, coming back.

  “No. How do we explain it, if anyone comes? Grab his other side. Ever carry a drunk?”

  Simon put one of Gareth’s arms around his neck and lifted, grunting at the weight.

  “We just have to get him to the cemetery,” Frank said, beginning to move. “Did you see the sheds? Near the wall. We can put him there.”

  “They’re still going to find him,” Simon said, hoisting the body against him, the feet still dragging.

  At the entrance Frank stopped. “Check again. If there’s anybody. Lean him here.”

  They backed Gareth against the wall. Simon stepped out, looking around. Still no one, a cloister stillness. He went back and slung Gareth’s arm around his shoulders again.

  “Ready?” Frank said.

  “What if someone’s in the cemetery?”

  “He passed out. We’re getting some help.” He looked at Simon. “I don’t know.”

  They stepped out into the light, the gate church just across a stretch of lawn, open, the shade trees all next to the church.

  “Come on, quick,” Frank said, heaving the weight on his side, then stopped, turning his head, listening. Some voices coming from the cemetery. No, the same voice. Coming from the underpass now. They lugged the body back, not quite there when the voice came through the gate. The groundskeeper, carrying a heavy pair of gardening shears, drunk or just talking to himself. He looked up, as if he’d heard their breathing, but gazed at the other church, where he’d been working. A louder stream of Russian now, some private rant of complaint. In a second, they were back through the doorway, Gareth hanging between them. The Russian was still talking, crossing the lawn, heading right for them, swinging the clippers in one hand. Another step back, out of the light.

  The groundskeeper stopped, a dog sniffing the air, and looked at the entrance, leaning his head forward, peering, his glasses catching the sun. Simon stopped breathing, his eyes fixed on the Russian’s glasses, little flashes as he moved his head. Could he see? What? Three men, holding each other up in the church’s gloom. A disturbance in his world. Something off. No sound. Another step, still peering.

  And then, just as he was approaching the entrance, he gave it up and veered off on the path to the bell tower, behind the cathedral. Another minute, listening, then the sound of steady clipping, the shears attacking some unruly shrubbery. But where, exactly? Could he see the lawn? They looked at each other, panting under the weight of the body. In a minute another bus could arrive or someone with flowers for an icon, mourners in the cemetery, the whole complex come to life with people who would see them. Frank nodded and they hoisted the body again and started across the lawn. Out in the open. But no shouts, no voices disturbing the quiet, just their own heavy breathing, their ears filled with it. How could the groundskeeper not hear? When the bell in the tower started ringing, the clanging tearing through the air, they jumped, almost dropping the body, as if they had set off an alarm. They began to move faster, their breathing, any sound, covered now by the bells. Was anyone actually ringing them, looking out high in the tower? In another minute they had reached the gate church, Gareth’s shoes now scraping against the floor of the underpass. At the other end the cemetery seemed deserted, no widows paying respects. But for how long? Just to the shed against the wall. Their luck held. The caretaker had left it unlocked.

  Inside there were tools, odds and ends, even slabs of tombstones leaning against the wall, loose cobbles to repair the paths between the rows of graves.

  “Over there,” Frank whispered, nodding to the shadowy far end of the building.

  They gave the body one last heave and dropped it in the corner, hiding it behind a pile of tools, the caretaker’s mess an unexpected cover.

  “Wait,” Frank said, seeing Simon turning to go. He squatted, loosening Gareth’s belt buckle, then dragging his pants down.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Why he was here. Someplace out of the way. The Service is funny about people like him, they’d rather not know. If they believe it, they’ll cover it up.”

  The pants down, Gareth’s white body exposed, caught in the act. Now his wallet, cash taken out and the wallet wiped for prints and thrown back, what might have happened. Frank went over to a pile of cobbles and picked one up, carrying it back to the body and raising it above Gareth’s head.

  “What—?”

  But the arm had already come down, a crack as it smashed into Gareth’s head, opening it.

  “It won’t fool anybody if they really look—the marks on his throat, and the blood’s stopped. But they may not want to look. Disgrace to the Service.”

  “And the police?” Simon said softly, looking at the body.

  “The Service will take this over. One of ours. I’ll make sure.”

  “What are we doing?” Simon said, a question to himself.

  Frank looked at him, but said nothing, moving them to the door. He poked his head
out. Still no one. Outside they took the path nearest the wall.

  “Stalin’s wife,” Frank said, pointing to one of the graves. “You can tell Boris you saw it. The writers are down here.”

  They were walking quickly, hurrying to the entrance. Out of the corner of his eye Simon could see a woman with a headscarf at the far end, kneeling at one of the graves, but she didn’t turn. They were still invisible.

  “I can’t stay here,” Simon said suddenly. “I have to get out before they—”

  Frank stopped, holding him by the shoulders. “Listen to me. By the time they find him they won’t be able to establish time of death. He said he lived down the street. This is just the kind of place he’d use—to meet people.” He gripped Simon’s shoulders. “No one saw us.”

  “I can’t,” Simon said, light-headed, as if he were about to float away, held back by Frank’s hands on his shoulders.

  “Yes, you can,” Frank said calmly. “It’s going to be all right. If you leave now, you’ll make it worse. For both of us. No sudden moves. Everything the way it should be.”

  Except for the body in the shed. Simon saw the face again, the startled eyes. But what he heard was the calm excitement in Frank’s voice. It’s going to be all right. What he’d done all his life, maybe why he’d done it, the risk.

  “I’m not going to jail, not here.”

  “Neither am I,” Frank said, trying for a tentative smile. “I have an alibi. You. And you have me. We’re fine, if nobody gets spooked.”

  Simon felt the hands like a grounding rope, pulling him back. But then he saw, a flash of horror, that Frank and he had become the scorpions. Both safe until one—

  He nodded his head and Frank dropped his hands, then took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “All that weight,” he said, the same hand he’d raised in the air with the stone.

  “You have to do it soon,” Simon said. “We can’t stay here. I won’t.”