by Joseph Kanon
“I’m not worried.”
“No? I think Joanna is. If I ruin her party.” She looked up. “But I won’t.” She put her hand on Simon. “You’ll talk to me, won’t you? Tell me about America. You know, Perry always liked it there. He said he wished I could see it.”
Simon looked at her, at a loss.
“Of course, not possible.” She glanced over at Frank. “You really think it will be all right, about the flat?”
“Yes.”
She nodded. “Don’t worry, tomorrow. I won’t say anything in front of the others. My foolishness. It’s different with you. Who’s coming?”
“The Rubins.”
She smiled, the hint of a giggle.
“What?”
“All spies.” She touched Simon’s arm. “Except you. Yes? Everybody but you.”
They went back a different way, through woods so thick they had to walk single file.
“She liked you,” Frank said, his teasing voice. “Better watch out. She’s already buried two.”
Simon looked up at the back of Frank’s head, surprised at his tone.
“She was married before?”
“That’s why she was at Arzamas. A Polish physicist. Radiation poisoning. And there was Perry. He never had a chance.”
“Is it true what she said? They fired him for signing a letter?”
“It wasn’t just any letter. Scientists everywhere. Put an end to weapon research. As if it was up to them. He was lucky. In the old days he would have been shot.”
“But he wasn’t,” Simon said, a question.
Frank shook his head. “That’s just Marzena’s way of explaining it to herself. If the Service did it, then he didn’t.”
“Why did he?”
Frank was silent for a minute. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Do we ever? But it wasn’t the Service. He had no access, not after he left. He wasn’t going to make any trouble. Besides, the atomic spies—there’s a certain obligation. They’re heroes here. Look at the Rubins. She was just a courier and they get a big apartment on Gorky Street. Watch this branch.”
Simon ducked.
“If I had to guess,” Frank said, “I’d say when he stopped working—that was the end of things for him. That’s where he lived, not the real world. Signing letters, for Christ’s sake. What did he think would happen?”
“You liked him.”
Frank turned. “They’re just down the road, so we saw a lot of them. He had the time and nobody to talk to. Except Marzena, but that gets to be a little one-note.”
Simon looked at him. He talked. I made notes.
“And what does she do now?” Simon said. Frightened by night sounds.
“Oh, the Service will take care of her. She won’t have to worry. Now what?” he said, stopping at the edge of the woods, Boris’s car back in the driveway.
Joanna, picking something in the garden, spotted them and ran over.
“Boris is here. He’s staying the night,” she said, visibly upset.
“What?”
“He’s worried that something might—”
“Might what? What’s wrong?”
“Gareth. He’s been killed. It’s awful. Another one, so soon after Perry, so they’re worried—”
“Gareth?” Frank said, his tone flawless, shocked.
Simon blinked, saying nothing.
“He’s been killed,” Joanna said again. “Murdered.”
“What? How?”
“I don’t know. Boris will tell you. He just said murdered. He wants to make sure you’re—you don’t think it’s true, do you, that it has anything to do with Perry? That somebody—”
“No. I don’t know. Where is he?”
“Inside. I didn’t know what to say. About his staying.”
“Let me talk to him. Gareth?” he said again, trying to absorb it.
“I know and we just saw him a few days ago,” Jo said. “Oh, there’s Eva. I’d better say good-bye.”
Boris had come out on the porch and waved in their direction.
“Careful,” Frank said, his voice low. “He’ll say he’s here to protect me.”
“Isn’t he?”
“Mm. Just be careful.”
“Too bad Perry didn’t—” Simon stopped. “Why didn’t he have a Boris?”
“He did, for a while,” Frank said, turning toward the porch.
Simon looked up at Boris again, feeling a click in his head, a camera shutter opening. No need when Perry had Frank, a friend, not a babysitter. Much more effective. Someone he could talk to. Did he suspect? He talked. I made notes. And how many of them now would go to DiAngelis? The full Service file? Or just enough to clinch the deal, a few names, the file a protected asset. Assuming there was anything in it. Years since Arzamas, his science out of date, his letter writing behind him. And talking to his wife, even better, something a Boris couldn’t have done. The family friend. Unless she was listening too, provided by the Service, another Sergei. Everybody listening. Careful what you say. Boris was coming down the stairs, relieved to see them.
“What’s this about your staying the night?” Frank said. “Gareth’s dead?” Still pitch-perfect.
“The office thinks it’s safer, until they know. Two Western agents, so soon. So maybe another.”
“They think they’re connected? How?”
“I don’t know. A precaution only.”
“Do you think they are?”
“Me? No. The Englishman—” He glanced quickly at Simon, flustered. “A crime of sex.”
“God,” Frank said. “Gareth. What did he do? Pick up someone behind the Metropol? It wasn’t Sergei, was it?”
“They don’t know,” Boris said, embarrassed again. “Maybe a quarrel. Maybe a stranger. Not the Metropol. You know where?”
Frank grunted no.
“Novodevichy Cemetery.”
“Novodevichy?” Frank said, jarred. “When was this?”
“The time is uncertain. Maybe yesterday. Maybe before.”
“You mean he could have been lying there dead while we were—? What in God’s name was he doing there?”
“He lives nearby. It would be a convenient place to meet somebody.”
“What if we’d seen him?” Frank said, still unsettled. “Was he just—lying there? On some grave?”
“The caretaker’s shed.”
“God. To go like that,” Frank said. “So—sordid.”
“Unless arranged. To give that appearance.”
“Is that what they think?”
Boris shrugged. “They’re investigating.”
“Well, of course you’re always welcome to stay,” Frank said, as if it were simply a weekend invitation. “We’ve put Simon in the guest room, but there’s the back bedroom. Would that be okay? Jo, can we fix that up for Boris?”
“Of course,” she said, joining them. “Poor Gareth. We just saw him.”
“Yes?” Boris said.
“At the Aragvi. You were there. In his cups. As usual. Why would anyone want to kill Gareth. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
Simon glanced at her, saying nothing.
“It’s crazy,” she said. “Someone going around killing— What for? I mean, they’re not even agents anymore.”
“Not for us. But maybe one for them,” Boris said quietly.
“What do you mean?”
“A plant. All along.”
Frank looked over at him. “Elizaveta,” he said.
Boris nodded.
“She’s back? Christ.”
Another nod. “They brought her in. She always said—”
“Elizaveta?” Simon said, at sea.
Boris glanced over, waiting for Frank’s lead to go on. Service business.
“She’s our Torqu
emada. The foreign agents. She thinks we’re all really double agents, or why else would we have come? She used to make life hell for everybody. Donald couldn’t work for years. Guy—well, you can imagine. Files and more files. Until they pensioned her out. I thought.” This to Boris.
“A special assignment. When she heard about the English—”
“But not Perry,” Joanna said.
“No, but an English. She always said the English would do this.”
“She thought the Americans were too dumb,” Frank said, explaining. “New to the game. But the Brits. She thinks they think the way she does. So now what?” he said to Boris. “Gareth gets killed and who did it?”
“The double agent. Gareth found out.”
“Gareth? She really is batty, you know.”
Boris shrugged, noncommittal.
“And Perry knew too?”
“Maybe not connected,” Boris said.
“So, theory one,” Frank said, holding up a finger. “Somebody’s bumping us all off, one by one. For reasons—well, we don’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t like us. Theory two, Gareth found out there was a double agent and threatened to expose him. Presumably another Brit. Elizaveta would be disappointed otherwise. All those years chasing MI6 and now, snap. If she gets him. And three, Perry—well a tragedy, but it happens. And Gareth got involved with a rough customer who beat him to death, or whatever he did. Which happened a few weeks later. So which makes the most sense? But instead we get old Elizaveta back, making trouble for everybody.” He made an exaggerated sigh. “Let’s hope we find out what happened before she makes a real mess. Come on, Boris, let’s have some soup,” he said, putting his arm around Boris’s shoulder. “The Service will get through this too.”
Simon watched them head for the stairs, Frank as smooth as a dancer, every step effortless. The way he’d always been, knowing what to do. For a second Simon felt a rush of the old admiration, following behind, Frank making everything all right. Boris’s friend.
“And now Boris for dinner,” Joanna said.
But Frank made that all right too, never mentioning Gareth, instead getting Boris to tell one of his stories about the war, when the Germans had Moscow practically in sight. Simon listened quietly, imagining the evenings with Perry and Marzena, the stories from Arzamas, how the letter started, names. I made notes. When Jo cleared the dishes, he went out on the porch for a smoke, just to get away, his chest tight. There were still a few streaks of light in the sky, the way it had looked that first night at the airport, before everything.
“You okay?” Frank said, coming out.
Simon nodded. “I keep thinking I’ll say the wrong thing.”
“You won’t. Just keep your head. Nobody’s looking at you.”
“Or you.”
“Yet. It’s a bad break, Elizaveta. Now they won’t bury it, they’ll investigate. Most of them are like Boris—they don’t want to know, just get him in the ground. But she’ll want a hunt, every foreigner.”
“You’ve been here twelve years. You’re—”
“Foreign. It’s something primal with them. And she’s the worst. She held up my security clearance for two years.”
“Yours?”
“And she’s still not sure.” He stopped, then smiled to himself. “God, I’d love to see her face. When she hears. Well, let’s hope she has her hands full with the Brits. At least until Wednesday. And I’m senior. She’ll have to work her way up to me. We should be all right.”
“Should be.”
“Should be. She prides herself on being thorough. About nothing. Ah, Boris.” He turned toward the door. “Here, have one of these. Not those Dymoks. They’ll kill you.”
“Good Russian cigarette.” He stepped onto the porch, taking a puff of his. “Still light. In Leningrad, the white nights. I have never seen, but everyone likes.”
“Why don’t you come too?”
“No. Is already arranged. With Service people there. Maybe I go to Sochi.”
Frank laughed. “And get a tan? I can’t see you just lying on the beach.”
“I like the sun. Good for the health. Comrade Burgess goes there. Well, not now. I think Elizaveta will start with him, no?”
“I suppose he was the closest to Gareth.”
“But not for sex,” Boris said, uncomfortable.
“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, not since Sergei.”
Boris nodded. “Like a marriage. So why Novodevichy? To meet someone else? Sergei says no. He wouldn’t.” Sergei already questioned.
“Sergei wouldn’t know.”
“Possible,” Boris said, thinking about it.
“And Gareth— We won’t speak ill of the dead, but loyalty wasn’t exactly his strong suit.”
“He was loyal to the Party,” Boris said simply, another puzzle piece.
“Well, that’s a different kind of marriage.”
Boris looked up. “For life.” All that mattered.
They heard the phone ring and Joanna answering it. No one said anything, listening, apprehensive, the hour late. A call from the Lubyanka? Marzena hearing night sounds? They all turned when Jo came to the porch.
“It was Hannah. They want to bring Ian. They have him for the weekend apparently. I could hardly say no. We’ll just set another place.”
“The more the merrier,” Frank said, his shoulders relaxing.
Simon looked at him, a silent Who?
“Ian McAulife. You’ve probably never heard of him. No headlines, like Guy and Donald. But probably a hell of a lot more useful. Right under their noses at Harwell. For years,” he said, a trace of Service pride in his tone.
But Boris had turned rigid, alert to something in the air. “An English,” he said, and Simon could see that it had already begun, the drawing away from each other, the Service turning on itself, not wanting to be caught in the conspiracy in Elizaveta’s head. What would happen after Wednesday, a real crisis? The double agent no one suspected. He looked over at Boris, smoking his Russian cigarette. Maybe in Sochi when everything blew up, the defection still on his watch. Why hadn’t he seen it? Had he been part of it? Questions, while the Service tore itself apart. He’d be punished somehow, knee-jerk Service justice, the wheels as indifferent as he’d been, a political officer at the front, taking no prisoners. Simon looked away, another improbable moment, for a second on the other side of the board, worrying about an officer of the KGB.
* * *
He had laughed at Marzena, but in fact there were night sounds, sudden animal rustlings in the woods, a car engine in the distance. Going where at this hour? He looked at his watch, the barely visible dial. Two. Now a tinkling sound, ice in a glass. A thin strip of light under the door. Someone still up. Not Boris, who never used ice. Not Frank, who’d claimed exhaustion, the evening mostly spent on the phone to the office, more details.
Simon got out of bed and put on his robe, then opened the door a crack, gently, trying not to make noise. Joanna was on the couch, hunched forward over the coffee table, glass in one hand, turning pages with the other. Not a book, stiff paper, a photo album. Stopping for a minute, hand hovering over the page, staring, taking a drink without looking, the ice tinkling again, no louder than one of the insects outside. A cone of light from the small end table lamp, the rest of the room dark. Simon stood peering out, not moving. How long had she been out here—in her nightgown, unable to sleep, waiting for the house to quiet, to be alone. A girl surrounded by people, hair falling back. Now she put down the glass and folded her arms across her chest, pitching forward, rocking a little, her face turned so that he had to imagine tears, the sobs just twitches in her shoulders. Back and forth, holding herself, a silent keening. Then a loosening, a letting go, slumping back against the couch and lying on her side, still no sound. Simon waited, not wanting to intrude. Something he shouldn’t have seen. Another few minutes, no
movement on the couch. But then he noticed the smoke, a thin stream rising from the ashtray, the cigarette still going.
He tiptoed out into the room. Joanna’s eyes were closed, her breathing even. Just put the cigarette out and go. On the table, next to the vodka bottle, the album was still open. Simon looked down. Family pictures, a couple with a child, the same front porch just outside. Smiles. A winter scene, Richie in a snowsuit on a sled, Frank in a fur hat pulling him. Blowing candles on a birthday cake. The life they used to have, not mentioned in the book, not talked about. He glanced at the couch, Joanna still sleeping, then reached down and turned a page. The dacha lawn, Richie just a toddler, the three of them together. Richie playing with her hair, pulling her head back, Joanna laughing.
He turned to the couch. She had pulled one arm up to her chest and now it moved with her breathing, her hair spread out behind her on the couch pillow. The way he remembered it. She hadn’t known then either, that he’d watched her sleeping, unable to move, afraid to wake her, break the spell of their good luck. Outside the soft Virginia countryside, wet with early morning, open, not dark woods behind a patrolled fence. The memory of it so strong that he felt he was living it now, could reach down and brush the hair from the side of her face, kiss her ear, tell her it was time to get up. Then get back into bed to watch the light come through the window, head next to hers.
She stirred for a second, as if she could feel him looking, then turned her head on the pillow, her face drawn, not the girl in Virginia, a different sleep, tormented by old pictures. Not Joanna at all, lazy with sex, someone else, worn out, listened to and watched so that even grief had to be muffled by running taps, the only private thing left. He stood, rooted, seeing the different face, not the memory anymore, the face she had.
He almost jumped when he felt the movement behind him. Frank put a finger to his lips, shh, then leaned down and rubbed out the cigarette. He took the album and closed it, shoulders slumped, something he’d done before, then looked up at Simon, still not speaking. He raised a finger to his lips again, then picked up the afghan lying on the arm of the couch and spread it over her lightly, so the touch of the fabric wouldn’t wake her. How many nights had he done this? Marriage was private. Frank had drawn a veil over theirs with an afghan. What were they to each other now? How could anyone know? People thought he and Diana were happy.
