Defectors

by Joseph Kanon

  “That’s not—”

  “And the next thing you know, he’s valedictorian. The smart one,” he said, nodding, case closed.

  “And I always thought that was you,” Joanna said drily.

  Frank raised his glass to her. “Once in a while. Lucky mostly, though. But weren’t we all?” he said, including the Rubins. “Nobody suspected anything in those days. You could waltz out of the Agency at lunch with a bunch of papers and nobody thought twice. Quick copy and back in the file the same afternoon. Imagine trying that now.”

  “It was different in the field,” Saul said. “The Bureau had guys everywhere. And if you were caught, you were caught. They gave the Rosenbergs the chair. You don’t want to forget that.”

  “You couldn’t take anything out of Harwell,” Ian said suddenly. “Not a scrap.”

  “So how did you—?” Frank said.

  “I memorized it.”

  “Arzamas was like that,” Marzena said. “Someone always watching. But they couldn’t watch up here.” She tapped the side of her head.

  “But it wouldn’t matter,” Ian said. “Nobody’s trying to get anything out here.”

  “No, that’s right,” Marzena said quickly, a confused backpedaling.

  “There’s never been a leak. Not from there. Harwell either, except for me. You know, you do something for years, you’d think you’d build up a little credit. Like something in the bank. But they never trust you. Not just Elizaveta. How can they not trust us? After everything?”

  No one answered, fidgeting, uncomfortable.

  “It’s important to be careful,” Boris said finally. “All loyal Soviets.” He spread his hand to take in the table. “But it’s always possible—just one. Think how serious that would be.”

  “You think any of us would betray the Party?” Ian said.

  Why not? Simon wanted to say. You’ve already betrayed once, everything you knew.

  “Not you,” Marzena said, patting his hand, a side glance to Frank. “No one would think that.”

  “It’s important to be careful,” Boris said again.

  Everyone looked away, not wanting to meet his eye, used to it now, being suspect, watched. Would Boris file a report? Someone else? Simon looked around the table, trying to remember what he’d said, how it would look on a typed page. But he hadn’t said anything. Everything was still safe inside, like Ian’s memorized secrets, the sound of Gareth gasping for air.

  “Fine talk for a party,” Joanna said. “Who wants some more wine?” Filling her own glass.

  “Are your parents still living?” Hannah said to Simon, a polite afternoon tea question.

  “My father.”

  “Ah. Well, maybe he’ll come too now. After you tell him it’s not so terrible.”

  “No. I’m afraid—”

  Frank looked up, a flicker of shadow on his face, some stray internal cloud.

  “He’s too old to make the trip now. He’s very frail.”

  “Oh, that’s a shame. But you two must have so much to talk about. Catching up. How much longer will you be here?”

  “Just a few days. We’re almost finished with the book.”

  “The book. I’d forgotten. That’s why you came.” She turned to Frank. “They’re really letting you—?”

  Frank nodded. “Their idea. Not mine. Of course, they can always change their minds. But so far they seem to like it. Right, Boris?”

  “Is excellent.”

  “Am I in it?” Marzena said.

  “No. No one here. Just in America, before I came.”

  “But you must be,” Hannah said to Simon.

  “Just in passing. I wasn’t part— Frank used other sources.” When he wasn’t using me. Lunch at Harvey’s. How’s everything at State?

  “He’s lucky to have you. A publisher in the family.”

  “We’re all lucky,” Joanna said, sipping her drink. “And now you’ll go and we won’t see you again, will we? I hadn’t thought about it before. Leningrad. And then—poof.”

  “You’re going to Leningrad?” Hannah said, interested.

  “And Tallinn,” Joanna said. “And Riga. See Riga and die.” She giggled. “One of Frank’s trips. And then he’s gone. No more Simon.” Looking at him.

  But it was the trip the table wanted to know about. When? Where were they staying? Had it been difficult to get permission? They leaned forward, eager for details. Any travel. Somewhere away from the compound, the pine woods, the men at the gate. Away.

  “You have to see the Hermitage,” Hannah said. “And the Peterhof. The fountains. Such a nice time of year too. I remember I couldn’t sleep, it was still so light.”

  “Shall I come too?” Marzena said. “I’ve never been to Riga. Is it nice? I could meet you there.” Playing with it, not meaning it, all of them packing imaginary bags.

  “Oh, just like that,” Hannah said. “Just get on a train.”

  “Yes, why not?”

  “And your travel documents, please?” A conductor’s voice.

  “I don’t need any. A Polish passport. That’s why I kept it. You can come and go with a Polish passport. One good thing about Comecon, yes? Soviets, you have to have this and that, but Poles—we can leave anytime we want. No exit visas. Just the passport. That’s all I need.”

  Simon looked up. But everyone else would need a visa, Soviet citizens now. He glanced over at Frank, only half paying attention to this, one of Marzena’s whims. Everything planned, the times, the ferry. Jo would have to have an exit visa there. The first thing DiAngelis arranged. But Frank had been surprised, dismissive, something she wouldn’t need.

  Simon took off his glasses, wiping them again, trying to think. Why not? Everything else planned, the whole trip arranged through the Service. Why not? He looked up again, the table a blur in the bright light.

  “You’ll have to bunk in with Simon,” Joanna was saying, teasing Marzena, happy with drink. “No room at the inn.”

  Marzena laughed, flirtatious. “So, and then what would people say? To go all the way to Riga to—”

  Simon stopped listening, looking through the blur at Joanna. Who had never been told the plan, everything too risky. Who needed a new life. Just a short ferry ride from Tallinn. Where she’d need an exit visa. Which Frank hadn’t arranged, said they wouldn’t need. Why not? He looked down the table, Frank’s features coming into focus, and Simon felt himself begin to flush, the moment sweeping through him like blood. Because she wasn’t going, had never been going. He stared at Frank, then lowered his head, fiddling with the glasses, hiding his face. The smart one. Think it through. The plan from the beginning. But everything had been about her. The one hook Simon would never refuse. He looked sideways at Marzena, still having fun with her fantasy trip. Or maybe Frank had meant for her to go. Hadn’t he already left a country behind? New life, new woman, something Joanna had known just sniffing the air.

  “Oh, but what about Pani?” she was saying. “Can we take Pani?”

  Frank was looking away, his mind somewhere else. No. Not Marzena. But not anyone else either. Simon looked down again, his arms tight against his body. Joanna wasn’t going. Nobody was going. But DiAngelis was coming to get them, streaming into the trap Simon had helped build. Killed for. Following Frank again. Who always knew what to do. But this, would he do this? Simon saw his face at Harvey’s, casual, intimate. How’s everything at State? Drawn in again. I can’t do this without you. The smart one. Think what to do. He looked over at Frank, feeling him slide away, a second skin sloughed off, leaving Simon bare and wriggling. On his own.

  6

  TOM MCPHERSON ARRIVED WITH two heavy cases of equipment—lamps and filters and folding reflector discs for backlighting, all of it nestled in loops of wires that took half an hour to untangle and set up.

  “I thought it was going to be just you and
a Brownie,” Frank said, amused.

  “Not for Look.”

  “Is all this supposed to make me look better?”

  He was wearing the cardigan, as promised, and waiting placidly behind the typewriter while McPherson adjusted the lights, the study now an obstacle course of tripods and cables. Joanna had made them tea and then retreated.

  “How about you and your brother,” McPherson said to Simon. “Working on the manuscript.”

  “Come on, Jimbo,” Frank said. “Are we supposed to look at the pages or up at you?”

  Simon stood by the desk, reluctant to sit down.

  “Come on. This was all your idea in the first place,” Frank said smiling.

  Act as if nothing had changed. Simon took the chair next to him.

  “A little closer,” the photographer said.

  “I won’t bite,” Frank said, slightly puzzled, Simon still holding back, at the edge of the picture.

  “Okay, this way,” McPherson said, and in the flash that momentarily blinded him, Simon saw his father looking at the magazine, head down, shamed by a notoriety that now included both boys, not just one. Making a profit on treason.

  “How about one by the radio?” McPherson said. “Where you listen to the news.”

  Frank turned toward the old console with its mesh speaker and Bakelite knobs and leaned in, concentrating on the news.

  Boris, usually in the other room, stayed with them in the study, fascinated by it all, the screen test prompting and the paraphernalia, examining McPherson’s case as if he were looking for contraband. When he finally got bored and went out to get more tea, McPherson took an envelope from his breast pocket and slipped it to Simon. Documents, presumably the exit visas for Frank and Joanna. What DiAngelis knew they needed. What Frank hadn’t asked for.

  “They said to check the—” McPherson began, cut off by Frank’s pointing up to the chandelier.

  “One more by the radio?” Frank said, still in character, nodding to McPherson.

  Simon shoved the envelope into his briefcase, evidence now, buried under manuscript pages, safe from Boris’s snooping, but how could it be explained? Illegal documents. Prepared by the Americans. He looked at Frank, turning the radio knobs again. For a trip nobody was going to take.

  Think it through. What he’d been doing since that night at the dacha, staring up at the ceiling, suddenly alone. Run to the embassy and tell DiAngelis? With some Service ear listening. There had to be one, maybe more, who’d ring alarm bells straight back to Frank. And what would Frank do? Wave him off fondly at Sheremetyevo? Shrug as DiAngelis got away? Explain it to the Service? A scheme that went wrong, Simon the X factor? They’d never listen, never forgive. Frank couldn’t let him go, not yet. He’d never make it to the airport. Only to the Lubyanka. He saw Gareth’s face in the church, stunned, Frank ready to accuse him, turn the truth inside out. Who do you think they’d believe, you? Not Simon either, the Agency tool, luring his brother back. Another Gary Powers, caught red-handed, the pieces of evidence right there in his briefcase. Would Frank actually do it? He’d have to. He couldn’t just run away this time, leaving a mess. He’d have to save himself. And if they didn’t believe him? Simon thought of the Rubins, all of them at the lunch, tentative, nervous, the Service like a scythe hanging over them. And if it struck, or didn’t, Joanna was trapped forever, would die here, lost in a haze, even her privileges gone. Some plan, one that let Frank’s play out to the last minute, both sides of the board unaware that they were now part of a different game. Too late to stop now, not this close. Be the smart one. Work out the details. Back at his desk at the OSS, planning operations. There was still time, a few days. Enough to think it through.

  “The telephone,” Boris said, coming back with a tea mug. “The office.”

  “Now what,” Frank said, but getting up eagerly, summoned. “Why don’t you get a few shots of Boris?”

  “It’s not permitted.”

  “Oh, I’ll get it cleared,” Frank said, waving his hand.

  “Not for the magazine,” Simon said. “The book. We’re going to use some of the pictures for an insert. Don’t you want to be in the book?”

  Boris had only half-followed this but got the end and smiled, pleased. “Yes, in the book,” he said, then went over to stand against a bookcase, shoulders back.

  “And Mrs. Weeks?” McPherson said, still shooting Boris.

  “She’d rather not. She’s not in the excerpt, so—”

  “But you’ll want her in the book.”

  What could Simon say? Plenty of time for that later?

  “We’ll use some old pictures. From when she actually appears in the story.” There must be some, not just the ones in his head.

  “Boris, you look like a commissar,” Frank said, coming back, breezy, in good spirits. “Take a few, so we have a choice. How much longer, do you think?” he said to McPherson. “I’ve only got the morning now. Have to go to the office this afternoon.”

  “The office?” Simon said.

  “Don’t worry about the book. We can finish it on the train or something. Anyway, you’ll need to pack. Good news. We leave tonight. The Red Arrow. I was afraid the train would be—but it’s all right. All fixed. We’ll have to skip Riga, though. They want me back by the weekend. Lucky I could get away at all. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Tonight?” Too soon. What about the meeting with DiAngelis? He couldn’t just pick up the phone. DiAngelis would have things to arrange on his end. Too soon.

  “Well, pack light. It’s Jo I’m worried about. Where else would you like me?” he said to McPherson, professional again.

  “We’ve got plenty of books. How about outside, in front of the building?”

  “Can’t. Believe it or not, it’s supposed to be a secret. Where I live. In case the CIA wants to kidnap me. Or worse. I know, but back then— Anyway we never changed it, the rule. What about Patriarch’s Pond? I walk there a lot, and you’ve got the water. Just down the block. Maybe Jo would like to come too. Some fresh air.”

  “So we leave midnight?” Simon said, trying to form a timeline in his head, Frank ahead of him again. Ahead of everybody, taking the board back, not giving anyone time. Did he know? Had he seen it in Simon’s face, the eyes opening behind the blur?

  Frank nodded. “That’s right. The overnight train. You keep saying you’ve got to get back, so the sooner the better, no?” Simon’s idea now. “I thought we’d do something special this evening. You know, your last— And the Service came through.” He opened his hand, voilà. “Seats at the Bolshoi. You can’t leave Moscow and not see the Bolshoi. Fyodorovna doing Swan Lake.” He turned to McPherson. “They tell me the embassy’s got a bunch of season tickets. Diplomatic perk. You have any friends there, tell them this is the night they want to use them.” Said casually, but his eyes steady on McPherson. “You don’t want to miss Fyodorovna. They should definitely go tonight. Everybody’ll be there. Even us,” he said, amusing himself, with a quick glance to Boris to see if he’d been too direct, insistent.

  “I’ll do that,” McPherson said, message received.

  Simon looked at Frank. Another feint, in plain sight, as clever as a card trick. Ahead of them.

  “My last night,” Simon said to himself, thinking.

  “Yes,” Frank said. “Doesn’t seem possible, does it? The time just—went.” His voice affectionate, no longer breezy, as if the idea of Simon’s leaving had just hit home. Even the tone right, how a brother would feel. And for a second Simon wanted it to be true, not something for Boris and McPherson, for him, the old voice.

  “Whose last night?” Joanna said at the door.

  “Simon’s. Well, not last. You’ll have to come back to Moscow to fly home. We’re moving up the trip,” Frank said to Jo. “The Red Arrow tonight.”

  “Tonight? Why the change?”

  “I have t
o be back this week. And we don’t want to rush Leningrad. I know it’s last-minute—”

  “Everything is these days,” she said, disconcerted, trying to read his face. She turned to Simon. “Usually it takes months to arrange anything. See what a VIP you are. Oh, but Simon, you’re going?” A crack in her voice.

  “Not yet.”

  “I mean, I knew you would, but not so—”

  “All the more reason to make the most of it now,” Frank said. “We’ve got the Bolshoi tonight.”

  “We do? You hate the ballet.”

  “Maybe the Metropol first?”

  “To celebrate,” Jo said vaguely, still looking at Frank, trying to work something out.

  McPherson moved a standing lamp. “Now that you’re here,” he said to Jo, “would you mind? How about the two of you sitting over there?” A quiet evening at home.

  “With my knitting,” Jo said, sarcastic.

  “We were going down to the Pond,” Frank said, conciliatory. “Maybe something there?” He paused. “For the book.”

  She glanced at Simon, then nodded. “Let me put on some lipstick. I’ll catch up.”

  “Better bring that with you,” Frank said to Simon, indicating the briefcase. “Ludmilla tidies up—she means well but then you can’t find anything. You don’t want her near the book.”

  Or the exit visas. Left behind for anyone to find. An amateur’s mistake, the kind Frank didn’t make. Think.

  They walked to Patriarch’s Pond in pairs, Boris trailing.

  “What’s going on?” Jo said to Simon.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s scarcely been into the office for months and now all of a sudden he has to be back? Nobody makes travel plans at the last minute. This is Russia. There are channels.”

  “The Service—”

  “Oh, the Service. I know. Always pulling rabbits out of hats. But why now? I know him. He’s got that voice that goes over his voice. Has he said anything?”

  “Honestly, I don’t—” The words sticking in his throat, lying to her. But what was a lie now?

  “He trusts you. He never tells me anything. I’m a drunk. I’m not reliable.”