by Joseph Kanon
“You’re not a drunk.”
She looked at him, a small smile. “Not the way he thinks I am. Maybe that’s why I do it. If I’m unreliable, he won’t tell me things. So have a drink. But you noticed. How far it goes. He doesn’t. You notice things.” She laughed to herself. “You’d make a good spy.”
“I doubt it,” he said, uneasy. “My mother used to say my face was an open book.”
She turned to him. “Not anymore. I watched you at lunch. You hated them all, but you never let on.”
“I didn’t hate—”
“Disapproved, then. You disapproved. But you kept it to yourself. You do that. I should be grateful. Imagine how I’d feel if I knew—you disapproved.”
“Jo—”
But she was turning away. “Would you do something for me? A favor? Don’t make a fuss about these pictures. I don’t want to. So they can see what I look like now? Poor thing. But what can you expect? No, thanks.”
“You look fine.”
A half smile. “Well, you’re supposed to be goofy about me. Were, anyway.” She stopped, her mood shifting. “I can see. I know what I look like.” She put a hand on his arm. “Don’t make a fuss, okay? They’ll listen to you. I really don’t want to.”
He imagined her stepping off a plane, surrounded by flashbulbs.
“You’re part of the story, you know,” he said gently. “I can’t change that.”
“The first part. Not now.”
“So we use the same old pictures. The ones the papers ran after you left.” He looked up, as if the idea had just occurred to him, not a detail on a checklist. “How about your passport? Do you still have it?”
“My passport?”
“Your American one. The one you used to get here. It’s exactly when you leave the story. I’d get it back to you.”
“That doesn’t matter. It expired.”
“But you still have it?”
She nodded. “I don’t know why. Memento, I guess.”
“But the picture—”
“Oh, Simon, it’s a passport picture.”
“Which makes it authentic. Like a time capsule.” He paused. “The way you looked at the time.”
She stared at him for a second. “Now you’re doing it too. What Frank does, the voice on top of the voice. The two of you—” She stopped. “All right, fine. Do you want Frank’s too? Two mug shots. Like an FBI poster.” She brushed his arm before he could speak. “But none today, promise? Just the old ones.”
“Promise. Dig them out later, okay, so we don’t forget?”
She hesitated. “Simon, you’d tell me, wouldn’t you? If something were—I don’t know, wrong, anything?”
“You’re imagining—” he started, not trusting his voice. Deflect. “By the way, when I was noticing things? At lunch? I think you’re wrong about Marzena.”
Jo raised her eyebrows, waiting.
“She’s not his type.”
“Oh, his type,” she said.
“You’re his type.”
She looked at him, stopped by this.
“Still,” he said. Catching her, what she wanted to hear. What Frank would have done.
McPherson was fixing a camera on a tripod at the edge of the pond, framing the yellow pavilion across the water. Boris had found his bench near the bronze statue of Krylov and was lighting a cigarette just as he had that first day—how long ago now? Days. Everything different except the pond.
“How about you and Mrs. Weeks walking toward me?” McPherson said.
“We’ll do Jo another time,” Simon said, taking her place with Frank. “One more of us? How far away do you want us?”
“Go up halfway and start walking back. When I signal,” McPherson said.
“What’s wrong with Jo?” Frank said.
“Camera shy. Anyway, we need to talk. The Bolshoi?”
“It’s plausible. For DiAngelis to be there. Everybody wants to see Fyodorovna. Then plausible to have a pee at intermission. You too. It’s a long first act. McPherson will tell him to wait if you’re not there, wash his hands again, something.”
“Me.”
“I can’t be seen with him. Not even by accident. So it has to be you.”
“And what do I say to him?”
“You give him the meeting time and coordinates.”
“The coordinates.”
“For the boat.” He pointed to a toy sailboat idling in the middle of the pond. “Like an address on the water. Thirty-Fourth Street and Fifth, except coordinates. Nautical locations. You’ll have to remember them, nothing in writing, but they’re easy. Anyway, you have a steel-trap memory—you still do, don’t you?”
“I’ll remember.”
“You don’t want to get it wrong. If you’re off by even—”
“I’ll remember. Does this give him enough time?”
“He’ll have to scramble,” Frank said, smiling a little. “But he will. And now there’s less chance of a leak. People hang around waiting, they talk. This way it’s just him. The coordinates stay up here.” He tapped his head. “No one else. He should know that, but it doesn’t hurt to remind— No one else.”
“Except me.”
Frank nodded. “So any leak, it’s from his side. Better remind him of that too. No leaks. If he wants me alive.”
Weaving another strand, all of it real to him.
“But don’t your people know? Somebody must. If you’ve organized this—a boat, all the rest of it.”
“We don’t have leaks. You don’t think the Agency has anybody inside the Service, do you? The Service would never let that happen.” Still proud, closing ranks.
“Unless he’s one of their own.”
Frank glanced at him, uncomfortable. “That’s right. Now, what’s wrong with Jo?”
Simon shrugged. “Vanity. She doesn’t want anybody to see—”
“The little wrinkles. I know.” He paused. “It’s not that. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with the book. With me.”
Simon looked over, a crack, an opening. “When are you going to tell her?” he said, asking something else. When are you going to tell me? Tell me I’m wrong, it’s all just as you say. Not a scheme, a real plan. There’s still time to fix things. You can fix anything. Tell me I’m wrong.
“You can tell her. On the ferry.”
“When we’re safe and sound,” he said, drawing a line.
“That’s right,” Frank said, not seeing it.
Simon felt something twist in his chest, a tightening. Save yourself.
“Okay, come back,” McPherson shouted. “Straight toward me.”
They started walking. Two men in a park. The photograph another lie, their real faces erased, like an old Stalinist picture.
They were another hour, Simon joining Boris on the bench to smoke, Jo gone home to fix lunch.
“Complicated. Photography,” Boris said, watching McPherson change lenses.
“Why don’t you come with us to Leningrad?” Simon said. The devil you know.
“Thank you,” Boris said, pleased, taking this for a compliment. “It’s important to you, this trip? To see the art? It would be better to stay in Moscow.”
“Better?”
“For Colonel Weeks. Better to stay close to the office.”
The medieval fortress, Moscow’s mental geography.
Simon looked at him. What had Frank told him? Anything? Off in the Sochi sunshine while Frank made his play. Or was he part of it, another sleight of hand. But part of what? Which side of the board?
“Why?”
“Busy time. It’s good for Colonel Weeks to be busy again.”
“Hasn’t he been?”
But now Boris said nothing, closing down, the Lubyanka a protected world.
“Anyway, it
’s too late now,” Simon said. “He’s gone to so much trouble—”
“For you. To show you Russia. Good things here. But sometimes you need to—what’s the English? Protect—no, watch your back.” Easy and idiomatic, not his usual halting phrases.
“Does he need to do that?” Imagining a maze of office corridors, shadows.
Boris smiled a little. “A precaution. Many changes now at the Service.”
Like the old days at Navy Hill, then down at State, glancing over your shoulder. Not sure of anyone, except Frank.
“Then I’ll get him back as soon as I can,” Simon said easily. “Not that he listens to me.”
“To you, yes. Think of the book, the episode with the Latvians.”
Simon glanced over. Hearing everything, not just reading Izvestia.
“Well, sometimes. Maybe we can just do Leningrad and back. Skip Tallinn,” he said, trying it. What did he know? “What’s there anyway?”
But Boris didn’t bite. “Yes, maybe just Leningrad. It’s better, I think.” Not playing on either side.
He sat back, as if somehow this had settled things, and drew on his cigarette, squinting at the water. “Maybe he will have to swim for it,” he said.
“What?”
“The boy,” Boris said, pointing to a child squatting at the edge of the pond. “His boat. No air to move it.”
Simon looked at the boat, lying still in the water, the boy trying to make waves by splashing. No way to reach it until a breeze came up again. Trapped on the water, rocking gently in its coordinates. Boats were unreliable that way, sometimes a trap, impossible to maneuver quickly. Thinking. Now a leap, not plodding anymore, an idea that pulled its own details behind it. Too late once you were on the water, vulnerable. Better to be off the board, an unexpected move. In plain sight.
He got up and walked toward the pond. McPherson, finally done, was packing up his equipment.
“Let me give you a hand,” Simon said, grabbing a tripod. Then, to Frank, “Are you really gone all afternoon?”
Frank looked at him, surprised at the question.
“I was just wondering if I could borrow Boris. I mean, if he’s not going—”
“Borrow?”
“To take me to Tolstoy’s house. It’s the one thing I wanted to see, and if we’re leaving tonight—”
“Tolstoy’s house?” Frank said, a tolerant smile. “The book man. I forgot.”
“If I go by myself, he’ll just have to get somebody else to tail me, so it’s easier—”
“Yes,” Frank said, a glance at McPherson, embarrassed by this. “Let me ask. Strictly speaking, it’s his time off. When I’m at the office.” The office, neutral, as if it were still an insurance company. Simon watched him head for Boris’s bench.
“Would you take another message,” Simon said.
“To DiAngelis.”
“No. Remember Spaso House? The guy who introduced us?”
“Hal Lehman.”
“You know how to reach him?”
“We’re in the same building. Press ghetto. They put us all together. Saves tails,” he said, a quick nod in Boris’s direction.
“Tell him I want to see him. Tolstoy’s house. After lunch.”
McPherson waited.
“I promised him a story. And now we’re leaving.”
“So you want to meet him at Tolstoy’s house.”
“Two birds with one stone.”
McPherson just looked.
“Can you do it? Get the message to him? I don’t want to call.”
McPherson nodded. “If he’s around. What’s the story?”
“Family stuff. How did it feel seeing Frank again—all these years.”
“How did it?”
“This one’s for UPI. Not Look. After the pictures run, don’t worry.”
“Doesn’t matter to me. I’m freelance.” He turned, looking back at Frank. “He doesn’t seem to have many regrets, does he?”
“No,” Simon said, “not many.”
* * *
Tolstoy’s house, hidden from the street behind a long wooden fence, was a country house in the city, solid and plain rather than grand, set on grounds that seemed to be outgrowing their keepers, scraggly and wild in patches, even the grass along the gravel walkways needing a trim. There was a white-haired woman in a kiosk at the entrance who, surprisingly, spoke to them in French, like a governess in one of the novels.
“Deux? Voilà, un plan de niveau de la maison.” She handed him a worn sheet of plastic, protecting a faded floor plan.
Boris frowned, the French like some Romanov ghost, a reproach, then saw that Simon was charmed and let it pass. The place itself seemed another ghost, deserted in mid-afternoon, only a gardener clipping away at the side of the house, the same stillness he remembered at the Novodevichy. Boris found a shaded chair near the entrance and settled in as watchdog.
The quiet followed Simon inside, through the big dining room, settings in place for a family dinner, then up the stairs to the large salon, where Tolstoy had read to Chekhov and Gorky, and Sofia offered supper. Where was everybody? The meeting should look like an accidental encounter in a public place, not something arranged. Finally he saw two women in the next room, heads together, admiring Sofia’s knickknacks. He glanced at his watch. Lehman was supposed to be here first. A Spartan bedroom, the daughter’s. Then Tolstoy’s study, the desk where he wrote, and Lehman standing beside it. A pretense of surprise.
“Why here?” he said.
“Sort of place a publisher would go, don’t you think? Look, his shoemaking tools.”
“He made his own shoes?”
“To make a point.” He glanced behind him, the two women still inspecting Sofia’s drawing room. “Thanks for coming. We have to be fast. I’ve got the KGB waiting downstairs.”
Lehman looked up.
“Just part of the service. For my protection. But curious. You know. So we have to be—”
“You have a story for me? The interview?”
“Well, that too. But better. You may not want it. All I ask is that if you don’t, you just say so and go away and you never saw me. Agreed?”
“What’s going on?”
“Agreed?”
“Agreed. Why wouldn’t I want it?”
“It comes with some strings attached. For one thing, you’d be chucked out. Maybe worse. Still interested?”
Lehman peered at him. “They’re going to throw me out anyway.”
“This would guarantee it.”
“You trying to scare me?” Lehman said, not sure whether he should be amused.
“Warn you.”
“So, what? This is the story on your brother?”
“Part of it.”
“And this is coming from him or from you?”
“Me.”
“With strings attached.”
“And some incentive. You’ll be out of a job here but the story will get you back to New York. With a book contract when you get there. Keating & Sons.” He looked at Lehman. “There’s some risk.”
“A book contract,” Lehman said. “With you dangling it. And this is—what? You’re the devil. And I’m being tempted?” he said, holding up his hand to mime a paper dangling.
“Something like that. No eternal life, though.”
“Just a story.”
Simon nodded. “Look, I need your help. It’s worth a contract to me. But you have to decide if it’s worth it to you. Like I said, there’s some risk.”
Lehman stared at him. “How about we start over? What story?”
“I have your word? If you’re not interested, this never happened?”
Lehman waved this away.
Simon looked around the study, like standing at the end of a dock. Jump.
“Frank
is going to defect.”
“What?” Lehman said, just to make a sound.
“It’ll be your story. Exclusive.”
“Defect,” Hal said flatly.
“He wants to go home.”
“Home.” Another echo effect.
“And you’re going to help. So, your story.”
Lehman said nothing.
“Want to hear more or do you want to go?” He lifted his fingers. “No strings yet. Your choice.”
“He can’t. He can’t do it.”
“No, but I can. That’s why I came.”
Another long stare, Hal’s mind trying to catch up, not even aware of the sound of Russian coming into the room. The two women. Simon pointed to the adjoining washroom where the shoemaking tools had been.
“See the bicycle? He didn’t take it up until he was in his sixties. Physical fitness kick. Come this way.” Nodding to the women and putting his hand on the small of Lehman’s back to steer him down the stairs, an English-speaking guide, perhaps, or two foreign Tolstoy enthusiasts.
Still, English, something suspect. The women stopped. And then luckily there was the sound of more Russian, a tour group clomping through the dining room.
“What do you think this is?” Simon said, pointing to the small room off the back stairs. “Pantry? Can you read the Cyrillic?”
Lehman said nothing, still slightly dazed, then leaned forward to read the card next to the doorjamb. “Pickling room,” he said.
“That explains the barrels. Imagine a whole room just for pickles.” Chatty, turning his head slightly to see if the women were listening. But they now seemed to be fascinated by the writing desk.
“Boris is outside. We have to talk here. You have to decide today—you’ll see why in a minute. If it’s no, just leave some kind of message for me at the National. Anything, it doesn’t matter what. Otherwise, I’ll assume we’re in business, okay?”
Lehman nodded.
“I’ll tell you how this is going to work. Then you figure out the odds yourself. No contract is worth the wrong odds. So you decide. All right?”
Lehman said nothing, still calculating.
“Hal?”
“Tell me.”
* * *
A large, noisy Intourist group had taken over the Metropol’s dining room, but the maître d’ said he’d arrange for some food in the bar.
