by Joseph Kanon
“I never worked for Pirie. You did.”
“So I did. And he survived it. Well, shit always floats to the top. I have to say, the fact that he’s head of section is one of the few things that gives me comfort in my old age. The Main Adversary doesn’t seem as threatening with old Don in charge.”
“The main adversary?”
“What we call the States. Sort of code name.”
“Do you miss it?” Suddenly intimate.
“I don’t think about that. What would be the point? I didn’t buy a round-trip ticket. We’re here.” The words almost wistful, hanging in the air.
Simon said nothing, staring at him.
“And Moscow’s a fascinating city. Lots of nooks and crannies. You have to see some of it while you’re here. If I know the Service, they’ve booked you a Kremlin view, so that’s a start.” The concierge Service again. “And you know we travel, so I get around a fair amount.”
“Travel where?”
“Black Sea. Budapest. Dresden last year. Anywhere I like, really. In the socialist bloc.”
Simon nodded to Vassilchikov. “Does he go with you?”
“Once, to the Crimea. That was back when we thought someone might try to take a potshot at me. Now it’s usually just a local. To liaise. Help me with things.”
“How does Jo feel about this? Having someone around all the time?”
“Well, it’s not all the time.” He looked away. “She doesn’t always go. She prefers the dacha.”
“That doesn’t sound like her.”
“No,” Frank said. “Well, we change over the years.”
But he hadn’t. Simon watched him brush back the hair on the side of his head, a gesture so familiar that for a second you could believe he hadn’t changed at all. Still Frank. Whoever that had been.
“Why didn’t she want kids?” Frank said, a stray afterthought.
“She did. We couldn’t have them. So she said that.” Something he hadn’t told anyone, not even his secret to keep.
“Not your fault, I hope.”
“No.” A botched operation neither of them talked about, not sure whose child it might have been.
“That must have been a relief. Remember when Ray had to go through all that? Sperm counts. God, how embarrassing. Beating off in a cup.”
“What’s the difference? Nobody’s watching.”
“Then you hand it to a nurse.” He shuddered, playing. “And she’s looking right at you. Ray told me.” Another face, genuinely squeamish.
Simon smiled. “He look back?”
“What? Oh, at the nurse. Well, Ray. Not exactly Mr. Sensitive. He probably asked her out. Here.” He held out an invisible cup. “Like it was roses. Something she’d go for.” Both of them smiling now, Ray an old joke between them, the car easy again, no more scratchiness in the air. “Whatever happened to him anyway? Do you know?”
“Last I heard he was still at Bill’s law firm. Trusts.”
“Trusts. A guy who parachutes into France and makes it back. Funny how things turn out.”
Simon looked at him, but Frank had moved on.
“That’s the Kremlin. Almost there.”
They were coming down a sweeping broad street, eight lanes, Simon guessed, curiously empty of cars, just a few black shapes gliding by. At the bottom an open square and behind it the familiar fortress walls and gate towers, each tower topped by a glowing red star.
“Gorky Street,” Frank said, pointing to the road outside. “Stalin had it widened and then put these up.” He motioned toward the huge apartment buildings, Russian neoclassical, sober as banks. “Everybody wanted to live here then. You know, Moscow’s still medieval that way—people want to be close to the castle, to the center. Here we are.”
The car had turned the corner and stopped in front of another neoclassical building, this one with doormen and sculpted nymphs and light pouring out from the lobby. “Lenin stayed here. So you’re in good company. Don’t bother. They’ll get the bags.” He held the car door, waiting.
Simon got out and looked around. Moscow. The airport had been nowhere. But this was Russia—the shadowy streets, the heavy stone laced with Soviet gothic, policemen in greatcoats on the corner, people glancing sideways at his foreign clothes. The Moscow he’d seen in movies, gray with menace. A car pulling up, men jumping out, taking him away. Hadn’t it actually happened? Hundreds of times. Interrogated in a room with a red light over the door. On his own, not even an alphabet. Except he wasn’t alone. He looked over at Frank. A man who’d betrayed everyone and now seemed a kind of lifesaver, something you could hang on to until the rescue boat arrived.
“Recognize the car?” Frank said.
“What?”
“The Zim.” He nodded to the airport car. “It’s a Buick. Same model anyway. They copied it. Something to make you feel right at home.”
In the lobby there were oversized Grecian statues and a grand carpeted staircase that seemed to rise two stories to Art Nouveau windows. After the quiet street, the lobby seemed bustling, groups of men in bulky suits huddling like delegates, presumably plant managers from Rostov or Party officials from one of the Eastern Bloc countries, excited to be here, at the center, a little dazed by the luxury. He could see a few women in the restaurant, but only a few. More men in suits, box-shaped with loose sleeves. While Vassilchikov checked him in at the desk, Frank steered them to the bar, a tsarist fantasy of red flocked walls and velvet cushions, now worn, some of the threads showing, the air thick with stale cigar smoke.
“Well, as I live and breathe. I thought you never went out.” An English voice, drawing room theatrical and loud.
Frank turned, ambushed. “Gareth.”
“We’ve just been to the Bolshy and thought we’d stop by for a nightcap. Join us? You remember Sergei?” He turned slightly to include a man, at least twenty years younger, who nodded, awkward. “Sergei hates the ballet, but he indulges me. Of course, I indulge him too. Don’t I? See the new jumper?” Feeling the sleeve of Sergei’s sweater. “Won’t go near a proper suit, so I have to do the best I can to make him look decent. Not easy. But of course worth it,” he said, looking at the boy, “when you’re so good-looking.”
Gareth’s suit, an old pinstripe with a handkerchief flowering out of the pocket, needed pressing. In fact everything about him seemed disheveled, his tie knot pulled away from his throat, cigarette ash spilling on his cuffs, an alcohol sheen in his eyes. Simon looked at him for another minute before he finally recognized him, the once wolfish face now softened with flesh.
“Gareth Jones,” he said, blurting it.
Gareth tipped his head. “Dans son corps. Or what’s left of it. But how nice. I thought no one had the faintest anymore. All these years.”
Ten of them by now, caught in the undertow of Burgess and Maclean, another defector for the newsreels. Staring at Simon, curious, like the people in the street.
“And you are? Or shouldn’t I ask? It’s one of the things about this place—nobody introduces anybody.” He looked at Frank, waiting.
“Simon Weeks,” Frank said. “My brother.”
“Your brother?” he said, almost a squeal. “You’d never know it. Well, if you look,” he said, peering at Simon. “The jawline. And a little around the eyes. So you’ve come to see the sights? Or just this old non grata?” He poked Frank’s chest. “Or something else?” This to Simon, almost taunting.
“Just Frank. And the sights.”
“Such as they are. Of course, there’s the body,” he said, giving the word two syllables. “Macabre, if you ask me, but it’s really remarkable what they do for him. Old Lenin. He looks better than I do.”
Sergei laughed, then looked down.
“So disloyal,” Gareth said to him, then turned back to Simon. “Of course you have to wait hours. Hordes, every day. But maybe Frank can jump the
queue for you. Join us?”
“Can’t,” Frank said.
“Well, then we’ll just have to chat like this,” Gareth said, needling him. “Everybody wondering.” He turned to Simon. “I didn’t even know he had a brother. My God, what was he like?”
“The same,” Simon said, smiling a little at Frank. And wasn’t he? “People don’t change.”
“They do here. I wish I had your mirror. It ages you, this place. The cold. Nobody to see. The Russians won’t talk to you—why take the risk?—and people who should see each other,” he said, looking at Frank, “who have things in common, you would think—but they don’t much either. It’s a very stick-to-yourself town. At least for people like us. But there’s the Bolshy, that’s always wonderful. And friends.” He turned to Sergei, touching him. “How do people live without friends? What else is there really? Well, I suppose if you won’t join us we’d better push on. Maybe next time. Of course, there never is. Donald’s just the same. Try to be friendly and you get a chill straight off the steppes.” He made a brrr gesture. “Thank God for Guy. He’s always up for anything. But then always making scenes. So you wonder if it’s worth it. Nice to have met you,” he said to Simon. “The Tretyakov Gallery’s the thing to see. The icons. And tell this one not to make himself scarce. We should see more of each other, you know. We’re all in the same boat.”
“We’re not in the same boat,” Frank said, annoyed.
Gareth took a step back, as if he’d been struck. “Well, have it your way. He thinks he’s one of them. The gendarmerie. But really we’re just agents who’ve outlived our usefulness. That’s how they see us. So we just molder.” He glanced toward the bar. “And take our pleasure where we may.” He turned, then spotted Colonel Vassilchikov heading toward them. “Oh. The sheriff,” he said, his shoulders rising out of their slouch. “And not the gentle soul you think he’ll be. Not at all nice to friends. Come on. Let’s vamoose.”
Sergei just stared at him, confused.
“The bar,” Gareth said, taking his elbow.
Vassilchikov joined them, speaking Russian, his eyes following Gareth. Frank answered him in Russian, then turned to Simon.
“The room’s ready. We can go up.”
“What was that?”
“What?”
“The once notorious Gareth Jones.”
Frank made a humph sound.
“Scrounging drinks.”
“No. He’s very well taken care of. The Service has rules about that. Taking care of your own. Otherwise it sends a bad message to the field. People have to know they’ll always be taken care of. Brought home, if it comes to that.”
Simon looked at him, surprised by the word. Home.
“It’s just he’s never made any effort. Never even learned the language. Look at Maclean—works for the institute, sends his children to Russian schools. He’s made a life here.”
“Is it true, though? That the—you know, the ones who’ve come here—don’t see each other? You’d think—”
“Some do, some don’t. It’s a question of the wives, mostly. They’re the ones who get lonely. Jo used to see a fair amount of Melinda, so I saw Donald. That’s the way it worked. But Gareth? Why would I want to see Gareth? He was a nasty piece of work, even before. And now—”
“Nasty how?”
“His specialty was blackmail. After he got them into bed, had his fun.” He looked away. “It takes all kinds.”
Simon glanced toward the bar where Gareth was already tossing back a drink. Even the Service had its pecking order, some treacheries more acceptable than others, like prisoners who looked down on molesters but didn’t bat an eye at murder.
“Come on, let’s celebrate. I ordered caviar.”
“Caviar?”
“Who’s better than us?” he said, their grandmother’s old line, usually before she clinked a champagne glass. “Besides, it’s still cheap here. Not like it used to be, but still— You must be hungry. They never have anything decent on the plane.”
He had ordered not just caviar, but a whole spread of food, laid out and waiting for them on a big round table in Simon’s room, a suite with the promised Kremlin view. Smoked fish and caviar on ice and beet salad and pickled mushrooms, anchored by a board with black bread and sweet butter.
“Zakuski,” Frank said, an Intourist guide. “In the old days they’d have a few appetizers put out before dinner to keep the hunger pangs away, but then it kept getting bigger and bigger until it became—” He opened his hand to the table. “Zakuski. Of course, most people had nothing. Kasha, if they were lucky. We forget that. Boris, some vodka?”
Colonel Vassilchikov, who had come up with them, opened the bottle and poured out three glasses. The room, like the bar downstairs, had red flocked wallpaper and antique furniture, an exercise in fin de siècle nostalgia, but seemed even more faded and musty, velvet drapes with lace trimming so old and fragile you thought it might come apart in your fingers. Simon looked up at the heavy chandelier, another relic from the tsars. Where DiAngelis had said there’d be microphones.
“Don’t bother looking for them—you’d never get them all. Just assume someone’s listening. They’re all over the place. In the walls. The phone. That’d be easy enough, screw off the mouthpiece and there it is. But then they know you’re looking. And you’re not that kind of guy. You’re someone—it wouldn’t even occur to you, the bugs.”
But now, looking up, he couldn’t help imagining the listeners, sitting in some windowless room with headphones, recording every sound, the clink of vodka glasses as Boris welcomed him, a toast curiously official and secret at the same time, with no one there to hear it but the ears in the walls.
Frank raised his glass again. “The British Navy. In the seventeenth century.” He nodded to Simon, smiling. “To making me look good.”
“To making you look good,” Simon repeated, hearing himself saying it.
“Here, have something to eat,” Frank said, filling a plate, playing host. “Boris, what about you?”
Simon looked over at him. Here for the evening, apparently. A bodyguard who didn’t stand outside the door, part of the family.
“I’ve been thinking,” Frank said, handing Simon the plate. “About the Latvians. I can put them in, if you think I should.” Shoptalk, directly to Simon, as if Boris weren’t there.
“All right,” Simon said, not sure where Frank was going.
“I’ll have to clear it. The Agency might see it as a provocation. And we want to be careful about that. The line these days is make nice, hands together.”
“That’ll come as news to them.”
Frank smiled. “I didn’t say it was true. I just said it was the line.” He looked over. “I won’t apologize,” he said quickly. “But I’ll say what happened to them. My part in it. I had to, you know. They never should have—” He took another drink. “Well, water over the dam. So. Round one to you.”
“It’s not a fight.”
“No. But I’ll give you this one. Be the bad guy of the piece.” He fingered his glass, tracing a ring. “I’m sorry about—any trouble I caused you. The worst of it, all this business, is having to lie to people. To keep cover. It’s nothing personal, you know. Just the way things have to be. Still.” He looked up. “It’s good to see you.”
And suddenly, in a quick second, maybe the drink, it was. Simon felt a rush to his face, the old affection. An involuntary smile, sharing a joke no one else heard.
Frank looked away first. “Boris, caviar? Mustn’t let it go to waste. Boris is a great one for caviar. Eat it every day if he could.”
Boris said something in Russian. Frank laughed and answered back, a different voice again, as if the language put him in another body. He refilled Simon’s glass.
“So did Pirie brief you himself?” he said to Simon.
Without thinking, Simon loo
ked up at the chandelier.
“Don’t mind about that—you get used to it. Half the time the tape just ends up on a shelf somewhere.”
“And the other half?”
“Does it make a difference? I’m in the Service. Anything you tell me, you’re telling them. So not Pirie?”
“No.”
“Not even a hello? You’d think he’d take a personal interest. After all we’ve been through. Chip then? It’s not a briefing you farm out. You’d want someone who knew me.”
“Frank—”
Frank held up his hand. “All right, just asking. It had to be somebody. Or have I just slipped off the raft?”
“Guidelines for the book, that’s all. They have to vet it. You know that.”
“Mm. Their own special blue penciling. A courageous publisher would have told them to fuck off.”
Simon nodded. “But you wanted a respectable one.”
Frank looked up; your ad. “So not even a message? Something cryptic to keep me guessing at night? I thought Don might want to have a little fun.”
“No.”
Frank made a face, then let it go. “Old Don. He’s as crazy as Dulles. But predictable. Lucky for us. Whenever you want to know what they’ll do, his section, just figure out the dumbest response and—bingo. Chip was all right, though. A good head on his shoulders. Which I suppose means he was never promoted.”
“I don’t know. Really. I don’t work for the Agency. I never even go to DC anymore. So how would I hear?”
“I just thought you might—be in touch. You and Chip go back—the OSS days, for chrissake.”
“I haven’t seen him. People—scatter.”
“So who do you see?”
“From that world? No one. If you want to talk about old times, I can’t be much help. They’re your old times, not mine.”
Frank looked at him, then walked toward the window. “Well, some are yours too. I like old times. That’s what we have now, isn’t it?” He was quiet for a second, looking out, then turned. “Anyway, that’s all the book is, old times, so one way or another—”