by Joseph Kanon
He stopped, jarred by the telephone ringing, something unexpected, his face suddenly wary. He nodded to Boris, now a secretary, who picked up the receiver and started talking in a lowered voice, as if Simon could understand Russian. Then more Russian to Frank.
“What is it?” Simon said.
“Oh, nothing. The battle-axe in the hall. You know, the one who keeps your keys. God knows where they get them. War widows, I suppose.” His voice nervous, caught off guard. “Boris will fix it. Whatever it is.” A forced easiness now, watching Boris leave, then turning back to the window. “Come look at this. I want to show you something.” Distracting them both. “See the building over there? Catty corner. Hotel Moskva.”
Simon looked out. An ugly big building hulking over an open square.
“See how the two halves don’t match? Story goes they brought two sets of drawings to Stalin, to choose, but he just said yes, fine, and nobody had the guts to say ‘which?’ so they built them both, one on top of the other. That way nobody got in trouble.” Talking just to talk, his mind elsewhere, out in the hall where something had happened.
“Did he ever say which one he liked? Stalin?”
“He didn’t know there were two. He thought it was supposed to look like that. That was the joke.”
Stalin jokes, whistling in the dark, pretending not to hear the knocking next door, years of it.
“I wonder what—” Frank stopped, his eyes fixed over Simon’s shoulders. “Jo,” he said, apprehensive.
“The old cow didn’t want to let me in. So I had to tell her Boris was Lubyanka. That fixed it. That’s all right, isn’t it? I mean, it’s not a secret—” She looked over. “Simon,” she said softly.
“Jo,” he said, rooted, not moving. The long Rita Hayworth hair now stopped at the shoulders, brushed back in an I-don’t-care way, all of it gray, like one of those doctored pictures that show you what you’ll look like old. A pencil skirt a few years out of style, the eyes tired, not as bright, or as ready to laugh. Not just an older version of herself, someone else.
“Simon,” she said again, and now he saw her lying on a bed, dark hair spread out behind her, one leg raised, the hotel in Virginia, their one weekend. You never see a woman the same way afterward, knowing the body under the clothes, the way her skin feels. Someone you know, even years later, the look of her the same in your mind. One weekend, sweaty sheets, their secret, eating room service in robes, her throaty laugh, the way she gasped when she came, a whole weekend, just them, no one else. And then she met Frank.
“I thought you weren’t feeling well,” Frank said.
“I made a leap into health,” she said, waving her arm a little. “Actually, a nap. That’s all it took. So I thought I’d come. I couldn’t wait,” she said to Simon. “My God, how nice to see you. It doesn’t seem real. Here, I mean.”
She came up to him and hugged him, an awkward embrace, Simon not ready for it. Something off, lipstick not quite right, an edge to her voice.
“It’s not fair. You look just the same. Except for these,” she said, touching his glasses. “Very distinguished. All the better to see us.”
“And you,” he said, holding her shoulders, studying her face, her eyes moist.
“Liar,” she said. “I look like hell. Always the gentleman. Oh, look. Zakuski. At this hour. Boris, would you pour me a drink?”
Boris looked over at Frank.
“Another?” Frank said gently. “It’s getting late—”
“Are you counting them?” she said, almost snapping at him. “He counts them,” she said to Simon, who now heard the slight slurring. “I’m no help. I never count. So he has to do it. Did he tell you that I drink too much? What else did he say? I’ll bet he’s been ‘preparing’ you. He does that. I thought I’d better get over here before he poisoned you against me.”
“He could never do that.” Intending to be light, but betrayed by his voice, like a soft hand on her cheek.
“Oh,” she said, rearing back a little, catching it.
“He hasn’t said anything,” Simon said, covering.
Joanna looked at him, then went over and poured a vodka. “Maybe that’s worse. Make me a nonperson. That’s a specialty here. Lock me up in the attic. Like Mrs. Rochester.”
“Jo—” Frank said.
“Jane Eyre,” she said. “Not something you’d read. You know, I was an English major.” She looked at her glass. “Now I’m just—whatever I am.” She ran her hand along her blouse, as if she were taking stock. “And I wanted to look nice.”
“You look fine.”
She laughed. “Don’t overdo it. I’m still steady enough to look in a mirror. Later it gets a little blurry, but we probably won’t make it to that point. Frank will get me home, won’t you, dear? Before I say anything. He worries about that. I don’t know why. I mean, we never see anybody. Except the other spies.”
“They’re not—” Frank started, an involuntary wince.
“No, that’s right, not anymore. Former spies. They hate the word. Agents. It’s nicer. Not spies. But that’s what they were. Busy as bees.” She pursed her lips and made a series of whispering sounds, a kind of buzzing. “Spying on everyone. You,” she said, nodding to Simon. “He spied on you.”
“He didn’t get much.”
“Oh, is that what he says? In the book?”
“Haven’t you read it?”
“No. I don’t have to read it. I lived it.” She sipped her glass.
“Maybe we should go,” Frank said. “It’s been a long day for Simon. Boris, would you call for the car?”
“I never thought you’d come. Why did you?”
“It’s easier than doing it by mail. Working on the book.”
“No, I mean why did you agree to do it? After he spied on you. Do you need the money?”
“So far the money’s only going one way,” he said, trying to be light, move away from it.
“No. I know you,” Joanna said, holding up her glass, a pointing finger. “Something else. I’ll bet you were curious. You couldn’t wait to see—what a mess we made of everything.”
“Joanna—” Frank said.
“I’ll bet that’s it. What happened to them? After all that? I know I’d be curious. But why come? Isn’t it all in the book?”
“Not all of it.”
“No. I’ll bet. Just the good days. That’s what the comrades like.” She lowered her glass. “Well, who doesn’t? So now you can see for yourself. How we’re holding up.” She stopped. “I thought you’d never want to see him again. But here you are. What did he say about you? In the book. That must have been strange—seeing the truth. Finally.”
“I’m not in the book.”
“No? Well, you’re his brother. I guess there are rules about that. What about wives?” she said, half to Frank. “Any rules about us? What did he say about me? I’ve been dreading it, but I guess I’ll have to know sometime.”
“You’re not in the book either. It’s not like that. Personal.”
A thin laugh. “So. Mrs. Rochester. Stuck up there in the attic.” She looked at Frank. “Just think what you’re leaving out. A real saga. The loyal wife who follows you to Russia. Russia. Maybe you should lock me in the attic. Anybody’d be crazy to do that.”
“You’re not crazy,” Frank said, mollifying, familiar territory.
“No, just drunk. You can say it. Who knows us better than Simon?” She stopped. “Except you don’t anymore, do you? What it’s like. In the beginning it wasn’t so bad. You know, I had Richie to take care of, so I was busy—”
“I’m sorry about that,” Simon said.
Joanna waved her hand. “I know, I know. Everybody was. But it wasn’t that. Frank likes to explain me. He thinks I blame myself. But I don’t. Well, you always do in a way, but I know it wasn’t anybody’s fault. We did everything we c
ould. The hospital too. It was just—he died. And we didn’t. So now what was there? Make dinner? We have someone for that. Do the shopping anyway. Shopping takes all day here. Lines. Anyway, who do you have over? The other agents?” She underlined the word. “One cozy evening after another. Scrabble with the Macleans. Gareth throwing up in a taxi. He’s downstairs, by the way, did you see him? He wanted to gossip. Of course. Don’t worry,” she said to Frank. “I didn’t say a thing.” She turned to Simon. “You have to keep in mind who these people are, what they’re like. It’s their nature. Gareth gets people to talk—he’s such a loose cannon people think he must be safe—and he reports them. That’s what he does. Perry was all right. Poor Perry. He didn’t notice things. What it’s really like. But he had Marzena. Has Frank told you about Marzena?” A look between them. “No, he wouldn’t. But you should meet. You’d like her. Perry did. Of course the question is—I’d love your take on this—does she work for the Service or not? They’d have to approve the marriage, but did they actually arrange it?”
“Arrange it?”
“To keep Perry happy. They like to keep their old boys happy. And keep an eye on them. This way they’ll know his every waking thought. Even what he says in his sleep. They got Gareth a boyfriend. Why not a loyal wife? Mostly loyal anyway. They like doing that. Using someone close.”
“The car is here,” Boris said from the window.
“Oh, and we were having such fun,” she said, her voice forced, then looked down. “I’m sorry. This isn’t the way I wanted this to go. I wanted it to be—I don’t know, like it was.” She looked up. “I haven’t changed so much, have I?”
“We’ve all changed.”
“Not you,” she said, patting his chest. “Don’t disapprove. I couldn’t bear that. I’ll be right as rain in the morning and then we’ll start over, okay?”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Frank said, getting ready to go. “Did you bring a coat?”
“A coat?” Joanna said, dazed.
“It’s still cold, nights. Boris, take home anything you like.” He nodded to the spread of food. “I’ll send someone up to clear,” he said, a show of normalcy, as if nothing had happened, just a drink and appetizers.
Joanna came closer. “So tomorrow? We can talk and talk. I want to know everything. Diana. Everything.”
“Coming?” Frank said, almost at the door.
“Yes,” Joanna said, then hugged Simon, putting her mouth near his ear, a low murmur. “He’s up to something. I’m not crazy. You live with someone, you can sense it. He wants something. I don’t know what yet. All of a sudden he wants you here. Why?”
“Maybe he wanted to see me,” Simon said gently. “I wanted to see him.”
“Oh, lovely Simon,” she said, touching his cheek. “It’s different here. You can’t trust him. Any of them.” She pulled back, a public voice. “Come early. There’s so much to catch up on.”
She followed Boris out, Frank lingering.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s the excitement—your being here. Her sister came after Richie died and that helped. But no one since. Her family, anybody. Until you.”
“Why not go see them? She still has her passport. She never renounced—”
Frank looked at him, then up at the chandelier, taking him by the sleeve and moving him out to the hall. Jo and Colonel Vassilchikov were at the other end, near the floor manager.
“It’s all right out here,” Frank said, voice low. “So you have been briefed. There’s no other way you could have known that.” Answering a question that hadn’t been asked. “We’ll take a walk tomorrow and talk. I do that every day. Boris won’t think anything of it. Was it Pirie himself? I’ll be curious—what he had to say.”
“Frank,” Simon said, dismayed, still hearing Jo, maybe everyone crazy.
“Be right there,” Frank said to the others, raising his voice loud enough to carry, then turned back to Simon, conspiratorial. “We’ll talk. You forget. I know Don. I know how he thinks.” Twelve years ago.
“Frank—”
“By the way,” he said, not listening. “Don’t say anything to Jo about—seeing her family. That’s not really possible. You’d just upset her. We’re—we’re here.”
And then he was gone, the long overcoat flapping around his legs. Simon watched them get into the elevator, then scanned the hall. No one but the old woman who kept the keys. And no doubt made a report. Boris listening in the car. Simon went back into his room. Were they listening now? “Run water in the bathroom,” DiAngelis had said. “The radio loud.” He glanced at the telephone, the light fixture again. Turn around. Leave. He went over to the window. Below Jo and Frank were getting into the car, a privilege, Boris looking out for them. What had the Germans called it? Protective custody. For your own good.
He looked over at the red stars on the Kremlin towers. A great space, big enough for parades to rumble through. You could talk there without running water. Line up to see Gareth’s “bod-y.” Watched. Listened to. In prison, some vast Victorian panopticon, so big you weren’t aware of being inside. But if you kept going, just walked out of the square and didn’t stop, over the endless flat land, reverse the trip he’d just made, you’d finally come to the visible fences—the barbed wire and attack dogs and watchtowers. No glowing red stars there. No way to pretend the surveillance was for your own good. One look at the wires and you’d know. He felt a tightening in his chest. He could get out, do his time, a week or two, and head back to Vnukovo, fly right over the barbed wire. But Frank and Jo— We’re here, Frank had said. A life sentence.
He glanced at his watch, then took out a cigarette and turned on the table lamp next to the window. Open the window, DiAngelis had said. That’ll be the signal you’re okay.
The spring air was soft but chilly. She hadn’t brought a coat, not feeling it.
“Smoke the whole thing. By the window, like you’re a tourist. Looking at things.”
“What if he doesn’t see me?” The street below empty.
“He will.”
“Who is he?”
“You don’t want to know that.”
“I mean, is he a Russian or—?”
“You don’t want to know anything. You’re just a guy here to see your brother. And now you’re having a smoke. Not one of us.”
“I’m not one of you.”
2
A RESTLESS NIGHT, UP TWICE, looking out at the deserted street. What did he expect to see? A man by a lamppost? Then morning coffee in the dining room, only a few other guests down this early, men in suits eating smoked fish and dark bread, buried in newspapers, columns of dense Cyrillic. He’d been told nobody read the papers—“propaganda sheets” according to DiAngelis—but here they were, as immersed and trusting as businessmen in Omaha. Outside the dining room windows the Kremlin, last night sinister and shadowy, was bathed in spring sunshine. Colonel Vassilchikov’s car wasn’t due until nine. He went out to the lobby, expecting to be stopped at the door, offered an escort, told he couldn’t leave unaccompanied, but no one seemed to notice him.
He crossed the broad street by the underground walkway, then up past the Hotel Moskva, glancing over his shoulder. No one behind, just office workers streaming out of the Metro. Red Square. A place he’d seen in a thousand photographs, filled with tanks and military salutes and politburo members who disappeared from the pictures a year later, airbrushed from memory. He’d always imagined a gray ceremonial square, boxed in by Kremlin towers, but instead it was open and bright, flooded with light, the onion domes of St. Basil’s at the far end swirls of color, GUM department store frilly and ornate, something a children’s illustrator might have dreamed up. People hurrying across to work. Anywhere. He looked at the high fortress walls. Where Stalin had sat up at night putting check marks next to names on a list. Names he knew, names other people knew, names that struck his fancy. Terror had no logi
c. Check. Gone. Night after night.
Now a line was already forming outside the mausoleum to see him, the embalmed king, a primitive ritual as old as Egypt. Shuffling along patiently for just a glimpse. Except for the man with the hat. Simon looked again. Not moving with the crowd, using it as a kind of screen. Had he seen the hat before? Without even noticing? Maybe on the shallow steps of the Moskva, but maybe not. He hadn’t felt anything, no prickly feeling at the back of his neck. But why stand there and not move with the crowd? To keep Simon in his sight line. He’d be one of theirs. “Nobody will contact you,” DiAngelis had said. “All the embassy people are watched. Just give the okay sign at the window. If there’s any trouble, or you need to make contact, go to the embassy. Ask for me.” “You?” “The name’ll get you to the right person. But only if you have to.” So not one of ours. Unless he was imagining things.
He turned and walked over to GUM, then looked back. No hat, which was somehow worse, a man who could disappear. GUM wasn’t open yet and in any case there’d be nothing to buy, so he kept walking toward St. Basil’s, surprised that the square didn’t end there but continued downslope to the river. He stopped and looked up at the onion domes, what any tourist would do. If in fact anybody was watching.
“Mr. Weeks?” An American voice. But nobody was supposed to contact him.
Simon turned. The same hat, now pushed back a little, a young man’s gesture. A thin face with a permanent five o’clock shadow, someone in his thirties.
“Hal Lehman. UPI.”
“Oh.”
The man held up his hand. “Don’t worry. Off the record.”
“What is?”
Hal smiled. “It’s not secret, is it, why you’re here? You sent out a press release when you signed the book, so I figured—”
“How did you find me?”
“I took a chance they’d put you up at the National. There, or the Metropol. Big cheese place. So I waited to see who came out.” Pleased with himself.