Defectors

by Joseph Kanon

“He had help.”

  “Not from me, if that’s what you’re asking. The Service, yes. We gained a few years. A matter of time, that’s all, not science. But Stalin couldn’t wait. That’s all he could think about then. The bomb. When? We had to have it.”

  “And now you do. Pointing right at us.”

  “Well, it takes two, Jimbo. Somebody puts a gun to your head, you better put one to his.” He paused, glancing toward Boris. “Anyway, he got it. And that bought Beria a little time. And then, once Stalin was gone—” He let the thought complete itself. “Everything ends sooner or later. Even Beria.”

  They were coming up to the park Simon had passed in the car, the long rectangular pool bordered by allées of linden trees.

  “Patriarch’s Pond. There used to be more, three of them, I think. But now just this. Beautiful, isn’t it? I think it’s my favorite place in Moscow. I come here and sit—read, if the weather’s nice.”

  “With Boris?”

  “Oh, Boris isn’t always around. He’s just making sure of you. That you’re on the up-and-up.”

  “As opposed to what?”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  He huddled for a minute with Boris, who moved off in the direction of the playground, still carrying the string bag with lunch.

  “I said we’d meet him on the bench near old Krylov,” Frank said, indicating a big bronze statue.

  “Who?”

  “Children’s stories. A kind of Russian Aesop. What a lot you don’t know. He can keep an eye on us from there, so he’ll sit tight. And we can talk.”

  “It’s like having a nanny.”

  “Oh, don’t underestimate Boris. Political officer during the war. At the front. Pure steel. They say the troops were more afraid of them than the Nazis.”

  “The bayonet behind you. Still hard to believe they’d do that. To their own people. While the war’s—”

  “Nobody deserted. It was a different time.” He caught Simon’s look, but ignored it. “Come on. We don’t have long. Just a walk around the pond.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I wanted to talk to you about Jo. It embarrasses him, anything personal. So we have a little time. It’ll get better, once you’re familiar to him. Sometimes I go off, pick up the mail or something. As long as he knows where I am. Where I’m supposed to be. Play up the Moscow angle, by the way. That you want to see things. So you’ll have an excuse to be here and there. Different places.”

  Simon looked at him, puzzled.

  “The embassy, for instance. Now he knows you’re supposed to report there, so he won’t be suspicious when you go.”

  “And when’s that? What’s going on?”

  “Walk this way. So what did Pirie actually say?”

  “What?”

  “When he briefed you. We can talk now.”

  “Frank—”

  “He must have said something. An opportunity like this. A perfect chance to make a pitch.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Honestly.”

  Frank looked at him. “Jesus Christ, he’s dumber than I thought. Not even a trial balloon? So somebody else briefed you. Remember everything. Don’t write it down. Simon, I helped write that rule book. I know how it works. So what’s the offer?”

  “The offer?”

  “For me. The double cross. They’d have to take a run at it. How could they not? They finally have access to me. Right now. No filters. How can they not at least try?”

  “I’m not with them.”

  “You are as long as you’re here. So Pirie didn’t talk to you and whoever did had nothing to say to me, is that right?”

  Simon nodded.

  “Christ.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following. Why would they ask? You’d refuse. What’s the point?”

  “Or maybe he isn’t as dumb as I think,” Frank said, half to himself. “He doesn’t want to give me any leverage.” Abruptly he changed voices. “But it’s a little early for Sochi.”

  Simon looked up. A woman was passing, a blonde wearing a tight skirt and high heels, the first Simon had seen, an unexpected erotic flash after all the sturdy sandals and shapeless sundresses. She smiled at them, then made a motion with her unlighted cigarette. Frank took out a match and lit it, saying something in Russian as she bent down to the flame. A quick jerk of her head. More Russian, then a kind of sneer before she moved off.

  “What was that?”

  “What you think.”

  “In the middle of the day?”

  “It’s known for it, the pond.”

  Simon looked around. A few people lying on the sloping banks with their shirts off, or eating in the shade, an Impressionist leisure, not the people in posters with their sleeves rolled up, building dams.

  “I thought there wasn’t any prostitution in the Soviet Union.”

  “Or crime,” Frank said, distracted, thinking, then shaking his head. “No, he is that dumb. And I’m going to make him a hero. The high point of his career. Such as it is. The last thing he deserves. But sometimes you get lucky. Donald Fucking Pirie.”

  “What high point?”

  “Me.”

  Simon stopped for a minute, trying to take this in. “You.”

  “The ultimate catch. And he caught me. And didn’t even throw out a net. He’ll say he sent you to do it and you might as well go along. You’ll both look good. I’ll make you a hero too. You were the persuader.”

  “What did I persuade you to do?” Simon said, watching him, fascinated.

  Frank turned to him. “Defect.”

  Simon stopped, rooted, things suddenly in slow motion around him.

  “No, keep walking. Boris will notice. I know, you’re surprised. But we don’t have much time. I thought you’d be coming with an invitation, but never mind, I’ll just invite myself. I still have you. You’re the key.”

  “Me?” Simon said, still trying to absorb this.

  “You have a reason to be here. Boris has seen you work. That’s why I wanted him there. The perfect cover. I can’t contact anybody. I need to send a messenger. And they’ll believe you, that it’s a real offer.”

  “What is?”

  “To come back.”

  “Come back,” Simon said, as if repeating it would make it real. “Nobody’s ever done that. Come back.”

  Frank nodded. “So nobody here will be expecting it.”

  “Come back,” Simon said again. “Just like that.”

  “No, not just like that. You know what I mean by the Thirteenth Department?”

  “Like the Third?”

  “Except they’re in charge of retribution. To defectors. The minute I start this, I’m in the crosshairs. Then they track you down. And kill you. As a lesson to the others. That’s why we have to arrange a new identity. That has to be part of the deal.”

  “What makes you think Pirie would do this?”

  “You playing devil’s advocate again? I’m the biggest defector the Agency ever had. To get me back would be—bigger. Even if I didn’t know anything. But I do. I know everything. That’s part of what I do here. Train agents who are being sent to the States. How to act, what to say, what would an American do in a given situation. How to be like us.”

  Simon looked at him, his stomach suddenly queasy.

  “I know who’s on the ground there. Some of them anyway. And I know who’s here. The whole Service organizational chart. Personalities to be filled in at the debriefing. Maybe you don’t know what this is worth, but Pirie will. The minute you tell him.”

  “I tell him?”

  “Get word to him. There’s somebody at the embassy who can send a smoke signal to him, right? They must have given you a name.”

  Simon just looked at him.

  “Jimbo, it’s what
I do. I know how this works.”

  “And why would he believe you? After—”

  “Well, that’s the point. He’d be suspicious. And careful. And he’d take his own sweet time. But we don’t have that kind of time. You’re only going to be here for—”

  “Me?”

  “I can’t do this without you. It’s got to be while you’re here. He may not believe me, but he’ll believe you. And just to hurry things up a little, I’m going to give him a—a little something down. Kind of a deposit.”

  “What kind?” Simon said, suddenly not wanting to hear. The park, the sunny day, had become surreal, swirling slowly around him. The yellow pavilion. People eating ice cream. Maybe overhearing, maybe not a prostitute, the signs in Cyrillic, cipher letters, Frank about to run again, with Simon caught in his slipstream.

  “A name. In Washington. To prove I’m for real. Of course, he can just take that and walk away, leave me here, but I’m betting he’ll want more. And there is more,” he said, as casually as putting a chip down on a table.

  Simon stared at him. “A name. One of yours.”

  “Well,” Frank said, unexpectedly thrown by this, embarrassed. “I don’t have much of a choice, I have to give them something.”

  “So first you give the Service us. How many, by the way? Scribbling away for two years. Everybody in the Agency you ever took a piss with? And now you’re going to give us them. Your new people. Time now to cash them in too. All these years, whenever I thought about it, what you did, I’d think, well, but he believed in it. Like some religion. Like it is in the book. But it turns out—”

  “I do believe in it,” Frank said quietly. “I believe it’s just, the system. And I believe it’s going to win. This doesn’t change that. But I’m almost done here. They’re going to retire me and what’s the difference when you’re retired?”

  “So cut and run. And throw a bomb behind you on your way out. The way you did last time. I thought this was what you did everything for,” Simon said, spreading his hand to take in the park, Frank’s life.

  “It is. But it’s a different time. Things are better now. We survived the war. And Stalin. Beria. We survived the Americans, all the loonies flying around with their bombs. We’re sending satellites into space. We’re catching up. One beat-up old agent switching sides isn’t going to bring the house crashing down. If it ever would have. Sometimes I wonder how much any of it mattered. At the time you think—but then you look back and it’s gain an inch here, an inch there, but the whole thing really just rolls along whether you’re there or not. If I hadn’t done any of it, would things be different?” He looked over. “Or maybe I’m just getting older. But I don’t think I’ll be undermining the future of Communism. Maybe give it a little bump in the road. The Service will recover. Of course, we don’t want to say that to Pirie. He thinks it all matters, he has to, that’s why he gets up every day. And now we can hand it to him on a platter, the club he’s been looking for. To beat the Service with.”

  “And you’d give that to him.”

  “I’d have to. None of this comes free. Immunity from prosecution. Actually, there was never any evidence against me, anything they could use, so that’s a moot point.”

  “Other than turning up in Moscow.”

  “But a new identity,” Frank said, not stopping. “That won’t be cheap. Expenses. The exfiltration.”

  “The exfiltration,” Simon said, the word itself surreal.

  “I can’t just book the next Aeroflot out. There have to be arrangements. Don’t worry, I’ve got it all worked out.”

  “You.”

  “You don’t think I’d leave it to Pirie, do you? Put my life in his hands.” He looked up. “This is going to be the tricky part. Getting out. You need a Houdini, somebody who knows how the locks work.”

  “Like you,” Simon said, hearing the bravado in Frank’s voice, his next astonishing act.

  “And you,” Frank said, looking at him. “I’d be putting myself in your hands.”

  Even the air seemed to stop now, nothing moving at all.

  “To get you out,” Simon said, so softly that it sounded only half-said.

  “I’m very good at what I do, you know. You just take a message. That’s all. It’s no risk to you.” Looking him in the eye as he said it.

  “And then what?” Simon said, still softly.

  Frank shook his head. “First we put out the line. Then we take it one step at a time, in case—”

  “In case it does go wrong. And somebody asks me. With the red light over the door. But no risk to me.”

  “There won’t be. I’ve been planning it. It can work. Do you think I’d ask you if I thought—?”

  He looked over Simon’s shoulder. The woman in high heels, circling back around the pond. She smiled at Frank, a tease, exaggerating her hip movements. The rest of the park seemed to come back to life with them, out of Frank’s vacuum, people looking up at the sun again, licking ice cream.

  “What makes you think I’d do this?” Simon said, no longer in an echo chamber. “Any of it.”

  Frank nodded, a question he’d been waiting for. “First you’d be doing something for your country. That always has a certain amount of appeal. Like I said, I don’t think it’ll matter very much in the scheme of things, but the Agency won’t think that. They’ll think they won the Cold War and you helped. Then there’s the book. With a brand-new last chapter. Which I promise to write. Remember when I left? How big a story that was? So think about me coming back. You do the numbers. If Keating counts that high. You’ll even be the hero of the piece, if you want to be. I’ll do it however you want. If I know the Agency, they’ll nickel-and-dime me on the pension, so I’ll need the royalties. And no sharing with Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga. Just my own account somewhere. Which I’ll help you set up.” He stopped, then put his hand on Simon’s arm. “Look, this is just talk. Why would you do it? I was hoping you’d do it for me.”

  “For you.”

  “It’s always been the two of us, hasn’t it? I couldn’t tell you—what I was doing. You know that. I thought it was for the best, all of it. I didn’t think things would end up this way, me walking around Patriarch’s Pond—where the hell was that anyway? But they did.” He looked up. “I don’t want to die here.”

  “And what do you think it’ll be like there?”

  “I know what it’ll be like. They keep me in a safe house somewhere near the Agency. And we debrief. They don’t trust me, they trust me, they don’t trust me. Months, longer. I’m not having dinner at Harvey’s, I’m not seeing anybody, I’m in jail. With guards, so nobody pops me. They hope. I hope. And when they’re finished squeezing the lemon, they send me somewhere as somebody else. Somewhere warm, by the way, would be nice. After here. And then I live there, wondering if anybody back at Langley screws up and slips where I am. Because then I’m Trotsky, waiting for the hatchet in my head. Wondering if anybody recognizes me when I go out to get the mail. Locking the door, making sure. And that’s my life. What’s left of it.”

  Simon was quiet for a minute, slowing his steps, the end of the allée just ahead, Boris on a bench somewhere.

  “Then why do it?” He looked around, people in the sun. “You’re better off here.”

  “Maybe. But Jo isn’t.”

  “Jo?”

  “Why do it? I should have started there, I guess. So it makes sense to you. It’s killing her, this place. She’ll never get better here. Jesus Christ, a sanitarium in Sochi. Can you imagine what that’s like? What it would do to her? So why do it?” He looked directly at Simon. “Because I have to. You know us better than anybody. You were there. Before we were—what we are now. We got through so much—coming here, Richie, we even got through that, but now she’s coming apart and I’m just sitting here watching it happen. I can’t. She’s only here because she followed me. I have to do something. So why
? The oldest reason in the book, isn’t it? It always comes down to something like this. They teach you that in the Service—look for the Achilles’ heel, the soft spot. So, mine. I don’t think the Service knows it. They’ve never tried to use it and they would, that’s what they do. Boris thinks I’m annoyed with her. He doesn’t see it’s eating me up, what’s happening. But you know her. How she used to be. And now look. You saw her at the National.” Her breath in his ear.

  “Why not send her home? Without all the—?”

  Frank shook his head quickly. “Even if State gave her a new passport, which they won’t, the Soviets would never let her leave. She’s my wife. She knows too much—even if she doesn’t. They think that way. They’d lose face. So they’d—deal with her.”

  “Sochi.”

  “Somewhere. A rest. And she’d never get well.” He glanced toward the playground. “There’s Boris. So it turns out we are talking about Jo. If he asks, say you’ll mention the clinic to her. But he won’t ask. He listens.” He looked at Simon. “Jimbo, I know this is a lot all at once. But you’re smart, you get things right away. You’ll be a messenger, that’s all. It’s me. And Jo. I have to get her out. I won’t always be here to—”

  “What do you mean?”

  A quick glance up, caught. “Don’t react. Boris will see. I’m sick.”

  “Sick? What do you mean, sick?”

  “Well, Dr. Ziolkowski—who has a gift for words—calls me a walking time bomb. Not very precise, but vivid.”

  “Jesus, Frank.” He lowered his voice, just conversation. “What is it? Cancer?”

  “My heart. Don’t worry, I’m not going to peg out on the way home. But if anything happens, she’ll be here on her own. It’s one thing, both of us here. But if she’s alone— So if I have to sing for Pirie, I sing. The deal is for two of us. Two.”

  “Are you sure? The doctor—”

  Frank nodded, then looked up. “But Pirie doesn’t know about this, understood? He’s a prick. He’d just as soon let me rot if he thinks I’m damaged goods. Might die on him.”

  “Frank—”

  “I know. Don’t,” he said, looking at Simon’s face. “I only told you so you’d see why—I need to do this.” He stopped, letting his voice linger between them for a second before it drifted away. “I know you. How you worry. But I’ll take you step by step. I know how to do this.”