by Joseph Kanon
“I’m not—” He stopped, not worth it. “I’m not working for anybody. You or Frank.”
“Right now it looks like you’re working for both of us. It’s hard, working two sides. It gets complicated.”
“Let’s keep it simple, then. Do you want this meeting or not?”
DiAngelis nodded. “My boss would.”
“I’ll let you know where, then. Where are you staying?”
“Here,” DiAngelis said, nodding toward Spaso House. “Some place, huh? We figured if the GSA cover got too thin, they’d still cut me a little slack if I’m here with the ambassador. Nobody wants to make trouble. You see inside? A fucking palace. Must annoy the hell out of them, the Russkies. They’re living in barracks and we’re—”
“So how do I contact you? I can’t come here again. I’d have no reason.”
“Give me a day. Work things out with Washington. Then maybe a few of us have a nightcap at the National. To celebrate, but they don’t know what. You could run into us. It’s that kind of place.”
Simon nodded. “Tomorrow night. Keep in mind, when you talk to Pirie, it’s for two people. He won’t leave without her, so it has to be for two.”
“I’d still like to know how he plans to pull this off.”
“He says he has it worked out. He didn’t want to leave it to you.”
“Nice.”
“He just meant he knows it here. How things are.” He paused. “He’s working for you now.”
“He did that before.”
They went back to the house separately, Simon circling around the porch with a now empty glass. More people had crowded into the reception hall. How long before he could decently go? The ambassador didn’t want him there anyway, tainted now by Frank. But in a second he was trapped by the telltale clinking against glass, the signal for a toast. People on the porch stood still, half-listening. A meaningful cultural exchange, a bridge between two great peoples. Meanwhile canapés floated by. Nothing particularly fancy—cheese puffs and triangles of tea sandwiches and water chestnuts wrapped in bacon—but here, in the dreary, gray city, a spread of defiant opulence. A Russian from the Cultural Ministry was welcoming the troupe’s director.
“Mr. Weeks.” A voice to his side. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Hal Lehman, remember?”
“Of course. I’m getting you an interview. After Look.”
“Funny you should say that, because he’s here. Look, I mean. Oh, my wife Nancy. Nancy, Simon Weeks. You remember I told you—”
“That Weeks? As in Francis?”
“Guilty. Except I’m not.”
She half-laughed, not sure where to go with this. Blond, teased hair and a flowery summer dress with a full skirt. A nice open face, someone you might meet at a barbeque. Who drove to Helsinki for lettuce.
“Simon’s a publisher, honey.”
“But you’re his brother?” she said, not letting it go. “What was that like? I mean, when it happened.”
“It was a rough time. For the family. But that’s a long time ago.”
“And he lives here now? All these years. I’ve been here a year, more, and I’ve never even seen him.”
“Well, he doesn’t go to a lot of parties at Spaso House,” Simon said pleasantly. “In fact, neither do I. I should be going.”
“No, wait, meet Tom.”
Simon raised his eyes.
“Tom McPherson. Look. The photographer.”
Hal craned his neck, then signaled that he’d be right back.
“I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t— He’s your brother. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s all right. It happens.”
“And you came here to see him? What was that like?”
Simon hesitated, as if he were thinking this over. “What you don’t expect? You still have the same jokes. You laugh at the same things. The way you always did. Of course, it’s sad too. You see him and you think, I’ll probably never see you again.”
Embroidering the cover story, seeing how well it fit.
“You won’t come back?”
“I’m here on a special visa. No guarantee they’ll—”
“No, they’re like that. Even for family, I guess. So unfair.”
“Well, he’s the one who came here,” Simon said gently. “I can’t blame them for that.”
“No,” she said, confused now.
“Here he is. Tom, Simon Weeks.”
“Pleasure,” the man said, shaking his hand. Young, not yet thirty, hair looking as if it had been combed by a hand brushing through it, shirt open, the only man at the party without a tie. “I was going to leave this at your hotel, but now you’ve saved me the trouble.” He handed him a business card. “Mr. Engel was hoping I could get the pictures while you’re still here. He said you knew what we’re looking for. Kind of thing that’d go with the excerpt.”
“In other words, run interference with Frank.”
McPherson grinned. “Well, I was told he might be shy.”
“No. He knows about this. Let me check with Jo. His wife. Give her time to arrange the furniture.”
“Just the way they usually are,” McPherson said. “A typical day—”
“I know what you want.”
Frank in his study, Frank and Jo having breakfast, comfortable, not going anywhere. Boris in the other room, taking it in, the cover holding.
“I’ll set it up. Promise.”
“And then the interview?” Hal asked.
“I’ll ask.”
Frank would object, but why not? Another stitch in the cover, a man with a book coming out, at home in Moscow. As settled as he’d been in Washington.
* * *
The next morning they worked on Frank’s escape to Moscow—the tense race to the airport, the last-minute change of flights, the car to Mexico.
“I was terrified the whole time.” He looked over at Simon. “But I’m not going to say that.”
“Were you?”
“Well, that’s part of the game, isn’t it? Get the adrenaline flowing. Beat the clock. Anyway, we did.”
“How did you feel when you got here? Your first impressions. You don’t say.”
“I was relieved. I thought they saved my life, the Service. And gave the finger to Hoover, which was a nice bonus.” He looked toward the living room, Boris deep in Izvestia. “I was excited. The whole thing had been—”
“A once-in-a-lifetime experience,” Simon said, looking at him.
Frank caught the look and held it for a second. “Well, how about some lunch? Boris,” he called to the other room. “What say we go to the university after, show Simon the view. Take the Metro. Look at a few stations.”
“Komsomolskaya is in the other direction.” Evidently a showcase.
“Plenty on the way. Arbatskaya, Kropotkinskaya. You’ll be impressed,” he said to Simon. “Best subway in the world.”
It turned out that Boris’s father had once worked for the Metro system, so he took a proprietary interest and loved showing it off. They stepped out onto ornate station platforms to see the design, then caught the next train, the next station, like field agents hopping on and off to lose a trail. The university, the tallest of Stalin’s gothic wedding cakes, was a hike from the station, through a formal park. The tower sat on the top of the hill with a lookout terrace just below and in front, all of Moscow beyond, dotted with more Stalin skyscrapers. A couple were being photographed from a tripod, the girl with flowers in her hair, the boy in a boxy suit and tie.
“Newlyweds,” Frank said. “They come here right after the ceremony.”
“Quite a view.”
Frank nodded. “The highest point in the city. The Lenin Hills. Khrushchev’s building a children’s center over there.” He pointed over to the right. “Near the circus. God knows what they’ll call it.
They have a mania for naming things. These used to be Vorobyovy Gory,” he said, the Russian deep, a voice change. “Sparrow Hills. Which, with all due respect to Lenin, fits them better. But there you are.”
Boris had drifted toward the end of the rail, as absorbed by the view as the newlyweds.
“We can talk now,” Frank said. “What was all that about a once-in-a-lifetime trip? You don’t think I can do this?”
“You act as if nothing could go wrong.”
“You have to stay positive with something like this. Keep looking over your shoulder, you might trip.”
“It’s more than that. You’re enjoying it.”
Frank looked at him. “All right. I am. I want to see if I can pull it off.”
“It’s a hell of a risk to prove—whatever you think you’re proving. You’ve got a life here. What are you going to have there?”
Frank was quiet for a minute, looking out to the skyline. “You know, when I first came here, the Foreign Ministry was still being built. Now you look—it’s a different city. Or maybe I’m different.”
“You’re older.”
“Not yet.” He turned. “I’m still me, not one of those men you see at the Pond, sitting on a bench. But it’s a different city. I don’t fit in anymore. It’s time to move on.”
“And take their files with you.”
Frank smiled. “Airfare, that’s all.”
Simon turned back to the view. “And what kind of life is she going to have there? Hiding.”
“Only at first. She’s been through it before. You don’t go anywhere. A Russian identity. You’re not here. But gradually you adjust. They adjust. It gets better.”
“But it hasn’t for her.”
“No. But that was about Richie. Everything’s been about Richie,” he said, his voice quieter. “Not Moscow. You can’t blame Moscow for that.” He turned and moved closer to Simon. “Point at something, so Boris thinks you’re sightseeing. I wonder who my new Boris will be. Eddie. Joe. That’s one thing about this life, you’re never alone.”
“Frank—”
“You want me to recant,” he said, lingering on the word. “You want that to be the reason. Lost my faith. Finally came to my senses. Oh, don’t bother,” he said, holding up his hand before Simon could speak. “I know you. That would make everything right. Instead of the way it is.” He leaned against the balustrade. “But I can’t. Then there’d be nothing. All of it for nothing.” He looked up. “But I’ll give you this. A little doubt. Of course there is no such thing. As a little. Once doubt comes into it, the whole thing’s in play.” He forced out a small smile. “Or it makes you stronger. That’s what they say anyway.”
“What did you doubt?”
“Well, not the revolution,” he said, wanting to be light, then turned away from Simon’s stare. “When Richie was sick. The best hospital. The Service hospital.” He pointed to his forehead. “In the front part of my mind I knew we were doing everything we could. Logically. It wouldn’t have made any difference in Bethesda, wherever we were. I knew that. But in the back of your mind, you think, what if? What if we could have saved him at home? No sense to it, but once it starts—and where do you go from there? He’s here because of me. I killed him—”
“Frank.”
“I know. I know it’s not true. Maybe it’s just—to distract you, take your mind off what’s really happening. Which is that he’s dying. Nothing prepares you for that. Not other people dying, even family. It’s not the same. A child. He’s not supposed to die. So, at the back, it starts nagging you. Your fault. Your fault. This place. The system. What else? Who else can you blame?”
“Frank,” Simon said, putting his hand over Frank’s on the rail. “Jesus Christ.”
“I know. But you still think it. Jo did. She says she didn’t, but she did. We cleaned out all his stuff. Just kept some pictures. But he’s still all over the place. He’s here. My fault. Until you want to be someone else. That’s when I started thinking about all this. Leaving. Be someone else. So give me a name. Joe Blow. Harry Houdini. Somebody else. Then I don’t have to think about it. Let them stash me somewhere, that’s okay. It takes a little time. And Jo will be someone else too. A new life. How else to do it? Live with this.” He looked at Simon, the moment suddenly close, as if they were embracing. “It’s worth the risk. Worth it to me. I’m sorry that it probably means I won’t see you.” He tried for an ironic smile. “No family visits if you’re an alias. But maybe you’d prefer it that way. At least I wouldn’t be here. With the enemy.”
“Don’t.”
“Jimbo, I wish—” His shoulders slumped, as if the years had weight. “Well, I wish. I wish. But that doesn’t make it happen. We’re going to lose each other again. But who else would have helped me? It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it? There’s nobody else I can trust. All these years and nobody else. And after everything. After I wrecked your life.”
“You didn’t wreck my life,” Simon said, then turned away. “You wrecked yours.”
Frank stepped back, as if the words had actually hit him, surprised. For a moment he said nothing. “Maybe I did,” he said finally. “And Jo’s. But maybe I can fix it.” His voice wrapping around the words, the way it did in Russian, drawing Simon closer, an undertow pull. “It’s not too late,” he said, a kind of question.
“No,” Simon said, lowering his eyes, ending it. “Where’s the meeting?”
Frank hesitated, wanting to say more, then pointed down the steep wooded slope. “There,” he said, finger out. “That’s why I brought you here. So you could see it.”
Another wedding party had arrived and they moved to avoid it.
“See the onion domes? There by the curve of the river. Past the stadium. The Novodevichy Convent.”
“You want to meet DiAngelis in a convent?”
“Former convent,” Frank said, smiling at this. “Although somebody told me there are still nuns there. But you never see them. Invisible nuns,” he said, toying with it.
“Let’s hope you’re invisible too. Why there?” he said, peering down. A red brick bell tower, high white cathedral, a few other churches and outbuildings, all surrounded by fortress walls. Trees between the buildings, an enclave.
“It’s a major attraction. Sort of place we’d go. Or DiAngelis, if he has to explain himself. The iconostasis is famous. See outside the wall over there? The Novodevichy Cemetery. They’re connected through a gate. Lots of exits. Here comes Boris. DiAngelis sees you tonight? Let’s say Friday, that gives us an extra day’s cushion. After lunch, two. In the cathedral. The Virgin of Smolensk.”
“The Virgin—?” Simon said, the name suddenly implausible.
“Don’t be disrespectful,” Frank said, enjoying himself again, a commando leader.
“And if Boris sticks close?”
“He won’t. He’s a good Soviet, hates anything religious. He’ll wait in the grounds somewhere and have a smoke. I’ll take care of him. Just tell DiAngelis to be inside, waiting. We won’t have much time. Just a few minutes overlap, coming and going.”
“And what if there are other people there?”
“They’ll be praying to the icons. Relax, Jimbo, it’s going to be fine. The nuns will look out for us.”
* * *
“In a church?” DiAngelis said at the bar. “In public?”
“Get somebody from the embassy to take you sightseeing. No taxis. Maybe the Kremlin first, your pick. But be at Novodevichy before two. We’re only talking about a few minutes.”
“No. We have rules in Moscow. Three cars, safe house, two tails. There’s a protocol. You think we don’t know how to do this?”
“This time, his rules. He knows how to protect himself.”
“Right out in the open. What is this, the fucking Hardy Boys?”
“You talked to Washington. Everything’s okay?”<
br />
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“How he wants to get out of here.”
“He says he has a way.”
“So let’s go meet in church and discuss it. Let’s let everybody know.”
“He’s KGB. He knows what he’s doing. Give him that. If you’re that worried about being seen, what are we doing in the National bar?”
“You’re not him. We talk, it could be anything. Me talking to him? Either I’m here to kill him or turn him.” He looked at Simon. “I could still go either way.”
“Be early then. You’ll need the time.”
4
THEY TOOK THE METRO AGAIN, a quick walk down the Garden Ring to Krasnopresnenskaya, then a change at Park Kultury, all orchestrated by Boris to show off more stations. “No car,” Frank had said. “There’s only one parking lot and the embassy car will be tailed. We don’t want to go anywhere near it.” Their stop, Sportivnaya, served the big stadium nearby, but the street itself was leafy and unassuming, a quieter Moscow. At the end Simon could see the bell tower and onion domes of the convent grounds. At the first big intersection a small convoy of trucks rumbled by, followed by an official Zil.
“You can take this straight back to the Kremlin,” Frank said. “Different names. Same street. Here, Bolshaya Pirogovskaya,” he said, the Russian easy, matter-of-fact. They began to follow the big street down to the convent, past the entrance. “We’ll use the back, through the cemetery. Nobody sees us go in. Take a look at the parking lot. Anybody we know? Diplomatic plates?”
But they were walking too quickly to pick out any detail. A car. A school bus, presumably for visiting students, and a battered utility truck toward the end. The high convent wall was to their right now, beyond it the famous octagonal bell tower, blood-red with white trim.
“That must have been their car,” Simon said. “By the bus.”
“Let’s hope so. They should be here. Seeing things. You want to know something?” Frank said, his voice suddenly low. “I’m nervous. Shaking. It’s been a while. Being in the field. It’s the kind of thing—you don’t want to get rusty. Not now. Christ, look.” He stretched out his hand to show it trembling.