Defectors

by Joseph Kanon

  He looked down at the couch, the unhappy woman who cried without making a sound. When he looked back up, Frank was moving toward the table lamp, motioning with his head for Simon to go to his room, a kind of dismissal. I’ll take care of the lights. And my wife.

  * * *

  Joanna had sun for her party, a spring day warm enough for summer. A long wicker table and chairs had been set up on the lawn, something out of a tsarist era photograph, the family posed around an outdoor table with fields stretching behind, corsets and high collars, servants, a samovar bubbling on the table, the revolution just a thundercloud away. Now there were bottles of Georgian wine and Hannah Rubin in a dowdy sundress. Where had Joanna got the salmon? Gastronom 1 had been out for days. A friend had put her on to a plumber who did private work. “I know we’re not supposed to, but I had to get it fixed.” Did Joanna still get her hair done at the Pekin?

  She was a slightly plump, friendly woman with curly hair and a New York accent, warm, the sort of woman who’d give treats to the kids in the neighborhood. Her husband was more recessive, happier behind a newspaper than talking, but willing to let her take the lead. Looking at them now, it was hard to believe they’d once been notorious, Hannah a courier with atomic plans in her purse, Saul the contact man for a small network of agents who’d favored, according to the Mirror, meetings at Chock full o’Nuts. The man they’d brought, more valuable than Burgess, was thin with receding hair and soft eyes, someone you wouldn’t notice on a bus, any clerk. Today he was visibly nervous, more aware perhaps of the dread that hung over the table, the news everybody was ignoring, Gareth’s name not yet mentioned. Marzena was late.

  “How is she?” Hannah said. “It must be so hard for her. Such a terrible thing. Was she the one who found him?”

  “No. Frank,” Joanna said.

  Simon looked up. The first time he’d heard this.

  “How awful,” Hannah said. “I can’t imagine. You know what they’re saying. Maybe it was like Gareth. One after the other.”

  “Who’s saying?” Frank said.

  Hannah looked at him, reprimanded. “You’re right. Gossip. It’s ridiculous. But what a thing for you,” she said to Simon. “Your first trip. You’ll think it’s always like this. But really it’s like anywhere else. You probably don’t believe that, the way the papers are. When I read Time, I can’t help it, I think, where are they talking about? But that’s nothing new. Anything to undermine the Soviet Union. What did they think at home about the Gary Powers trial? Were people at least embarrassed?”

  “I think they thought he was unlucky. And the trial—”

  “Soviet theater,” Frank said mischievously. “You can’t blame them. They’re so good at it and they don’t get the chance much anymore. Not since Stalin.”

  Boris lifted his head at this.

  “Frank,” Hannah said, a mild scold, looking around to gauge the reaction at the table.

  “It’s just us,” Frank said. “Nobody’s listening.”

  “You’ll give Simon the wrong impression.” She turned to him again. “Eisenhower was embarrassed, you could see it. When Powers was captured. But the one you never saw was Dulles. You’d think— Nothing. Not even an apology.”

  “What about the pill? The poison?” Saul Rubin said. “I read somewhere people think he should have taken it.”

  “Some, I guess,” Simon said.

  “I don’t see it. I mean, what the hell was he supposed to know? A pilot. Taking pictures.”

  “I guess the idea was to—avoid what happened. The trial.”

  “It’s a lot to ask, no? I mean, I was doing a lot more than taking pictures and nobody ever gave me a pill. They give one to you?” he said to Ian.

  “No,” Ian said, sipping some wine.

  “I thought all that went out with the OSS,” Frank said. “Behind-enemy-lines stuff.”

  “Aren’t we?” Joanna said, then caught Frank’s expression. “I mean, it’s not like a real war. But if you’re spying—”

  “It’s the same,” Boris said.

  “Not that I think anybody should have to do that. A suicide capsule. What information could be worth that?”

  “That depends on the times,” Saul said. “When Hannah was carrying the plans for the bomb, for the design, talk about a matter of life and death. Of course, she didn’t have to do anything like that, she was too clever for them.” He looked at Simon. “You ever hear the story of what happened in Albuquerque?”

  “Oh, Saul.”

  “Cool as a cucumber. She’s got the papers in her purse, the most valuable piece of paper in the world right then, and she gets to the train station and they’re inspecting bags. IDs, all that. Why then? Who knew? Maybe just routine. But she’s got to get on the train. So she’s wearing a sun hat and she takes it off and slips the paper in the hat, you know, behind that ribbon that goes around on top. And she gets to the MP and she says, here, would you hold this? While she opens her purse to find her ID. So he’s holding the plans for the bomb while she’s fishing around in there. So then thanks, here’s your hat, and she’s on the train. It’s one for the books. She never broke a sweat.”

  “I sweated plenty later,” she said, then looked down, thoughtful, twisting her ring. “I don’t know. How can we know what we would have done? I think I would have taken the pill. It was a different time. We thought, they have the bomb, they could destroy the Soviet Union. The Party. Everything we worked for. For them to have that power— So we did what we did. And that made us criminals. To somebody like Dulles. He should talk. But I’ll tell you one thing. Whatever I did, it never caused the death of a single American. Not one. That’s important to me.”

  Simon looked at her, astonished, but the others at the table were either nodding in agreement or indifferent, a self-deception they’d agreed to accept.

  “I still think of myself as American,” Hannah said. “Not one American life—”

  “You can’t possibly know that,” Ian said abruptly, his voice so English that the words seemed foreign.

  The table was silent for a moment, as if some invisible trip wire had been snapped and people were waiting for something to go off. Hannah blinked, as still as the others.

  Ian looked up, feeling the disturbance. “Sorry. I just meant—” he said, then let it go.

  “I understand that,” Joanna said to Hannah, smoothing things over. “I still feel American. Though I guess I’m not. What do you think, Boris? Am I a Russian lady yet?”

  “Good Soviet,” Boris said, taking the question seriously. “Not every Soviet is born in Russia. A question of choice.”

  “And we made it, didn’t we?” Joanna said wryly, looking around, as if the dacha, the bright day were visible proof of good judgment. “Well, we’d better start or we’ll be pie-eyed before we eat. Eva made her cold borscht to start. Perfect day for it, isn’t it?”

  “Should we call Marzena?” Hannah said. “Maybe something’s—”

  “No, she’ll swan in when she’s good and ready. I’ll just get the soup. Ian, would you give me a hand?” she said, a polite rescue.

  He stood up. “Elizaveta wants to see me Monday,” he said, blurting it. “First thing.”

  Another awkward silence.

  Joanna put her hand on his arm. “Never mind. The old cow’s been trying to scare people for years. And nothing ever comes of it.”

  “It’s like being summoned by the headmaster.” He glanced down toward Boris. “It’s not right. Treating us this way. After all we’ve—”

  “Come on. Soup,” Joanna said, still trying to deflate it.

  But Ian was standing his ground, looking directly at Boris now, the responsible party, the only Russian.

  “She is not the Service,” Boris said, his voice tentative, trying to get it right. “Maybe the old days, not now. It’s in your book.” He waved his hand to include F
rank. “It’s like that, not her.”

  “Yes, I can’t wait to read—” Hannah started.

  “But why pick on me?” Ian said.

  Boris smiled. “Me too. Pick, pick.” He made a beaking gesture with his hand. “Everybody. Her way, that’s all.”

  “Bloody awful, if you ask me,” Ian said, but retreating now. “They shouldn’t allow it. Sorry,” he said to Joanna.

  “Come on. You’ll feel better with some food in you,” she said, beginning to lead him away. “There she is.” She waved to Marzena, coming out of the trees. “Just in time. Oh good, she’s brought her dog.” Simon glanced up. An edge no one could have missed.

  “She never makes any trouble,” Frank said. “The dog.”

  Hannah waited until Ian was in the house. “She probably wants to see him about Gareth. As if he’d have anything to do with something like that. She really does go too far. I know she’s been loyal to the Service.” A nod to Boris. “But sometimes—”

  “What you said before,” Simon interrupted, before Boris could answer. “About Time. Do you get it here?” Moving away from Gareth.

  “At the Institute,” Hannah said, slightly surprised. “They get all the Western publications. For analysis. Of course, it’s a restricted list, but Time, a few others, I get to keep up pretty well. Although like I said, sometimes it makes me so darned mad, the way they—”

  “We’re going to be in Look,” Frank said. “They’re coming to take pictures. ‘The author at home.’ ”

  “Are they allowing that?” Hannah said, another glance to Boris.

  “Oh yes, all approved. Part of the ‘active measures.’ Shame Look’s not here today. Get the whole gang. America’s Most Wanted.”

  “Frank,” Hannah said, disapproving.

  “Shame who’s not here?” Marzena said, finally at the table. “Pani, be quiet.”

  The men stood, everyone saying hello.

  “A photographer. We’re going to be in an American magazine, me and Jo. Simon too, if he’s not too shy,” he said, smiling at him.

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?” Saul said. “They’ll probably make you look—”

  “I know. But Simon says it’s good for the book. Publicity.”

  “Things have a way of changing,” Saul said. “One day they think one thing, then—” He paused, a side glance to Boris. “Remember in the beginning? How they didn’t want us photographed at all?”

  “When we weren’t really here,” Hannah said. “Keep Hoover guessing.”

  “Well, he knows we’re here now,” Frank said.

  “They would never allow Perry—” Marzena said, then stopped. “What kind of pictures?” She touched her hair, an absentminded primping.

  “Oh, the usual, I guess. Me at the typewriter, banging out the magnum opus. Having coffee with Jo. Maybe out for a walk. Red Square probably, wouldn’t you think?” This to Simon.

  “Probably.” Not the vodka bottles, Boris in the next room, the cage lined with books.

  “You should wear your gray suit,” Marzena said. “You look so handsome in that.” A wife’s comment. Simon glanced up. Maybe what Jo had heard, her antennae picking things out of the air.

  “I thought the professional look. Cardigan and pipe. Something like that. Well, we’ll let Look decide.”

  “They’ll put you in a trench coat,” Saul said. “Hat down over your eyes.”

  “How is an agent supposed to look these days?” Frank said, playing with it.

  “Like everybody else,” Hannah said. “So nobody notices.” She smiled a little, as if she were offering herself up as an example. A woman who asked an MP to hold her hat while she rummaged through her purse.

  “Ian,” Marzena said, seeing him come out. “Nobody told me. Let me help you with that. Ouf, so heavy.” She helped him set the tureen on the table, an unnecessary gesture. “But how nice. I was going to write you. Your letter—after Perry. I was so grateful.” Looking at him, using grief.

  Joanna had followed with a large tray, a spread of small dishes to go with the borscht, the usual lawn party finger sandwiches and strawberries replaced with whitefish and pickled mushrooms.

  “You know who wrote me?” Marzena said to Ian. “His sister. She wants him to be buried there. His ashes. In America. What do I say to her? I thought, maybe he would like this. Not here. What do you think?”

  “I don’t think he cares one way or the other,” Ian said. “He’s dead.”

  Another awkward silence.

  “I suppose there’ll be a funeral,” Hannah said, making polite conversation.

  “There was a funeral,” Marzena said.

  “No, I meant for Gareth.”

  “Gareth?”

  “Oh, you haven’t heard. I’m sorry.” She put a hand on Marzena’s. “He was killed.”

  “Killed? Like Perry?”

  “No, not like Perry,” Hannah said, comforting. “I don’t know the details. Do you?” she said to Frank.

  “No. They’re investigating,” Frank said, his voice even, glancing at Boris.

  “Killed. Murdered,” Marzena said, folding her arms across her chest now, a sudden chill. “Now another one.”

  “I don’t see how the one has anything to do with the other,” Ian said, blunt again.

  “Nobody said they did,” Hannah said, moving Marzena toward a seat. “Here, have a drink, dear. It’s a shock, isn’t it? I know. So young too.”

  “Well, you have to admit,” Saul said. “Two. One right after the other.”

  “Saul.”

  “It’s not connected,” Boris said.

  Everyone looked up at this, waiting for more, but Boris said nothing, an end to it.

  “This looks delicious,” Hannah said to Joanna. “So much trouble.”

  “No, all easy. Ian, why don’t you pass these?” Putting him to work.

  “Shall we have a toast?” Saul said. “To Gareth. I have to say, I always wondered what he was like as an agent. I’m glad I didn’t have to run him. But I guess he never meant any harm. Anyway, nobody deserves this.”

  Simon raised his glass, staring at his hand, hearing Gareth’s voice in the church. Sneering, ready to inform. No proof. He looked over at Frank, his hand also raised in the toast, and saw the blur again as it smashed down.

  There was sour cream to swirl in the borscht and heavy, dark bread and a tub of ice to keep the wine and vodka chilled, and they fell on the lunch with a kind of relief, wanting to move on and yet helplessly drawn back, as if not talking about the dead was a form of disrespect.

  “I wonder who’ll speak. At the funeral,” Hannah said.

  “Guy, I should think,” Ian said. “He knew him better than anyone.”

  “Is there family? Do you think they’ll come over?” As simple as getting the 6:04 from Waterloo.

  “Maybe they’ll ask you,” Marzena said to Frank, then turned to Simon. “He was so good at Perry’s, so—I don’t know the word. Something that comes from the soul.”

  “Marzena.”

  “Yes, it’s true. The soul.”

  “He was my friend,” Frank said. He talked. I made notes.

  Joanna, who’d been watching this, said, “So modest. You are a good speaker. I never knew about the Shakespeare. That his name was really Prospero. How did you? Know, I mean.”

  “He told me.”

  Simon looked up, seeing him turn the pages of a file.

  “Not me,” Marzena said, almost pouting.

  “They might ask you,” Joanna said. “To speak. Who else is there? God knows Gareth would love it. He was always after you, to be friends. Talk about the last laugh.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “They might,” Saul said. “They don’t like to see the rest of us in public. But you—you’re in magazines. God. What would yo
u say?”

  “What I’d say about any of us. That he gave his life to the Service.”

  Simon looked over, appalled, but Frank met his eye without blinking and Simon saw that he could do it, use the same hands that had been on Gareth’s throat to hold the lectern, that it was how he lived, safe in a lie, another underneath. But didn’t they all? He took off his glasses, rubbing them with his napkin, and looked at the indistinct faces around him. All spies, Marzena had said. Ordinary. Like anyone else. Would you mind holding my hat, please? Not just white lies, little lubricants to make the wheels turn. Treason. Lies that betrayed everyone. All of them, all these ordinary people, sipping wine and eating soup. Hannah, everybody’s aunt, delivering the bomb. Frank delivering a eulogy. Simon listening to it all, one of them now, making plans to betray them. Just a few days.

  “Do you want a hat?” Joanna said to him. “It’s hot in the sun. You look all funny.”

  “No, no. Probably just the wine. At lunch.”

  “I thought that’s what publishing was,” Frank said. “Boozy lunches.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “God, like State. Try getting an answer to anything after three. Remember?”

  Simon didn’t answer, still wiping his glasses. What if he put them on and suddenly could see everybody clearly, who they really were, some magical power? But then he couldn’t hide behind them either, everybody exposed.

  “I don’t think we have to go,” Saul was saying. “To the funeral. I mean, we scarcely knew him. If I met him twice in my life—”

  “It must be so nice for you,” Hannah said to Simon, taking them somewhere else. “Seeing each other again. All these years. Who’s older? You, Frank?”

  Frank dipped his head. “But Simon’s the smart one. That’s what our mother used to say anyway.”

  “She never said that.”

  “She didn’t have to. You were the smart one.” He turned to Hannah. “I was the bad influence.”

  “I can believe that,” Hannah said.

  “They packed him off to another school to get him away from me.”