by Joseph Kanon
“Simon?” A voice behind him, American. He turned. “I thought it was you.” Hannah Rubin, all smiles. “Isn’t it wonderful? I’m so glad you got to see it. I never miss the Bolshoi. Saul, he could care less. He falls asleep. I said, you could do that at home.”
Which meant she was alone, eager to talk. Simon glanced past her head, searching the crowd for DiAngelis.
“But I thought you were going to Leningrad.”
“Tonight. Later. Frank got tickets for this last minute.”
“Well, he could. And lucky you. Fyodorovna—”
Settling in for a chat. Heads passing behind her. There’d be a crowd in the toilets soon.
“I was just heading for the men’s room,” he said, anxious, actually having to pee now.
“Men. I don’t even bother. The line’s always out the door. You’ve heard? About Ian? No wonder he was so nervous about Elizaveta.” She stopped. “Well, I suppose I shouldn’t say, but you were at the lunch, so you already know—”
“What?”
“They’ve kept him overnight. That’s not a good sign. Something must be—”
Not now. Now he had to meet somebody. One chance.
“I thought they did that all the time,” Simon said, looking over her shoulder again, then realized he had offended her.
“Not unless there’s something wrong,” she said, believing it, the sleep deprivation, the lights in your face, the isolation cell just bits of melodrama the West used to discredit the system.
“Well, let’s hope not. He seemed a nice man. Hard to believe he’d—”
“It always is, isn’t it? What interests me is why. Why would he—why would anybody—?”
More heads passing.
“Excuse me. I really have to go.” A weak grin. “Call of nature.”
“And here I am yakking away.” She put her hand on his arm. “So nice to run into you. Is Joanna here?”
“In the foyer,” he said, pointing up.
“Oh good, then maybe I’ll see you again before we go in.” She paused. “Did you say tonight? You must be going straight to the station. Me, I’d be a nervous wreck.”
“Boris is meeting us with the bags.”
“Oh,” she said, filing this away, even stray information worth something. What? “I’m always hours early. Saul says it’s a thing with me. But I don’t miss the train either. Go, go,” she said, shooing him off. “I’ll see you upstairs.”
He started through the crowd, taking in faces in glimpses, like snapshots. No one he knew. Late now, but DiAngelis had been told to wait. Near the men’s room door, a man with a cigarette stared at him, then looked away. The Service? But so was Hannah. Who just happened to be here. Maybe he was being passed along, one observation post to the next. Why not Hannah? A woman who hid the atomic bomb design in her hat. And got on the train. Me, I’d be a nervous wreck.
DiAngelis wasn’t in the men’s room. Simon peed, then took his time washing his hands, looking at people in the mirror. A few looking back, at his suit. Everything noisy, toilets flushing and people talking in Russian, stall doors banging. DiAngelis wouldn’t be in one of those. He needed to be seen. Simon wiped his hands on the towel, people passing on either side of him. He couldn’t stay here much longer. Maybe DiAngelis had already come and gone, just outside in the vestibule, waiting. The line for the urinals inched forward. Novikov’s crew cut, his head looming over the line. The last thing Simon wanted, somebody who’d recognize DiAngelis, see them meet. Leave. But Novikov had spotted him, made eye contact. When Simon passed, he nodded.
“How are you?” The English low but audible as something separate. “Enjoying it?”
The man behind Novikov was looking away, pretending not to listen. Novikov leaned toward Simon, his voice almost a whisper.
“Have a cigarette. Outside. Last pillar on the left.” Then louder, pulling his head up again, “The second act is supposed to be even better.”
Simon went out to the vestibule, packed now, the crowd spilling out to the portico, the sky still light. No one was supposed to know but DiAngelis, no leaks. Unless Novikov was literally just a messenger, repeating words. Last pillar on the left. A few people, but not so many as near the central columns. Simon went to the very edge of the portico, where it began to sweep down to the square, and stopped at the last pillar. He lit a cigarette.
“Over here.” DiAngelis, leaning against the building. “Go around to the side.” He motioned his head left. The Maly Theatre side, another long portico, not as grand as the main entrance, just somewhere to stay out of the rain.
“I thought you weren’t coming.”
“With the ambassador? Whose idea was that? Tell Frank he’s getting rusty. Moscow rules. Two changes of cars. No tails. Usually takes the whole evening, just to shake them. So when?”
“Thursday. We go to Leningrad tonight. Tomorrow we see the sights. Wednesday, the Peterhof. Then Tallinn. Boat goes out at six. Memorize these.” He gave him the coordinates. “Do it twice, make sure. That’s the meet the Agency’s expecting. And the Service. Now these. Lat 60.7095 by Longitude 28.734.”
DiAngelis looked up. “That’s in Russia.”
Simon nodded. “You’d make a good sailor. Vyborg. You won’t even need the coordinates. Just head for the port.”
“What the fuck’s going on?”
“Wednesday. An alternative boat. This one you arrange. Yourself. No leaks.”
“The Agency doesn’t have—”
“Just assume. Thursday is still the plan. But if anything happens, if we have to move faster, then Wednesday. Vyborg. Where nobody’s expecting us. Except you.”
“In the Soviet Union. I can’t do that.”
Simon nodded. “Send locals. A fishing boat. Finnish. Maybe they need some repairs. Wednesday, late morning. If we don’t show, they go home.”
“Why Vyborg?”
“Close to Finnish waters. If we have to make a run for it. The port’s not far from the train station. An easy walk for us.”
“How do you know?”
“I can read maps.”
“You or Frank?”
“Get someone who’s never heard of Frank, or the other plan. Keep them separate.”
DiAngelis looked up, his face a question mark.
“The Lubyanka’s been jumpy. They lost a man and that makes them crazy. Especially about the foreign agents. So we have to be careful. We’re assuming it’s still a go Thursday. But if anything happens, we need an escape hatch. In case.”
“And I’m supposed to arrange all this in a day.”
“You’re the Agency. Start tonight.”
DiAngelis started to say something, then stopped. He dropped his cigarette. “He’d better fucking be there.”
“He will. One or the other. Let’s hope it’s Thursday. So you can haul him in yourself. Your big fish. You already have the boat?”
DiAngelis nodded.
“Then we’re set. Oh, one more thing. I need a gun.”
“A gun. Where do you think you are? This is the Soviet Union. You get caught with that—a foreigner—and you don’t leave. Ever.”
“That’s something to keep in mind.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. You even know how to use it?”
“It’ll come back. I was in the OSS.”
“In an office.”
“After training. We’re wasting time. I need the gun.”
“What for?”
“Protection. What do you care? I’m delivering Frank. I don’t want to get nervous.”
“And where the fuck am I supposed to get it?” He glanced at his watch. “At this hour?”
“You’re the Agency, aren’t you? You can do anything.” He put up his hand to cut off DiAngelis’s reply. “Just get it to me. We’re on the Red Arrow tonight. Compartment 62. Or the Astoria
in Leningrad tomorrow. I don’t care how you get it to me, just do it. Before Wednesday. Or the whole thing’s off.”
“Off?”
“One that works. I don’t want to blow my hand off. Have Mata Hari leave it on the train. However you want to do it. You must have Moscow rules for this too. Or use your imagination.” He looked over. “I don’t move him without it.”
DiAngelis said nothing for a second. “I thought he was moving himself.”
Simon looked at him. “And I’ll make sure he gets there. Anything else? I was just supposed to give you time and place and go.”
“Then that covers it. Tell him I got the message.” He paused. “You don’t want to let all this go to your head. The cloak and dagger. People get hurt with guns.”
“Want to give me the coordinates one more time?”
“Go fuck yourself.”
He waded back through the crowd in the vestibule, feeling a little dizzy, as if he’d been holding his breath and could now exhale. He’d done it. And no one knew. The stares, the curious looks, were for his suit, not him. Nobody followed him in from behind the pillar, trailed him up the stairs, even thought him capable of espionage. In the heart of Moscow.
Frank and Jo were still in the main foyer, smoking near the open windows.
“I thought you got lost,” Frank said.
“There was a line.”
“You just missed Hannah,” Jo said. “She said she ran into you downstairs.”
“Everything okay?” Frank said, unable to resist.
“Yes, fine. Just crowded, that’s all.”
“Think what it’s like for us,” Jo said. “All the clothes. And back then. Those skirts. Oh, there’s Melinda. And Donald. I’d better say hello. They get wounded if you don’t.”
“No Scrabble,” Frank said, then when she’d moved away, “No Scrabble. So that’s one thing to look forward to. Everything went all right?”
“He’ll be there Thursday.”
Frank breathed out. “Well, that’s that, then.” He looked around the bright room, as if he were saying good-bye, then turned to Simon. “Thanks, Jimbo.”
Odette’s lookalike came to seduce Prince Siegfried, the swans now in black, and the ballet went on and on, Simon trying to keep his eyes fixed on the stage, not be obviously restless. Would Frank sense something, guess what was happening? Used to reading people, the rhythms of an interrogation. But Frank just seemed bored, restless himself, his mind elsewhere, but not on Simon. Thanks, Jimbo. Odile twirled. What exactly would Ian’s motive be? The simple, the plausible. Gareth had caught him making contact with MI6, the move Elizaveta had been expecting for years. But why would Frank suspect? Simple. Something Perry had said, no longer here to contradict, another scientist, a man willing to sign letters. Let’s go over it again. He wouldn’t have to plant evidence, just the suspicion. Hannah already believed it. Sitting somewhere behind them watching Siegfried betray Odette. The setup by Von Rothbart. The air they breathed here. One more day.
The applause lasted for several curtain calls and gifts of flowers, as endless as the ballet itself. Finally the row began to move toward the aisle, joining the stream out. Simon checked his watch. Plenty of time. Novikov’s head again, behind him the ambassador and his wife. They paused to let people out into the aisle, then looked up and stopped, recognizing Frank. A flash of surprise, then embarrassment, Frank’s being there something that couldn’t be acknowledged. The ambassador looked away, as if he hadn’t seen anyone, and took his wife’s elbow. More than just a social snub, a turning away, afraid to make contact. What Frank was now, a pariah.
Simon glanced back to see if Joanna had noticed. A slight flush, biting her lower lip, following the ambassador’s wife, her back like a closed door. What it would be like, a line of turned backs. But what was it like here? She looked down, shoulders dropping, and Simon saw her on the dacha couch, turning pages. The album. It hadn’t occurred to him. She’d be leaving with the suitcase she’d brought to Leningrad, no pictures, no Richie. Impossible to get them now, a detail overlooked. What else hadn’t he done? All planned, but he’d forgotten the pictures, something she’d miss for the rest of her life. Pointless to think they could be sent on later, with the Service hunting for Frank.
A car took them to Leningradsky Station, one of three railway terminals surrounding Komsomolskaya Square. After the Metropol and the Bolshoi, Simon somehow expected another piece of nineteenth-century extravagance, built for the Age of Steam, but Leningradsky was gritty and functional, a hangar-like shed with scratchy loudspeakers and passengers looking for the right train. Boris was waiting for them on the platform, the bags already inside. The Red Arrow, Simon saw, really was red, a splotch of bright color in the gray station. Inside, the compartments were red too, swagging drapes with tassels, even the folded white bed linens, stacked neatly, trimmed in red.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Boris said to Simon. “We will have to share. The train—so crowded. I’ll take the upper berth. So you won’t be disturbed.”
“You’re coming? But I thought—what happened to Sochi?”
“Sochi later. It was decided I should go to Leningrad.”
“Decided?”
“Just to be on the safe side,” Frank said blandly. “You know, since Gareth. The office was a little nervous—traveling by ourselves.”
“So. You don’t mind, for the one night?”
“No, of course not,” Simon said, an automatic response, calculating. He looked into the compartment. What if the gun had already been delivered? But there was nothing, just the stowed bag and his briefcase with the manuscript. And the visas. But Boris wouldn’t have bothered with that. He knew the briefcase.
“Better get out your earplugs,” Frank said, genial. “I’ve bunked with Boris. You get the full orchestra. Well, why don’t we all have a nightcap?” He pointed to the fold-up table under the compartment window, laid out for tea and snacks. “I put a bottle in the small bag,” he said to Boris. “Or are you on duty?”
Boris made a show of checking his watch. “On holiday.”
Frank smiled. “So. Your place or ours?”
In the end they went to Frank and Jo’s compartment, clinking glasses as the train pulled out, Simon’s mind still on the briefcase next door. Locked, but that wouldn’t stop anyone. Why leave the visas there? Then where? Carry them with him to the Bolshoi? He had expected to have the night to himself, to sort things out. Now Boris, a few feet away.
After another round, conversation stalled. At home Boris was part of the furniture, just there. Now, facing one another in the small compartment, they felt awkward, strangers thrown together.
“When does the porter make up the beds?” Simon said. “I need to get some sleep.”
“No porter. Soviet train. I make beds,” Boris said, standing up.
“No, no, you don’t have to do—” Simon started, then was hushed by a wave of Boris’s hand.
“Good night,” Boris said, a formal nod to Frank. “So, I am next door.” He turned to Simon. “A few minutes only for the beds.”
“A Soviet butler,” Frank said, amused, as Boris closed the door.
“Is he going to be with us all the time?” Simon said to Frank.
“Can’t be helped. It’s going to be like this—until they find who killed Gareth. A precaution.”
“Am I allowed to go to the ladies’ alone?” Jo said, picking up a cosmetic bag. “Take off the war paint. If I’m not back in twenty minutes, send the posse. Good night, Simon. Never mind about Boris. You get used to it. You think you do anyway.”
“Was this your idea?” Simon said to Frank when she’d gone.
“In Leningrad the station chief would be worse. Very by the book. Easier to provide our own man. But in Tallinn we’ll let the locals take over.”
“He’ll get in trouble. At least in Sochi he’d be—”
/>
“Boris is a big boy. He can take care of himself.” He finished his drink. “First Ian, now Boris. All these scruples. Jimbo, you can’t. Not in this business. They’ll trip you up.”
“I’m not in this business.”
Frank smiled. “So you keep saying.” He looked up. “Don’t worry about Boris. I have his back.”
Simon’s bed, made up on the pulled-out settee, was half again as wide as the upper berth.
“Are you sure—?” About to propose drawing matchsticks.
“I can sleep anywhere. You learn in the war.”
He was sitting on the facing settee, smoking one of his strong Russian cigarettes, already undressed for bed. A thick old robe that looked as heavy as a carpet, pale, oddly thin legs sticking out, the top open to reveal an undershirt. The casual intimacy had taken Simon by surprise, but how could it be otherwise? Roommates. And now what? Change in the bathroom at the end of the car? That would only embarrass them both. He turned his back and started undressing. Boris, indifferent, gazed out the window at the flat, dark landscape.
“You have seen that film Ballad of a Soldier? Was very popular in America.”
“Yes. Everywhere.”
“They sleep in the hay. In the freight car. A luxury compared to how we had to sleep.” He drew again on the cigarette, blowing smoke toward the open window vent. “A sentimental film. The soldier with the one leg? And the girl is happy to see him. You think it was like that?” He shook his head. “It was hard.”
Simon turned, belting his robe. “Your wife died, you said.”
Boris nodded. “An air raid. So at least quick. At the front people would lie there, waiting. Sometimes they would ask you to shoot them. To stop the pain.” He poured himself another glass, settling in. “You were in the war?”