Defectors Read online

  At the intersection with the first ring road they were stopped to let two black Zils race by, lights flashing, important.

  “Kremlin,” Vassilchikov said simply.

  On the other side the streets became leafy, some of the houses even with grounds, a century away.

  “Is here many embassies,” Vassilchikov said. Classroom English.

  “Nice,” Simon said. “You don’t expect somehow—”

  “The future started with the revolution,” Vassilchikov said, a practiced line. “But Russia was here before. A desirable district. Popular with writers.”

  “And Frank lives here?” Simon said, amused, imagining poetry readings, Village cafés.

  “Near Patriarch’s Pond. You’ll see.”

  The houses became apartment buildings, slightly shabby but still attractive, neoclassical or creamy rococo façades. Europe.

  “He is so pleased you are here. His brother. You were close?”

  “Yes.” Lunches at Harvey’s. So what’s happening at State? Who’s going to the conference? Reporting everything back. Close.

  “He vouched for you.”

  “Vouched for me?”

  “With the Service. When he made the request for you to come. So it’s important, you see, that no suspicion attaches to you. Even an innocent walk—”

  Simon ignored this. “I thought it was their idea—your idea. The Service’s.”

  “No. Comrade Weeks’s. It’s very serious for him, this book. His legacy. Of course, also a pleasure to see you. Patriarch’s Pond,” he said, lifting his left hand off the wheel.

  Simon took in a park with a long rectangular reflecting pool, a playground at one end, a restaurant pavilion at the other.

  “Vouched for me how?”

  “Your purpose in coming. The editorial work.”

  “Why else would I be coming?”

  Vassilchikov shrugged. “You were once in OSS, yes? It sometimes happens that an agent is reactivated. When an opportunity presents itself.”

  “You think I’m an agent? Don’t your people have ways of checking that out?”

  Vassilchikov smiled. “Yes, of course. But now another guarantee. Someone who takes responsibility for you.”

  “So it would be his fault if they’re wrong?” He paused. “And what would I be doing here? If I’m—reactivated?”

  “Comrade Weeks was a valuable agent. Perhaps the most valuable. A great embarrassment to the Americans.”

  “They think I’m here to bump him off?” Simon said, his voice catching, almost a laugh. “I’m here to make him famous.” Then, half to himself, “I’m still not sure why.”

  “Brothers,” Vassilchikov said quickly. “Comrade Weeks was sure you would come.”

  “Well, there’s some money involved too.”

  “Yes, but for him, the blood. Family.”

  “You think so?”

  “Mr. Weeks, I have been his technical officer for over five years. You see a man every day, you know him.”

  “I used to see him every day.”

  They had come to the end of Yermolaevskiy Street, before it curved and changed names. A concrete apartment building next to a vest pocket park that stretched all the way to the next ring road. Each section had its own entrance off the interior courtyard. Vassilchikov jumped out and swung open a high metal gate, then got back into the car and drove through. Number 21, Simon noticed. Moscow. Where he lived.

  “Mr. Weeks,” Vassilchikov said, oddly hesitant. “A word. It would be best not to mention last night.”

  “Last night?”

  “Mrs. Weeks. It sometimes happens. A woman sensitive to drink. Not a strong Russian head,” he said, touching his own. “But then, the embarrassment. So, a politeness not to mention.”

  “How long has it been going on?” Simon said.

  “Off and on,” Vassilchikov said vaguely. “It’s not a happy time now. One of their friends—a tragedy.”

  “Perry Soames.”

  Vassilchikov looked up at him. “You’re very well informed.”

  “Everybody knows he died. What, and she’s been on a tear ever since?”

  “No. But a source of unhappiness. Their dachas are near to each other. So, friendly times. And now this. She was upset. Me, I think a holiday would be a good idea. Sochi. It’s early for swimming, but the air is wonderful now. The flowers.” Simon looked at him. The concierge Service again. What else did he do for them? “I have suggested this. Sochi. But of course she wanted to see you. Maybe you can persuade her—”

  “To go to the Black Sea?” Sounding somehow like a joke.

  “For a rest. You know the Service has a clinic there, to improve the health. It would be good for her.”

  “What does Frank think?”

  Vassilchikov shrugged. “He says she can rest here. But maybe after you leave—then he can go with her. You know, he depends on her so much.”

  Simon looked at him, thrown slightly off balance. The KGB urging a rest cure, Simon trying to listen between words. A scheme? Or genuine concern? A girl who once went away with him. Long dark hair, body arched back toward the dance floor, everybody watching, maybe just him watching, holding her waist, in his hands. The memory of it here like a flash, then gone. Now a woman slurring warnings in his ear. Not to be mentioned the next day. It occurred to him then, looking around the dreary Moscow courtyard, that they had all thrown their lives away, everything they thought they were going to be. Or maybe Frank had done it for them.

  “Are you going to stand there gossiping like two babushkas?” Frank was in the doorway. “Come in, come in. I thought you’d never get here. What was the problem? Traffic? Couldn’t be. That’s in the next five-year plan.” He had put his arm around Simon’s shoulder, guiding him in. “Careful here.” He pointed to the concrete step, a chunk crumbling at the edge. “Lift is on the fritz today, I’m afraid. Well, every day. But much better for the health. Good exercise. It’s only two flights. Keep the noise down, though. Madam has a headache.” Raising an eyebrow, just between them, making a joke of it. “So what took you so long?”

  “Mr. Weeks went for a walk.”

  “What, alone? Oh, you don’t want to do that. Then Boris doesn’t know where you are and he gets anxious. Blood pressure goes right up, doesn’t it, Boris?”

  “I wanted to see Red Square.”

  “Not the mummies, I hope.”

  “No, just walked around.”

  “Then you beat me to it. I was going to show you around later. I like to take walks in the afternoon. Boris too. Never mind, we’ll go somewhere else. Lots to see. Ah, here’s Jo.”

  She was standing in the open doorway, arms folded, as if she were holding herself in, a cigarette in one hand. A simple skirt and cardigan, a shy smile.

  “There you are. How nice,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “The place is a mess. Ludmilla doesn’t come till tomorrow.”

  But it wasn’t a mess, just crowded, every wall lined with bookcases, framed pictures propped against some of the books, a couch and two tired club chairs, a professor’s apartment. Not Mt. Vernon Street, not even the small house near the Phillips Collection.

  “So many books,” Simon said to Frank, a tease.

  “Jo’s a great reader,” Frank said. “I’m still getting gentleman C’s. But you know, now that I have the time—sometimes we just read all evening.”

  “This is the living room,” Jo said. “Not much by your standards, but a lot of space for here. Frank’s study is there—God knows what shape that’s in. He growls if I move a paper. Used to be Richie’s room,” she said, her voice neutral. “Bedroom there. And kitchen. And that’s it. Frank says I’m not to bother you when you’re working, but let’s have coffee first, yes? I can’t just say hello and then not see you. How’s Diana?”

  “The same. Fine. She s
ends her best.” A polite lie.

  “Coffee okay? I suppose you’ve been up for hours. As usual.”

  “He went to see Red Square,” Frank said.

  “Did you?” she said. “And here we are, just out of bed. Come, help me in the kitchen and tell me everything. Boris, coffee for you too?”

  “Spasibo,” he said.

  “My only word of Russian,” Jo said. “Oh, and pozhaluysta. Covers practically everything, spasibo and pozhaluysta. Just use your hands for the rest.”

  “She’s kidding,” Frank said. “Her Russian is excellent.”

  “I have a woman comes once a week to talk to me. We have tea. In glasses. She looks at me with these mournful eyes—well, she probably lost somebody in the war. I don’t dare ask, so we talk about the weather. Are the lilacs in bloom? Yes, the lilacs are in bloom. But not so many this year. And then I get the dative case wrong or something and she just sighs. Come. It won’t take a sec. Boris, there’s Izvestia.”

  Simon followed her to the kitchen, where she turned on the gas under a kettle. “There’s some cake, if you like,” she said, but was motioning with her hands for him to run the tap water, pointing and making twisting motions.

  “No, that’s all right,” he said, turning the tap, his face a question mark.

  She came closer to him. “They can’t hear when the water’s running. Interferes with the voices or something. At least that’s what I heard. Anyway, let’s hope so.” She took a long drag on her cigarette and rubbed it out in the ashtray. “I’m sorry about last night. I do that now. I think I’m not going to and then I do. The worst part is that you’re always apologizing.”

  “Not to me.”

  “No, not to you,” she said softly. “You haven’t given up on me, have you?”

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

  “You see it in their faces.”

  “See what?”

  “Not that I see anybody anymore. You’re the first since—”

  She turned to lift the kettle, which was whistling now, and poured water into the coffeemaker, the sink tap still running.

  “Remember Carrie Porter? Maybe you never met. We were at school together. So that far back. And she was here. Spaso House, no less. Visiting the ambassador. I don’t know why—I suppose her husband does something. Anyway, she was at the Metropol. Frank likes to go there. The old world charm. So there we were having dinner, under the stained glass, and I look up and, my God, it’s Carrie Porter. From school. And she sees me and at first she pretends not to and then she realizes I’ve seen her, so she comes over.” She pushed down on the French press.

  “What did she say?”

  “Nothing. Well, what did she ever say? But that wasn’t it. It was the look. She looked at me the way you look at a criminal. Nervous, a little afraid. Something you don’t want to touch. And I thought, my God, that’s what I’ve become. A criminal. Me, Ma Barker.” She smiled a little. “But not so funny, is it, when somebody like Carrie can think it. It means everybody does. A criminal.”

  “You’re not a criminal.”

  She shrugged. “And Frank? Carrie wouldn’t even look at him.”

  “You’re not him.”

  “But if I went back, they’d still throw me in the pokey. Anyway, I can’t go back. No passport. It ran out. So how’s it going to end?” She rested her hand on the coffeepot. “Well, we know, don’t we? It doesn’t. It just goes on like this.”

  “Jo—”

  “Sorry. You weren’t expecting this, were you?” She smiled to herself. “Neither was I. Sometimes I wonder how any of it happened. Was I there? I was going to be like Jo in Little Women, scrappy, take charge.”

  “Katharine Hepburn,” Simon said.

  “And here we are. In Yermolaevskiy Street. Getting plastered. Apologizing.”

  “Stop.”

  “Boris wants to send me to a sanitarium. For my health. No bars on the windows. Although what difference would that make?” she said, nodding to the running water. “And you know what? For about five seconds I thought about it. How bad would it be? Like the Greenbrier or someplace. Run by the KGB. Imagine Carrie Porter’s face then. Palm Beach this year? No, Sochi.” She looked down. “But Frank wouldn’t like that. Who knows what I’d say once I got some brandy into me? I say things, apparently.” She turned to Simon. “Don’t stay here. I don’t know what he wants, but he wants something. I know him.” She stopped, folding her arms across her chest again. “Know him. I suppose if there’s anything I didn’t know, it was him.”

  “Jo, what you said last night—”

  “That’s the one good thing. I never remember. So be a gentleman—be Simon—and don’t tell me. I’m sure it wasn’t good. Anyway, we’d better go in. You leave the water running and they get suspicious. At least I imagine they do. Where do you think they listen, anyway? Like mice in the walls.”

  “Your passport. Could I do something? Call someone at State? Maybe I could help.”

  She put her hand on his cheek. “I forgot how nice you could be. Oh, darling, there’s nothing to do. Do you think they’re going to jump up and down at State to issue me a new one? And if they did, then what? A whole room of Carrie Porters, a whole country? I couldn’t face it. Five minutes at the Metropol was bad enough.” She lowered her hand. “Anyway, I live here now. So. You take the tray. We can talk at the dacha. And you know what? The lilacs are in bloom. Just like the language lesson.”

  “Jo—”

  “That’s something anyway. Having you there. He’ll be on his best behavior. Everybody will.” She made a wry smile. “You’re his good angel.”

  “Really? Since when?”

  “Since always, I think. Up there on his right shoulder.”

  He picked up the tray. “So who’s on the left?”

  “Nobody. He’s his own bad angel.” She looked over at him. “But he’ll make you think he’s listening to you.”

  They sat drinking coffee for half an hour, Jo on the couch with her legs curled up beneath her, smoking, ashtray on her lap. The old liveliness was now just nervous energy—jerking the cigarette to her lips, brushing back hair from her forehead. Boris, still buried in Izvestia, said nothing, not there, another microphone in the wall­paper. Only Frank was eager to talk. So many years to catch up on, he had said, but the years had erased small talk, and anything larger, the reasons they were there, seemed off limits, not something you discussed over coffee. So they fell back on Moscow, what Simon should see—the Pushkin Museum, the Metro and its palatial stations.

  “But first we need to work,” Simon said finally.

  “Simon Legree,” Frank said pleasantly. “You never change. Okay, let’s get to it. Come on.” He stood up, about to head for the study. “Boris, I’ll leave the door open, shall I? In case you want to listen in. He’s interested in the process. Of course you’re welcome to join us.”

  Boris made a dismissal sign with his hand, head back in the paper.

  “What about you, Jo?” Frank said.

  “I’ve got to pick up a few things for the weekend,” she said, getting up too. “What about tonight? Do you want to go to the Aragvi or do you want to be in?”

  “Oh, the Aragvi I think. We’ll be in all day.” He turned to Simon. “Georgian. Shish kebabs.”

  “And music,” Jo said. “Lucky us. Do you have some currency for the Beryozka?”

  “Not much.” He took out his wallet. “I’m waiting for a fat check from my American publisher,” he said, smiling at Simon. “Try the Gastronom first. They’ll probably have everything you need.” Then, catching her glance, “But just in case.” He handed over some bills. “I hope we’re not going to have a house full of people. We don’t want to share Simon so soon.”

  “Just Marzena. Maybe the Rubins. Hannah wasn’t sure.”

  “Saul Rubin?” Simon said, a headli
ne name.

  “Mm,” Frank said, smiling. “The man who threatened the very existence of the Free World. To hear Winchell tell it anyway. Stamp collector. Like FDR. Not so easy here, since nobody writes him. He’ll probably ask you to send some, but once you start—”

  “Work hard,” Joanna said, turning to go. No kiss good-bye. “Just ask yourself, what would Suslov say?”

  “Who?” Simon said.

  “Head of the International Department of the Central Committee. Party theoretician.”

  “Another okay? I thought it was just the Service—”

  “Don’t worry. Only to publish here. Then you’d need his approval. We’re all right. Come on. I’ve got the Latvians. Have a look and see what you think,” he said, leading Simon into the study. Boris turned a page of the newspaper, not even looking up.

  The living room had faced the little park Simon had seen outside, but the study window looked west toward one of the Stalin skyscrapers.

  “After a while you get used to them,” Frank said, noticing Simon looking out. “That’s the Foreign Ministry. Down near Smolenskaya. You have to hand it to him—he knew what he liked.”

  Simon glanced around. Another room of books. A big desk and a reading chair, no traces of Richie, no hanging pennant or single bed with a Navajo blanket, pieces of sports equipment. Whatever had been here had been taken away.

  “Here, your Latvians.” He handed Simon a sheaf of paper.

  “Already? You did this last night?”

  “No. I just fixed up the section from my debriefing. See if it works. It should. Everything’s there—well, everything was there. I had to nip and tuck.”

  “Your debriefing?”

  “I spent my first year here—almost two—being debriefed. Write down everything you know. Everything. So, my memoirs, in a way. That’s why, last year, when the Service suggested it, I thought, well, I’ve already written the book. All I have to do is take out the names, do a little brushwork. Hope that doesn’t bother you.”