Defectors

3

THE ARAGVI WAS IN THE HOTEL DRESDEN, just a few blocks up from the National, but Boris had sent a car anyway, part of the Service cocoon.

“Dolgoruky,” the driver said, pointing to the equestrian statue in the square fronting the hotel.

Simon just bobbed his head, something everybody knew, and stepped out into the soft spring air, the sky still light. After the hulking apartment buildings on Gorky Street, the Dresden seemed as sensuous and baroque as its namesake city, topped with an elaborate cornice of carved fruits. Frank and Jo were already at the table, pouring vodka.

“Who’s Dolgoruky? Outside, on the horse,” Simon said.

“Founder of Moscow,” Frank said.

“That’s who it is? I always wondered,” Jo said. “I must have passed it a thousand times. Don’t I get a hello?”

Simon bent down. “Still the prettiest girl in the room,” he said, kissing her on the cheek.

“This room,” she said.

She had dressed for an evening out, lipstick and earrings, a brooch, cheeks pink with blush.

“We’ve already started,” Frank said, “so better catch up.”

He poured out a glass for Simon, then took a drink from his own, his eyes shiny, and Simon realized, something he hadn’t seen last night, that they drank together. He had somehow imagined Jo off by herself, melancholy, not clinking glasses as she was now, both of them loose, the way it must have started.

“Catch up and overtake,” Frank said. “That used to be the slogan, remember? Catch up and overtake. The West. In industry. Production.”

“Oh, don’t start,” Jo said, but pleasantly. “Another five-year plan. How about five years of gossip? Tell,” she said to Simon. “Don’t be discreet. Nobody here gives a damn anyway. So busy catching up.”

“But not yet overtaking,” Simon said and smiled. “Who do you want to know about?”

“You. Tell me about you. All the gossip.”

He shook his head. “No gossip. That I know of. I’m boring. Editorial meetings on Mondays. Lunch at the Century. Book parties. Canapés passed twice. No shrimp. California wine. The author usually makes a pass at somebody. I make a toast. Then we all go somewhere like this,” he said, looking around. “Except French.”

“I think it sounds wonderful,” Jo said.

“You wouldn’t if you had one every week.”

“So why do it?” Frank said.

“To get something in the columns. Sullivan. Lyons. One of them. Put the book out there somehow.”

“My Secret Life?”

“Well, probably not. No party without the author. And you have to feed them if you want a mention.”

“Winchell will mention you,” Jo said. “Winchell hates Frank,” she said to Simon. “Hates him.”

“I know.”

“Course you do. I forgot. You were there. ” She looked down at her glass, then brightened, determined to enjoy the evening. “Anyway it doesn’t sound boring to me. It sounds—distinguished.” She reached up and touched his glasses. “Who would have thought? A man of letters. Do you meet people? You know, Hemingway, people like that?”

“Yes, but not the way you think. Business. Not table hopping at the Stork.”

“So how do you do it?” Frank said. “Put the book out there?”

“In your case? You’re a news story. Everybody will want to take a swing at it. Reviews. Off-the-book-page pieces. Editorials. We don’t have to worry about coverage with you.”

“Just what they’ll say,” Jo said.

“They’ve already said it,” Frank said, touching her hand. “We’re used to all that.”

She moved her hand, not making a point, but moving it. “You are.”

“Anyway, we won’t see any of it. Not unless Jimbo sends the clippings. Will you do that? I’d be curious, what people say now. Whether anything’s changed.”

Simon looked at him. But he’d be there.

“Sure. If you’d like,” he said, feeling back at lunch with Boris, playing a part. What it must have been like for Frank all those years. Every meal a performance. Saying one thing, knowing another. Something no one else knew. The meetings with the Brits, the only one at the table who knew. Enjoying himself, the sheer technical skill of it, the way a juggler takes pleasure just keeping things in the air.

“I don’t want to see them,” Jo said. “Go through all that again. How terrible you are. And what does that make me? Ah, finally,” she said, seeing the waiter. “If I keep filling up with cheese bread, I won’t have room for anything else.”

“Cheese bread?”

“A Georgian specialty. Very good here,” Frank said, taking a menu from the waiter.

Simon looked at his. Cyrillic. Across the room, waiters in Georgian clothes were carrying kebabs and platters of rice, trays of vodka glasses for the long, full tables. Who were they all? Intourist groups? Party officials? Who went to restaurants in Moscow? He’d imagined them all like workers’ canteens, with surly resentful waiters. But here at the Aragvi, men in white shirts and tunics slipped like dancers between the tables, popping corks and sliding meat off skewers. He looked at the Cyrillic again. Like an eye chart he couldn’t make out.

“You order,” he said to Frank. “You know what I like.”

Frank said something in Russian to the waiter, who nodded and started collecting the menus. “How did it go at the embassy?” he said smoothly, the other Frank now.

“Fine. They saw me right away.”

“What did they want?” Jo said.

“Nothing. They like you to check in, that’s all.” The other Simon.

“Maybe they’re afraid you’ll go over the fence. Once you see how wonderful it is.” She took another drink.

“More like a French hotel, I think,” he said lightly. “Keep track of the passports.”

“A French hotel,” Jo said, smiling at the idea. “Remember those keys, with the tassels? It’s true, they were always asking for your passport.”

“The police keep a record.”

“I wonder if I’m still on an index card somewhere. Still suspect.”

“A dangerous character.”

“And you’d never think it to look at her, would you?” she said.

“No. You never would.”

“Hoover would. A file this high, I’ll bet,” she said, raising her hand. “Well, never mind. Tell me about Diana. It’s so good to see you,” she said, taking his hand, sentimental. “Do you know what I miss? When we all used to go out. Remember? When we went dancing. I used to love that.”

“Yes. You did,” Simon said. Her hair swinging behind her.

“The last time—well, I suppose we were still in the States. Nobody dances here. Remember Natasha in War and Peace? When she dances to that Russian song? It’s supposed to be a symbol of Russia. According to Professor Davis. Turns out she was the last one. I don’t think anyone’s danced since.”

“And the Bolshoi?” Frank said.

“Oh, the Bolshoi.”

“Is that Boris?” Simon said, spotting him at the door. “I thought he had the night off.”

“He does,” Frank said, putting his napkin down, ready to get up.

“What do you think he does? Off duty?” Jo said. “I can’t imagine. Actually, I like Boris. He’s all right. In his very peculiar way.”

“I’d better go see,” Frank said, leaving.

“He puts in a full day,” Simon said.

“He’s devoted to Frank.” She smiled to herself. “That’s one way of putting it. But I think he is, really. I used to think he was just a—I don’t know, guard. But it’s not that. He looks out for Frank.”

“And you?”

“Me? I look out for myself. Doing a wonderful job too.” She turned to him. “Tell me something. I’d like to know. Are you happy?”

“Happy?” he said, surprised, thrown by the question. “I don’t know. I never thought about it. Not like that. I suppose so.”

“You must be, if you never think about it.” She took out a cigarette. “I notice you don’t ask me if I am. Too late,” she said quickly, stopping him before he could speak. “Besides, what could I say? No? Yes? Would it make any difference?”

“I’d like to think you were,” he said, lighting the cigarette for her. “Think of you that way.”

“I was. For a while. Even here. It’s funny, you don’t know it when you are. Just when you’re not. I never blamed Frank. I came because—I was his wife. We had a child. And things were the way they were then. In the States. How horrible people were. Calling you names. In front of your child. To tell you the truth, I thought Frank was half-right. Not the spying half. I’m not making excuses for him. But I thought his reasons— Well, it was another time. The thing is, I was in love with him. You know.”

“Yes.”

“Think how easy if it had been someone else.” She smiled faintly at him.

“But it wasn’t.”

“No. So here we are. It was nice, though. You were nice. And what a thing you had for me,” she said, playing.

“Jo—”

“I know. Asking my old beaux to flatter me, tell me I’m still—God, how embarrassing. Who’s the fairest in the land? You are.” She looked at her drink. “You know, when I heard you were coming, I thought, he’s coming to rescue me. I actually thought that. Then I saw your face last night. When you saw me. It’s different for men, isn’t it? You get older and nobody thinks anything of it. But the ladies— So no rescue this time. Anyway, it’s a little late. Not too many candidates. You were it. But sometimes you like to think—how it might have been.”

“There was no might have been. It was never me.”

She looked at him, then rubbed out the cigarette. “And I made my bed. So to speak. And now I get to lie in it. Do something for me, though? For old times’ sake? Tell them we’re happy. Frank and me. I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of—”

“Who?”

“Whoever you’re talking to at the embassy. Nobody goes to get his visa checked. That’s something the Russians do, not us. So you must be talking to somebody. What do they want to know? What we have for breakfast? How many drinks at night? I never thought it would be you doing that—” She shrugged. “Spying on us. But I suppose you didn’t have a choice. Imagine what you could pick up, all day in the flat. All the little details they like for the files. Although I can’t imagine what for. At this late date. But it’s what they do. So tell them we’re happy, would you? It can’t matter to anybody anymore. Except me.”

“I’m not spying on you. I’m just here to get the book—”

“Then why go to the embassy? It’s not a French hotel. They’re not checking passports.”

Well, why?

“Don’t lie to me. Please. Everybody lies to me. Not you. I couldn’t take that, not you too.”

“All right. I promised I’d report in.” Trying it, keeping the balls in the air.

“Report in.”

“Not like that. Not about you. They just want to know if I get approached.”

“Approached?”

“By the KGB.”

“They are the KGB. Boris and Frank.”

“Anyone else.”

“And were you? Approached?”

“How? I was with Frank all day. They’re just suspicious, that’s all. They can’t figure out why the KGB is letting the book happen. Whether there’s something else going on. So they want to know who sees me. Who says what. Not you.” He paused. “Not you.” Said easily, almost second nature now.

“But they’ve already seen the book. So what—?”

“I didn’t say it made any sense. They just want to know if anyone makes contact.”

“The usual way that happens is a lady in the bar at the Metropol.”

“Yes? That’s something to look forward to, then.”

“Mm. Those pictures you didn’t know they were taking. And the next thing you know, you’re—”

“Working for Frank. Is that the way he plans to recruit me?”

“It’s not funny, though. They do that.” She refilled her vodka glass. “Well, maybe a little bit funny,” she said, almost giggling. “I think it would be more ideological with Frank. Anyway, he doesn’t do that. I guess. Who would he meet? To recruit. We’re not allowed to see anybody. Except the others in the Service. Maybe they’re afraid somebody’ll try to recruit us.” She lifted her glass. “Smoke and mirrors. They think everybody’s like them. So I don’t think he’s in the recruiting business. I don’t know what he does exactly. He’s always home. Not that he ever went in much. It makes them nervous, foreigners at headquarters.”

“Their foreigners.”

“Still foreigners.” She looked down. “Frank said people were coming to take pictures.”

Simon nodded. “From Look.”

“To see how we live. Instead of a jail cell. I’d better get Ludmilla to tidy up. Put a good face on things. Cover that hole in the carpet. God. This wasn’t your doing, was it?”

“It was part of the deal. First serial excerpt.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Magazine runs a piece of the book before it comes out. They like to run pictures with it. So—”

“So open house on Yermolaevskiy Street. Smile for the camera.”

“You don’t have to, if you’d rather not.”

“You mean only Frank has to. They don’t care what’s happened to me.”

“I just meant—”

“I know. But I must have a certain curiosity value. We’d want to do right by Look. Just give me fair warning, will you? I’d have to get my hair done. After a certain age, it’s all about hair.” She picked up a spoon and turned it over, hesitant. “Simon, do people think I helped him? That I did it too?”

“Some people.”

“You?”

“No.”

“But you wondered. Everybody did. How could I not have known? His wife. Sometimes I wonder myself. But you weren’t supposed to ask. During the war. If things were secret. So I didn’t.”

“We can put it in the book if you want. Clear it up once and for all.”

“Who’d believe Frank? He’d lie to protect me.” She took a drink. “The least he could so. Considering. No. Keep Carrie Porter guessing. Who cares?” She glanced around the room. “They don’t care. They don’t even know who Frank is. See, here he comes and nobody even notices. Now what? He looks like the cat who swallowed the cream. What did Boris want?” she asked him, back at the table.

“Something at the office,” he said, then looked at Simon, pleased with himself. “One of our people overseas.”

Simon raised an eyebrow, another conversation without words.

“What happened?” Jo said. “Do you have to go?”

“No, no. Just a general APB for the Department. They could have waited until tomorrow but people like to know things. Makes them feel important.” His voice unconcerned, nothing to do with him.

Simon stared at him, imagining the scurrying at the Lubyanka, cables landing on desks, worried phone calls, an agent betrayed, the balls moving faster in the air.

“Shall we have some wine?” Frank said, looking at him again.

They had two bottles, a rough Georgian red that went well with the lamb and made Simon’s face feel hot. They talked about Moscow, other restaurants, and the weekend, Boris’s office crisis put aside. Except by Simon, who kept calculating time zones, how many hours it had taken for Pirie to move, the surprising speed a kind of vote of confidence in Frank. Kelleher now in a room somewhere, wondering how much they knew. Put there by a few clicks of a keyboard. His. And for a moment he wondered how he should feel about that, which of his selves to ask. Something Frank had learned years ago.

There was sticky phyllo pastry for dessert, then thick Turkish coffee, an endless meal. It was only after they ordered brandy and Jo excused herself to go to the ladies’ that Frank and Simon could use their real voices.

“So he bit,” Simon said.

“Right away too. I thought he’d sniff around for a while, but no, just snatched it off the line. Maybe Don’s getting decisive in his old age. So. Let’s see what it buys us.”

“Jo doesn’t know,” Simon said.

“Not yet. Nobody,” he said. “I told you, we have to do this right. Not even a hint.”

“Was that all Boris wanted? You’d think the Service would want to keep it to themselves.”

Frank looked over at him, appreciative. “You might have potential. No, that wasn’t all. In time-honored fashion, they’ve already begun an investigation. Desks upside down, all of it. Boris wanted me to know. No surprises.”

“They suspect you?”

“No, no. I had nothing to do with Kelleher. I knew who he was, but so did other people in the department. First you work on his control, then you move out from there. By the time they get to me I’ll be—well, that’s the plan anyway.”

“But you’re the only one with a brother who sent a cable to the Agency.”

“Did you? Boris doesn’t know that. And he was right there with you. Nobody knows. It was a secure line.” He picked up his brandy. “I’m beginning to get the feeling you don’t think I know what I’m doing.”

“You’d better know.”

“Jimbo,” he said, making a toasting gesture with his glass, “I’m famous for it. Look, stop worrying. Right now they’re hoping against hope he gave himself away, did something stupid. What usually happens. But what if? That would mean one of our people sold him. Which means somebody’s been turned. Here or in Washington. What’s the logic? It’s a lot easier to turn somebody there. And if they’ve got a rotten apple, the whole barrel— So they’ll start there.”

“And what if they talk to Boris. About my little trip to the embassy?”

“He was with you. It would never occur to him now that you— He thinks you’re here about the book.”

“I am here about the book.”

“You see? An innocent. And you stay that way. No intrigue. No double backing. Getting on and off buses. You never try to shake a tail because you never think anybody might be following. Why would they? Boris can read all the signs and you’re not flashing any. Besides, he likes you.”

“Me?”

“You’re my brother,” he said simply, looking across at Simon, another wordless conversation.

“And any brother of yours—?”

Frank took up his glass. “I saved his life.”

“Saved it how?”

“His name was on a list. I got it taken off. A while back. When things—” He downed the drink. “God, this stuff takes the lining off, doesn’t it? Armenians. They swill it down.” He paused, a grimace from the burning brandy. “How did Jo seem to you?”

“All right. It wasn’t so bad tonight, the drink.”

“You weren’t counting. See how her lipstick looks when she comes back.”

Simon glanced over at him. Every detail. Watching without watching.

“She said you don’t go to the office much anymore.”

“Well, they mostly come to me. Nice in the winter. One of the privileges of age.”

“Age.”

“Seniority. And the book kept me home. All of which plays out nicely for us just now. My name won’t be on any cable traffic to Kelleher. No connection.”

“Who is he anyway? American?”

Frank nodded.

“Why did—? A true believer?”

“Too young. We were the last of those,” he said with a wry smile. “We turned him. Demon rum.” He held up the brandy glass. “It’s a hell of a weakness. Makes you sloppy about everything. He fell right into a classic honey trap. That usually goes with the booze. So we had him. Never a very happy situation, though. He couldn’t stay away from it,” Frank said, tapping his glass. “And like I say, he was getting sloppy.”

“So throw him over? I thought you said the Service—”

“The Service didn’t throw him over. We did.”

Simon looked up, Frank’s eyes steady on him. “What’ll happen to him?” he said, a spasm in his stomach, not the brandy.

“After the debriefing? Depends on whether they want to go public with it. A trial? Twenty years.”

“For being bait.”

“No, for betraying his country. Don’t look like that. He did, you know. For years. So don’t waste your sympathy. You should be glad he’s caught. America can sleep just that much safer tonight.”

“And what does the Service do now?”

“Deny it. It’s Washington. You don’t want people sent home. An incident. So we never heard of him.”

“Or his bank account.”

“The piece Don was looking for,” Frank said, pleased.

“And if he talks?”

“He will. He’s the type. But he won’t have enough to buy himself anything. Just his control. Who’s probably packing right now.”

“So he’s on his own.”

“With lots of time to contemplate his sins.” He looked over. “It was just a matter of time. Don may be an idiot, but once you start sniffing around like that—Kelleher’s days were numbered. We just hurried things along a little, that’s all. In a good cause.”

“And now he’ll spend the rest of his life—”

“He should have thought of that when he agreed to work for us.”

“Agreed.”

Frank brushed this aside. “There’s always a choice. He made it.” He looked at Simon. “It’s not publishing. It’s not a gentleman’s profession.”

Simon said nothing, staring at him, hearing the sounds of the restaurant around them. How long did it take? To become like this?

Frank glanced over, reading his face, then looked down, fingering the glass.

“Would you mind not doing that? That look. You make a choice. He knew that. I knew it. And then you have to—do things. Then more. But I don’t want to anymore. Does that surprise you?”

Simon said nothing.

“It wouldn’t if you knew. You’ve just had a taste. Kelleher? Nothing. But after a while it gets harder to live with. The ends justify the means. You have to believe that, to be able to do it. And they do. I still think we’re on the right side of history. It’s just—in the beginning you don’t know about the means. Not all of them. Not until you’re in it.” He looked at him. “I said it was for Jo. It’s for me too. I want out. Don’t worry, I’ll pay. But I want out.” He put his hand on the table, a miming gesture, reaching. “Don’t go soft on me, Jimbo. I need you. To make it work.”

Simon looked at the hand. Just get up and walk out. Past the Georgian waiters, Dolgoruky on his horse. Their lives, not his, dulled with regret and brandy. And if Frank was caught? On his own, like Kelleher. No, worse. Willing to risk that, a different floor in the Lubyanka. The first step already taken, irrevocable. And then the moment was over and Frank was moving his hand back, smoothing the tablecloth, as if he had just taken a trick.

“You know why Don moved so fast on this?” he said. “I’ve been thinking. It’s because he trusts me. I know, after all the— But we used to work together. You put in years like that and— He hears the bank account and he knows he can trust it. No double-checking. He knows it’s right. That kind of trust—that’s coin of the realm. Coin of the realm.”

“And now?”

“Now they’ll want a meeting. They’ll want to hear it from me. Coin of the realm or no,” he said, a small smile. “I suppose I’d better be disillusioned. That always plays with them. They can’t imagine what you saw in it in the first place.” He glanced over at Simon. “They’ll contact you to set it up. Interesting to see who they send. And then we meet with them.”

“We?” Simon said, feeling the spasm again. “I’m the messenger. I sent the message.”

“I can’t just meet somebody in Gorky Park. You’re the cover. We’re all over the place, showing you Moscow, looking at this, looking at that. Boris is used to it. Nobody thinks twice. I’m with you.”

“And we just happen to run into—?”

Frank nodded. “The most natural thing in the world.”

“And when does this happen?”

“That depends on them. They have to send somebody out. To make the deal. But look how fast Don— Soon. So meanwhile we see some sights. Set up a pattern. Do what we’d be doing anyway. How about the Tretyakov tomorrow?”

“You want the meeting there? The art museum?”

Frank shook his head. “No, the Tretyakov wouldn’t work. With meetings, there’s a kind of—choreography. You have to work out where everybody needs to be. Entrances and exits. There’s a flow to it.”

“So where?”

“Let them make contact first,” Frank said calmly, reassuring. “I’m just being careful. Then nothing goes wrong. For either of us. I’ll pick the place. One guy, not a posse. Someone who has the authority. Pity they can’t send Don. But everybody in the Service knows that face by now. And I don’t see him showing up in a fake nose, do you? He’d never get out of the airport. So somebody else. One meeting. We need to be clear on that. One meeting. Otherwise, we start pushing our luck.”

“And if they say no? They’re not interested?”

Frank shook his head. “They’re not coming all this way to say no.”

“Look who I found,” Jo said, suddenly next to the table, her voice brighter.

“The bad penny,” Gareth said, next to her. “Imagine twice in two days. Even for me. You’ll think I’m stalking. But I promised, just one brandy and we’ll vanish.” He made a swooshing motion with his hands.

“One,” Jo said. “I know you. One.”

“Scout’s honor,” he said, raising his hand. “Guy, you hear that? We’re on our honor.”

He stepped aside to make an opening for the man behind him. Simon looked up, surprised. “Guy Burgess,” he said. A man whose picture he’d seen for years, forgetting that it was the same picture, young Burgess down from Cambridge, not the bloated figure in front of them. If anything, he was even more slovenly than Gareth, clothes rumpled, his face puffy, the flesh pushing up to his eyes.

He nodded his head, as if they’d been introduced, and unsteadily sank into the chair Gareth had pulled out for him.

“We were out having a few drinks,” Gareth was saying. “And Guy wanted to go to the Praga, didn’t you, and I thought, I can’t face another dumpling, why not here? But imagine seeing you. You never go out.”

“You say that, but we are out,” Jo said, a little insistent, and Simon saw that Frank had been right, the lipstick was slightly uneven, the eyes not quite focused.

Frank signaled for more glasses, clearly annoyed. Gareth now pulled up another chair.

“Very kind of you,” Burgess said to no one in particular.

“I love this place,” Gareth said. “It reminds me of the Gay Hussar. Don’t you think, Guy?”

“Don’t know it,” he said, sitting up as Frank poured out his drink.

“Of course you do. Greek Street. Just down from Soho Square.”

Burgess drank, then shuddered a little. “After my time.”

“But it’s been there forever.”

“No. No such place when I left. You forget, it was years before you did,” he said into his glass. “Years before.”

“Certainly a lot more sensational,” Gareth said.

Burgess stared into his drink, apparently not hearing, all the old notoriety and insouciance now slack and vague. But the good posture was still there. Eyes half-closed, he sat with his shoulders back, as if he were waiting for a valet with a clothes brush.

“That’s the trouble,” he said. “You think everything will be the same and it’s all changed. I don’t think I’d recognize it now, London.”

“Oh, are we planning to go, then? Get tickets from Cook’s?”

“Don’t be an ass,” Burgess said, reaching for the bottle. “Do you mind?”

“Quite a welcome that would be. Bands out and everything. Handcuffs more likely.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Burgess said, his voice serious, considering this. “The last thing they’d want. A trial. Think who’d have to take the stand. Admit they hadn’t the faintest clue. For years. Very embarrassing. They hate being embarrassed. Calls the whole thing into question.”

“So you’d just slip in on the quiet, is that it? Go see Mum. Maybe a few drinks at White’s. And then what?”

“I don’t know,” Burgess said, his eye on Gareth. “Maybe ­better just to stay here. It’s nice, being able to come and go and nobody notices. Best thing about Moscow. Of course someone always is noticing. Bless their suspicious hearts. But not the general public.”

“Why would they be suspicious of you?” Simon said.

“You know, I don’t know. It does seem a waste of manpower, doesn’t it? I mean, I cashed in my chips years ago. But there they are, keeping an eye. Like a bloody great croupier,” he said in exaggerated French. “Except he’s supposed to watch who’s winning. Not—” His voice fell, letting this drift.

“Well, they’re not watching here. Nobody’s even looked at the table,” Jo said.

“And you call yourself a Service wife,” Burgess said, dipping his head, courtly.

“You mean they are? Where?” She looked around the room.

“They’re not supposed to be obvious,” Gareth said.

“Well, one,” Burgess said. “Then you don’t notice the other. Check the sight lines to the table, bound to be somebody taking an interest. Didn’t they teach you that? But you’d get him soon enough. You’re supposed to. It’s the one you’re not supposed to see you have to watch out for.”

“And where might he be?”

Burgess smiled. “I’m much too drunk to know that. Anyway, he’s not watching me. I booked at the Praga. Probably some lonely comrade there still waiting. Fuming. One of the nice things about getting drunk—you don’t see them anymore. They’re in some blur on the margins.”

Gareth, who’d been looking out at the room, suddenly stood up.

“Back in a sec. Have to use the Gents. Right back.”

“Which way is he going?” Burgess said, not turning in his chair.

“Toward the bar.”

Burgess sighed. “It’s a wonder he didn’t get caught sooner. The Gents. Don’t they train them anymore?” he said to Frank. “We’re agents, we’re supposed to know how to do these things. Be discreet. But that’s Gareth, isn’t it? Anything for a leg up. He wants to be part of it all. Not tossed in the bin. Let me guess. He’s talking to someone at the bar now?”

“Yes.”

“And if I were still in the game, I wouldn’t look. Too obvious. But what the hell.” He turned. “Ah yes.”

“You know him?”

“I’ve seen him. Gareth’s always running over to him, eager to help. Share some tidbit. Much good it will do him. He can’t accept that it’s over. A field agent without a field. What could be more de trop?”

“Man at the bar seems happy enough to listen to him,” Simon said.

Burgess looked over, slightly surprised, as if he’d just noticed Simon was there.

“To all his very important state secrets. What could they be, do you think? Whisper, whisper. About who?” He paused. “About whom. Not me, that’s one mercy. Washed-up old snoop. Maybe you,” he said to Frank, then looked at Simon. “Who’s this, anyway?”

“His publisher,” Simon said, formal.

“Oh, the memoir. My Deceitful Life. What a lot of mischief you must be up to,” he said to Frank. “All those skeletons in the closet. But I suppose they have to stay there, don’t they? The Service wouldn’t like it. You ought to do his other book,” he said to Simon. “All the bits he’s left out of this one. Quite a read.”

“So is this.”

“Really? Well, quite a career. I guess there’s enough there to pick and choose. You know he got the Order of Lenin? The rest of us got—well, Gareth got little Sergei, but the rest of us got fuck all.” He made a soft burp. “And the honor of helping the cause, of course. Maybe I should write my memoirs. Would you be interested? You could start a series. Trouble is, it all seems so long ago now. God, the Foreign Office. I remember people in cutaway coats, actually in cutaways.” He was quiet for a second. “But to tell you the truth, I doubt I’d have the energy. I quite like being washed up. It’s a soft life. I enjoy the leisure. Not Gareth. Look at him. The game’s still afoot. Still hoping to get back in. It must be about you,” he said to Simon. “New girl in town. Mind what you say to him. It all goes right back.”

“There’s nothing to tell.”

“Well, that’s always best, isn’t it? Make him work for it. But imagine, right out in the open. In my day that wouldn’t have been allowed. We were trained.”

Simon looked out at the room, Burgess’s voice like a radio narrator’s. Who was anybody? Maybe there were watchers everywhere, people glancing away, then back. Gareth at the bar now, eager to report in, like one of Winchell’s runners, and suddenly, absurdly, the room seemed like the Stork, everyone people spotting, feeding items to the columnists, the room dotted with them, KGB Winchells and Sullivans. He sipped the brandy. But no one knew the real story. How much was Jo drinking? Would Burgess make a scene? Was the American publisher just what he seemed? No one knew. A cable sent, a man already betrayed, just the beginning. He looked over at Frank, still listening politely to Burgess. No one knew. In this room of gossip and lapdog agents, only Frank seemed to sit in a calm center. Back where he’d spent most of his life, above suspicion.

They left Burgess with the rest of the bottle and made their way to the door, Jo leaning on Simon’s arm, Gareth still at the bar, his face slightly alarmed as he saw them leaving, as if something had slipped out of his hands. A car was waiting at the curb.

“We’ll drop you,” Frank said.

“That’s all right. I’ll walk.”

“No, we’ll drop you,” Frank said, an order.

Jo, still holding on to Simon’s arm, swayed a little, unsteady.

“Here, let me help,” Frank said, maneuvering her into the car.

“I’m fine.”

They all sat in the back, Jo patting Simon’s hand.

“Like old times. But we never talked. There’s so much I want to know.” She stopped, looking down, slipping into a private conversation. “But maybe not. What, really? What happened to everybody? Well, what did? The usual. Except me. Imagine the class reunion. Everybody coming up to say hi and looking—” Her voice drifted off.

Frank glanced over at him, a signal to let it play itself out.

The driver swung into Gorky Street, heading down toward Red Square. One or two cars, the sidewalks deserted, even on a late spring evening, the doorways pools of dark now, everything in shadow. They were at the National in minutes.

“Get some sleep,” Simon said to Jo, kissing her cheek.

“Oh, sleep,” she said, her head already nodding.

Frank got out with him.

“Same time tomorrow?” Simon said.

“You never change. I can still read your face,” Frank said, a fond smile, the intimacy of drink.

“Yes? What’s it saying?”

“You’re worried. You don’t want to take your hand off the checker, until you’re sure. Remember how you used to do that? No move until you thought it was safe.”

“This isn’t checkers.”

“No.” He paused. “It’s safe for you. The board. I promise.”

“Well, it’s done now. The message.”

Frank nodded. “Which means from now on I’m a dead man here. You realize that, don’t you?” He put his hand on Simon’s arm. “I need you to stay with me on this. Keep your head. It’s going to work.”

“This is why you wanted me to come, isn’t it? Your plan. What if I hadn’t?”

“Jimbo, it’s us. Of course you’d come. So would I. I never thought I’d have to ask, involve you, but—” He looked up. “I didn’t think it would end like this.”

Simon was quiet for a minute. “How did you think it would end?”

“I didn’t. I didn’t think it would end.” He looked around, toward the darkened Kremlin. “Oh, in the triumph of socialism, I suppose. And it did. It just didn’t end that way for me. Sometimes you get—taken by surprise.”

Simon looked at him. Move the piece. “Tomorrow,” he said. “Get some sleep.”

He was halfway across the lobby when Novikov, evidently waiting, came out of the bar.

“Nightcap?” he said, the American voice somehow at odds with his Russian bulk and features.

“No, thanks. I’ve had enough.”

“Have one anyway,” he said. “Just one.” He guided him toward the bar and signaled the bartender, who brought two small brandy snifters. “Armenian,” he said. “The vodka will make you blind.”

“This a social visit?”

“Delivery.” He took an envelope out of his pocket and handed it to Simon. A thick cream-colored invitation with an embossed American eagle at its top. The ambassador requests your presence—

“Spaso House. I’m moving up in the world.”

“Bring the invite with you. They check them at the door.”

“Any idea why?”

“Me? I’m just the delivery boy. To make sure you get it. Make sure you come.”

“To meet—?” He looked at the name on the card.

Novikov shook his head. “That’s who the reception’s for. ­Theater people. My guess is somebody else wants to meet you.”

“Your guess.”

“That’s what I’ve been doing all day. You come in, send a cable, and the next thing I know the telex is going like you just started World War III. Did you?”

Simon smiled. “Not yet.”

“And that’s as much as you’re going to say.”

“Sorry.”

“Well, I like working in the dark. Keeps you on your toes. Look,” he said, suddenly serious, “you need anything, you just ask, right?”

Simon nodded. “I appreciate it.”

“And maybe someday you tell me what it was all about.”

Simon took a sip of brandy. “Who am I supposed to meet?”

“Tomorrow? Just show up,” he said, nodding to the envelope. “My guess is, he’ll find you.”

The embassy had been ugly and barely functional, but Spaso House, the ambassador’s residence, was a handsome mansion in a quiet Arbat square, just a block or two off the noisy main street. Simon had taken a taxi, which he assumed was the same as riding with Boris but at least gave the illusion of independence. They swept past a church with a tall white bell tower and pulled up to the residence’s outer gate. People were already spread across the lawn and a circular porch ringed with Ionic columns. A soldier checked invitations.

The reception was being held for a visiting American theatrical troupe, and the sounds from inside, almost a tinkling effect, seemed livelier than the usual diplomatic cocktail party with its polite bows and apologies for missing wives. There was an informal receiving line, easily ignored, and waiters passing with drinks trays. Simon stood for a minute, looking around the reception hall, a two-story room so large that the rest of the house seemed an appendage, the vast space sitting under a gold and crystal chandelier that looked as if it required a special staff to keep it gleaming. There were a few gray-suited Russians, presumably from the Theatrical Union, talking to each other, and a good turnout of what Simon guessed was the expat community, correspondents and embassy workers. And Pete DiAngelis, leaning against a pillar with a drink in his hand, watching him. Simon took a drink from a tray and waited.

“I didn’t expect you,” he said when DiAngelis came over to him.

“That was a pretty powerful smoke signal you sent. Pirie thought I’d better come see what it meant. What the fuck is going on?”

“You get Kelleher?”

DiAngelis nodded. “So to what do we owe the favor?”

“Have you seen the lawn?” Simon said.

“A few days and he’s a field op. Okay, let’s go have a smoke. You’re here but that doesn’t mean the ambassador wants to pose for any pictures with you.”

“I’m not Frank.”

“Close enough. And now you’re going to embarrass everybody with his book. That puts you right off the guest list.”

“Unless you put me back on. And who are you? Here, I mean.”

“GSA. In town to go over the embassy books. Make sure your tax dollars are going where they’re supposed to. Light?”

They walked across the porch, past women in cocktail dresses and pearls, and onto the lawn.

“How old do you think it is?” Simon said, looking up at the giant shade tree, one of whose lower branches was propped up with a pole.

“So what was Kelleher?” DiAngelis said, ignoring this.

“A down payment.”

DiAngelis drew on his cigarette, eyes squinting, taking this in. “What’s the joke?”

“No joke. He wants to go home.”

DiAngelis said nothing, his expression blank, preoccupied, as if he were rifling through a card catalogue of responses.

“This your idea?”

“His idea.”

“I mean, we didn’t send you here to talk him into—”

“You didn’t send me here. I told you I’d keep my ears open, that’s all. It’s the last thing I expected.”

“What makes him think he can do it?”

Simon shrugged. “He thinks he can. He didn’t tell me how. The question is what kind of reception committee does he get at the other end.”

“Why would we want him back? His intel’s about ten years late.”

“Why did you come then?”

DiAngelis dropped his cigarette, rubbing it out with his shoe.

“He said Pirie would know what it meant—when he gave you Kelleher. What else he knew. What he could tell you. Isn’t that why Pirie sent you?”

“And he’s going to give us the whole organization chart. All his buddies. Why? He doesn’t like the winters here anymore?”

“His wife is sick. He thinks she’ll get better there. This would be for two. And new identities when they get there. Protection.”

DiAngelis nodded. “He’s going to need it. So what’s he offering, exactly?”

“Ask him. I don’t know. I’m just supposed to set up a meeting. One. Someone with authority to make an agreement. That’s you, yes?”

“It could be.”

“It better be. Or you’ll lose him. You don’t want him to get away again.”

“And what if it’s a trick? A little disinformation for the Agency.”

“It’s a little late for tricks. Once he leaves— But you decide. I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve seen his wife. And—I know him. He wouldn’t ask me to do this if he didn’t mean it.”

“And nobody knows about this but you.”

“And you.”

DiAngelis looked at the ground, thinking. “Nothing thicker than blood, is there? So he gets you to front this.”

“No. He talks to you. You work it out between you.”

“Nobody’s ever done this before,” DiAngelis said, still looking at the ground. “A switch back.” He smiled to himself. “The Russians will go out of their minds. Right out of their minds. Almost worth it, just to see their faces.” He looked up. “Nice for you too, huh? With the book. He’ll be famous again.”

“In hiding. With you. Different kind of famous.”

“How’s he going to do this? We can’t exfiltrate him. Operate on Russian soil.”

“I don’t know. He says he has a plan.”

“Something he worked out in his leisure time. And now he drops it into our laps. You know what I think? I think it’s going to be a fucking mess. And for what? Kelleher? We were going to get him anyway. KGB ops on the ground in 1949? Some old boy network stuff. Maybe a seating plan for the Third Directorate. The current one, or the one used to drive Pirie nuts? While your brother was taking notes—” He stopped. “Fuck. He’ll want to do it, won’t he?”

“Who?”

“Pirie. He never got over that time. None of them did. And now your brother’s going to bring it back for them. Who did what to who and who gives a fuck? They do.” He looked at Simon. “Let me talk to Washington. I’ll have all the authority he needs. When’s all this supposed to happen, by the way? He got his suitcases packed yet?”

“I don’t know. The important thing is for the two of you to meet. Work things out.”

“What, and then you negotiate the fine points?”

Simon shook his head. “It’s not a book contract. I wouldn’t even know what to ask.”

“But you’re a quick study.” He smiled. “Christ, we ask you to keep your ears open and the next thing, we’ve got this.” He looked across the lawn, hesitant. “You know what I said before, nothing thicker than blood? You don’t want to forget who you’re working for.”

“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?”

“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.”