Defectors

4

THEY TOOK THE METRO AGAIN, a quick walk down the Garden Ring to Krasnopresnenskaya, then a change at Park Kultury, all orchestrated by Boris to show off more stations. “No car,” Frank had said. “There’s only one parking lot and the embassy car will be tailed. We don’t want to go anywhere near it.” Their stop, Sportivnaya, served the big stadium nearby, but the street itself was leafy and unassuming, a quieter Moscow. At the end Simon could see the bell tower and onion domes of the convent grounds. At the first big intersection a small convoy of trucks rumbled by, followed by an official Zil.

“You can take this straight back to the Kremlin,” Frank said. “Different names. Same street. Here, Bolshaya Pirogovskaya,” he said, the Russian easy, matter-of-fact. They began to follow the big street down to the convent, past the entrance. “We’ll use the back, through the cemetery. Nobody sees us go in. Take a look at the parking lot. Anybody we know? Diplomatic plates?”

But they were walking too quickly to pick out any detail. A car. A school bus, presumably for visiting students, and a battered utility truck toward the end. The high convent wall was to their right now, beyond it the famous octagonal bell tower, blood-red with white trim.

“That must have been their car,” Simon said. “By the bus.”

“Let’s hope so. They should be here. Seeing things. You want to know something?” Frank said, his voice suddenly low. “I’m nervous. Shaking. It’s been a while. Being in the field. It’s the kind of thing—you don’t want to get rusty. Not now. Christ, look.” He stretched out his hand to show it trembling.

Simon slowed a little, then put his hand on Frank’s arm, squeezing it until the hand became steady, not saying anything. Boris, already ahead, didn’t turn.

“You know what it means if anything goes—”

“It won’t,” Simon said quietly. “You’ve done this before.”

“Not over here.” He stopped, then looked away. “Well, listen to me. A little case of the willies,” he said, sounding embarrassed, young.

“Now what?” Simon said, straightening his shoulders, body language.

“The cemetery,” Frank said as they passed the end of the convent wall. “Chekhov’s here. Gogol. Lots of generals. See the back entrance there? Under the church. It had to be big enough for a hearse.”

Simon looked up. More domes, one gold, the others green.

“If you need to get out,” Frank said, almost a whisper, “use this gate. Not the main entrance. They’ll block the parking lot.” He touched Simon’s shoulder. “Here we go.”

They passed through the street gate into the cemetery, leaving Boris outside on a bench with a newspaper and a full pack of cigarettes. There were some maintenance buildings and after that rows and rows of graves, some topped with elaborate statuary or, in the Russian fashion, with a photograph of the deceased embedded in the stone.

“You’d think he’d have used an earlier picture,” Simon said, pointing to a jowly face.

“Maybe that was his best,” Frank said, almost playful, some scheme they were cooking up in their grandmother’s yard, laughing at the neighbors.

“Who gets to be buried here?”

“The great and the good. Maybe me. If I stayed. Well,” he said, shrugging this off. “Through here.”

He led Simon along the passageway under the church and into the convent grounds, old trees lining the paths, moving a little with the breeze, the only sounds birds and a groundskeeper’s shovel, uprooting something near one of the other churches. Across the compound a few children’s voices heading back to the bus.

“No guards,” Simon said.

“No. Stalin gave it back to the church. For loyalty during the war. So officially it’s church property.” He raised his arm to the white cathedral that was the centerpiece of the complex. “See how high the gables are? Like the Cathedral of the Assumption in the Kremlin. See anybody?”

“They’re supposed to be inside.”

“Walk around to the bell tower first. Let’s see who else is here.”

But they seemed to be alone, even the children’s voices now gone, nothing but birds, the quiet of a churchyard. Frank glanced at his watch, then pointed up again at some architectural feature, another gesture. But what if no one was looking? It occurred to Simon, a kind of dismaying joke, that Frank, all of them, might be acting for cameras that weren’t there.

The cathedral was built on a raised piece of ground, its own natural dais, so they had to walk up to enter. At the doorway there was the usual clerical gloom, the far aisles in dim shadow, then flickering candles, and a cluster of massive columns soaring up to the onion domes, their sides covered with frescoes, an Oriental swirl of color. Farther in, a bright center nave held a chandelier shining on the five-tiered iconostasis, each holy face framed in gold. DiAngelis was standing in front, looking up with a tourist’s wide eyes, fingering the brim of his hat. Novikov was at his side, his bulk somehow incongruous in all the filigree. They both turned at the sound of footsteps.

“My brother, Frank Weeks. Pete DiAngelis,” Simon said, an unnecessary introduction. “And Mike—what was your last name again?”

“Novikov.”

“I hope you don’t mind if I don’t shake hands,” DiAngelis said. “Around the Agency you’re—”

“Let’s make this fast,” Frank said, all business. “We might pass each other in here, but we don’t stay long enough to do anything else. You have authority from Pirie?”

“You’re speaking to him. Through me.”

“I wonder what that’s like. For you,” Frank said, a sly look to Simon.

DiAngelis hesitated, not getting this, then said, “I have all the authority you need.”

“Good. Would you mind?” he said to Novikov, a sign to move away.

DiAngelis nodded. “And yours?” he said, as if Simon and Novi­kov were seconds at a duel.

“My witness. Since we won’t have anything in writing.” He didn’t wait for DiAngelis’s reaction. “Basics, I think already understood: my wife comes with me, so two of us, immunity from any prosecution, new identities, security coverage for at least a year, more if we think we need it. Agreed?”

“Go on.”

“A pension. Just enough to cover living expenses. I won’t haggle. Pirie will just lowball it anyway. I’ll take base. I’ll be swimming in royalties.” He smiled at Simon. “From an account they can’t trace. The book, by the way—I want your guarantee you won’t interfere. I want Simon to come out ahead on this, whatever happens.”

Simon looked at him, oddly pleased, part of Frank’s plan.

“And what do we get?”

“Whatever you can squeeze out of me during our cozy fireside chats. Don may want to do that himself. For old times’ sake. A little ancient history.”

“So, out-of-date intel.”

“No, that’s just for Don. New intel for you. For a start, I’ll update your Who’s Who. Of the Service. Thumbnails, bios, you’ll have a field day, don’t worry.”

“Agents?”

“I gave you Kelleher.”

“We could leave it there, you know,” DiAngelis said, glancing at him, a poker look.

“But you won’t,” Frank said, meeting his eyes.

“We’d need the agents.”

Frank nodded. “I don’t know everybody. Just out of my department. It’s set up that way. So those, yes. In the States. I can’t give you a roll up, just those.”

“How many?”

“How many would you like?”

DiAngelis glared, offended.

“Look, we don’t have time to do this here,” Frank said. “I’ll give you the DC names, the ones I know. You have my word.”

“Your word.”

“Then not my word. My self-interest. By the time Don gets his sweaty hands on me, I won’t have a lot of leverage. So, yes, agents. What else?”

“How are you going to do it? Get out of here. Everyone’s curious about that.”

“You’re going to help. You’re going to pick me up.”

“Here? Are you crazy?”

“Not here,” Frank said, a small smile. “That would be impractical.”

“We don’t exfiltrate. We don’t set foot on Russian soil.”

“Because you can’t. I know. But you’ll still have to pick me up. I can’t swim to the States.”

“Where?”

Frank hesitated. “I’ll let you know. Not here. There’s a great big socialist empire out there. I’m allowed to travel. Maybe even take my brother on a trip.”

Simon looked up at this, surprised.

“Are we talking about Eastern Bloc countries? And how is that supposed to be better than Russia? You still have the KGB crawling all over the place.”

“Or their sister agencies. Always a little intimidated. Always cooperative. Especially if it’s a Service operation. So eager to liaise.”

“If what’s a Service operation?”

“My little scheme. I’m going to run it. For the Service. The KGB’s going to get me out. They don’t know it, but who better? Then you pick me up.”

“You’re going to set up a KGB operation to get yourself out.”

“It’s the safest way. Nobody suspects. My operation. I direct it. Everybody cooperates, gets me to where I need to be.” He looked at DiAngelis. “Then you get me out. Agreed?”

“In the West?”

Frank shook his head. “I can’t manage that. So you’re going to have to get your feet wet a little. It’s a risk, but not a big risk. I wouldn’t set it up this way if I didn’t think you could do it. That’s the deal.” He looked over at DiAngelis, waiting for a reaction.

DiAngelis stared at him, as if he were reading his face for clues.

“A penny for your thoughts,” Frank said.

“I’m just wondering if you’re worth it. We do this, we could end up with a mess on our hands.”

“And I could end up dead. So who’s taking the risk?”

“For some old intel and maybe a cypher clerk in a basement somewhere.”

“What did Pirie say? He’s not interested?”

“He told me to use my own judgment.”

“Then use it. We’ve already been here too long.”

“You set up a KGB operation, a front, so nobody thinks you’re trying to fly. And it gets you somewhere near us and you just slip away. With our help. Do I have that right?”

“More or less.”

“What’s the operation?”

“Some dissidents we suspect are getting Agency backing,” he said, turning his head toward Simon.

“So it’s an operation against us.”

“Of course. You’re the Main Adversary, as we say. I’m going to swoop down and pick your team up. Except, instead, you pick me up. And I disappear.” He made a movement with his fingers. “Thin air. A triumph for the Agency. Their first defector in years. Except for Sokolov. And he was a plant.”

DiAngelis jerked his head up. “What?”

“That’s my second payment. On account. Don can stop wondering. If he’s still wondering. So. Agreed? Is there a problem?”

“I don’t like operating anywhere behind the Curtain.”

“Well, technically you won’t be behind it. Just nearby. I said you’d get your feet wet a little. In the boat. You pick me up on the water. Open sea, not Soviet territory. That safe enough for you? The question is, do you want me or not?”

DiAngelis stared again, not saying anything.

Frank took a quick look at his watch, then sighed. “All right, shall we sweeten the pot? How about a Who’s Who at Arzamas?”

DiAngelis blinked. “The nuclear facility? How would you have that?”

“I didn’t. I had a friend who had it.” He pointed to his temple. “Up here. He drank, we talked. I made notes. He died. So now I have it.” He touched his head again. “And a few papers he took with him. Which he shouldn’t have done. He was going to get them to the West. A great believer in the scientific community. Disarmament. But he only got them as far as me. Of course, strictly speaking, I should have turned them over right away to the Service. And I would have. Except I thought they’d make a nice calling card. Overcome any—qualms you might have. Do they?”

“Perry,” Simon said, half to himself, watching Frank, a new prickling on his neck.

Frank pretended not to hear. “Do they?”

DiAngelis turned to the icons, as if, oddly, he were looking for spiritual guidance.

“Where do we do this? When?”

“Soon. I’ll give you time, don’t worry. Meanwhile, we communicate through Simon.” Simon looked up, but said nothing. “We should set up a dead letter drop. Nothing fancy. Simple. Say the men’s room at the National bar. Last stall. Use one of your people in Moscow. Not him,” he said, nodding toward Novikov. “Not embassy.”

“We don’t have anybody on the ground in Moscow.”

“Pete,” Frank said, sarcastic, drawing it out, then moved on. “If you need to talk to Simon for any reason, use the bar. Simon will make it a point to be there. But only if you have to. Meanwhile, arrange for the boat. Stockholm or Helsinki, either would work.”

“You’re coming out on the Baltic?”

“You need a boat big enough to cross and fast enough to get the hell out after the exchange. And armed. It’s the only tricky part, how my colleagues are going to react. You want to have enough firepower to make them think twice about any heroics. Problem?”

“No.”

“Good. When I have the exact time and pickup point, you’ll have it too. Want to shake now?” He extended his hand. DiAngelis looked at it for a second, then took it. “How do you like working with the Service? Everything planned. Clean.”

“You’re a real piece of work, aren’t you?”

Frank looked at him for a second, then dropped his hand. “Just get the boat ready. You come, by the way. Nice if Don could be there, but I suppose he’s beyond all that now. I want a face I know. Let’s see if you can get this going without making any noise. Pirie only. Nobody else at the Agency, not until it’s done. Or it won’t happen. The Service has lots of ears, some even I don’t know about. So you be as quiet as you can. We do have one advantage. If you fuck up, I’ll hear about it. I’m inside. But it’s not much of an advantage. If they find out what you’re up to, they’ll start connecting the dots back to me. So, quiet. Understood?”

“We know how to run an operation.”

“I’m counting on it. Anything else?”

DiAngelis just stared.

“Better get going then. Skip the cemetery. Just go back to the car. Anybody tail you?”

“I assume. You’re supposed to be good at that.”

“The best.”

DiAngelis, unsure how to react to this, signaled Novikov.

“I’ll see you on the boat,” he said to Frank, then put on his hat and walked toward Novikov.

Frank watched them go, eyes following them out the door, making sure. A sudden silence, broken only by bells from one of the other churches, maybe calling the sisters to prayer.

“Take a look at the ciborium,” Frank said. “Wood. Mention it to Boris.”

“Shouldn’t we go?”

“Let them get to the car.” He paused. “You trust him? You think he’ll do it?”

“Yes.” He looked over at Frank. “Now it’s dead letter drops. Meetings at the bar. I’d be in real trouble if—”

“I know,” Frank said, cutting him off. “I said I’d have your back.” He stopped for a second. “I need you out there.”

“Your field agent.”

Frank smiled a little. “That’s right. I’m running you.” He put his hand on Simon’s sleeve. “I know what I’m doing.”

They moved toward the outside light of the entranceway, white after the soft yellow of the candles. At the door they heard running footsteps, someone racing up the stairs to the church. Frank stepped back, out of the light. A girl in uniform, knotted kerchief at her neck. A Young Pioneer? Some youth group. She stopped short, almost bumping into them, then lowered her head. “Izvinite,” she said, indistinct, a whisper, then hurried along the outer aisle, looking for something. A minute later she stopped and picked up a knapsack. Simon watched as if he were seeing a spool of silent film, no sound, everything in her face. She turned toward the frescoed columns and went still for a second, eyes wide. A quick intake of breath to cover her surprise, then she glanced toward Simon and Frank, trying to work something out. Nothing else, just a girl’s expression, seeing something. Someone. Frank froze, putting his hand up, quiet, more silent film. The girl lifted the knapsack onto one shoulder and ran back, ignoring them, eager to be outside. Simon looked at Frank. Frank mimed a shh signal, then cocked his head, listening. No footsteps, no sounds at all. But not alone, the air filled with it now, another presence.

He signaled to Simon to go where the girl had been, then stepped carefully toward the center, paralleling Simon but coming up to the columns from behind. He passed the first, and waited for Simon to come into his line of sight before going on. Almost where the girl had been. He stepped softly around the next column and stopped. A man was pressed against its flat side, his head turned toward the outer aisle where Simon was moving, footsteps faint but audible. Frank could feel him holding his breath, straining to hear. Not some casual visitor, wandering around the icons. Hiding.

As Simon came closer, the man crept backward, clearly intending to slide behind the column, out of sight. How long had he been there? What had he heard? Another step, his back still to Frank and then stopping, aware now of someone behind him. Simon stepped into view, eyes surprised, someone he knew. Trapped now, between them, the air alive, almost trembling, a frightened rabbit about to leap away. Before he could bolt, Frank grabbed him by the shoulder, turning him, hand at his throat, pinning him against the column. The sound of panting, then an involuntary squeaking noise, a trapped rabbit again. “Don’t.” Frank pushed him harder against the column, choking him, so that he sputtered. “Stop.” Finally staring at him, Gareth’s face pale, skin pushed back, twisting under Frank’s hand.

Everything went still for a second, even the birds. Simon felt the tips of his fingers tingle, as if the blood had drained away, rushing to his head. He could see it all at once—the terror in Gareth’s eyes, Frank’s panic, both in it now, caught.

“What the hell are you doing?” Frank said, low, hoarse.

“Stop,” Gareth said, a gasp. He moved his hand up to grab Frank’s away, and Frank relaxed his grip for a second, letting Gareth’s head move forward, gulping air, then shoved him back again, in a vise now, his head hitting the column. “Stop.”

Simon saw them scrambling against each other, twisting, like the two scorpions in the story, locked in a bottle, safe if neither of them attacked the other. But one always did.

“What are you doing here? You followed us?”

Gareth shook his head, then signaled that he’d talk if Frank loosened his hand.

“I live here,” he said, rubbing his neck where Frank’s hand had been, his voice breathy, still racing. “Up the street. As you’d know if you’d ever accepted an invitation.”

Frank looked at him, disconcerted, the answer surreal. He dropped his hand. “What?”

Gareth’s eyes darted past him, the relaxed hand the opening he’d been looking for, and lunged left, starting to run. Without even thinking, Simon stepped forward, blocking him, then pushed him back against the wall, holding one shoulder while Frank held the other. Gareth kept gulping air, almost whimpering, looking from one to the other.

“You too,” he said to Simon. “Get off. What do you think you’re doing?”

“That’s your question,” Frank said. “What?” He shoved him again. “Now.”

Gareth winced, looking at his shoulder. “Beast. It was an accident.”

“What was?”

“Being here.” He looked at him, suddenly defiant. “Though not in your case. ‘See you on the boat.’ Now, what boat would that be? The one down the Moscow River? Kremlin views?” His breath still ragged, but no longer gasping.

“What are you doing here?” Frank said again.

“I told you, I live here. Just up Pirogovskaya. Very handy to the stadium, though in my case—” He stopped, aware of Frank’s eyes. “I can see across to the parking lot. Look, if you want to hear this, take your hands off. We’re all friends here,” he said, trying it.

Frank said nothing to this, another surreal moment, but dropped his hand.

“And you?” Gareth said to Simon. “The good brother. Just beavering away on the book. Nothing else. Really.”

“Talk,” Frank said, his calm a kind of menace.

Gareth blinked. “So I take a look from time to time. Being an old snoop. It passes the time. And then today, what? An American embassy car. And who? Novikov. What’s he doing here? I said to myself. Come to see the nuns? And who’s that with him? I had to take a look, didn’t I? It’s my job. So I came down and there they were, looking at icons with the Girl Guides or whatever they call themselves and I thought, I’d better find out who he is, the new man. The Service would want to know. They didn’t come to see the Virgin of Smolensk. It must be a meeting. And so it was. But I never thought—it was an accident.”

“But now it isn’t.”

“No,” Gareth said, looking up. “Maybe best forgotten.”

“But you have such a good memory. You think you know something.”

Simon glanced over, Frank’s voice a disturbing low register.

“No I don’t. Really. Maybe it’s your brother meeting with his people. They would, wouldn’t they?”

“But I wouldn’t be here.”

“No.”

“So what do you think you know?”

“Look, it’s not me meeting with the Americans. You act as if I were the one—”

“But that’s exactly what I’d have to say.”

“What?”

“Until about five minutes ago, you thought you’d struck gold. All those years with your little bits of gossip, snitching on this one and that—finally, a real strike. Isn’t that right?”

“I didn’t hear anything,” Gareth said, eyes alarmed now.

“But that’s not the way it’s going to play out.”

“Frank, I—”

“Nobody’s going to say anything.”

Gareth shook his head. “No.”

“I should. I should report this. But you know what it would mean. We both do. I don’t want to do that to you.”

“Do what?”

“Report your meeting.”

“My—?”

“Try it this way. The tail on the embassy car saw two things—Novikov and his friend going in and then you going in a few minutes later.”

“Frank—” he said, jumpy now.

“Funny thing. When Simon and I came into the church, what did we see? The three of you, thick as thieves, so I thought I’d better listen in. I couldn’t quite get it all, but the new guy was American, making some kind of deal. With you. I thought, why not a Brit? That would be the obvious thing. But that’s where you’re clever. Nobody would think you’d go to the Americans. With your little bits of business. And you almost got away with it. If I hadn’t been here. I’d have to do my duty.”

“Your duty.”

“And who do you think they’d believe? You or me? With the Order of Lenin?”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’d have to. I’m sorry. I know what it means. Afterward. Not pleasant.”

“Except I know what really happened. What you’re planning to do.”

“So you did hear. I needed to know that.”

“Frank—”

“Of course you’d be grasping for straws at that point. Any story that pops into your head. Even an implausible one. Why would I do that, when I’m so well settled here? Yes, it would be just like you to make trouble for me. And yes, to be on the safe side, they’ll watch me closely for a while. But when nothing happens—and it won’t—they’d be right back where they started. And who would they believe? Your word against mine.”

“They’d kill me,” Gareth said quietly.

“Yes. I’d look for another way out if I were you.”

“Such as.”

“I’d keep my mouth shut. Could you do that, do you think?” he said, staring at him, reading his face. “Keep quiet? That’s the question, isn’t it?”

“Keep quiet. I was a spy, for God’s sake. You don’t have to—”

“But this would be such a coup for you. The Service would be so grateful—if they believed you.”

“Take your hands off me,” Gareth said, rallying. “Nobody has to say anything.” He looked up at him. “You’ll never get away with it, you know. Sticking it to the Service. They won’t need me. You’ll never make it to the boat.” He looked over at Simon. “And you. Do you have any idea what they’re going to do to you?” he said, his mouth twisted, almost sneering.

“Leave him out of it.”

“They won’t. No, they’ll have a lovely time with you. Think of the trial. Like Mr. Powers. The great pilot. Oh, they’ll love that.” He turned to Frank. “I admit I was surprised. To see you. The great Francis Weeks.” He let out a pretend sigh. “It’s a wicked old world, isn’t it? You never know.” He started straightening his coat. “All right. No proof anyway. Your word against mine. So, checkmate. Nobody says anything.”

Frank looked at him, considering. “I don’t think you can do it,” he said slowly.

Gareth’s eyes darted from Simon to Frank, then around the room, trapped again.

“So what do we do?” Frank said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gareth said, twitching. “That’s not really in your line, is it?”

“No, but it’s nothing to Boris. He’s just outside.”

Gareth gulped some air, taking a deep breath, then suddenly pushed away from the column, knocking Simon aside, and started to run back toward the entrance.

Simon leaped after him, catching his coat, pulling on it, both of them staggering down the aisle, Frank now behind. Gareth twisted, trying to wrench free, the coat twisting with him, pocket turned upside down. Something metal fell to the floor, a clang echoing in the empty church. Simon looked down, then let go of the coat and scooped up the fallen camera.

“No proof!” he shouted, imagining the pictures inside, trial exhibits.

Frank swept past him, catching Gareth and shoving him up against the first pillar, smashing his head back, arm at his throat, Gareth going limp, like a doll. “No proof,” Frank said, then to Simon, “Open it.” Simon flipped open the back, pulling out the film, exposing it. “Now where’s your proof? Bastard.”

“Stop. You’re—”

Frank pushed harder. Gareth made a choking sound, trying to pull Frank’s arm away from his throat, then pushed at his face, ducking to get away. Frank brought up his knee, a fast kick that made Gareth crumple, raspy screams, pulling at Frank until they both toppled over, on the stone floor now, rolling. Simon shoved the camera into his pocket, stuffing in the loose remnant of film. A shine of blood on the column where Gareth’s head had been. Simon could feel his heart beat, breath coming faster. No pulling back. Not just a show trial, his life at stake. Frank’s. He looked down. Frank was sitting on him now, knees on either side, his hands on Gareth’s windpipe, Gareth gasping, making sounds, a kind of gurgling. Then he stopped, his head moving to one side, and Frank moved his hands away, shaking, his whole body shaking.

“Oh God,” he said, to himself, to nobody.

Simon stepped over and took his hand, helping him up.

“I’ve never done that,” Frank said, his face distant, hands still shaking, the last few minutes now one spasm rippling through him.

“There’s some blood over there. I’ll wipe it off,” Simon said, taking out a handkerchief, hearing himself, not really there.

Frank stood looking at Gareth. “I had to, didn’t I? He would have—”

“Put the coat under his head. In case there’s more blood.”

“Still,” Frank said, eyes fixed on Gareth. Who would have ruined everything. The scorpion striking first, his nature.

Suddenly there was a faint moan, indistinct as a night sound, a slight movement of Gareth’s head, and Frank involuntarily reared back. Simon looked at Gareth, beginning to move, then at Frank, still stunned.

“Finish it,” Simon said, seeing everything in a flash. The men in leather coats, the fast car and back entrance, the beatings in the cell, the trial, after. “We have to finish it.”

Frank stared at him, shaking. Simon dropped to his knees, what had to be done, hands on the warm neck, thumbs pressing into the windpipe. Gareth’s eyes opened, maybe a panicked recognition, maybe just some abstract disbelief as air left him, struggling a little, kicking his feet against nothing, Simon pressing down now, what had to be done, harder, the last gasps barely audible, no wind, the eyes rolling back, closing, and suddenly the only things moving were Simon’s hands, pressing, everything else still. He stopped, staring down, the lifeless face slightly contorted, not peaceful. What murder looked like.

He got up, staggering on one knee, unexpectedly weak, drained. Frank was staring at him, still dazed, someone at an accident.

He looked down again. Not just still, dead, a different stillness, skin already going gray, mouth open, unnatural. In one second. No. Take it back. Not dead, a figure in a First Aid manual. Drop to your knees, spread your hands against the rib cage, push, don’t panic, a rhythm, in and out, be his lungs, the face turned to the side for the water to run out, your hands breathing for him until you heard the choking sounds, signs of life. Take it back.

“We have to get him out of here,” Frank said, matter-of-fact, coming back.

“Should I get Boris?”

Frank shook his head. “Nobody. But we can’t leave him here. They’ll find him.”

“They’re going to find him.”

“But not yet. No connection. Take a look outside. See if there’s anyone—”

Simon half ran to the door, grateful to be doing something. The grounds were quiet, no Young Pioneers, no nuns, not even the groundskeeper, gone for a smoke or a siesta, leaving his wheelbarrow near the uprooted shrub by the red church.

“There’s a wheelbarrow,” he said, coming back.

“No. How do we explain it, if anyone comes? Grab his other side. Ever carry a drunk?”

Simon put one of Gareth’s arms around his neck and lifted, grunting at the weight.

“We just have to get him to the cemetery,” Frank said, beginning to move. “Did you see the sheds? Near the wall. We can put him there.”

“They’re still going to find him,” Simon said, hoisting the body against him, the feet still dragging.

At the entrance Frank stopped. “Check again. If there’s anybody. Lean him here.”

They backed Gareth against the wall. Simon stepped out, looking around. Still no one, a cloister stillness. He went back and slung Gareth’s arm around his shoulders again.

“Ready?” Frank said.

“What if someone’s in the cemetery?”

“He passed out. We’re getting some help.” He looked at Simon. “I don’t know.”

They stepped out into the light, the gate church just across a stretch of lawn, open, the shade trees all next to the church.

“Come on, quick,” Frank said, heaving the weight on his side, then stopped, turning his head, listening. Some voices coming from the cemetery. No, the same voice. Coming from the underpass now. They lugged the body back, not quite there when the voice came through the gate. The groundskeeper, carrying a heavy pair of gardening shears, drunk or just talking to himself. He looked up, as if he’d heard their breathing, but gazed at the other church, where he’d been working. A louder stream of Russian now, some private rant of complaint. In a second, they were back through the doorway, Gareth hanging between them. The Russian was still talking, crossing the lawn, heading right for them, swinging the clippers in one hand. Another step back, out of the light.

The groundskeeper stopped, a dog sniffing the air, and looked at the entrance, leaning his head forward, peering, his glasses catching the sun. Simon stopped breathing, his eyes fixed on the Russian’s glasses, little flashes as he moved his head. Could he see? What? Three men, holding each other up in the church’s gloom. A disturbance in his world. Something off. No sound. Another step, still peering.

And then, just as he was approaching the entrance, he gave it up and veered off on the path to the bell tower, behind the cathedral. Another minute, listening, then the sound of steady clipping, the shears attacking some unruly shrubbery. But where, exactly? Could he see the lawn? They looked at each other, panting under the weight of the body. In a minute another bus could arrive or someone with flowers for an icon, mourners in the cemetery, the whole complex come to life with people who would see them. Frank nodded and they hoisted the body again and started across the lawn. Out in the open. But no shouts, no voices disturbing the quiet, just their own heavy breathing, their ears filled with it. How could the groundskeeper not hear? When the bell in the tower started ringing, the clanging tearing through the air, they jumped, almost dropping the body, as if they had set off an alarm. They began to move faster, their breathing, any sound, covered now by the bells. Was anyone actually ringing them, looking out high in the tower? In another minute they had reached the gate church, Gareth’s shoes now scraping against the floor of the underpass. At the other end the cemetery seemed deserted, no widows paying respects. But for how long? Just to the shed against the wall. Their luck held. The caretaker had left it unlocked.

Inside there were tools, odds and ends, even slabs of tombstones leaning against the wall, loose cobbles to repair the paths between the rows of graves.

“Over there,” Frank whispered, nodding to the shadowy far end of the building.

They gave the body one last heave and dropped it in the corner, hiding it behind a pile of tools, the caretaker’s mess an unexpected cover.

“Wait,” Frank said, seeing Simon turning to go. He squatted, loosening Gareth’s belt buckle, then dragging his pants down.

“What are you doing?”

“Why he was here. Someplace out of the way. The Service is funny about people like him, they’d rather not know. If they believe it, they’ll cover it up.”

The pants down, Gareth’s white body exposed, caught in the act. Now his wallet, cash taken out and the wallet wiped for prints and thrown back, what might have happened. Frank went over to a pile of cobbles and picked one up, carrying it back to the body and raising it above Gareth’s head.

“What—?”

But the arm had already come down, a crack as it smashed into Gareth’s head, opening it.

“It won’t fool anybody if they really look—the marks on his throat, and the blood’s stopped. But they may not want to look. Disgrace to the Service.”

“And the police?” Simon said softly, looking at the body.

“The Service will take this over. One of ours. I’ll make sure.”

“What are we doing?” Simon said, a question to himself.

Frank looked at him, but said nothing, moving them to the door. He poked his head out. Still no one. Outside they took the path nearest the wall.

“Stalin’s wife,” Frank said, pointing to one of the graves. “You can tell Boris you saw it. The writers are down here.”

They were walking quickly, hurrying to the entrance. Out of the corner of his eye Simon could see a woman with a headscarf at the far end, kneeling at one of the graves, but she didn’t turn. They were still invisible.

“I can’t stay here,” Simon said suddenly. “I have to get out before they—”

Frank stopped, holding him by the shoulders. “Listen to me. By the time they find him they won’t be able to establish time of death. He said he lived down the street. This is just the kind of place he’d use—to meet people.” He gripped Simon’s shoulders. “No one saw us.”

“I can’t,” Simon said, light-headed, as if he were about to float away, held back by Frank’s hands on his shoulders.

“Yes, you can,” Frank said calmly. “It’s going to be all right. If you leave now, you’ll make it worse. For both of us. No sudden moves. Everything the way it should be.”

Except for the body in the shed. Simon saw the face again, the startled eyes. But what he heard was the calm excitement in Frank’s voice. It’s going to be all right. What he’d done all his life, maybe why he’d done it, the risk.

“I’m not going to jail, not here.”

“Neither am I,” Frank said, trying for a tentative smile. “I have an alibi. You. And you have me. We’re fine, if nobody gets spooked.”

Simon felt the hands like a grounding rope, pulling him back. But then he saw, a flash of horror, that Frank and he had become the scorpions. Both safe until one—

He nodded his head and Frank dropped his hands, then took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. “All that weight,” he said, the same hand he’d raised in the air with the stone.

“You have to do it soon,” Simon said. “We can’t stay here. I won’t.”

“I know,” Frank said, soothing, brushing Simon’s jacket as he spoke. “You okay?”

Simon took a breath. “Which one is Stalin’s wife?”

“Over there,” Frank said, pointing.

But when they told Boris they had seen it, his face clouded with disapproval, something inappropriate for Simon, any Westerner.

“Was it well tended?” he said, polite conversation.

Simon nodded. “The cathedral was beautiful. You should have come.” Nothing in his voice to give anybody away.

Boris shrugged. “The opiate of the masses,” he said flatly. No irony, no self-consciousness.

Simon looked at him, a good Soviet man, and suddenly wanted to laugh, about to fly off again, another not funny joke, the whole country full of them, the women in the hotel hallways, the listening chandeliers, the men plotting in the Kremlin, Stalin feeding on his own, check mark by check mark, a city without maps.

They were crossing the intersection. Simon looked up at what he guessed was Gareth’s building, with its view of the parking lot. A high rise with concrete beginning to crack. Did Sergei live there too? Waiting for him to come home. He looked over at Frank, who was talking to Boris in Russian, idle chat by the sound of it. I have an alibi. You.

Now the Metro again, the palatial stations. If he stayed on, could he go all the way to the airport? And then what? Visas and questions about why he was leaving. So soon? Before the book was done? Why was that? And for a second he felt what everyone here must feel, living under house arrest. For imaginary crimes. And he had just killed a man, a real crime, and no one knew. All the grisly apparatus of a police state and no one knew. An outing with Boris, on the KGB’s watch.

During the war, at his desk on Navy Hill, he had wondered what combat would be like, how it would feel to kill somebody, whether he could go through with it. But it had been easy, an instinct, even when Gareth’s eyes opened. Save yourself. Only now his stomach was filled with it, churning with dread. It’s going to be all right. Was it? Frank had thought that before and ended up here. If nobody gets spooked. Simon clenched his fist, some gesture of control, as if he could hear Frank’s tail scratching against the bottle.

To his surprise, it was Tom McPherson who turned up for DiAngelis at the National bar.

“Doesn’t Look give you enough to do?”

“In Moscow? Everything happens behind closed doors. No access. Ever. So a little moonlighting. Makes it more interesting.”

“Does Look know?”

McPherson ignored this, his pleasant, bland features turning serious, full of purpose. “We need to set a date for the shoot. I’m going to have a package for you and they don’t want to use the dead letter drop. Direct handoff.”

“Monday. We’re away this weekend. What’s in the package?”

“No idea. I’m just the mailman. Ordinarily I’d guess visas, papers, kind of thing you don’t want to leave in the men’s room. But in this case—I don’t know. You already have yours. So it must be—whatever you’re talking to the Agency about.” He turned to the bar, ordering a brandy. “Mind if I ask you a question? Were you close, you and your brother?”

“Why?”

“It’s unusual, that’s all. You being with him. And working for the Agency. Does he know? No offense. I was just curious. What time Monday?”

“Ten,” Simon said, then, “He doesn’t tell me anything.”

McPherson shrugged. “But here we are. And you’ve got a delivery coming. Don’t worry, I’m not looking for a story. It’s strictly pictures with Look. Lehman’s the one you want to watch out for. He’s been trying to get a story on the defectors since he got here.”

Simon looked up, a sudden thought. “He do this kind of work too?”

“Not that I know of. But then I wouldn’t know.” He finished his drink. “Look who’s here,” he said, his voice lower, glancing toward the end of the bar where Gareth’s Sergei was questioning the bartender. “Mr. Jones must be out on a toot.”

What people would think, the body still not found. Simon looked at Sergei, his face troubled, not sure what to do. Had Gareth done this before? It must be a small circuit of watering holes. Moscow wasn’t New York. The National, the Metropol, the Aragvi. But then what? The apartment suddenly quiet, empty. People like Sergei didn’t go to the police. Simon imagined him sitting alone, waiting. Getting up to look out the window. Now he noticed Simon, a flicker of recognition. For a second Simon thought he’d come over, ask if he’d seen Gareth, another layer of lies, but evidently the bartender’s word was all he needed. He turned and darted out of the room, heading for the Metropol.

“They say the KGB fixed them up,” McPherson said. “Keep Jones happy.”

“Who says?”

“People. You know. Must have taken, though. It’s been years.” Now over, cut off like the air in Gareth’s throat.

“I’d better go up,” Simon said. “Anything else?”

“You tell me. I’m here, if you want to get word to anyone.”

“Monday at ten.”

“We might want to do another. Shoot. It’s a good excuse to talk.” He put down his glass. “Sorry about before. It’s just the logic of it. If you’re not reporting on him, what are you talking to the Agency about?”

He looked at McPherson, the eager, open face.

“This and that,” he said.