Defectors

5

THEY DROVE WEST OUT of the city on Kutuzovsky Prospekt, a showcase street lined with new apartment buildings.

“The Friday ritual,” Frank said, looking at the swarm of black cars, the first traffic Simon had seen in Moscow. “Even in the rain.”

It had been drizzling all afternoon, the air heavy and wet, forming condensation on the car windows.

“It’s supposed to clear up,” Joanna said, next to Frank in the back. “Anyway, it’s good for mushrooms.”

“Mushrooms,” Frank said, dismissing this, not worth talking about.

“It’s all wasted on Frank. The country,” Joanna said, smiling. “When they offered us the dacha he didn’t want to take it. At first.”

“What made you change your mind?” Simon said.

“I didn’t want anybody to think I was ungrateful. It’s considered a privilege.”

“The vegetables are,” Joanna said. “In the summer you can eat out of the garden.”

“Why is it so hard? To get vegetables.”

“The distribution system,” Frank said, not really paying attention. “It’s better than it used to be.”

Simon, up front with Boris, looked at Frank in the rearview mirror, a doubling effect, their features so similar at this distance. His jaw, Frank’s. The same high forehead, wrinkled, preoccupied, neither of them looking forward to the weekend. Simon kept seeing the groundskeeper stacking rakes in the utility shed, smelling something. How long? Frank was sitting forward, hands on his knees. Square, long-fingered, like Simon’s. Did it matter whose had been on Gareth’s throat? The same hands.

“You’ll like the Rubins,” Joanna was saying. “He’s nice.” As if they were simply neighbors, not on Hoover’s wish list.

“When are they coming?”

“Tomorrow lunch. I couldn’t face it tonight, all that work and everyone stays so late. So, just us.”

“I have some people coming before dinner,” Frank said.

“Who?” Joanna said, annoyed.

“Some people from the office.”

“You might have said.”

“I just found out. Boris got a call.” He nodded toward the front.

“They’re coming to the dacha? What’s so urgent? Oh, don’t tell me. Why start now?”

“I’m planning a trip,” Frank said pleasantly. “I thought we’d take Simon to Leningrad. See the Hermitage. Then Tallinn, Riga. Doesn’t that sound—?”

“Riga?” Joanna said.

“It’s supposed to be very attractive. Lots of Art Nouveau. We haven’t been away in so long. I thought you’d enjoy it, with Simon here.”

“You’re full of surprises.” She looked forward to Simon. “Did you know about this?”

He half-turned, facing them. “Frank said maybe after the book— I’d hate to leave without seeing some of the country.” What he thought Frank wanted him to say. Just a trip. He glanced back to see his reaction, but Frank was facing Jo, juggling again.

“And when is all this happening?” Jo said. “Do I get time to pack?”

“This week, if I can get the go-ahead from the office. Don’t you want to go? I thought you’d be—”

She waved this away and started rummaging in her purse for a cigarette. “Wonderful, isn’t it, to have a travel agent who comes to the house.”

“We have some other work,” Frank said blandly.

She lit the cigarette and rolled down her window to let the smoke out.

“I wish you’d stop,” she said, not looking at him. “Retire.”

Frank smiled, not biting. “And do what, crossword puzzles?”

“How many? Tonight.”

“Two.”

“It’s only soup. There’s plenty if they want to stay.”

“I’m sure they’ll want to get back.”

“To wherever it is they go.”

“Jo.”

But the air had settled, the friction seeping out with the smoke. Simon looked at Frank. They were going to Leningrad, the little back-and-forth not even a quarrel, just making it more ordinary for Boris. Putting the pieces into place. No one knew.

Frank caught his glance. “How are you doing up there? You know what this reminds me of? When we used to drive to Maine with Pa.” He looked at Jo, including her. “Simon always got the front seat, because he got carsick. Always in the front,” he said, warm, reminiscent. “So nothing changes.”

Simon looked back at him quickly, surprised, then turned to face the windshield again, the boy in the front seat. Nothing changes.

They had left the inner city and were passing the sprawling fields of garden allotments, each with its own hut, the dachas of the people.

“I thought the photographer was supposed to come next week,” Jo said.

“Monday,” Simon said.

“Monday?”

Simon turned. “I ran into him at the bar last night. At the National.”

“At the National,” Frank repeated, looking steadily at him.

“Mm. You know, the way you run into people.” Talking in code now, eyes on each other, the doubling effect complete. One person. “He’d like to get it done while we can.”

Frank nodded, accepting this.

“There’s no hurry,” Jo said. “I’d like Ludmilla to give it a good clean before—”

“Nobody’ll know the difference,” Frank said. “We’re not supposed to be grand. Like anybody else.”

“I told him ten,” Simon said to Jo. “Sorry, I should have checked. But he was so anxious—”

But Joanna had already moved on, bowing to the inevitable.

“So it’s the stringer for Look,” Frank said, asking something else. “Interesting.”

“What is?” Joanna said.

“Nothing. The foreign press. How many there are.”

“My hair will be a mess.”

Frank smiled at this. “No it won’t.”

They stopped at a farm stand in the village, a piece of tolerated capitalism since the farms were near the Service compound. At a signal from Frank, Simon got out to stretch his legs, leaving Boris sitting behind the wheel.

“Why the hurry?” Frank said quietly. “He’s the Agency contact?”

“He says he has a package to deliver. Papers. Maybe exit visas. They didn’t tell him what.”

“Exit visas? That’s not how we’re leaving,” Frank said, annoyed. “The last thing you want lying around. How do you explain that?”

“Maybe it’s something else.”

“I didn’t ask for—” He caught himself. “Well, never mind. Careful around Boris on Monday. You don’t think he notices, but he does.”

“He say anything about yesterday?”

Frank shook his head. “Not yet. No idea.” He looked up. “It’s why I thought we’d hurry our trip along. They’re bound to find him. Nothing to connect us, but you never know how people are going to react. You can plan everything, but there’s always an X factor. So let’s get ahead of it.”

“Will you know Monday? Time. Place. Look will be there. Easy to pass the—”

“No. Only to DiAngelis. Use Look to get to him, that’s all. I may know Monday. Depends on tonight.”

It was real country now, stands of birch and pine, fields lined with windbreaks, dark, thick patches of old-growth forest. They passed through a security checkpoint at a manned gate.

“It’s fenced,” Simon said.

“The perimeter. You’re not aware of it when you’re inside. They patrol at night.”

A weekend in the country.

The road split off in several directions, like veins, no signs, no visible houses, each dacha tucked away in the trees by itself, the fence and guards invisible. They followed the main compound road for a mile or so, then turned onto a dirt road that twisted through woods dense with undergrowth, a fairy tale track, then another turn onto a narrower road. Simon had expected a cottage, but the dacha was a substantial two-story house, surrounded by trees, with a broad open lawn in front and garden on the side. The step-up porch and gables were trimmed with gingerbread, like the houses he remembered on the Vineyard, Oak Bluffs, with their elaborate painted scrollwork.

“Smell the lilac,” Joanna said. “The rain brings it out.”

The bushes, some tall as trees, grew alongside the house, their heady perfume another memory of home. For a moment Simon felt that they had left Russia, even gone back in time, all of them who they had been.

They turned into the driveway to find another car already there, two men leaning against it, smoking.

“They’re early,” Frank said, recognizing them. “Well, so much the better.”

They were stocky, their raincoats stretched across their shoulders, hair cropped as short as Boris’s. They tossed their cigarettes when Frank’s car pulled in, but didn’t stand up, just watched sullenly, still slouching, like thugs. But what did DiAngelis look like in his raincoat? Not a gentleman’s business. Frank greeted them and led them up to the house without introducing them. Joanna watched them go up, heavy military clomps.

“God help us. Thomas Cook,” she said, a wry shrug to Simon.

Inside the house was country shabby, comfortable chairs that didn’t match and a fraying carpet, bookshelves everywhere, like the flat in Moscow. An old woman, dressed out of Tolstoy, was in the kitchen already starting the soup. Joanna greeted her in Russian, more halting than Frank’s but evidently understood since the old woman smiled back.

“You’re in here,” Joanna said, opening a door and switching on a light. “It’s a little lumpy, but they all are. Furniture here— Why don’t you unpack and then meet me outside. We’ll have a walk while it’s still light. They’ll be hours.” She nodded to a closed door. “With their timetables. And whatever else—” She stopped, hearing herself, and looked at Simon, then started down the hall. The way she’d always lived, not knowing.

When he came out she was picking lilacs, getting sprinkled by the wet overhead branches.

“Good. You found the boots.”

“Where’s the car?” he said.

“Boris took it. He has a place on the other side of the village. He’ll drive us back Sunday.”

“So we’re on our own?”

“Unless they’ve wired the trees.” She nodded. “On our own. Let me put these inside, then we can get some mushrooms.”

“You really know the difference? Between the poisonous ones and—”

She smiled. “No. I just pick one kind—I know they’re safe—and leave everything else. I don’t even like mushrooms, but it’s a good excuse to get out. They all do it. You’ll see them in the woods with their Little Red Riding Hood baskets. Just let me put these—”

But before she could go up there was a barking, then a dog racing across the lawn.

“Pani,” a voice called.

“Marzena,” Jo said, her voice neutral.

“Who?”

“Perry Soames’s wife. Polish. They met—well, I don’t know how they met, actually. Marzena,” she called out.

A woman in boots came around from the garden side, her blond hair protected from the damp by a headscarf.

“Pani, bad girl,” she said to the dog, indulgent, then made a clicking sound which brought the dog over. “She gets excited. Oh, look at the lilacs. I love lilacs,” she said, drawing out the l’s, an exaggerated accent that reminded Simon of the Gabor sisters. “For tomorrow?”

“Yes. You’re early,” Jo said, looking at her wristwatch, a tease.

“I don’t mean to bother—is Frank here?”

“He’s meeting with some people. From the office.”

“Oh,” Marzena said, the code for off-limits. “It’s my icebox. That’s right, icebox? Kaput. I don’t know why. And you know how handy he is.”

“Shall I tell him to walk over when he’s through?”

Simon looked up, hearing something new in her voice.

“If it’s not too late. I don’t mean to bother—” She glanced toward Simon, curious, waiting to be introduced.

“I’m sorry,” Joanna said. “Frank’s brother. Simon.”

“His brother,” she said, a theatrical delight. “Yes, I see it. Now that I look.” And then, to Simon’s surprise, she took off her scarf, shaking out her yellow hair, a kind of flirtation, as if she wanted him to notice her as a woman.

“Marzena, you knew he was coming,” Joanna said, a gentle poke.

“Yes, but you know how I forget things.” A habit meant to be charming. “So. I’m happy to meet you, Frank’s brother.” She dipped her head. “I want to hear everything. How he was, as a little boy. But tomorrow—you must have so much to do,” she said to Joanna. “I didn’t mean—it was just the icebox.”

“I’ll send the handyman over,” Joanna said.

“Can I bring anything to lunch?”

“No, I’ve got Eva to help. Just come.”

“It’s always so well organized here,” Marzena said to Simon, who was looking at her more carefully now. A pretty woman who thought herself a beauty, her face always tilted toward the light, a harmless vanity. Her eyes were lively, the way Joanna’s had been when she danced, and he saw that for Marzena the world was still a ballroom, filled with partners to please. “Were you good friends as boys?” she said. Small talk, just to get a response.

“Yes,” he said. “Best friends.”

“So you know all his secrets,” she said.

“Not anymore.”

“No,” she said, an awkward moment.

Simon bent down to pat the dog, the first he could remember seeing in Russia. But there must be dogs everywhere. Were there breeders? Kennel clubs? The whole pet world that had grown up around them at home? Or had they barely survived the war, a time too hungry for pets. Just a small moment, petting a dog, and he realized again how little he knew.

“Look how she is with you. You can tell a lot about a man from the dogs, how they are with you.” Her eyes on Simon, actively flirting now.

“She must miss Perry,” Joanna said.

Marzena nodded, suddenly fighting back tears, her voice shifting down. “It’s so sad to see. She sits by his chair. Waiting. But of course he doesn’t come.”

“Marzena’s husband,” Joanna said, explaining. “He died a few weeks—”

“I can’t believe it either. I’m like Pani. I look at his chair. Waiting.”

“I’m sorry,” Simon said automatically.

“It’s one thing if you’re old. You expect such things. But so young— At first you can’t stand it,” Marzena said. “But do you know what helps? The dog. After it happened, I didn’t want to get out of bed. But Pani has to be fed. Go for walks. So you get up and you go on. And time passes. Well, you have things to do. You’ll mention it to Frank? The icebox? But only if it’s not too late. He’s always such a good friend to us,” she said to Simon. “Anything to help. Come, Pani.” She made a clicking sound.

Joanna, hands still full of lilacs, watched her go. “Always such a good friend,” she said in Marzena’s accent. “God.” She glanced at her wristwatch. “How about a drink? It’s not too early.”

“What about the mushrooms?”

“They’ll keep.” She looked over at him. “Just one.”

She came back with two small glasses of vodka, giving one to him.

“You know how handy he is.” Marzena’s voice again. “She probably pulled the plug out.” She tossed back the drink. “Bottle blonde.”

“You don’t like her?”

“Ha,” she said, swallowing the drink.

“Then why ask her for lunch?”

“They live in the next dacha over. We’re friends. We’re supposed to be friends,” she corrected herself. “Well, Frank is.” She looked at the Service car in the driveway, then took the glasses and left them on the steps. “Come on.”

They started across the lawn toward the trees, opposite the way Marzena had gone.

“He shot himself, didn’t he? The husband,” Simon said.

“Unless she shot him. Or Frank shot him.”

“What?”

“Not that he had to shoot him. Maybe it was just enough, if he knew.”

“Knew what?”

Joanna waved a hand in front of her face, shooing this away. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “Nothing.”

They had passed into a grove of birches, the ground still wet from the rain.

“Knew what?”

“Nothing,” she said again and then her shoulders were shaking, head down, hiding tears.

“Jo,” he said, his hand on her arm. “For God’s sake—”

“Sorry,” she said, taking a breath, controlling her shaking. “Do you have—?” She reached out for a handkerchief.

He handed her one, then watched her wipe her eyes, blow her nose. “So stupid,” she said, then started shaking again.

He put his arms around her, drawing her head against his shoulder. “Shh,” he said, smelling her, the damp leaves, feeling her against him. “It’s all right.”

She stayed there for a second, then slowly pulled away, blowing her nose again. “Is it? I thought it wasn’t.”

“What’s wrong?”

She looked up at him. “Well, why shouldn’t you know? You know everything else.” Her voice steadier, over it. “You don’t want to watch the show tomorrow without a playbill. The little glances that nobody else is supposed to see. The way she looks at him. Then his jokes so everything seems normal. Send him over to fix my fridge. Send him over. Just like that. Get one in before dinner. It’s quite a show. And me? Blind, not a clue. Why would I suspect a thing? Everyone being so clever. But that’s what he’s good at, isn’t it?” She stopped, then looked down. “But you never think he’d do it to you. You think it’s different.”

“I don’t believe it.”

She smiled, a halfhearted curve of her mouth. “Still the good angel.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I do. Give me some credit.”

“He loves you. He’d do anything for you.” Risk everything, live in hiding.

She brushed her hair back. “Never mind. Nothing like a good cry once in a while. I suppose I look a mess,” she said, pushing at her cheeks. “The funny thing is, I think it’s over. After Perry died—a little unseemly. Even for Frank. Not that it stops her. Come fix my fridge. When all she has to do is pick up the phone. Anything to get him over there. Like before.”

“What do you mean?”

“He was always over there.”

“Maybe he went to see the husband.”

“Why? To talk physics? What would Perry have to say to Frank?”

He heard Frank’s voice at Novodevichy. He drank, he talked. I made notes.

“Of course, you can’t help but wonder. Why he did it. Maybe he found out. Then how do you live with that? So Frank’s not running over anymore.”

“Maybe you’re imagining things.”

She shrugged. “Watch tomorrow. Then you tell me.”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“What’s that like? When it doesn’t mean anything?” She wiped her eyes again, then cheeks. “So unfair. Men just look the way they look. We have to—” She glanced up. “You know that song? Pick yourself up. Dust yourself off. I used to think that was me. But it keeps getting harder. Each time—knocks something out of you. I thought after Richie—” She gave back the handkerchief. “Thanks. I shouldn’t have— You won’t say anything to Frank. Promise?”

“He doesn’t know?”

“That I know?” She shook her head. “My secret, for a change. Everybody else has one, why not me? Watch me tomorrow. Not a clue. What would be the point? We’d just argue and how would that end? I don’t have a lot of options here. Or haven’t you noticed.”

But you will, he wanted to say. A fresh start, a whole new life. With Frank? In hiding too? What Frank assumed. But the Service wouldn’t care about her. Just Frank, the defector. What would happen if she did have options? Why hadn’t he told her?

“There, how do I look?” she said. “Let’s go give the comrades a drink. Funny, coming all this way just to go over timetables.”

“Jo—”

She put her hand on his arm. “I’m okay. Really. Sometimes it’s nice to have a shoulder, though.”

He smiled, not knowing what else to say. “Any time.”

“But nothing to Frank. I know how you are. But not this. My secret.”

“What if you’re wrong?”

She raised an eyebrow, dismissing this. “Yes, what if.”

As they walked across the lawn, they could see Frank saying good-bye to the visitors, leaning into the car window for a final word, then waving them off.

“I thought you’d be hours,” Joanna said.

“No, we’re all set. I told them the Astoria in Leningrad. You liked it the last time.”

“Marzena was here,” Joanna said, her voice flat.

“Already?”

“Her fridge is on the blink or something. And would you take a look.”

“Why doesn’t she just call the gate? Send a maintenance—”

“But you’re right here. I said you might be tied up, so you have an out.”

“No, she’ll just come back. Want to take a walk?” he said to Simon. “It’s not far. Have a cigar before dinner.” He pulled one out of his breast pocket. “Cuban.” An enticement. “The boys brought some.”

Simon had been watching them, an innocent volley, neither giving anything away, but now Frank’s eyes were more insistent. Come with me.

“You’d better put on some boots. It’s wet,” Joanna said, turning to go, done with it.

They took the path past the garden, through trees and then a small clearing, no other houses in sight.

“We have the go-ahead for Wednesday. That give you enough time to wrap up the book?”

“Wednesday,” Simon said.

“I moved the time up. Just in case,” he said, looking at Simon, not saying more. “We’re on the night train. The Red Arrow.” He took a puff on the cigar. “Always popular with foreign visitors. They like the cover, by the way. I knew they would. What would I be doing poking around the Baltics by myself? Now the Agency won’t suspect—”

“But they know.”

“Stay on our side of the board. The Service operation.”

“Which is what, exactly? You never say.”

“It’s better to—” He stopped, catching Simon’s look.

“I think I’m entitled to know. Now.”

Frank nodded. “The Agency’s been in touch with a dissident group. Now they’re coming to make contact. And we’ll be there.”

“Are they?”

“Of course not. They’re coming to get me,” he said, explaining something to a child. “There is no Agency operation. Except the one I planned. A typical operation, like the ones I used to run, the same details, so it’s plausible. Everything has to be plausible. We round up the group, then we intercept the boat. And something else happens. The last minute, when it’s too late.”

“On the boat.”

“Right.”

“From Leningrad.”

“No, we’re tourists in Leningrad. What we want the Agency to think.” He looked at Simon. “If they were watching. Which we want the Service to think. Keep the board straight. Then Tallinn, next stop, then Riga. But we never get to Riga. Just the boat in Tallinn.”

“Why Tallinn?”

“I know the Service chief there. He’s like Pirie, thinks he’s God’s gift and doesn’t know his ass from his elbow. He’ll go along with anything he thinks the Service wants. The station chief in Leningrad is good. He might have a question or two. We can’t risk that. And it’s further away from international waters. The Agency wouldn’t dream of trying to make contact near Leningrad. But Estonia—”

“It’s still the Soviet Union.”

“But they don’t think so, bless them. You know how the Agency is about that. Still fighting the good fight.”

Simon glanced over at him. Almost a hum in his voice.

“Besides, there really is a group of dissidents in Tallinn. Estonian nationalists. Everything plausible, remember?”

“Like the Latvians,” Simon said, half to himself. He looked up. “What happens to them?”

“What’s going to happen to them anyway. But this way it works for us.”

“Jesus, Frank—” Simon said, his stomach turning.

“If it’s not me, it’ll be someone else. The Service knows about them. They really are enemies of the state.”

“This state.”

“That’s right. My last job for the Service.” He turned. “It buys us out, Jimbo. We’re in this. They’re going to find Gareth. We don’t have time to change plans now. Just get out. Don’t worry, you won’t have anything to do with the Estonians. Your hands are clean.”

Simon looked down at them, not just hands in a metaphor. Pushing against his windpipe.

“Why don’t I leave now then? Tomorrow. Just go. You don’t need me anymore.”

Frank stopped, alarmed. “You try to leave now, it throws a red flag before the play starts. The Service already approved the trip. Any change— You’re the cover. For the Agency.”

“But the Agency—”

“Stay on our side of the board. You make everything plausible. Besides, I need you to take Jo out.”

“What?”

“The boat’s a Service operation. Armed. I’m supposed to be bringing the Agency in. So how would I explain either of you? You’re going to take the ferry to Helsinki. I have it all timed. All planned.” He dropped the cigar and put his hand on Simon’s shoulder. “One more meeting with DiAngelis. We’re almost there.”

Marzena’s dacha was more modest than Frank’s, a three-room cottage with only tarred shingles for insulation, a summer place. The problem with the refrigerator turned out to be a blown fuse, easily fixed. Simon looked for some trace of guile, the fridge an excuse to see Frank, but there was nothing but wide-eyed gratitude, electrical switches a genuine mystery. They were familiar with each other, neighbors, no more. Or maybe it was because he was there, a chaperone. Frank’s idea.

The talk over the thank-you drink was idle, about nothing, so Simon watched the conversation in their faces, the way he used to watch Diana and her men, waiting for the second he wasn’t supposed to see. A chance encounter at a restaurant, a party, and then a look between them and Simon would know. He used to wonder how it had started, what signal. A glance? A shift in the air? What had they said? A kind of sexual recruitment, maybe the way Frank had been recruited to the Party, with promises.

But he saw none of that here, not even the studied politeness Diana used to cover things, giving herself away by not looking at all. Instead Frank seemed amused by her, by the charm in her vanity, but also wary, someone unpredictable. Then what had Jo seen? Her own fears, maybe. A look misinterpreted. Or something real, now part of the past. He looked over at Marzena, suddenly feeling an odd sympathy for the left behind. Whatever she had been, she wasn’t part of the plan. Not even a good-bye.

“You see how she is,” she said to Simon, looking at the dog, curled up next to the chair by the stove. “Always waiting. It makes me so sad to see it.”

“What about you? How are you doing?” Frank said.

“Ouf. How would I be? Sometimes like Pani, sometimes— It’s something new, to be alone like this. You hear sounds at night and then, no sleep.”

“You’re safe here. It’s a Service compound.”

“And he was safe? Perry?”

“Marzena—”

“Yes, I know, you already told me. Foolish. But maybe not so foolish. I don’t believe he would do that to himself. To me. They sent him into exile. So why not—”

“Exile. Half of Russia wants a residence permit for Moscow. A dacha.”

“Where he can’t work. For him, exile. They didn’t trust him. And you know, when they don’t trust you— So why not? Why foolish?”

“He should never have signed the letter.”

“Oh, a letter,” she said, waving her hand, dismissive. “Such a serious thing. To ask for world peace. Don’t you want world peace?” she said to Simon.

“Everybody does,” Frank said. “But they don’t send letters to international congresses. I know he meant well but it was—awkward. For the Party.”

“So he has to leave Arzamas. Why not just shoot him there?”

“Marzena.”

“And now what? Do they take back the flat? This house? How do I live? I’m afraid.”

“You’re Perry’s widow. The Service always looks after its own. Especially if—”

“He’s famous. Yes, you told me.” She turned to Simon. “You know, when we met, I had no idea he was famous. A nice man. Quiet. How would I know? Then I saw the photographs. When he arrived, the reception. Like a hero. The meeting with Fuchs. You know, they were both at Los Alamos and they never knew each other? So there was a laugh about that, how careful the Service was, they didn’t even know each other. And then what? The letter. Other scientists too, not just him. End the arms race. Not disloyal, a good Communist. Always. And poof.” She waved her arm again. “No clearance. No work. Politically unreliable. Perry, who gave them everything. And no one talks to us. Just you,” she said to Frank. “The others run away, like mice. So he sits here. No more letters. No more anything. And then, when everybody forgets—no one looking—they do it. Tell me I’m wrong,” she said to Frank, suddenly fierce.

“You’re wrong,” he said calmly. “The Service doesn’t work that way. Stop. You’ll make yourself—”

“Crazy. Yes, I feel crazy sometimes. What if I’m right? Then I’m next?”

“You’re not right,” Frank said, still calm.

“Then what was it?” she said, a catch in her voice, real pain. “How could he do it?”

Frank said nothing, letting the air settle, then put his empty glass on the table. “We have to be going,” he said. “You’ll be all right? No more appliances to fix?”

An involuntary smile. “How can you laugh?”

“I’m not laughing. It’s hard. I know.”

She nodded, her face softer, as if she had been stroked. “Oh, and now you’re worried, how will she be tomorrow? With people. The first time since—”

“I’m not worried.”

“No? I think Joanna is. If I ruin her party.” She looked up. “But I won’t.” She put her hand on Simon. “You’ll talk to me, won’t you? Tell me about America. You know, Perry always liked it there. He said he wished I could see it.”

Simon looked at her, at a loss.

“Of course, not possible.” She glanced over at Frank. “You really think it will be all right, about the flat?”

“Yes.”

She nodded. “Don’t worry, tomorrow. I won’t say anything in front of the others. My foolishness. It’s different with you. Who’s coming?”

“The Rubins.”

She smiled, the hint of a giggle.

“What?”

“All spies.” She touched Simon’s arm. “Except you. Yes? Everybody but you.”

They went back a different way, through woods so thick they had to walk single file.

“She liked you,” Frank said, his teasing voice. “Better watch out. She’s already buried two.”

Simon looked up at the back of Frank’s head, surprised at his tone.

“She was married before?”

“That’s why she was at Arzamas. A Polish physicist. Radiation poisoning. And there was Perry. He never had a chance.”

“Is it true what she said? They fired him for signing a letter?”

“It wasn’t just any letter. Scientists everywhere. Put an end to weapon research. As if it was up to them. He was lucky. In the old days he would have been shot.”

“But he wasn’t,” Simon said, a question.

Frank shook his head. “That’s just Marzena’s way of explaining it to herself. If the Service did it, then he didn’t.”

“Why did he?”

Frank was silent for a minute. “I don’t know,” he said finally. “Do we ever? But it wasn’t the Service. He had no access, not after he left. He wasn’t going to make any trouble. Besides, the atomic spies—there’s a certain obligation. They’re heroes here. Look at the Rubins. She was just a courier and they get a big apartment on Gorky Street. Watch this branch.”

Simon ducked.

“If I had to guess,” Frank said, “I’d say when he stopped working—that was the end of things for him. That’s where he lived, not the real world. Signing letters, for Christ’s sake. What did he think would happen?”

“You liked him.”

Frank turned. “They’re just down the road, so we saw a lot of them. He had the time and nobody to talk to. Except Marzena, but that gets to be a little one-note.”

Simon looked at him. He talked. I made notes.

“And what does she do now?” Simon said. Frightened by night sounds.

“Oh, the Service will take care of her. She won’t have to worry. Now what?” he said, stopping at the edge of the woods, Boris’s car back in the driveway.

Joanna, picking something in the garden, spotted them and ran over.

“Boris is here. He’s staying the night,” she said, visibly upset.

“What?”

“He’s worried that something might—”

“Might what? What’s wrong?”

“Gareth. He’s been killed. It’s awful. Another one, so soon after Perry, so they’re worried—”

“Gareth?” Frank said, his tone flawless, shocked.

Simon blinked, saying nothing.

“He’s been killed,” Joanna said again. “Murdered.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. Boris will tell you. He just said murdered. He wants to make sure you’re—you don’t think it’s true, do you, that it has anything to do with Perry? That somebody—”

“No. I don’t know. Where is he?”

“Inside. I didn’t know what to say. About his staying.”

“Let me talk to him. Gareth?” he said again, trying to absorb it.

“I know and we just saw him a few days ago,” Jo said. “Oh, there’s Eva. I’d better say good-bye.”

Boris had come out on the porch and waved in their direction.

“Careful,” Frank said, his voice low. “He’ll say he’s here to protect me.”

“Isn’t he?”

“Mm. Just be careful.”

“Too bad Perry didn’t—” Simon stopped. “Why didn’t he have a Boris?”

“He did, for a while,” Frank said, turning toward the porch.

Simon looked up at Boris again, feeling a click in his head, a camera shutter opening. No need when Perry had Frank, a friend, not a babysitter. Much more effective. Someone he could talk to. Did he suspect? He talked. I made notes. And how many of them now would go to DiAngelis? The full Service file? Or just enough to clinch the deal, a few names, the file a protected asset. Assuming there was anything in it. Years since Arzamas, his science out of date, his letter writing behind him. And talking to his wife, even better, something a Boris couldn’t have done. The family friend. Unless she was listening too, provided by the Service, another Sergei. Everybody listening. Careful what you say. Boris was coming down the stairs, relieved to see them.

“What’s this about your staying the night?” Frank said. “Gareth’s dead?” Still pitch-perfect.

“The office thinks it’s safer, until they know. Two Western agents, so soon. So maybe another.”

“They think they’re connected? How?”

“I don’t know. A precaution only.”

“Do you think they are?”

“Me? No. The Englishman—” He glanced quickly at Simon, flustered. “A crime of sex.”

“God,” Frank said. “Gareth. What did he do? Pick up someone behind the Metropol? It wasn’t Sergei, was it?”

“They don’t know,” Boris said, embarrassed again. “Maybe a quarrel. Maybe a stranger. Not the Metropol. You know where?”

Frank grunted no.

“Novodevichy Cemetery.”

“Novodevichy?” Frank said, jarred. “When was this?”

“The time is uncertain. Maybe yesterday. Maybe before.”

“You mean he could have been lying there dead while we were—? What in God’s name was he doing there?”

“He lives nearby. It would be a convenient place to meet somebody.”

“What if we’d seen him?” Frank said, still unsettled. “Was he just—lying there? On some grave?”

“The caretaker’s shed.”

“God. To go like that,” Frank said. “So—sordid.”

“Unless arranged. To give that appearance.”

“Is that what they think?”

Boris shrugged. “They’re investigating.”

“Well, of course you’re always welcome to stay,” Frank said, as if it were simply a weekend invitation. “We’ve put Simon in the guest room, but there’s the back bedroom. Would that be okay? Jo, can we fix that up for Boris?”

“Of course,” she said, joining them. “Poor Gareth. We just saw him.”

“Yes?” Boris said.

“At the Aragvi. You were there. In his cups. As usual. Why would anyone want to kill Gareth. He wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

Simon glanced at her, saying nothing.

“It’s crazy,” she said. “Someone going around killing— What for? I mean, they’re not even agents anymore.”

“Not for us. But maybe one for them,” Boris said quietly.

“What do you mean?”

“A plant. All along.”

Frank looked over at him. “Elizaveta,” he said.

Boris nodded.

“She’s back? Christ.”

Another nod. “They brought her in. She always said—”

“Elizaveta?” Simon said, at sea.

Boris glanced over, waiting for Frank’s lead to go on. Service business.

“She’s our Torquemada. The foreign agents. She thinks we’re all really double agents, or why else would we have come? She used to make life hell for everybody. Donald couldn’t work for years. Guy—well, you can imagine. Files and more files. Until they pensioned her out. I thought.” This to Boris.

“A special assignment. When she heard about the English—”

“But not Perry,” Joanna said.

“No, but an English. She always said the English would do this.”

“She thought the Americans were too dumb,” Frank said, explaining. “New to the game. But the Brits. She thinks they think the way she does. So now what?” he said to Boris. “Gareth gets killed and who did it?”

“The double agent. Gareth found out.”

“Gareth? She really is batty, you know.”

Boris shrugged, noncommittal.

“And Perry knew too?”

“Maybe not connected,” Boris said.

“So, theory one,” Frank said, holding up a finger. “Somebody’s bumping us all off, one by one. For reasons—well, we don’t know. Maybe he just doesn’t like us. Theory two, Gareth found out there was a double agent and threatened to expose him. Presumably another Brit. Elizaveta would be disappointed otherwise. All those years chasing MI6 and now, snap. If she gets him. And three, Perry—well a tragedy, but it happens. And Gareth got involved with a rough customer who beat him to death, or whatever he did. Which happened a few weeks later. So which makes the most sense? But instead we get old Elizaveta back, making trouble for everybody.” He made an exaggerated sigh. “Let’s hope we find out what happened before she makes a real mess. Come on, Boris, let’s have some soup,” he said, putting his arm around Boris’s shoulder. “The Service will get through this too.”

Simon watched them head for the stairs, Frank as smooth as a dancer, every step effortless. The way he’d always been, knowing what to do. For a second Simon felt a rush of the old admiration, following behind, Frank making everything all right. Boris’s friend.

“And now Boris for dinner,” Joanna said.

But Frank made that all right too, never mentioning Gareth, instead getting Boris to tell one of his stories about the war, when the Germans had Moscow practically in sight. Simon listened quietly, imagining the evenings with Perry and Marzena, the stories from Arzamas, how the letter started, names. I made notes. When Jo cleared the dishes, he went out on the porch for a smoke, just to get away, his chest tight. There were still a few streaks of light in the sky, the way it had looked that first night at the airport, before everything.

“You okay?” Frank said, coming out.

Simon nodded. “I keep thinking I’ll say the wrong thing.”

“You won’t. Just keep your head. Nobody’s looking at you.”

“Or you.”

“Yet. It’s a bad break, Elizaveta. Now they won’t bury it, they’ll investigate. Most of them are like Boris—they don’t want to know, just get him in the ground. But she’ll want a hunt, every foreigner.”

“You’ve been here twelve years. You’re—”

“Foreign. It’s something primal with them. And she’s the worst. She held up my security clearance for two years.”

“Yours?”

“And she’s still not sure.” He stopped, then smiled to himself. “God, I’d love to see her face. When she hears. Well, let’s hope she has her hands full with the Brits. At least until Wednesday. And I’m senior. She’ll have to work her way up to me. We should be all right.”

“Should be.”

“Should be. She prides herself on being thorough. About nothing. Ah, Boris.” He turned toward the door. “Here, have one of these. Not those Dymoks. They’ll kill you.”

“Good Russian cigarette.” He stepped onto the porch, taking a puff of his. “Still light. In Leningrad, the white nights. I have never seen, but everyone likes.”

“Why don’t you come too?”

“No. Is already arranged. With Service people there. Maybe I go to Sochi.”

Frank laughed. “And get a tan? I can’t see you just lying on the beach.”

“I like the sun. Good for the health. Comrade Burgess goes there. Well, not now. I think Elizaveta will start with him, no?”

“I suppose he was the closest to Gareth.”

“But not for sex,” Boris said, uncomfortable.

“No, I don’t think so. Anyway, not since Sergei.”

Boris nodded. “Like a marriage. So why Novodevichy? To meet someone else? Sergei says no. He wouldn’t.” Sergei already questioned.

“Sergei wouldn’t know.”

“Possible,” Boris said, thinking about it.

“And Gareth— We won’t speak ill of the dead, but loyalty wasn’t exactly his strong suit.”

“He was loyal to the Party,” Boris said simply, another puzzle piece.

“Well, that’s a different kind of marriage.”

Boris looked up. “For life.” All that mattered.

They heard the phone ring and Joanna answering it. No one said anything, listening, apprehensive, the hour late. A call from the Lubyanka? Marzena hearing night sounds? They all turned when Jo came to the porch.

“It was Hannah. They want to bring Ian. They have him for the weekend apparently. I could hardly say no. We’ll just set another place.”

“The more the merrier,” Frank said, his shoulders relaxing.

Simon looked at him, a silent Who?

“Ian McAulife. You’ve probably never heard of him. No headlines, like Guy and Donald. But probably a hell of a lot more useful. Right under their noses at Harwell. For years,” he said, a trace of Service pride in his tone.

But Boris had turned rigid, alert to something in the air. “An English,” he said, and Simon could see that it had already begun, the drawing away from each other, the Service turning on itself, not wanting to be caught in the conspiracy in Elizaveta’s head. What would happen after Wednesday, a real crisis? The double agent no one suspected. He looked over at Boris, smoking his Russian cigarette. Maybe in Sochi when everything blew up, the defection still on his watch. Why hadn’t he seen it? Had he been part of it? Questions, while the Service tore itself apart. He’d be punished somehow, knee-jerk Service justice, the wheels as indifferent as he’d been, a political officer at the front, taking no prisoners. Simon looked away, another improbable moment, for a second on the other side of the board, worrying about an officer of the KGB.

He had laughed at Marzena, but in fact there were night sounds, sudden animal rustlings in the woods, a car engine in the distance. Going where at this hour? He looked at his watch, the barely visible dial. Two. Now a tinkling sound, ice in a glass. A thin strip of light under the door. Someone still up. Not Boris, who never used ice. Not Frank, who’d claimed exhaustion, the evening mostly spent on the phone to the office, more details.

Simon got out of bed and put on his robe, then opened the door a crack, gently, trying not to make noise. Joanna was on the couch, hunched forward over the coffee table, glass in one hand, turning pages with the other. Not a book, stiff paper, a photo album. Stopping for a minute, hand hovering over the page, staring, taking a drink without looking, the ice tinkling again, no louder than one of the insects outside. A cone of light from the small end table lamp, the rest of the room dark. Simon stood peering out, not moving. How long had she been out here—in her nightgown, unable to sleep, waiting for the house to quiet, to be alone. A girl surrounded by people, hair falling back. Now she put down the glass and folded her arms across her chest, pitching forward, rocking a little, her face turned so that he had to imagine tears, the sobs just twitches in her shoulders. Back and forth, holding herself, a silent keening. Then a loosening, a letting go, slumping back against the couch and lying on her side, still no sound. Simon waited, not wanting to intrude. Something he shouldn’t have seen. Another few minutes, no movement on the couch. But then he noticed the smoke, a thin stream rising from the ashtray, the cigarette still going.

He tiptoed out into the room. Joanna’s eyes were closed, her breathing even. Just put the cigarette out and go. On the table, next to the vodka bottle, the album was still open. Simon looked down. Family pictures, a couple with a child, the same front porch just outside. Smiles. A winter scene, Richie in a snowsuit on a sled, Frank in a fur hat pulling him. Blowing candles on a birthday cake. The life they used to have, not mentioned in the book, not talked about. He glanced at the couch, Joanna still sleeping, then reached down and turned a page. The dacha lawn, Richie just a toddler, the three of them together. Richie playing with her hair, pulling her head back, Joanna laughing.

He turned to the couch. She had pulled one arm up to her chest and now it moved with her breathing, her hair spread out behind her on the couch pillow. The way he remembered it. She hadn’t known then either, that he’d watched her sleeping, unable to move, afraid to wake her, break the spell of their good luck. Outside the soft Virginia countryside, wet with early morning, open, not dark woods behind a patrolled fence. The memory of it so strong that he felt he was living it now, could reach down and brush the hair from the side of her face, kiss her ear, tell her it was time to get up. Then get back into bed to watch the light come through the window, head next to hers.

She stirred for a second, as if she could feel him looking, then turned her head on the pillow, her face drawn, not the girl in Virginia, a different sleep, tormented by old pictures. Not Joanna at all, lazy with sex, someone else, worn out, listened to and watched so that even grief had to be muffled by running taps, the only private thing left. He stood, rooted, seeing the different face, not the memory anymore, the face she had.

He almost jumped when he felt the movement behind him. Frank put a finger to his lips, shh, then leaned down and rubbed out the cigarette. He took the album and closed it, shoulders slumped, something he’d done before, then looked up at Simon, still not speaking. He raised a finger to his lips again, then picked up the afghan lying on the arm of the couch and spread it over her lightly, so the touch of the fabric wouldn’t wake her. How many nights had he done this? Marriage was private. Frank had drawn a veil over theirs with an afghan. What were they to each other now? How could anyone know? People thought he and Diana were happy.

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

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

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

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

“No. Frank,” Joanna said.

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

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

“Who’s saying?” Frank said.

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

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

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

Boris lifted his head at this.

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

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

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

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

“Some, I guess,” Simon said.

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

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

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

“No,” Ian said, sipping some wine.

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

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

“It’s the same,” Boris said.

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

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

“Oh, Saul.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another awkward silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But why pick on me?” Ian said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Frank,” Hannah said, disapproving.

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

The men stood, everyone saying hello.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another awkward silence.

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

“There was a funeral,” Marzena said.

“No, I meant for Gareth.”

“Gareth?”

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

“Killed? Like Perry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Saul.”

“It’s not connected,” Boris said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marzena.”

“Yes, it’s true. The soul.”

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

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

“He told me.”

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

“Not me,” Marzena said, almost pouting.

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

“I doubt it.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sometimes.”

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

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

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

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

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

“She never said that.”

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

“I can believe that,” Hannah said.

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

“That’s not—”

“And the next thing you know, he’s valedictorian. The smart one,” he said, nodding, case closed.

“And I always thought that was you,” Joanna said drily.

Frank raised his glass to her. “Once in a while. Lucky mostly, though. But weren’t we all?” he said, including the Rubins. “Nobody suspected anything in those days. You could waltz out of the Agency at lunch with a bunch of papers and nobody thought twice. Quick copy and back in the file the same afternoon. Imagine trying that now.”

“It was different in the field,” Saul said. “The Bureau had guys everywhere. And if you were caught, you were caught. They gave the Rosenbergs the chair. You don’t want to forget that.”

“You couldn’t take anything out of Harwell,” Ian said suddenly. “Not a scrap.”

“So how did you—?” Frank said.

“I memorized it.”

“Arzamas was like that,” Marzena said. “Someone always watching. But they couldn’t watch up here.” She tapped the side of her head.

“But it wouldn’t matter,” Ian said. “Nobody’s trying to get anything out here.”

“No, that’s right,” Marzena said quickly, a confused backpedaling.

“There’s never been a leak. Not from there. Harwell either, except for me. You know, you do something for years, you’d think you’d build up a little credit. Like something in the bank. But they never trust you. Not just Elizaveta. How can they not trust us? After everything?”

No one answered, fidgeting, uncomfortable.

“It’s important to be careful,” Boris said finally. “All loyal Soviets.” He spread his hand to take in the table. “But it’s always possible—just one. Think how serious that would be.”

“You think any of us would betray the Party?” Ian said.

Why not? Simon wanted to say. You’ve already betrayed once, everything you knew.

“Not you,” Marzena said, patting his hand, a side glance to Frank. “No one would think that.”

“It’s important to be careful,” Boris said again.

Everyone looked away, not wanting to meet his eye, used to it now, being suspect, watched. Would Boris file a report? Someone else? Simon looked around the table, trying to remember what he’d said, how it would look on a typed page. But he hadn’t said anything. Everything was still safe inside, like Ian’s memorized secrets, the sound of Gareth gasping for air.

“Fine talk for a party,” Joanna said. “Who wants some more wine?” Filling her own glass.

“Are your parents still living?” Hannah said to Simon, a polite afternoon tea question.

“My father.”

“Ah. Well, maybe he’ll come too now. After you tell him it’s not so terrible.”

“No. I’m afraid—”

Frank looked up, a flicker of shadow on his face, some stray internal cloud.

“He’s too old to make the trip now. He’s very frail.”

“Oh, that’s a shame. But you two must have so much to talk about. Catching up. How much longer will you be here?”

“Just a few days. We’re almost finished with the book.”

“The book. I’d forgotten. That’s why you came.” She turned to Frank. “They’re really letting you—?”

Frank nodded. “Their idea. Not mine. Of course, they can always change their minds. But so far they seem to like it. Right, Boris?”

“Is excellent.”

“Am I in it?” Marzena said.

“No. No one here. Just in America, before I came.”

“But you must be,” Hannah said to Simon.

“Just in passing. I wasn’t part— Frank used other sources.” When he wasn’t using me. Lunch at Harvey’s. How’s everything at State?

“He’s lucky to have you. A publisher in the family.”

“We’re all lucky,” Joanna said, sipping her drink. “And now you’ll go and we won’t see you again, will we? I hadn’t thought about it before. Leningrad. And then—poof.”

“You’re going to Leningrad?” Hannah said, interested.

“And Tallinn,” Joanna said. “And Riga. See Riga and die.” She giggled. “One of Frank’s trips. And then he’s gone. No more Simon.” Looking at him.

But it was the trip the table wanted to know about. When? Where were they staying? Had it been difficult to get permission? They leaned forward, eager for details. Any travel. Somewhere away from the compound, the pine woods, the men at the gate. Away.

“You have to see the Hermitage,” Hannah said. “And the Peterhof. The fountains. Such a nice time of year too. I remember I couldn’t sleep, it was still so light.”

“Shall I come too?” Marzena said. “I’ve never been to Riga. Is it nice? I could meet you there.” Playing with it, not meaning it, all of them packing imaginary bags.

“Oh, just like that,” Hannah said. “Just get on a train.”

“Yes, why not?”

“And your travel documents, please?” A conductor’s voice.

“I don’t need any. A Polish passport. That’s why I kept it. You can come and go with a Polish passport. One good thing about Comecon, yes? Soviets, you have to have this and that, but Poles—we can leave anytime we want. No exit visas. Just the passport. That’s all I need.”

Simon looked up. But everyone else would need a visa, Soviet citizens now. He glanced over at Frank, only half paying attention to this, one of Marzena’s whims. Everything planned, the times, the ferry. Jo would have to have an exit visa there. The first thing DiAngelis arranged. But Frank had been surprised, dismissive, something she wouldn’t need.

Simon took off his glasses, wiping them again, trying to think. Why not? Everything else planned, the whole trip arranged through the Service. Why not? He looked up again, the table a blur in the bright light.

“You’ll have to bunk in with Simon,” Joanna was saying, teasing Marzena, happy with drink. “No room at the inn.”

Marzena laughed, flirtatious. “So, and then what would people say? To go all the way to Riga to—”

Simon stopped listening, looking through the blur at Joanna. Who had never been told the plan, everything too risky. Who needed a new life. Just a short ferry ride from Tallinn. Where she’d need an exit visa. Which Frank hadn’t arranged, said they wouldn’t need. Why not? He looked down the table, Frank’s features coming into focus, and Simon felt himself begin to flush, the moment sweeping through him like blood. Because she wasn’t going, had never been going. He stared at Frank, then lowered his head, fiddling with the glasses, hiding his face. The smart one. Think it through. The plan from the beginning. But everything had been about her. The one hook Simon would never refuse. He looked sideways at Marzena, still having fun with her fantasy trip. Or maybe Frank had meant for her to go. Hadn’t he already left a country behind? New life, new woman, something Joanna had known just sniffing the air.

“Oh, but what about Pani?” she was saying. “Can we take Pani?”

Frank was looking away, his mind somewhere else. No. Not Marzena. But not anyone else either. Simon looked down again, his arms tight against his body. Joanna wasn’t going. Nobody was going. But DiAngelis was coming to get them, streaming into the trap Simon had helped build. Killed for. Following Frank again. Who always knew what to do. But this, would he do this? Simon saw his face at Harvey’s, casual, intimate. How’s everything at State? Drawn in again. I can’t do this without you. The smart one. Think what to do. He looked over at Frank, feeling him slide away, a second skin sloughed off, leaving Simon bare and wriggling. On his own.