Defectors

7

A VOLGA WAS WAITING for them at Moskovsky Station, the driver holding an umbrella against the morning drizzle. They headed straight down Nevsky Prospekt, the city flashing by between sweeps of windshield wipers. Leningrad, at first glance, was a faded beauty that had stopped wearing makeup—all the buildings, the pastel façades, needed paint.

“Rain,” the driver said. “Very unusual this time of year. The afternoon will be better.”

More a hope than a forecast, Simon thought. The rain, the mist over the canals, seemed part of a deeper melancholy. The imperial scale of St. Petersburg, without the crowds, the old government ministries, made the city feel empty. Moscow, by contrast, hummed with purpose. This was more like a ballroom after a party, just streamers left, and half-filled glasses.

The Astoria, a grande dame hotel overlooking St. Isaac’s Square, was busy with an Intourist group of Chinese, some wearing Mao tunics, all of them looking weary, sitting on suitcases while they waited for the one interpreter to sort out their rooms. Simon glanced around the lobby. An ornate cage elevator, marble floors, a tea salon with potted palms. A man in a suit reading a newspaper. No one else. But it was early. He wouldn’t be here yet.

Boris jumped the line to get them checked in, the Chinese watching without expression.

“Are we bunking together again?” Simon asked.

“No, no, down the hall.” He handed Simon a key. “A corner room, on the square.” Then another to Frank. “This faces the cathedral.”

“I don’t know how you do it,” Frank said.

“It was already arranged.” He checked his watch. “The guide is here in one hour.”

“Oh, good,” Joanna said. “Time for a bath.”

They started for the elevator, bellboys following with the bags, and waited for the cab to descend behind the grille of lacy metalwork. French doors, opening out.

“Oh.” A woman’s voice, breathy, as if she’d been caught at something.

“Marzena,” Frank said, equally thrown.

“Oh, I wanted to surprise you at lunch.”

“You’ve surprised us now,” Joanna said, so drily that Frank flashed her a scolding look. “I mean, I thought you weren’t—”

“No, but then I said to myself, why not? It’s so hard to travel alone. But with friends— You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. How nice,” Frank said, a quick recovery, but still rattled, only Simon sensing the displeasure underneath. Club manners, like Pa’s, real feelings tamped down. “We were just going up. Then off to the Hermitage.”

“The guide comes in one hour,” Boris said, unruffled, the only one taking her presence in stride.

“Oh, Joanna, you don’t mind? I’m not a party crasher?”

“No party to crash,” Joanna said, smiling a little, watching Marzena maneuver. “Always room for you.”

“So. One hour. Here in the lobby?”

“Unless you’d rather—”

Marzena ignored this. “Now maybe a manicure,” she said, looking at her hands.

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

“I don’t know. To see the art, I guess.”

In the elevator, everyone was quiet, preoccupied. The kind of turn that changed everything, rain at a picnic. Simon’s floor was first.

“One hour,” Joanna said, using Marzena’s voice. “In the lobby. Watch out for my nails.”

Simon smiled. “I will.”

“Well, I didn’t ask her,” Frank said.

“And yet here she is,” Joanna said. “For the art.”

Simon’s room looked down on the street, then catty corner across the giant square to the Mariinsky Palace. There were a few parked Intourist buses and official Zils, but otherwise it seemed another of those empty Soviet spaces, designed for parades. The room itself was bigger than his room at the National, but with the same period furniture. A fruit basket and mineral water were waiting on the writing desk and, at the foot of the bed, a wicker shirt basket with some folded laundry. Except he hadn’t sent out any laundry.

A pillowcase, ironed and folded. He reached underneath. The cool touch of metal. He pulled out the gun, then checked for bullets, a silent nod to DiAngelis. As ordered. But now what? You couldn’t just leave a gun lying around a Russian hotel room. Not in the briefcase. Not on top of the armoire. He glanced out the window at the drizzle. A break after all. His raincoat with deep pockets, where a bulge wouldn’t show. Still in his suitcase.

He jumped at the knock on the door, then put the gun back in the basket and covered it. The bellboy had trouble with the luggage rack, but finally opened it, then started to explain the room’s features in Russian, Simon nodding as the boy pantomimed the use of the drape chords, the light switches. Simon glanced at the laundry basket. Would he wonder why it was there? A newly arrived guest with laundry? What were the rules about tipping? Not in restaurants, but a bellhop? He took out a bill and handed it to the boy. A second’s hesitation, as if it might be some kind of test, then a quick blur as he slipped it into his pocket. A whispered spasibo. When he was gone, Simon sat on the bed with the gun again, his body still tense, and took a deep breath. No possible explanation for a gun, not here. Supplied by the CIA. He opened the suitcase to take out his raincoat. Maybe it would rain all day.

The guide, a serious young woman who wore her hair in a bun, was called Nina and had textbook English for which she kept apologizing. They walked down to the Admiralty in a huddle of umbrellas, then along the embankment of the Winter Palace, the broad Neva choppy and breezy, almost a seafront effect. Simon looked left. If you got in a boat here, the current would sweep you out to the Gulf of Finland, out of Russia. Get through the day.

At the Hermitage they were asked to check their coats. Simon had forgotten: a Russian fetish, no coats indoors. He draped it over his arm, but the woman insisted. He turned his back, making a pretense of shaking the wet out and switched the gun to his jacket, letting it hang open so the bulge wouldn’t show. He looked over at Boris. He must have one, out of sight in a holster. His job. The sort of thing he’d be trained to notice, bigger than a pack of cigarettes.

Nina was knowledgeable, leading them briskly through a maze of galleries, then lingering in the Raphael Loggias. “You see here where the papal coat of arms is replaced with the Romanov eagle.” More galleries of Italians, then Flemish and Dutch, Rubens and Rembrandts. After another hour even Nina began to flag and they stopped to rest on some strategically placed benches.

“But did they look at them?” Marzena said to no one in particular. “Did they enjoy them?”

“They enjoyed getting them,” Joanna said. “Having them. I don’t know that they ever looked at them.”

“I would have,” Marzena said, fanciful. “I’d come every night in a gown, like Catherine, and look at my pictures.”

“By candlelight. Squinting,” Joanna said, then stood up, out of sorts but trying to hide it, going over to look more closely at a small still life.

They were all on edge, in fact, Marzena’s presence an unexpected irritant. Frank was quiet, preoccupied, so she’d turned her attention to Simon, harmless remarks about the paintings which he barely heard, thinking about tomorrow, the weight in his pocket. Only Boris seemed to be enjoying himself, seeing the tour as a kind of patriotic act.

“It’s the greatest collection in the world.”

“Well, the Louvre,” Frank said.

“No. The greatest.”

When they left the gallery, Frank hung back with Simon, just far enough behind not to be heard.

“We have to get rid of her. She’ll ruin everything.”

“How?”

“It’s one thing here. But Tallinn—”

“How?” Simon said again.

“She has to go back. You’ll have to take her.”

“Me?”

“Make something up,” Frank said, thinking out loud. “You have to be back to fly home. You just wanted to see the Hermitage.” He looked at him. “Flirt with her. Make her think—”

“What? How far do you want me to go?” he said, sarcastic. “For the Service.”

“I don’t care. Just get her out of here. There’s always some hitch, isn’t there?”

“What about Jo? The ferry?” What he would logically say.

Frank shook his head. “I’ll have to take her with me on the boat. I’ll work it out.”

“And I’m sitting in Moscow when you go missing? They’ll think I—” Playing the story out.

“Fly back Thursday morning. The boat doesn’t leave until six. Get somebody at the embassy to put you on a plane out.” He looked over. “We said our good-byes here. I go to Tallinn, you go home. It’s not ideal, but it’s still plausible. The Service wants me to go to Tallinn. You’ll still have your trip to Leningrad. We’ve got today, the Peterhof tomorrow. That should give you enough time.”

“Time?”

“To talk her into going with you. Get her out of here.”

Simon looked down, as if he were thinking this through. “This still puts her in a hell of a position. After you disappear. Just having been here.”

“I didn’t ask her to come.” He touched Simon’s arm. “She’ll be all right.” Knowing she would be. Everybody cheating.

They headed into the Winter Palace, stopping at Rastrelli’s marble staircase, sweeping up on two sides.

“My God,” Marzena said, dazzled. “To live like this.”

Nina rattled off dates, some architectural history, while they stood gaping, then began moving them up to the state rooms. Simon saw him first, starting down the other side, a blond woman next to him. The wife. What was her name? Nancy. But why bring her? Another complication. It was then that Lehman noticed him, their eyes meeting across the open space between the staircase wings. Simon made an almost invisible nod, then looked away, turning to Marzena. But aware of him now, moving in the corner of his eye, the same rhythm, one going down, the other up, like figures in a mechanical clock. So he was here.

After lunch they went to the Church on Spilled Blood and walked along the canals and finally balked at a plan to cross the Neva to see the Peter and Paul Fortress, pleading exhaustion. Disappointed, Nina led them back to the hotel, stopping to point out the building where Dostoevsky had lived. “Interesting for book publisher.”

Upstairs, finally rid of the weight of the gun, he lay on the bed with a sense of relief, his mind floating. Were they really listening through the chandelier, the phone? But there was nothing to hear. No slips. He wondered if this had been part of the attraction for Frank, to see if you could play the part perfectly, not just the words, the emotions, all the senses heightened, actually believing it. Hal had arrived on schedule. Marzena had been unexpected but didn’t matter, not after tomorrow. He went over the map in his head. How long it took would depend on the roads, probably two-lane with crumbling shoulders, Russian roads, stuck behind a tractor. Plan more time.

They should have been in a holiday mood at dinner, but instead the evening felt strained, all of them somehow scratchy, tired of one another. Marzena had dressed for a party, full makeup and flashy earrings, but the effort seemed wasted. Frank was distant, Joanna almost scowling with irritation. She had already had a few vodkas before dinner and had kept pouring more, ignoring Frank’s glances, and was now moody and thin-skinned. Boris had retreated into one of his watchful silences. Which left Simon, an audience of one.

Marzena was making the most of it, drawing him out with questions, leaning in, a kind of coquetry as dated as the hotel, something out of old St. Petersburg. Make a man talk about himself and he’s yours. She was impossible to ignore, or discourage, but the private asides had the effect of making Frank think Simon was flirting with her, his plan in action.

“Simon’s not a very good long-term investment,” Joanna said, looking at Marzena. “Are you? Back to the States and—poof.” She opened her hand. “Gone.”

No one knew how to respond, Marzena bewildered by the suddenness of it, like a slap.

“So let’s enjoy him while he’s here,” Frank said, bland as a greeting card.

“But you’ve hardly seen anything,” Marzena said. “You should stay longer.”

“I’ve got a business to run.”

“A capitalist answer,” Marzena said, making a joke.

“Maybe next time.”

“But there isn’t going to be a next time, is there?” Joanna said, brooding.

“That depends on whoever’s handing out the visas. Here, I mean.”

“They wouldn’t give you one before.” She looked up. “Or maybe you never asked. ”

“But the book—”

“Yes, they want the book,” Joanna said. “So open the gates. And here you are. Now you’ll need another excuse. Maybe when we die. A compassionate visa. Just long enough to attend the funeral.”

“Such talk,” Frank said.

“Would you come for that?”

“Jo,” Simon said.

“Oh, all right,” she said, leaving it, looking out at the dining room, most of the tables filled with the Chinese group. “What do you think they make of it all? The Romanovs.”

“They had Romanovs of their own,” Frank said.

“Malachite,” Joanna said, not listening. “Gold on the walls. And they were surprised when the revolution came.”

“A backward society,” Boris said quietly. “But not now.”

“No, now we are in space,” Marzena said, enthusiastic, a Young Pioneer.

“Is it hard for the Chinese? To get visas?” Jo said, still looking at them. “What’s it like for them? Always in a herd like that. They don’t know Russian, do they? I mean the alphabet.”

“Neither do we,” Simon said.

“I can teach you,” Marzena said. “It’s not difficult.”

“Language lessons,” Jo said, drawing it out. “Hard to say no to that.”

“They need to have an interpreter,” Frank said, answering seriously. “Guides. So that limits how many. And it’s an expensive trip to make. A hotel like this. Must be a special group.”

“Chinese VIPs,” Jo said, playing with it. “I never thought. Is there a Chinese Social Register?” Her old voice, finding the world amusing.

“It’ll be the Cubans next,” Frank said. “Friendship tours.” He looked over at Simon. “The Agency made a real cock-up there, didn’t they? Was Pirie involved? Just the sort of half-assed idea he’d go for.”

Boris raised his head, interested.

“I wouldn’t know,” Simon said.

“I’ll bet he was.” Frank shook his head. “One fiasco after another. One more and there’d have to be a real shake-up.”

“Just what the Service ordered,” Simon said, then, catching Boris’s glance, “I mean, they’d like that, wouldn’t they? A little confusion on the other side.”

“The way things are going, they won’t have to do a thing. The Agency will do it for them.”

“Oh, we’re going to talk shop,” Joanna said.

“Not much longer,” Frank said. “I’m beat. What is it about museums—?”

Simon felt a second of panic. Not yet. They had to meet first tonight.

“But so beautiful,” Marzena said. “What did you like the best?” This to Simon.

“There’s so much—”

“But if you had to pick,” she said, pressing, a coy smile.

“The Dutch, I guess. The portraits.”

“Oh, Jimbo. So Boston. Good burghers in black and white?”

“But the faces. You know everything about them.”

“Well, what they want you to know.”

Simon looked away, before his own face would show too much. There was a roar of laughter from the next table, everyone in his cups.

“Chinese jokes,” Joanna said. “God, what do you think they’re saying?”

And then he was there, gliding past the Chinese tables with his wife, surprised to see Simon.

“Mr. Weeks,” he said. “You probably don’t remember—Hal Lehman.” Offering his hand. “Imagine running into—”

“Of course,” Simon said, standing. “Spaso House. Nancy, isn’t it?” She blushed, pleased. “What are you doing here?”

“Just seeing the sights. You owe me a call.”

“I know. I’ve been meaning to—”

Hal turned to the table. “I didn’t mean to barge in—” Expecting to be introduced.

“Frank, this is Hal Lehman. UPI. He’s been wanting to meet you and I promised him an interview, so be nice.”

Frank dipped his head.

“The first interview. After Look took pictures. Did they?”

“And this is—” Simon began the introductions, going around the table.

“A great pleasure,” Hal said, shaking Frank’s hand.

“Really? I thought I was a bad hat to all of you.”

“An interesting bad hat. I’d really like to talk to you. Your feelings about the book, Moscow, whatever you’d like to talk about. Nothing—well, nothing you don’t want to talk about. I promised Mr. Weeks that.”

“You did.”

“It’s UPI. That’s over four hundred pickups. It would be great for the book.”

“And not bad for you either, is that the idea?”

“You’ve never given an interview. So this would be a first, yes. Mr. Weeks said they’d given you permission to do it. For the book. And they look at everything we send out anyway, so there’s no problem there.”

“For you.”

“You review the copy.”

“Frank, I promised,” Simon said. “We need to present this right.”

“So I don’t look like a complete shit,” Frank said, a wry smile.

“The book’s going to be out there. There’s bound to be plenty of—so start with me.”

Frank sighed. “All right. Since Simon promised. We’re back in Moscow next week,” he said smoothly.

“Mr. Weeks said I wasn’t allowed to come to the flat. The address is still an official secret or something. What about tomorrow? Right here? We could do it in the lobby,” he said, ignoring a new round of laughter from the Chinese. “Maybe lunch? Mr. Weeks could sit in, if that makes it easier.”

“No, we’re away tomorrow. The Peterhof. Tsarskoe Selo.”

“But so are we. I mean, that’s where we were planning to go—”

“Moscow,” Frank said. “I don’t want to traipse around the summer palace wondering if that’s you behind the fountain.”

“How about this,” Simon said. “We go out in two cars and you ride with Hal. Do it on the way. What would that be, an hour? And then that’s it. You’re done.” He looked at Frank, eyes signaling for him to go along with this. “It’s important for the book, Frank. I told you we’d have to do some of this here. Since we won’t have you in the States.”

Frank met his eye, a private exchange.

“You understand I can’t talk about the Service,” he said to Hal. “There are rules about that. We’re leaving at eight. And I don’t answer anything I don’t want to.”

“I will ride with you,” Boris said.

“Deal,” Hal said. “You won’t regret it.”

“I’m regretting it already. But my publisher insists,” he said, a smile to Simon. “He wants me to be famous.”

Nancy, who hadn’t said anything, now nodded to each of them as she left, lingering for a second on Frank, her eyes wide, fascinated. Francis Weeks, a man in a hotel dining room. Before Hal could follow, the Chinese at the next table got up and filed out, separating Hal and Simon from the table.

“You brought your wife,” Simon said, his voice low.

“If anything goes wrong, she’d be a hostage in Moscow. She won’t be in the way.”

“It’s a complication.”

“Then make sure nothing goes wrong. Was that okay?”

“Perfect.” Smiling now and shaking his hand good-bye.

“Is this really necessary?” Frank said as Simon sat down.

“We need to do something and he’s harmless. And he’s here. With four hundred outlets there.” He looked across. “How many interviews are you going to be able to do here? Spend an hour and you’re in four hundred papers.”

“But why can’t they all come to Moscow?” Marzena said.

Simon looked at her, at a loss. “It’s a long trip,” he said finally.

“Didn’t you think he looked a tiny bit like Howard?” Joanna said to Frank. “Think of his arm in a sling.”

“Who?” Simon said.

“Howard Cutler,” Frank said. “One of Joanna’s old flames.”

“Oo, there were so many?” Marzena said.

“No, not many,” Joanna said, not rising to this.

“Why was his arm in a sling?”

“He was shot. Here.” She pointed to her elbow. “In Spain.”

“Another one in Spain. You were there, no?” Marzena said to Frank. “It’s a weakness for you.” Now to Joanna. “Always a man in the brigades.”

“Not always,” Joanna said, glancing at Simon. “Howard went over first. Before anybody really. And then there he is, back from the front, wounded, you can’t imagine how romantic. Everybody was—” She stopped, patting Frank’s hand. “Long before you.”

“What happened to him?”

“He went to work for Browder. In the Party. And then—I don’t know. What happens to people?”

“Hard to keep track,” Marzena said, still playful. “So many lovers. You forget.”

“No you don’t,” Joanna said, her voice distant. “You don’t forget anyone. Not a single one.”

“Well, before you start remembering and telling us about them, let’s go to bed,” Frank said. “I have an interview in the morning. It turns out.”

“You go up. I want to sit with Simon for a little while.”

“Yes, a nightcap,” Marzena said.

“No, you too. Just Simon. Talk about old times.”

“Jo, I really think—”

“No, I mean it. Off you go. All of you. Oh, don’t say it. I’ve had too much. No more, I promise. Off you go. Shoo.”

Frank looked at Simon, a you-going-to-be-okay? raise of the eyebrows.

“I’ll get her home. We’ll be up soon.”

“My escort. Always a gentleman. Even back when. A gentleman.”

Frank made a gesture behind her, wagging his finger over a glass. Simon nodded. Marzena hesitated, not ready to leave.

“Come to the bar,” Boris said to her.

“Good,” Joanna said when they were alone. “Now we can talk. I keep feeling the hours ticking away. And then you’re gone. Let me have some of yours,” she said, pouring from his glass. “Looks funny sitting with an empty glass.” More Chinese passed them, the room emptying. She took out a cigarette, quiet as he lit it for her. “There, that’s nice. We can talk. What shall we talk about?”

Simon smiled. “Tell me about Howard.”

“Oh, Howard. I thought he was John Reed, somebody like that. Man of action.”

“And you were Louise Bryant?”

“For about ten minutes. I mean, there he was, back from the front, and all the other boys were playing tennis.” She looked down at the ashtray. “Maybe he does too now. Golf. So I was flattered.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “Turned out he really was a man of action. One minute here, one minute there. I couldn’t keep up. And then I didn’t want to.” She drew on the cigarette. “He was like you.”

“Me?”

“He couldn’t decide if he was in love with me.”

Simon looked at her. “Would it have made any difference?”

“With him?”

“With me.”

“I don’t know. It’s nice, somebody in love with you.”

“Maybe not so nice for him.”

She looked up. “Wasn’t it? I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault. Anyway, it’s a long time ago.”

“But you weren’t, really, or you would have held on—”

“You were already gone. Let’s not go over this again. Things worked out the way they did.”

She nodded. “But here’s the funny thing. Tonight, when I saw Marzena making eyes at you, I wanted to scratch her face.” She raised her hand, making her fingers claws. “Leave him alone. Not him too. As if I had any right—but who cares about rights? I thought, not him. He’s not yours. He’s— So there still must be something.”

Simon managed a smile. “Jealousy, anyway. I don’t deserve it.”

“I couldn’t help it. Pure instinct. Take your hands off him.”

“No, I meant there was nothing to be jealous of.” He looked at her. “She wasn’t even in the room.”

Jo moved her hand, covering his.

“Careful. Boris might be watching from the bar.”

“I don’t care. It’s just—seeing her made me think of that time. I didn’t leave you. Things happened, that’s all.”

“I know. Other people.”

“So I can still feel a little jealous. I don’t want her— First Frank, now you.”

“Not Frank either.”

“You said. How do you know?”

“Male intuition.”

“Ouf,” she said, waving her hand. “It’s not a joke. I know what she’s like. And he was there all the time. What’s he doing there?”

Simon moved his hand away. “Spying on her husband.”

“What?”

“Getting him to talk. As a friend. Then reporting everything to the office. They keep files on people like Perry. Troublemakers. He’ll talk to a friend. Stories about the other scientists. Who else should they worry about? Make a file for. Marzena was just—there.”

Joanna had sat back, her face slack. “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Why? Frank’s a spy. For the KGB. What do you think they do?”

“He made reports on Perry? How can you know that? It’s not true.”

“Why not? He made reports on me. Pumped me for information and made a report. How do you think it’s done?”

“It’s not like that.”

“Yes it is.”

“He’s too highly placed for that.”

Simon said nothing, the silence its own reply.

She took a drink, grimacing when she put down the glass. “And what did you do? When you found out?”

“Do? He was gone. He was here. With you. I don’t think he ever thought of it as wrong. Me, Perry, any of us.”

“You had to leave your job. He ruined your life.”

“No. I made another one.”

She looked up. “But I can’t.”

Another silence, staring. “Yes, you can. I’ll help you.”

“Help me? How?”

Too close. No more. “We’ll talk tomorrow. Figure something out. It’s late. We should go up.”

“Why would you do that? After—”

He took her hand again. “Old times’ sake.”

She smiled. “Old times’ sake.”

“Come on,” he said, pulling her to her feet. She leaned against him as they crossed the lobby and waited for the elevator. He slid the cage door open. Bronze, mahogany panels that needed polishing.

“My escort,” she said. “Are you going to kiss me good night? Maybe now, so the old dragon with the keys can’t see us.”

He leaned to give her a kiss on the cheek, but she moved her hands to the back of his head, pulling him toward her, opening to him. He felt the rush of blood to his head, the smell of smoke and perfume, everything warm, his mouth on hers. “So nice,” she said, whispering, hot against his skin, and then kissing his face, moving over it. He moved down to her neck, nuzzling her, and she arched back, letting him have more, something he remembered from the weekend, something only she did.

“It’s so nice with you,” she said, still kissing him. “I could come with you. To your room.”

His face still in her neck, the elevator slowing, his head dizzy with her, and for a second he thought they could, that he could change the plan, even last minute, just the two of them.

“Jo,” he said, out of breath.

“I would. I would come.”

The elevator stopped. He pulled his face away, brushing her hair.

“We can’t.”

She looked at him, then backed against the elevator wall. “No, we can’t. What am I doing?” She put her hand to her forehead, a child hiding herself.

“Come on. It’s your floor.”

He opened the metal door. The floor concierge glared at them, handing him her key. Another report, but what would she say?

“Now I feel embarrassed,” Joanna said.

“No. We’ve just had too much to drink.”

“Oh, drink.”

“But thank you for the offer.”

She stopped next to her door. “You still can’t decide.”

He shook his head slowly, then kissed her forehead. “I always knew.”

“What am I going to do?” she said to no one, to the hall. “I can’t leave him.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t know. You think it’s a love affair. Maybe once. Now—”

“You’ll never leave him. I know that. Better than anybody. You’re—tied.”

She looked up at him, her eyes darting, moist. “Nobody else remembers him. Richie. Nobody else can talk about him. Keep him alive for me. If I lose Frank, there’d be no one. You can’t talk to yourself, it’s not real. He’d be gone.”

He looked at her, his stomach falling, a kind of physical sadness, flowing through him and out to the tired hallway, so that it was finally everywhere, all you could breathe. The air itself a gray punishment, the way she lived every day.

He called Boris a little before seven.

“I hope I didn’t wake you. I just had breakfast with Frank. Joanna’s not feeling well.”

“She’s sick?” Boris said, his voice groggy.

“Hungover. She’s going to need a little time. Would you call the guide and have her come later? Frank said you’d have the number.”

“Yes, I have,” he said, disgruntled.

“Nine o’clock, then. In the lobby. I’ll tell the others. Sorry to wake you.”

An hour’s start. Enough distance. He went over the room again to make sure he had everything he needed. Visas. Raincoat, just in case, a convenient pocket for the gun. He’d have to leave the manuscript, but his notes, folded, slipped easily into the other pocket. No luggage, just a day at the Peterhof, admiring the fountains.

He opened the door and froze. Down the hall a woman was slipping out of Boris’s room, her back to Simon as she closed the door. Still in last night’s dress, her hair tangled, holding her shoes. Marzena turned, looking up and down the hall, a cat burglar, and started for the elevator. Simon watched her through the crack of his doorway. Had he been the assignment? Stick to Simon. Tell me what he says. Do what you have to do. But when had it started? A woman suddenly alone, her privileges—the flat, the dacha—now at the whim of—? Or had she listened to Perry too? Listened to Frank. Boris keeping watch. Her protector now. Everybody cheating. She passed Simon’s door, eyes focused on the end of the hall, raising her head and trying to ignore the woman with the keys, a last gasp of dignity. At least she wouldn’t be going down to the lobby. A change, a bath, a new meeting time. Two down.

The breakfast buffet was at the far end of the lobby but screened off from it. The Lehmans were just finishing, Frank and Jo not yet down. Simon ignored the spread of food and gulped some coffee, chewing on a brick of dark bread.

“Car ready?” he said to Hal.

“Out front.”

“It’s going to be a squeeze.” A glance toward Nancy.

“I thought there were two cars,” she said.

“But we’re going in one,” Simon said, looking at Hal, a question mark.

“She knows,” Hal said. “Honey, you could still take the train. Finland Station. Do a Lenin in reverse. Meet me in Helsinki.”

Simon shook his head. “How do we explain it to Frank? We’re all going to the summer palace. We’ll have to manage somehow.”

“I couldn’t stay in Moscow,” Nancy said. “Not without Hal. Besides, it would look funny. Wives always go on the Helsinki runs. We do the shopping.”

“Ah, there you are,” Frank said, coming in with Jo. “Bright and early.”

“Not that early. Boris has already finished. Better hurry.”

“God, how can they eat all that,” Jo said, looking at the buffet, avoiding Simon. She poured coffee.

“Apparently Marzena had a rough night,” Simon said. “It’s going to take her a while. Boris said he’d wait. We should start and they’ll catch up.”

“He wants us to leave without him?” Frank said.

“But not alone. There’s another car following. To make sure we get there.”

“By the book. Didn’t I tell you?” Frank said. “The station chief here—”

“I can go with them, if you like,” Simon said, chancing it, keeping it plausible. “So we won’t be so crowded.”

“No, no, you have to be referee. Make sure he asks the right questions.” He smiled at Hal, the full Frank charm.

“I’ll go,” Joanna said.

“It’s only an hour, less,” Frank said. “We’ll be all right.”

“We’ll meet you out front then,” Hal said, getting up. “It’s the Volvo.”

“Really?”

“We bought it in Helsinki. It was either that or a Saab.”

“No, I mean, it’s your car? You drove here?”

“We’re going on to Helsinki after. Shopping run. It’s cheaper to bring the stuff back with you than to have it shipped. And sometimes it gets—lost. Stockmann’s will ship, but it doesn’t always arrive.”

“Stockmann’s?”

Hal grinned. “The Macy’s of the north.”

“And what do you buy?” Frank said, curious.

“Whatever you can’t get in Moscow. People make a list. The other correspondents, I mean, not Russians. You have to have foreign currency.”

“I had no idea,” Frank said.

“Well, you have your own stores. You don’t need—” He stopped, a sense of overstepping. “That’s what I’ve heard anyway.”

“And thank God,” Joanna said. “Otherwise you’d never see a vegetable in the winter.”

Simon glanced at her. Service hospitals. Service food stores. Where they lived. A Russia inside the other one.

The Volvo was at the curb, next to the bus waiting for the Chinese. Frank got in front with Hal, so they could talk, Simon in the back, wedged between Jo and Nancy. “The rose between the thorns,” Jo said, but halfheartedly, still not catching his eye. They drove out of the broad square, leaving St. Isaac’s behind.

“Where do you want to start?” Frank said to Hal.

“Let’s start with the book. As far as I know, you’re the first KGB officer who’s ever written one. Why’d you do it?”

“Am I the first? I hadn’t realized,” Frank said, his public voice. “I suppose I wanted to set the record straight. We all want to do that, don’t we? We just—most of us—don’t get the chance.” Concentrating, finding the right word, oblivious to the city outside his window.

Simon took a breath. The first gamble, hoping that Frank didn’t know Leningrad, wouldn’t see its geography in his head, just streets and canals and bridges. He worried when they crossed the Neva, away from the route to the Peterhof, but Frank didn’t seem to notice, deep in the interview now, one bridge like another. He was enjoying himself, the familiar anecdotes told like moves in some version of cat and mouse, a game. After the Tuchkov Bridge there were few landmarks and no directional signs, no way to tell they were heading up to the shore road. How did anyone find it unless they’d driven it before? But Hal had.

“Late night,” Jo said to Simon, dipping a toe in.

“You all looked like you were having such a nice time,” Nancy said, just to say something.

“Well, we’ve known each other forever,” Jo said, deciding to be pleasant, make the best of it. “I hope I didn’t keep you up,” she said to Simon, some kind of apology.

“No, I enjoyed it,” Simon said. “Feel all right?”

“You mean do I have—?”

“It’s an early start. That’s all I meant.”

“Oh,” she said quietly, a quick thank-you glance.

“Why won’t they let the defectors talk to the press?” Hal was saying.

“What makes you think we want to? What good would that do? Getting misquoted. It’s always trouble.”

“Why misquoted?”

“Well, people do—get misquoted. Not by you, let’s hope, but you have to admit it happens. Anyway, what would you want us to say? That we were wrong? You think that. We don’t.”

“None of you? No regrets?”

Frank lit a cigarette, taking a minute. “It’s a funny word, defector. Latin, defectus. To desert. Lack something. Makes it sound as if we had to leave something behind. To change sides. But we were already on this side. We didn’t leave anything.”

“Your country.”

“Countries don’t matter. In a way, I was already here.”

“But Mr. Weeks—”

“Frank.”

“Frank. Then why—?” Catching Simon’s frown in the mirror. Not yet.

Frank waited.

“I mean, you didn’t want to come to Moscow, did you? If you hadn’t been exposed?”

“I wanted to be wherever I’d be useful.”

“And the Rubins? Perry Soames. Gareth. Burgess. Maclean. They all came because their cover was blown. Wouldn’t you all have stayed right where you were if that hadn’t happened? Not come to Moscow?”

“I don’t think anybody thought about it. You don’t think about—getting caught. You’re too busy not getting caught.”

“But you were.”

“Professional hazard. And not my fault. For the record. None of us expected Malenko to turn. But then if you’re lucky, you end up here. Where you can still be useful. Look at some of the others. Alger. Harry. Wouldn’t they have been better off here?”

“The Rosenbergs.”

“Well, yes. The Rosenbergs. You know, when you start, you don’t think, can I get away with this for the rest of my life? You don’t think. You just do it. It feels—urgent. People are depending on you. Right now. You don’t think about later.”

“Alger,” Hal said. “That’s never been confirmed.”

“It’s not being confirmed now either. Hypothetical.”

“It would be a big story.”

“You’ve already got one. My first interview.”

Hal smiled. “And it’ll be a lot bigger when—” Another look from Simon.

“When what?” Joanna said.

“When it runs,” Simon said. “UPI’s in four hundred papers.”

“What did you think when you first got here?” Hal said, moving on. “Was it what you expected?”

“Oh, that’s all in the book,” Frank said, swatting this away.

“Okay, tell me something that isn’t in the book.”

“I can’t,” Frank said, fencing now. “If the Service is involved.”

“That doesn’t leave us with much.” He paused. “Who do you think killed Gareth Jones?” A left jab, unexpected.

Frank was quiet for a minute. “I don’t know.”

Simon raised his head. Through the looking glass again.

“I don’t think it was political,” Frank said, “if that’s what you’re implying. MI6 didn’t do it because they can’t. Not here. And I don’t think we did it. Why would we?”

“Then why the witch hunt at the Lubyanka? Bringing Elizaveta back.”

“Have they?”

“I heard you were the one who—”

“You should check your sources then.”

Hal let this pass. “We’re on the same side here, aren’t we?”

Frank sighed. “I don’t know about Gareth. Really,” he said, easy as breathing. “A guess? Off the record? I think he met someone he shouldn’t have. These things happen.”

“There is no crime in the Soviet Union.”

“But there are accidents. We’ll have to leave it at that.” He turned to the window. “Where are we? More Khrushchyovki. Khrushchev slums,” he translated for Simon.

Rows of concrete apartment blocks, already cracked and stained with damp. Then pine trees and allotments. The farther they got from Leningrad, the poorer the countryside, sagging wooden farmhouses and muddy ditches, the same land he’d seen from the plane, open to tanks. They must be more than halfway there now. Vyborg had been a Finnish port before the Soviets snatched it. Simon imagined pitched tiled roofs and cobbles. A train station with a park in front, a quayside with a boat waiting.

“What happened to our friends?” Frank said idly, turning around. “I thought they were following.”

“Probably behind a truck,” Simon said. Not yet.

Frank went back to Hal, a question about wartime Washington, batting it back and forth (“the drop was in Farragut Square”), something he could answer without thinking, old stories. Then he sat forward, looking out the window, one side, then the other, working something out.

“The water’s on the left,” he said.

“What?”

“The Gulf. It’s on the left. It should be on the right. You’re on the wrong road.”

“No.”

“We should be south of it. Going west. It should be on the right.”

Hal looked up into the rearview mirror. Frank followed the look and turned in his seat to face Simon, puzzled, then alarmed.

“We’re going the wrong way.”

A moment, suddenly tense. Now.

“DiAngelis changed the plan,” Simon said evenly.

“Who? What plan?” Jo said.

“He’s sending a boat to Vyborg,” Simon said, watching Frank’s eyes, panicky, just for a second.

“He can’t go to Vyborg. It’s Russia.”

“He’s sending some Finns. They’ll pick us up there.”

“But no DiAngelis.” Sorting this out. “When was this decided?” The eyes his own again, calculating.

“Too many people knew about Tallinn. It’s safer.”

“Simon, Simon, what are you doing?” Focused on him, trying to see through him. “Not like this. We can’t.”

“That’s the way he wants it.”

“So he tells you? But you don’t tell me.”

“I was his contact. It’ll work. It’s a better plan.”

“It’s not the plan.”

“A backup. The one nobody expects.”

“What?” Jo said, upset now. “What plan?”

Simon and Frank stared at each other. Whose move? Finally Simon turned to her. “We’re leaving. We’re going home.”

“What do you mean, home? Will you please tell me what’s going on?”

“We’re going to Finland. Then home. The States.”

“Are you crazy? We can’t.” She turned to face Frank. “What is he talking about? Did you know about this? Did you?” This to Hal. Finally, almost a squeal, to Nancy, “Did you?” Nancy turned her head away. “Who am I supposed to be, the crazy lady?”

“I didn’t want to—” Frank began, and Simon saw that he wasn’t going to tell her—say that he hadn’t told her because it wasn’t going to happen—because he was trapped in his own story now, the ­double lie.

“What?” Jo said. “Who’s sending a boat?”

“The Agency,” Simon said. “To get you out.”

“The Agency,” she said, her eyes moving, someone being chased, then looking up at Simon as this sunk in.

Suddenly, too fast to anticipate, her hand came up, then both hands, hitting him, his arm raised to protect his face, the slaps falling on his chest.

“The Agency? They sent you? That’s why you came? To trap us? You?”

Simon grabbed her hands. “Stop it.”

But she was shaking. “You.”

Behind him, Nancy was taking quick nervous breaths, not expecting this.

“You’d do this to him? To me?”

“Stop it. I don’t work for the Agency. I’m trying to help you.”

“Kidnap us. Send us to prison.”

He turned to Frank. “Tell her.”

Another unguarded moment, a kind of pleading look, and for a second Simon thought he might do it, tell the truth, but then the eyes cleared, disciplined, back in his story. Not even to her.

“He’s not with them. I asked him to help us.”

“Help us.”

“It’s time. You need to go home.”

“I need?”

“I couldn’t tell anybody. It’s too dangerous.”

“But they knew,” she said, spreading her hand to take in the rest of the car. “And now what? We get in a boat? Sail away?” She nodded to Hal. “Are you going to take pictures? For UPI? And what happens to us?”

“We’ll be protected,” Frank said.

“Protected. Who arranged that?”

“I arranged it.”

“And what’s the price?” She turned, swatting Simon’s hand away. “Well, what else could it be? And you’d do that.”

“But you’ll be out,” Simon said.

“No we won’t. You can’t. Not here. We’ll be killed.”

“Killed?” Nancy said.

“Not if we do it right,” Simon said.

“And that’s your job?” Frank said, still trying to make sense of things. “Stop. Go back before it’s too late. This isn’t the arrangement. I go with DiAngelis. Only him.”

“You mean he comes back with you. I know. That’s always been the plan. Yours, anyway. Your Gary Powers. A gift to the Service. Another show trial. But I couldn’t let you do that. Help you. That would be treason.” He stopped. “I’m not you.”

Frank’s eyes narrowed, as if they were taking aim.

“Treason?” Jo said. Nobody listening.

“So we’ll go through with the original plan. You go to DiAngelis. Tell him what he wants to know. A little payback. For everything.”

Frank was still staring at him.

“What made you think I’d go along with this?”

“You have to. The only way to save yourself now is to go through with it. Defect.”

“The Service knows all about—”

“Your plan? With the Estonians who aren’t there? Except they’re already there. Where you put them. They’ll be sacrificed whatever happens, won’t they? And now you pull in DiAngelis. A real Cracker Jack prize. Your plan. And they’d believe you. If you’d stuck to it. But you didn’t. You ditched Boris. Took off in a car with UPI. To the border. A day ahead of plan. There’s no other way to interpret that. Their worst nightmare.”

“I was forced.”

“By me? The naïve little brother? Who’d believe that?”

“The Service. I’m an officer.”

“You think so? I don’t. They’ll eat you for breakfast. Just what they like. The double-dealing foreigner. Their favorite story. You’re not going to talk yourself out of this.”

“And you? What are you going to say? You don’t actually think this can work, do you? You’ll be—you’ll be the Gary Powers. You don’t want that. I didn’t bring you here for that.”

“No. Just to use me,” Simon said, his voice suddenly bitter. “Play me like a harp. Use Joanna—‘you have to save her.’ Knowing I’d want to. Use Richie. Jesus Christ, Frank, a dead child. Making me feel sorry for you. And it’s just part of the bait. Even use yourself. How’s your health? I’ll bet you’re not even close to dying. I’ll bet you’re in the pink.”

“No,” Frank said, still looking at him. “That part’s true. Maybe not as soon, that’s all.”

“What part?” Jo said. “What do you mean, dying?”

“Jimbo, stop. They’ll put you in prison. Worse. I never meant—”

“What did you mean? You thought you’d get away with it. I’d be on the ferry, so that was all right. But there was Jo. That was a wrinkle. She had to stay. So send me back with Marzena and fly me out. And what do I say when I get there? To the Agency? I’m the one set it up in the first place.”

“They’d know it was me.”

“With me as your tool. I’d still be guilty. But so what? Just crack a few more eggs to make the omelet. You used us, Frank. All of us. All of us. Christ, for what? To make yourself look good to them? Who don’t trust you anyway? You even used them. Kelleher? Finished anyway. Ian? Somebody had to do it. Gareth—”

“That’s enough,” Frank said, his voice gravelly. “You’ll outsmart yourself.”

“What about Gareth?” Jo said.

“But not you. I could never outsmart you.”

“You think you have. Stop. Now.”

“We can’t stop now. It was too late the minute we left Boris behind.”

“And when he catches up?”

“We’re almost there,” Hal said. “What do you want me to do?”

“There’s a train station with a little park. In the center. Drive there first.”

“I’m not getting on that boat,” Frank said, his eyes hard, fixed. Simon felt the car closing around them, windows trapping them inside, unable to move, Frank at the other end. Finally afraid, recognizing the glass around them, the faint scratching, two scorpions.

“No,” Simon said, keeping his voice steady. “But DiAngelis thinks you are.”

“What does that mean?”

“What does any of it mean?” Jo said. She looked at Frank. “I won’t go to the Agency.”

“You’ll be all right,” Simon said. “You’re part of the deal. When Frank made them think there was a deal. So now there is.”

“I won’t go to the Agency.”

“You can’t stay here. None of us can now. It’s too late.”

“None of us,” Nancy said, pushing herself into her corner. “Oh, my God.”

“I meant us,” Simon said, “not you and Hal. You’re not part of this.”

“I’m driving,” Hal said.

“Stop the car,” Frank said, reaching over to him.

“Take your hands off him. I have a gun.”

“What?” Turning, incredulous, a sharp intake of breath, the beginning of a laugh, then a stillness, seeing Simon’s face. “There’s only one way you could have got it. What did you promise him?”

“That you’d go through with the deal. And you will.”

“Jimbo, a gun from the CIA? That’s a death warrant. There’s no diplomatic cover for that. Not if you have a gun. Let me have it.”

Involuntarily Simon clutched at the coat in his lap, Frank glancing down.

“The idea was that you’d be at the other end of it. If there was any trouble.”

“Get rid of it then. Toss it off the pier, junk it somewhere—just get rid of it.”

“Later. When everything’s okay.”

“You’d never use it.”

Simon stared at him.

“A gun,” Nancy said.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Jo said to Frank.

“Because you were never going to go,” Simon said, answering for him. “Nobody was. It was just a story he told to get them to come to him. You weren’t part of it.”

“But now I am? Thanks to you?”

“We’ll get you out.”

“Out.”

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” Frank said.

Simon looked at him. “Don’t try to stop this. We all have to go now. We’re on the same side. The Service just put us there.”

“You put us there.”

The outskirts of Vyborg were ugly, an industrial wasteland of chemical smoke and rusting pipes and chain-link fences, the old Finnish fishing port lost to one of the five-year plans. The center, with a cluster of historical buildings, was more attractive but just as dilapidated, everything sagging with neglect. Narrow streets, Simon noted. Traps.

“Go to the station, but don’t stop. Just drive by and then around the park.”

“What are we doing?”

“I want to see who’s there. If there’s a reception committee. I told DiAngelis the quay was a short walk from the station. So he’ll think we’re coming by train. If there’s a leak, so will they. Frank, this ought to be easy for you. They’d be your people. You should be able to spot them right away.”

“You’re expecting me to help you?”

“It’s your skin. You’re the one trying to escape, not me.”

“They won’t believe that.”

“Yes, they will. I can leave anytime. I don’t have to make a run for the border. Now tell me what you see. Hal, slow, so we can get a good look.”

The park on the map turned out to be another Soviet public space with a statue, some untended flower beds, and a swing set. No children playing. The station looked abandoned, a station without passengers or taxis. There were a few utility vehicles parked near the end, but otherwise the street in front was empty. Across, on the square, a few cars, all black, indistinguishable, the Volvo an exotic by comparison.

“The Leningrad train’s due in about fifteen minutes,” Simon said. “So they should be here. If they’re here.”

“How do you know? About the train?” Frank said.

“I checked.”

“Checked how?” An almost professional curiosity.

“The concierge. Who will confirm that we took the train.”

Frank raised his eyebrows, a kind of salute.

“What are we looking for?” Hal said.

“Two men sitting in a car,” Simon said. “Your next gift to DiAngelis,” he said to Frank. “Kelleher was the deposit. This will be something on account. Give your credentials a boost.”

Frank looked at him, uncertain, still trying to work everything out.

“Too many people know about Tallinn. But nobody knows about this, just me and DiAngelis. If there’s a leak, all he has to do is make a list of who else he told. A short list this time. And he has him. Thanks to you.”

“If there’s a leak.”

“I’m guessing there is. And if there is, we’d be sitting targets in a boat. So let’s find out.”

“They’re empty,” Hal said, looking at the parked cars. “Wait. There’s somebody.”

“One. There’d be two.”

“He’s in the station,” Frank said.

Simon looked at him.

“One inside, one out. Service rules. Target covered front and back. When he hits the street, the grab. No scene in the station.”

Simon nodded. “So now we know. What was that?” he said to Frank, sharp.

“What?”

“With the hand. Some kind of signal? I mean it, Frank—”

“Nervous?” Frank said, unable to resist.

“You still don’t get it. If there’s a leak, they know I arranged for another boat. For you. Otherwise, why not just wait for Tallinn? You don’t want to try anything. They think you’re running.”

Frank said nothing, eyes still calculating, someone looking for an exit.

“This street goes to the port,” Hal said.

“No, turn left, go around behind the park. We don’t want to go near the boats. They’ve probably got another car there.”

“What makes you think that?” Frank said. “If we’re coming by train.”

“You’re a big catch. They wouldn’t want you to slip away. How often do they get the chance in Vyborg? So what’s another car?”

“And when we don’t get off the train?”

“They wait for the next. Pull up over here,” he said to Hal.

They were at the far end of the park, the station entrance still visible through a few scraggly trees.

“Now what?” Hal said.

“Now you and Nancy get out and take the train.” He glanced at his watch. “Time enough to get tickets but not enough to sit around and have people wonder. You’ll be in Helsinki in a few hours.”

“But my story. You promised—”

“You’ve got plenty of story already and I’ll give you more. But now it’s not safe. We’re going to have to drive. That means border crossings. I don’t want you to have to risk that. Or Nancy. You’re still okay on your own. With us—”

“More scruples, Simon?” Frank said. “I told you they’d trip you up.”

“But this is the story,” Hal said. “This is what I came for.”

“But if it’s risky,” Nancy said.

“Trip me up how?” Simon said to Frank.

“The smart one,” Frank said. “Take a look around. What do you see? Leningrad? How many American couples do you think just walk into that station and buy a ticket for Helsinki? I’d say none. Exit visa? I doubt they’ve even seen one. They’d have to check. With the authorities. And there goes the train. Your problem is that you don’t know the Soviet Union. You’re a stranger here. You don’t know what’s plausible.”

“Oh, God,” Nancy said.

“He’s right,” Hal said. “And what do I say about the car?”

“We stole it.”

Hal shook his head. “To take it out of the country, the registration has to match the visa. It has to be me.”

“Another detail,” Frank said.

“Anyway,” Hal said, “we’ve already taken the risk. We’d be accessories. We have to get you out now.”

Simon was quiet, looking from Hal to Frank and back.

“The clock is ticking,” Frank said.

“What’s involved?” Simon said finally. “The drive. Checkpoints.”

“We’re about an hour from the border. Two checkpoints. First is the formal one—customs, search the car, all that. Then one military, just a pole barrier, like for a train. Then the Finns.”

“Two checkpoints?”

“It’s the Soviet Union.”

“And the Finns have the same thing on the other side?”

Hal shook his head. “Nobody’s going into Russia. Just trucks coming back. The road’s okay. I’ve driven worse. About an hour. The big holdup’s the first crossing. They like to go over the car. After that it’s just woods. The soldiers get curious—there’s nothing else to do—but a cigarette or two and they’re all smiles. Assuming your papers are all right. You have visas?”

Simon nodded, patting the pocket of his raincoat.

“But no passports,” Frank said. “Another detail. Passports to match the visas.”

“I have those too. You look a little younger but it’s still you.”

“That’s what you wanted them for?” Jo said, her voice accusatory. “For the book? No, for this. You were planning this even then? And the visas? Where did you get them?”

“Courtesy of the Agency, I would imagine,” Frank said. “Let’s hope they did a good job.”

“That’s when I knew,” Simon said. “That you weren’t planning to go. DiAngelis thought of them. You didn’t.”

“My passport expired,” Jo said.

“I know,” Simon said. “But you have to really look to see the date, do a little math. The border guards aren’t going to be familiar with American passports. They just want the names and faces to match the visas. Which are in Cyrillic. Which they can read. The odds are good. If anybody does ask, just say it’s a renewal date, a kind of reminder. And here’s the visa, so it must still be good. All right,” he said to Hal. “Can you get to the highway without passing the station again?”

“There is no highway. You take the street past the castle and that becomes the road. Two-lane. We can cut down toward the water, then back around. Should be all right.”

“Unless they follow us.”

“They won’t leave the station,” Frank said. “Not until somebody tells them to.”

“Let’s go.”

Hal put the car in gear and began to pull away from the curb, then stopped. “Look.”

A car coming fast, screeching to a stop in front of the station. The same road they’d taken. Boris jumped out, looked around, as if he were trying to pick up a scent, then crossed over to the stakeout car, asking questions, in a hurry. The man in the car climbed out, shaking his head. More questions. The man now pointing in the direction they’d gone, his arm making a sweep to the left, around the park. Boris looked up.

“He knows about the car,” Frank said. “The Volvo.”

“How? You didn’t until this morning. Why not a hired car?”

“There would have been someone in St. Isaac’s. Covering the hotel. See us leave. And in what.” He looked at Simon. “It’s the Service. This isn’t going to work.”

“Or maybe you signaled the guy at the station.”

“I didn’t. But either way, we’ve got Boris now. Call it off.”

“Let’s go,” Simon said to Hal. “Quick.”

Hal pulled out into the street and headed to the port, away from the park.

“He’s coming,” Nancy said, looking out the window. “He went back to his car.”

“Alone?”

“The other man’s still standing there. But he’s driving fast, the new man. Around the park. He knows where we are.”

“Call it off,” Frank said. “I can still fix it.”

“Listen to you.”

They could see cranes and masts now, the port straight ahead. Hal went another block, then swerved left, then left again, a parallel street, backtracking.

“Is he behind?”

“No.”

A major street ahead, big enough for trucks. Hal turned left again, shooting north, toward the castle. An island. A truck behind them, blocking them from view. They passed the road to the station.

“He’s there,” Simon said, head turned to the rear window.

“Hold on,” Hal said, veering sharply, across the incoming traffic. A horn, loud. Back to the port. “We’re supposed to be heading for a boat, right? Not the border. So we’d want to lose him somewhere down here.”

“If we can,” Frank said.

Port buildings, warehouses and repair shops, the streets a grid, oddly drowsy away from the noise of the port. On the quay itself people barely looked at the car, locked into themselves, as if they’d been deafened by the winches and clanging chains, dropped metal and hissing repair blowtorches. Hal weaved in and out, accessing the quay, then moving away from it. An alleyway. Hal glanced in the rearview mirror, nobody, and pulled in. Not an alley, a driveway, L-shaped, swooping around to a loading area, hidden from the street. A man in overalls came out, waving them away.

“We can’t stay here. It’s a dead end,” Simon said.

“Give it a minute. Make him think he’s lost us.”

The man came over, a flood of Russian. Frank answered back.

“What’s Frank saying?” Simon said to Hal.

“He’s asking directions. Says we got lost. It’s okay.”

Now a laugh, Frank charming the watchman. Nobody else around.

Hal turned the car and swung back into the driveway. Nothing at the end. He nosed out into the empty street then headed quickly toward the port again. Another left onto a parallel street, the maneuver from before.

“He’ll be looking for us on the quay,” Hal said.

No one saw it coming, just some blurry motion from the side street, then Boris’s car crashing into theirs, pushing the Volvo into the wall, a scrape of metal, wedged in. Boris flew out of the car, as if he were being carried by the momentum of the crash. He tore at the back door, flinging it open, a gun in his hand.

“Get out.” Pulling Nancy out to get to Simon. “Get out. Bastard.”

He grabbed Simon’s arm, yanking him out, the raincoat flung aside on the backseat.

“CIA bastard. I knew. From the first.” He slammed Simon against the car, face pushed down, an arrest. “You all right?” he said to Frank.

Frank nodded, getting out of the car.

“You think I didn’t know?” Boris said, twisting Simon’s arm up, immobilizing him. An involuntary grunt, the pain shooting through him. “At the Bolshoi. You think we didn’t know who he was? Why such a meeting? What, what? On the train, so innocent. Me, worried about Tallinn. But not you. The Agency had a new plan. But we have ears, so now I know too. Bastard.” He turned to face Frank. “I told you not to trust him. One step in that boat and they have you. And who puts you there?” he said, looking back at Simon, giving his arm another twist. Simon gasped, the words rushing by him, driven by their own logic, the story they’d want to believe. “I always knew. To send his brother. Who would believe it? Not even him.” A nod to Frank. “But I knew. And you,” he said to Hal through the front door, still open, Frank standing next to it, “another press cover. Another one. Don’t they have new ideas? Another one to send home. But not this time. This time it’s serious. To kidnap an officer of the Service. What should we do about that? What should be Soviet justice?”

“No,” Nancy said from the car.

“Be quiet,” Frank said.

Simon turned his head toward him, Frank not meeting his eye, blank, taking everything in. And now the pain in his arm spread through the rest of him, how everything would feel when they broke him, the bones of his face smashed, kidneys throbbing until he said what they wanted him to say. Everybody did, even the old Bolsheviks, confessing to anything. Just to have an end. A crowd in the Hall of Unions. Or maybe not. Maybe something simpler. He looked at Frank’s blank face, his expressionless eyes. But why should he be any different? How many had Frank killed now? The hapless Latvians. How many hundreds of others, just by leaving something folded in a newspaper on a park bench. Collateral damage, nothing personal.

“Where are the others?” Frank said to Boris.

“Two down there,” Boris said, nodding to the port. “Two back at the station.”

“What about the boat?”

“Taken care of.”

“The station, then. We can call from there. I’ll drive. Hold him in the back.”

Simon stared, his body beginning to shake. Don’t pee. Really happening now, a louder scratching against the glass, Frank still expressionless, not savoring it, just business, saving himself.

“What about—?” Boris motioned toward the others.

“Oh, I think they’ll stay right where they are. Won’t you? Otherwise, you’d be resisting arrest. Shot trying to escape. For real. Keep an eye on them, Jo.”

“Oh,” Nancy said, a kind of yelp.

“Frank—” Simon started, cut off by Boris pushing him more tightly against the car.

“You should have thought about this before.” Bloodless. “You have him?” he said to Boris. “I’ll just get my coat.” He bent down to reach into the backseat, gathering up the raincoat.

First the explosion, the air clapping over his ears, so loud that it seemed to go through him, his whole body knocked forward. Something sticky running down the side of his head, still pinned against the car, Boris slumping over him. No pain, the liquid coming faster now, hot. A groan, Boris’s body lying on his, dead weight, and then sliding down, pulling Simon with him, falling back, a thud on the pavement. Another groan, still alive. Frank stepped over, the gun in his hand, Boris’s eyes open wide, astonished, one last second and then the gun fired again and Boris’s head split open, dark liquid oozing out.

Simon, weaving, tried to stand up, moving away from the car, feeling the side of his face, the streak of blood, not his. He looked up, eyes locked with Frank’s. Nancy screamed, then covered her mouth, as if a scream might bring someone running, only the gunshots drowned out by the clanging noise on the quay. Joanna stepped out of the car in slow motion, dazed, staring at Frank.

“Jesus,” Hal said, looking down at Boris, blood and something else pooling beneath his head.

“Now we have to leave,” Frank said slowly. “Boris.” Looking at him, then up at the others, in charge, trained for it. “Get him out of the street. Before anyone sees.”

“They’ll come looking for him,” Simon said.

“But not right away. Help me get him into the car,” he said, lifting the body from underneath the shoulders. “Get his feet.”

Simon, still stunned, hesitated.

“Quick.”

Simon grabbed the feet, lifting the body, almost buckling under the weight, then staggering with it toward Boris’s car. Carrying Gareth out of the monastery grounds.

“We have to stash the car somewhere. That alley. You’d have to be really looking to spot it there.”

“The caretaker—”

“Don’t go as far as the loading area. He can’t see the driveway.”

A heavy thump as the body was dropped into the backseat.

“I’ll take Boris’s car,” Frank said to Hal. “You follow. Wait at the end of the driveway.”

Simon looked up, a flash of alarm. Frank, catching it, smiled a little. “Nobody’s going anywhere,” he said to Simon. “Not now. Come with me.” He handed him the gun. “Better? Here.” He took out a handkerchief. “Wipe your face. People notice blood. The eye goes right to it.”

They got into Boris’s car.

“Oh, my God, what are we going to do?” Nancy said.

“We’re okay. Come on,” Hal said, putting his arm around her.

“Have her ride up front with you,” Frank called over. “The way you usually would.”

A car appeared at the corner.

“Quick,” Frank said to the others. “Get in. Before they see your clothes.”

He backed the car away from the Volvo, but by now the other car had seen them and slowed down, the eternal fascination of an accident. Not the men from the station. Frank rolled down his window, speaking Russian. They hadn’t seen each other coming and now who was going to pay for it? The other car knew someone who could fix the scraped fender. An address. All of it so interesting that no one noticed the dark splotch on the road.

They drove around the block, both quiet, as if the body in the back had silenced them, a hush, Simon still shaky.

“Thank you,” he said finally.

Frank said nothing, leaning forward, checking the street at the corner.

“So you were wrong,” Frank said, still not looking at him. “They would have believed me. The Service. I’m an officer.”

“Boris would have, anyway.”

Frank nodded. “Well, it doesn’t matter now. I couldn’t let them hang you. Pa would blame me.”

“Is that what they do? Hang people? Still?”

Frank made a half shrug. “I don’t know. Shoot them, probably. But it’s what they do before. You don’t think I’d let them do that to you, do you? You don’t think that.”

Simon looked over at him. “Are you really sick?”

“Yes. It wasn’t a lie. None of it. Actual lies.”

“But you were never going to go.”

“No.”

“Jesus, Frank. All this, for what?”

“I can’t leave the Service. Everything I did was for them. They were—the best. I’d never seen anything like it, even in Spain where things were such a mess. They knew what they were doing. I wanted to be part of that. People who always knew what they were doing. The best.” He turned to Simon. “And I was. I was valuable to them. I don’t know how much time I have left, you can’t trust the doctors, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to spend it doing crosswords. I want to be buried at Kuntsevo. Full honors. An officer of the Service.” He stopped. “But now— You can’t argue with a corpse,” he said, cocking his head toward Boris. “Not when there are witnesses. So, lucky DiAngelis.”

Quiet again.

“You’re going to lie to him, aren’t you?”

“Let’s see how good he is. Jimbo, I’m going. That’s your pound of flesh. There isn’t any more.”

He turned into the alley. “Here we go. Let’s hope they don’t find him right away. Start calling the border. We need the head start. A little luck.”

He stopped the car before the driveway forked left, not yet visible from the loading ramp. He got out, then stood for a second, looking into the backseat. “Boris,” he said quietly. “You’re supposed to suspect everybody. Even me. Service rules.” He turned to Simon. “You realize they’ll never stop now. Until they find me. It’s bad enough, a defector, but to kill one of their—” He stopped, facing the end of the driveway. “Let’s go. They’re waiting.”

They drove out of town, past the castle in the harbor, without seeing anyone tailing behind. How long would they have? The hour they needed? Less?

“I’ve never seen that before,” Joanna said, between Frank and Simon but not really talking to either. “A man get killed.”

“His head,” Nancy said.

“We can’t go back now, can we?” Jo said to Frank.

“No.”

“So it’s over. Now what happens to us?”

“We live somewhere. New names. The Agency protects us.”

“New names. Like when we came here. Protection. So it’s the same. It’s always the same. I’m sorry,” she said to Frank, touching his hand.

“But you’ll be home,” Simon said.

“Like prisoners.” Moody, ready to snap.

“What were you here?”

“Yes, what? So it’s the same. That’s our choice.” She picked up Frank’s hand. “I’m sorry.” Her voice intimate, something between them.

“No, no,” Frank said.

“You should never have listened to me. I think about that all the time. What if we’d never started—”

“What if,” Frank said. “But we did.”

“And whose fault? Who said, yes, do it?”

“It’s nobody’s fault.”

“If I had stopped you—”

“Stopped him?” Simon said. “He said you never knew.”

“Where did he say that? In the book? That’s all lies anyway. What else could it be? And you believe him?”

“Jo—” Frank said.

“What difference does it make now? He wanted to protect me. From what, I don’t know. But now—are you listening, UPI? Such a scoop. The innocent wife talks.” She turned to Simon. “Of course I knew. It was me. I said, do it. When he came back from Spain, he told me they had approached him. He thought I would be impressed. Since I was a Communist. And I said, you have to do it if they ask you. We all believed then. Oh, look at your face. Did you think there was nothing up here?” She pointed to her temple. “Just silly clubs? Dancing? Of course we believed it. And then—well, things changed.”

“Changed how?”

“How can I explain it to you? Like alcoholics, maybe like that. We started drinking together. And then I stopped. But Frank couldn’t. He couldn’t stop. One more. One more. You know what’s in the drink? Secrets. And he’s the only one who knows. That’s what he likes,” she said, facing him, her voice sour, a look between them. “It doesn’t matter what it is, the secret. As long as he knows it. And you don’t. So he can smile while he does it—betray you. Then one more.” She turned back. “He couldn’t stop. So I started drinking something else.”

“We can fix that. When we get home,” Simon said.

“Fix it. You never understand anything. The knight to the rescue. I don’t want to be rescued.” She looked at Frank. “When I saw you shoot Boris, it all went through my head. What we are now.”

Nancy had twisted in her seat to listen, her eyes wide and shiny, like mirrors, and suddenly, looking at her dismayed expression, Simon could see Frank and Jo in them, finally see because she saw it, what they had done to each other.

“And it’s my fault,” Jo said, skittish, her hands moving.

“It’s nobody’s fault,” Frank said, calming her. Something they’d said before.

Simon found himself edging away from them on the seat, as if he needed more air. An inch, any distance.

“So there’s a story for you,” Jo said to Hal.

“We have to be careful with that,” Simon said. “There’s a big difference between knowing and doing. You’ve never been charged—”

“To the rescue again,” Jo said, lifting her hand, a mock call to arms. “They’re going to charge me? Where do they find me? That woman’s gone. A new name. Only the Agency knows where I am. You think they’d tell? Not as long as Frank is talking. All those secrets. After that, who knows?” Fluttering her hand, her voice drifting, eyes following, somewhere inside now.

Frank looked over, a reassuring glance. “Give her a minute.” Moving her hand down, a caretaker.

“She going to be all right? At the checkpoint?” Unpredictable, out of focus, guards peering at her.

She turned to him. “I was so happy when you came,” she said, her voice still vague. “I never thought— So you’re good at it too.”

In the front seat, Nancy had begun to shake, a kind of crying without tears.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Hal said.

“I’m scared,” she said.

“Not you. Come on.”

“I keep seeing his head. Everything coming out—”

“Shh.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. “That’s the same car for a while,” he said to the back. “What do you think?”

Everyone turned to look, tense.

“Let him pass you. Then you’ll know,” Simon said.

Hal waited for an open stretch, then slowed the car. Almost immediately, the car behind swung out and overtook them, leaving a stream of visible exhaust.

“They all look alike, that’s the trouble,” Hal said. “Not far now. We’re making good time.”

But in the car they seemed to be not moving at all, the flat landscape the same one they’d seen minutes ago. Frank had sat back, his mind somewhere else, but the others fidgeted, nervous. How long before the watchman checked the alleyway? But he’d call the police, not the men at the station, another delay. Unless they’d already started combing the streets for the Volvo and found Boris instead. Or nothing had happened, the winches clanging on the quay, the caretaker having a peaceful smoke.

“This is it,” Hal said. “Where the trucks are.”

Up ahead, a cluster of low buildings, with trucks parked at the edge of the road, waiting for inspection. As they got closer, they could see the barriers across the road, the tollbooth-like stations on either side, topped with red stars, customs sheds and huts for the guards in the winter, uniforms.

Simon reached into the raincoat pocket. “You’d better have these,” he said, handing over the passports and visas.

“Give them all to Hal,” Frank said. “Let him be group leader. How’s your Russian?”

“Good enough for this.”

“So that’s what I looked like,” Jo said, opening hers.

“You still do,” Simon said. “You all right?”

“You keep asking that. And if I said no?”

“I’m thinking about the others.” A nod to the front. “We have to do this right.”

“Remember,” Frank said. “They’re not used to American passports. Americans fly in and out. They don’t drive. So they’ll be curious. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Until it does,” Jo said.

A guard waved the car over to the side. Hal rolled down the window and handed him the passports and visas in a stack. Some Russian that Simon couldn’t follow.

“Honey, he needs the registration,” Hal said, pointing to the glove compartment. “We have to get out. They want to go over the car.”

Trunk. Under the hood. Seats, running their hands into the seams.

“What are they looking for?” Simon said to Frank.

“Nothing.”

He turned his head slightly, away from the guard with the passports, peering now at their faces. As Simon had guessed, once he had matched the face to the picture, he moved on to the visas, in more comfortable Cyrillic. Frank’s name apparently not recognized. Old news. A sharp question and an exchange in Russian with Hal.

“ ‘Where are we going?’ I told him shopping. In Helsinki. He wants to know why so many. People go to Helsinki, they want an empty car to bring the stuff back.”

“Tell him we’re picking up another car there,” Frank said. “A new one.” He glanced at the car. “A Saab.”

“You tell him.”

“No, be point man. The Russian speaker. Let him deal with you.”

“He says you’ll need papers to bring it in.”

Frank nodded. “We know. The dealer’s arranged it.”

“Why no luggage?”

“Just pick up and back. We didn’t want to take up room in the car. With all the stuff. He buying it?”

“I think so. It’s why any foreigner comes through here, so he’s not surprised. I can’t tell if we should offer to pick up something for him. They all want stuff, but maybe he’s—”

“No, keep it straight.”

Simon looked around the post. Guns everywhere, a fence on either side of the road. Beyond the barrier a pine forest. What did they do at night?

The guard went back to examining the passports, the indecipherable English, any bureaucrat, making a show of being thorough. The others had finished with the car. Simon felt his leg jiggle, anxious, glancing back down the road. Why not just wave them through, everything plausible. The guard was handing Hal the passports, but now looked at Simon.

“He wants to see your raincoat. If there’s anything—”

Simon looked up, alarmed. What if he wanted to pat him down? He felt the weight of the gun in his jacket pocket. A death warrant. But where else could he have put it? A body search at a border crossing? On an American passport? Led into one of the sheds, stripped. He handed over the raincoat, the guard jamming his hands into the pockets. Coming out with his notes.

“He wants to know what these are.”

Looking at the pages, scribbles in English.

“Notes to myself. A diary.”

“About Russia?”

“No, no. Personal.”

A frown on the guard’s forehead. Impossible to say the Service had already approved them. Impossible to say anything. Weeks of work.

“Offer to translate one,” Frank said to Hal. “So he can see for himself. Make something up.”

And then, as Hal was saying this, another guard came up.

“Dobry den,” he said to Nancy, smiling. “Kak dela?” Then something to the first guard.

“He remembers us from the last trip,” Hal said.

“Stockmann’s,” the guard said, rolling out the word, not really flirting, genial, showing he knew them, a connection to the larger world.

“Stockmann’s,” Nancy said, smiling back. “That’s right.”

Something with a laugh to the other guard, then some Russian to Hal.

“He wants to know what’s on the list this time. They think it’s something out of a dream, that you can just go and buy anything you want.”

Nancy began to tick off a list on her fingers, playing along, Hal translating. “Sheets, pillowcases, summer dress, Band-Aids, toilet paper—”

The guard was shaking his head at the list, enjoying this. “Cigarettes? American?”

“No, only Russian,” Hal said, taking out a pack.

The guard held up his hand. “We have.” He motioned to the other guard to return the raincoat and waved his hand toward the car. “So. Stockmann’s.” Another nod and smile.

Simon watched the guard put the notes back in the coat pocket, almost an afterthought, and hand it to him. Get in the car. Hal and Nancy were saying good-bye, the first guard now one of the party too. Good wishes in both languages. Jo back in the car, Frank. They were going to get away with it. In the booth next to them, the telephone rang. Simon froze, hand on the door, still out of the car. The guard reached through the open window of the booth and picked up the receiver.

“Allo,” he said, then shouted it again, a bad connection.

Simon craned his neck, not breathing, too far away to hear anything on the line, watching the guard’s face instead. A quick exchange and then another “allo,” evidently more static. The friendly guard came over and started waving them on. Simon stood, rooted.

“Get in the car,” Frank said.

Finally the guard at the booth gave up, putting the receiver down, a disgruntled comment to the other guard, then a resigned shrug.

“Okay, okay,” the friendly guard said, waving them on again.

Simon ducked into the backseat, head turned, anticipating another ring as Hal pulled the car out. The barrier rose. They were through. A straight stretch into the woods. Only a few miles now.

“How many phone calls do you think they get there?” Frank said, partly to himself. “Did you see how he jumped? What happens at the next crossing?” he said to Hal.

“Just a check. To see if your visa’s been stamped. Then on your way. After that you’re in Finland.”

“Let’s go a little faster if we can.”

“What’s the matter?” Simon said.

“Why would anyone call there?”

“Late for a shift. Maybe his wife. Headquarters. Well, they’d have a better connection.”

“Unless the problem’s on this end. I never looked at the wires. You?”

Simon shook his head, his face a question.

“If it’s our friends, they’ll call again, don’t you think? Until they get through. There’d be some urgency.”

“Okay,” Hal said. “Let’s make some time.”

They were in the woods now, the border crossing lost behind a curve, the road shadowy with trees. No side roads or houses, nothing between the crossings, a forest no-man’s-land. Simon sat up, alert, as if he were still listening for the phone.

“Lucky he remembered Stockmann’s,” Nancy said.

“He’d have taken the papers,” Frank said to Simon. “Papers are always trouble. Especially these. If he could read them.” Almost amused. “Shame after all that work. By the way. I never said. I want to dedicate it to Jo. I want it to read: For Joanna, who didn’t know, but never stopped loving.”

“Frank,” she said quietly. “And people will believe that?”

“What do you think, Hal?” Asking something else.

Hal thought for a minute. “All right. I won’t.”

More trees, thicker, a Grimm setting. Still no one behind.

“We can’t go back either, can we?” Nancy said to Hal.

“No. We can get Alex to pack up our stuff.”

“I don’t care,” she said. “Leave it. God, no more Moscow. We can breathe again.”

“Richie’s room,” Jo said to no one.

“It’s here,” Frank said, patting her forehead, then smoothing back her hair.

Hal slowed the car after the next curve.

“There they are.”

A striped barrier pole across the road, a hut next to it. Two soldiers.

“No telephone wires,” Frank said.

“But maybe they have a field phone.”

“I doubt it. I haven’t seen one of those since the war. Well, here goes. Hal, you’re point man again.”

They pulled up to the crossing. Both soldiers came over, curious about the car. Young, teenagers. The country where you could buy the car was only a few feet behind them. A hut to stay warm. No thought of running. They looked at the passports, checking the visa stamps. Simon held his breath. Then the passports were being handed back and one of the soldiers was at the barrier, cranking it up, like a railway crossing. Hal drove under the raised pole.

“Are we there?” Frank said. “No more crossings?”

“You’re in Finland,” Hal said. “Free as a bird.”

“Okay, stop the car, then.”

Hal slowed the car. “What—?”

“No, stop. I have to walk back. I just wanted to make sure you all got out.”

“Frank,” Jo said.

“Shh,” he said, touching her hair again. “It’s going to be all right. Simon’s going to take care of you, get you to a doctor. And I want you to go, promise? Promise?”

Jo looked at him, confused.

“Frank, for God’s sake,” Simon said.

“I can’t do this,” Frank said. “You know that. Betray the Service? Sing for old Pirie?” He shook his head. “I can’t. I have to go back.” He looked over at Simon. “It’s where I live.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“No, they’ll believe me. I’m an officer.

“Believe you.”

“They might. I’m good at it. It’s worth a try. I can’t do this.”

“You killed Boris.”

“No, you did. You don’t mind, do you? You’re out, they can’t— It was your gun. I can make it work, the story. They think you’re Agency anyway. Boris thought so and there’s the proof. Dead in an alley. In fucking Vyborg. You’re a tough guy.” He turned to Jo again, touching the back of her head, kissing the side of her face. “My Jo. No good-byes. We know. Be happy. Do that for me.” He moved back, looking straight at her. “It was never your fault. None of it. None of it.”

Another minute and then he turned to Hal. “Thanks for the lift. Quite a story. Work with him on it.” He pointed his finger to Simon. “He’ll make you look good.”

And then he was backing out of the door, Simon leaping out the other side.

“You’re not going to do this,” Simon said. “It’s too late.”

“Jimbo, I can’t—”

“What, betray the Service? What about Kelleher? That was easy enough. You didn’t think twice about him.”

“He was already turned. We knew. They didn’t know that we knew. So they ended up feeling twice as smart. Why do you think they moved so fast? They didn’t even check the story out. They didn’t have to.”

“And Gareth?”

“Gareth got in the way. Mine, this time. But he’d been getting in the way for years. The Service never knew what to do with him. I think it was a relief, in a way.”

“It won’t be for Ian. And what about Perry?”

“What about him?”

Simon was silent for a minute. “You found the body.”

“So you think I killed him?” He shook his head. “What a suspicious mind you have. You know what killed him? He stopped believing. He couldn’t—adapt.” He held up his hands. “Clean. This time, anyway. How about yours? Handing me over. Planning it. Who are you doing it for? Did you ask yourself? America? Pirie? Maybe just you. What did you think was going to happen to me? In the land of the free. Maybe not so clean either.” He nodded toward Simon’s hands.

Simon stared at him, a sound in the air, a faint scratching.

“But if it really bothers you about Ian, I can tell them it was you. After all, it was. I wouldn’t. I think you’d be putting your head on a block, but it’s your call. Do you want me to do that?”

Simon looked at him. “No.”

“No.” He moved behind the car to Simon’s side. “Simon.” His voice low, just the two of them. “I never said I was perfect. But I won’t do this. Be Pirie’s boy. I already changed sides. So say good-bye here. Wish me luck. I don’t suppose we’ll see each other again. Ever.”

“Don’t go back. You’re going to run out of lies. Even you.”

Frank took him by the shoulders. “Think of it this way. You’ll get the house now. For sure. Everything. And the book.”

“It’s lies.”

“Not all of it.”

“Which parts do I believe?”

Frank smiled. “All of them. You’ll sell it better.” He moved closer, a quick hug, then dropped his hands. “I’m glad you came.”

“Frank, for Christ’s sake—”

“I know, not the way I expected it to go.” He looked up, another smile. “You were too smart for me. But it was worth the try.”

“And what would you have done with DiAngelis?”

Frank raised a finger, then wagged it. “Scruples.” He turned to go.

“I could stop you. I still have the gun.”

Frank stopped. “And I’d get rid of it soon if I were you. It’s evidence.”

“I could use it.”

“But you won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s me. And what would be the point? Much easier this way. I’ll just serve out my time here.” He looked to the other side of the car. “Jo.”

“Where are you going?” she said, getting out.

Frank looked at Simon, a signal, and started walking away. Simon went over to her. “He told you, remember? He’s going back to Moscow.”

“He’s leaving me?”

“No. He’s just going back.”

“How can he leave me?”

“He doesn’t want to live in hiding.” Making Frank’s case, everything inside out again.

“Oh, look, they’re coming to pick him up.”

Simon turned. A black car heading for the crossing, the barrier pole still raised. The car from the station. Or any car. But coming fast, tearing down the road, running late, then screeching to a stop just before the barrier, some invisible line they couldn’t cross, jumping out of the car, guns. The soldier guards pulled back, startled. Frank was almost at the barrier now, holding his hands in the air, the universal sign.

“Comrades!”

Not one shot, two, then more, thudding into Frank, who stopped, knocked sideways by the bullets, then fell.

“No!” Joanna screamed.

Simon grabbed her, ducking, pushing her back into the car. “Stay down.”

“What the hell—?” Hal said.

But the firing had stopped, the men just standing there, the soldiers still wide-eyed, everyone staring at the figure lying on the road. Still in Finland. Simon thought they would grab the body and drag it back, but no one moved. He ran to Frank, rolling him over. Still alive, a flicker of the eye, then a wince.

“Help me!” Simon yelled, but they stayed in place. Footsteps behind him, Hal, the women holding each other back at the car.

“Frank. Can you hear me?”

“They never tell you how much it hurts,” he said, the words jerky, coming in gasps. “Getting shot.”

“We’ll get you some help.”

He shook his head slowly, some blood now at his mouth, and grabbed Simon’s hand. Simon looked down. Frank’s stomach was welling with blood.

“Jimbo, don’t be mad. It’s me,” he said, clutching him, and suddenly Simon’s eyes were filled, as if they were welling blood too, everything blurry. And then, out of nowhere, in his mind’s eye, he saw the train between their old rooms, connecting them.

“Don’t talk. You’re hurt.”

“I know. So—” Opening his eyes, trying to focus. “Tell Pa I’m sorry. I—” Gripping him tighter. “I thought it was the right thing to do.”

Simon looked up, frantic. “Call a doctor.”

The men from the car stood there, not sure what to do. Service suits. Probably racing since Vyborg, afraid of losing them, even firing over the border, against Service rules. Or was it? What rules? Why not just snatch Simon? All of them? But nobody moved. And when he looked down again, it didn’t matter, Frank had gone. He kept his hand for another second, then released it, prying the fingers away. He stood up, blood rushing to his head, dizzy for a moment, swaying.

Jo rushed from the car, her face wild, chest heaving. “Oh my God.”

“We have to move him,” Simon said. “Hal, take her back to the car. Wait. I need you to speak Russian.”

“I speak English,” one of the men said.

Simon nodded. “Then help me move him. He was coming back. He was walking back to Russia. You made a mistake.”

The men looked at each other, paralyzed.

“He’s a hero of the Soviet Union. A famous man. You made a mistake. Call Moscow. The Lubyanka. Everyone knows him. He didn’t want to be in Finland. He was forced. I forced him. He’s an officer of the Service,” he said, his voice breaking a little. “A colonel. He wanted to be buried at Kuntsevo. Full honors. Do you understand? Full honors. Now help me carry him. He wants to be in Russia.”

No one moved, staring at the border as if there were an actual line, some primitive arrangement of stones, a taboo.

“Okay,” Simon said, moving around and lifting Frank under the shoulders. Carrying Boris, carrying Gareth, now doing it alone, having to drag him, shoes scraping against the road. Not far. Where would the line be? Where the pole was raised. The soldiers still stared at him. He stopped. Another foot and he’d be in Russia. He twisted slightly, heaving Frank onto the dividing line, careful not to cross it himself, then let the body fall out of his hands. Only the feet now in the West. He picked them up and pushed them across, following the rest of the body. Now theirs.

“Have him buried in Kuntsevo.” No one said anything. He turned to go, then half-turned back. “He made a mistake too. He thought you were worth it.”

And now he did turn, walking back, head high, almost daring them to come after him. As he walked he wondered what he was going to tell them, Jo, Hal, DiAngelis, what story would work, what Frank would want them to hear. But when he got back to the car he didn’t say anything at all.