“The briefcase? I took the liberty,” he said, nodding to the backseat.
“Oh,” Simon said, feeling someone had been through his pockets. “Mind if I ride up front? It doesn’t seem right, you like a chauffeur. A colonel. Anyway, you can show me the sights.”
Vassilchikov hesitated for a second, not sure how to respond, then opened the door for him.
“You didn’t get lost,” he said pleasantly, slipping behind the wheel. “Without a map?”
“No. But I suppose I should get one.”
“Well, you know, it’s difficult. There were no maps during the war. And afterward—”
“Then how does anybody—?”
“They live here. They know. But visitors—that’s why it’s so useful to have a guide. Someone who can help you. I would be happy to do it myself. Or one of my colleagues. Just let me know what you would like to see and we’ll arrange it. Moscow is a big city. So easy to get lost.”
They drove toward the Manège, then turned right. Simon peered at the street sign. Bolshaya Nikitskaya. He’d spent days memorizing Cyrillic letters but still felt he was decoding, translating letter for letter.
“The old university,” Vassilchikov said, evidently taking the guide role seriously. “Down there, Moscow Conservatory. Very beautiful hall.” He pointed to the statue in the forecourt. “Tchaikovsky. They say an excellent likeness.”
“How long have you been Frank’s—bodyguard?”
“I am his technical officer,” Vassilchikov said, his fleshy face pulling back in disapproval.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
But Vassilchikov was waving this away. “A matter of terminology. I think in your Service you say case officer?”
“I wouldn’t know.” He waited. “I thought that was someone who ran agents in the field.”
“Yes?”
“But Frank isn’t in the field anymore.”
“No, but I can be of use in many ways. You understand, Comrade Weeks is a hero of the Soviet Union. He is entitled to such privileges. In the beginning, it’s true, there was a bodyguard—we didn’t know if his life would be in danger. But now, it’s a question of—general assistance. You see there on the right?”
Simon turned to a modern office building with a giant bronze globe hanging over the entrance.
“TASS,” he said, the Cyrillic TACC easy even for him. “The news agency.”
Vassilchikov nodded. “So you are learning Russian. It’s good. Some of the others—”
“The others?”
“Western friends. Who come here. Still only English. Gareth Jones—you met him last night at the hotel. All these years and no Russian.”
“Maybe he understands more than you think. Someone like him, that would be par for the course.”
“Course?” Vassilchikov said, bewildered.
“Sorry. An idiom. I just meant, he was a spy. It might be in his nature to know more than he lets on.”
Vassilchikov turned to him, his double chin moving up a little in a smile. “A generous assessment. No, he’s like the others. A fish out of waters. That’s correct? Except Comrade Weeks. And Maclean. He speaks Russian. His children are Young Pioneers. Sometimes, you know, the adopted land—you feel a powerful attachment. But Comrade Jones, I think not. Of course, that type—”
At the intersection with the first ring road they were stopped to let two black Zils race by, lights flashing, important.
“Kremlin,” Vassilchikov said simply.
On the other side the streets became leafy, some of the houses even with grounds, a century away.
“Is here many embassies,” Vassilchikov said. Classroom English.
“Nice,” Simon said. “You don’t expect somehow—”
“The future started with the revolution,” Vassilchikov said, a practiced line. “But Russia was here before. A desirable district. Popular with writers.”
“And Frank lives here?” Simon said, amused, imagining poetry readings, Village cafés.
“Near Patriarch’s Pond. You’ll see.”
The houses became apartment buildings, slightly shabby but still attractive, neoclassical or creamy rococo façades. Europe.
“He is so pleased you are here. His brother. You were close?”
“Yes.” Lunches at Harvey’s. So what’s happening at State? Who’s going to the conference? Reporting everything back. Close.
“He vouched for you.”
“Vouched for me?”
“With the Service. When he made the request for you to come. So it’s important, you see, that no suspicion attaches to you. Even an innocent walk—”
Simon ignored this. “I thought it was their idea—your idea. The Service’s.”
“No. Comrade Weeks’s. It’s very serious for him, this book. His legacy. Of course, also a pleasure to see you. Patriarch’s Pond,” he said, lifting his left hand off the wheel.
Simon took in a park with a long rectangular reflecting pool, a playground at one end, a restaurant pavilion at the other.
“Vouched for me how?”
“Your purpose in coming. The editorial work.”
“Why else would I be coming?”
Vassilchikov shrugged. “You were once in OSS, yes? It sometimes happens that an agent is reactivated. When an opportunity presents itself.”
“You think I’m an agent? Don’t your people have ways of checking that out?”
Vassilchikov smiled. “Yes, of course. But now another guarantee. Someone who takes responsibility for you.”
“So it would be his fault if they’re wrong?” He paused. “And what would I be doing here? If I’m—reactivated?”
“Comrade Weeks was a valuable agent. Perhaps the most valuable. A great embarrassment to the Americans.”
“They think I’m here to bump him off?” Simon said, his voice catching, almost a laugh. “I’m here to make him famous.” Then, half to himself, “I’m still not sure why.”
“Brothers,” Vassilchikov said quickly. “Comrade Weeks was sure you would come.”
“Well, there’s some money involved too.”
“Yes, but for him, the blood. Family.”
“You think so?”
“Mr. Weeks, I have been his technical officer for over five years. You see a man every day, you know him.”
“I used to see him every day.”
They had come to the end of Yermolaevskiy Street, before it curved and changed names. A concrete apartment building next to a vest pocket park that stretched all the way to the next ring road. Each section had its own entrance off the interior courtyard. Vassilchikov jumped out and swung open a high metal gate, then got back into the car and drove through. Number 21, Simon noticed. Moscow. Where he lived.
“Mr. Weeks,” Vassilchikov said, oddly hesitant. “A word. It would be best not to mention last night.”
“Last night?”
“Mrs. Weeks. It sometimes happens. A woman sensitive to drink. Not a strong Russian head,” he said, touching his own. “But then, the embarrassment. So, a politeness not to mention.”
“How long has it been going on?” Simon said.
“Off and on,” Vassilchikov said vaguely. “It’s not a happy time now. One of their friends—a tragedy.”
“Perry Soames.”
Vassilchikov looked up at him. “You’re very well informed.”
“Everybody knows he died. What, and she’s been on a tear ever since?”
“No. But a source of unhappiness. Their dachas are near to each other. So, friendly times. And now this. She was upset. Me, I think a holiday would be a good idea. Sochi. It’s early for swimming, but the air is wonderful now. The flowers.” Simon looked at him. The concierge Service again. What else did he do for them? “I have suggested this. Sochi. But of course she wanted to see you. Maybe you can persuade her—”
“To go to the Black Sea?” Sounding somehow like a joke.
“For a rest. You know the Service has a clinic there, to improve the health. It would be good for her.”