“Your passport. Could I do something? Call someone at State? Maybe I could help.”
She put her hand on his cheek. “I forgot how nice you could be. Oh, darling, there’s nothing to do. Do you think they’re going to jump up and down at State to issue me a new one? And if they did, then what? A whole room of Carrie Porters, a whole country? I couldn’t face it. Five minutes at the Metropol was bad enough.” She lowered her hand. “Anyway, I live here now. So. You take the tray. We can talk at the dacha. And you know what? The lilacs are in bloom. Just like the language lesson.”
“Jo—”
“That’s something anyway. Having you there. He’ll be on his best behavior. Everybody will.” She made a wry smile. “You’re his good angel.”
“Really? Since when?”
“Since always, I think. Up there on his right shoulder.”
He picked up the tray. “So who’s on the left?”
“Nobody. He’s his own bad angel.” She looked over at him. “But he’ll make you think he’s listening to you.”
They sat drinking coffee for half an hour, Jo on the couch with her legs curled up beneath her, smoking, ashtray on her lap. The old liveliness was now just nervous energy—jerking the cigarette to her lips, brushing back hair from her forehead. Boris, still buried in Izvestia, said nothing, not there, another microphone in the wallpaper. Only Frank was eager to talk. So many years to catch up on, he had said, but the years had erased small talk, and anything larger, the reasons they were there, seemed off limits, not something you discussed over coffee. So they fell back on Moscow, what Simon should see—the Pushkin Museum, the Metro and its palatial stations.
“But first we need to work,” Simon said finally.
“Simon Legree,” Frank said pleasantly. “You never change. Okay, let’s get to it. Come on.” He stood up, about to head for the study. “Boris, I’ll leave the door open, shall I? In case you want to listen in. He’s interested in the process. Of course you’re welcome to join us.”
Boris made a dismissal sign with his hand, head back in the paper.
“What about you, Jo?” Frank said.
“I’ve got to pick up a few things for the weekend,” she said, getting up too. “What about tonight? Do you want to go to the Aragvi or do you want to be in?”
“Oh, the Aragvi I think. We’ll be in all day.” He turned to Simon. “Georgian. Shish kebabs.”
“And music,” Jo said. “Lucky us. Do you have some currency for the Beryozka?”
“Not much.” He took out his wallet. “I’m waiting for a fat check from my American publisher,” he said, smiling at Simon. “Try the Gastronom first. They’ll probably have everything you need.” Then, catching her glance, “But just in case.” He handed over some bills. “I hope we’re not going to have a house full of people. We don’t want to share Simon so soon.”
“Just Marzena. Maybe the Rubins. Hannah wasn’t sure.”
“Saul Rubin?” Simon said, a headline name.
“Mm,” Frank said, smiling. “The man who threatened the very existence of the Free World. To hear Winchell tell it anyway. Stamp collector. Like FDR. Not so easy here, since nobody writes him. He’ll probably ask you to send some, but once you start—”
“Work hard,” Joanna said, turning to go. No kiss good-bye. “Just ask yourself, what would Suslov say?”
“Who?” Simon said.
“Head of the International Department of the Central Committee. Party theoretician.”
“Another okay? I thought it was just the Service—”
“Don’t worry. Only to publish here. Then you’d need his approval. We’re all right. Come on. I’ve got the Latvians. Have a look and see what you think,” he said, leading Simon into the study. Boris turned a page of the newspaper, not even looking up.
The living room had faced the little park Simon had seen outside, but the study window looked west toward one of the Stalin skyscrapers.
“After a while you get used to them,” Frank said, noticing Simon looking out. “That’s the Foreign Ministry. Down near Smolenskaya. You have to hand it to him—he knew what he liked.”
Simon glanced around. Another room of books. A big desk and a reading chair, no traces of Richie, no hanging pennant or single bed with a Navajo blanket, pieces of sports equipment. Whatever had been here had been taken away.
“Here, your Latvians.” He handed Simon a sheaf of paper.
“Already? You did this last night?”
“No. I just fixed up the section from my debriefing. See if it works. It should. Everything’s there—well, everything was there. I had to nip and tuck.”
“Your debriefing?”
“I spent my first year here—almost two—being debriefed. Write down everything you know. Everything. So, my memoirs, in a way. That’s why, last year, when the Service suggested it, I thought, well, I’ve already written the book. All I have to do is take out the names, do a little brushwork. Hope that doesn’t bother you.”
“What?”
“Publishing a KGB debriefing. That’s what most of it is really, the book. My debriefing. A first for Keating, I’ll bet.” Said with a twinkle in his eye, having fun. “Take that chair. You’ll be more comfortable. I’ll have another look at the escape chapter. You had a question about that?”
“You said you got a phone call. So who was it?”
“Well, I can’t tell you that.”
“You mean he’s still there?” Simon said, feeling uneasy, drawn into it, protecting someone.
“What does it matter who? I got a call. ‘Now.’ So I moved. And I got out. If Pirie put two and two together he could probably figure out who—at least where he was, who had access—but since he hasn’t, I’m not going to tell him now. Do we need it?”
“It’s the best part of the book, getting to Mexico. Like a movie.”
“With the Bureau nipping at my heels. So does it matter who’s on the phone? You just want to see what happens. If I make it.” He sat back. “I was lucky. I admit it.”
“And you were tipped off.”
He looked at Simon. “I can’t, Jimbo.” He paused. “So how about the Latvians?”
Simon started to read. It was all here, the joint project with the Brits, meetings they’d both attended, moments from his own life, but seen now from the other end of the table, Frank’s side of the looking glass. The plan details, copied and passed on. The Latvian recruits, the list of names. The meeting with Frank’s control. Getting the signal that the mission had started out. The landing at night. The radio transmission suddenly cut. The frantic attempts to make contact, already knowing it was too late.
Simon looked up. “You don’t say what happened to them.”
Frank stared back at him. “The whole pound of flesh? But as a matter of fact none of us knew. I’m just writing what happened at the time. I wasn’t there, in lovely old Riga.”
“But you do know. Now.”
Frank said nothing for a minute, his eyes on Simon. Finally, he reached for a cigarette. “All right, how about this? ‘As for the Latvians, we never knew what happened to them. But I can make an educated guess.’ ” He lit the cigarette. “Does that make me a big enough shit?”
Simon held his gaze for a moment then started to write. Outside, Boris turned another page, not glancing in their direction, maybe not really listening either.
“No regrets?” Simon said, still writing. “You led them into—”
“We’ve been through this,” Frank said. “They knew the risks.”
“They didn’t know it was rigged.”