“Which they told you to make. Or have Pa make.”
Frank took a second, looking at him. “They didn’t tell me to make it. They suggested it would be very valuable if they had someone there. On the inside. So I took the hint.” He paused. “I asked him to make the call.”
“To plant a Soviet—”
“I think you’re making this worse than it was. Yes, I worked for the Soviets. No, he didn’t know. And neither, God knows, did Bill. But what harm did it do in the end? We were on the same side. We just didn’t like telling the Soviets what we were up to. So I did. And probably a good thing. They’d know they didn’t have to worry about us. They do worry, they’re suspicious, it’s their history. But everything was about the Germans. Not them. Not then, anyway.” He looked away, tapping ash off his cigarette. “So I asked him to make a call. He thought he was giving me a leg up. In my career. And he was. Just not the one he thought. I did a good job for Bill, you know.”
“I know.”
“So where was the harm? Look at Ray. Evan. Who made calls for them? They probably did more damage than I ever did. They thought it was still Friday night at the Porc. Fun and games.”
“They weren’t passing documents.”
“No,” Frank said, stubbing out the cigarette. “So where were we? What was the question?”
“How you felt asking Pa to do it. Knowing—”
“Was that the question? I don’t remember you asking that.”
Frank got up and went over to the window, looking out to the back courtyard, Stalin’s high-rise in the distance.
“You know, it’s good, you playing devil’s advocate. Good for the book, I mean. Push-pull. But it’s not always going to be what you want to hear. You want me to say I had mixed feelings—using Pa. Deceiving him. Maybe I should have. But I didn’t. Not for a minute. They needed someone inside. There was an old boy network ready to put me there. I used it. Not a qualm. I was fighting to keep a system alive. Something I believed in. I didn’t have time for— So I did it. There was a war on. Things were different later. But the OSS chapter? You want me to be sorry or—what? feel guilty? I didn’t.” He stopped, then turned to face Simon. “Not then. So let’s keep Francis Weeks Senior out of this, shall we? He wasn’t in it. Anyway, why complicate things? How many chapters like this do we have? All the Rough Rider stuff. I thought maybe we could use ‘Wild Bill’ as a chapter title. What do you think?”
Asking something else, an odd truce.
“Perfect,” Simon said with a slight nod.
“A vote of enthusiasm,” Frank said with a smile.
“No, it’s fine. Bill’s always good copy. You’re right about the chapter. Once we get you in, everything just sails along.” He looked up. “So let’s move on.”
“Do you want a break?”
“No, let’s get through the OSS anyway. See if we can finish this week.”
“Listen to you. You’ve just arrived and you’re halfway out the door.”
“I have a business to run. We’re publishing a few other books this year too.”
“Not like this,” Frank said, putting his hand on the manuscript.
“That’s what every author thinks.”
Frank dipped his head. “I’m just being greedy. Having you here. But we want to get it right, don’t we? Anyway, I thought you might want to see something of the place, as long as you’re here. How many times are you likely to come? I thought we could go up to Leningrad. St. Petersburg as was. Would that interest you?”
“What?” Simon said, surprised.
“A shame to leave without seeing the Hermitage. Of course we’d need to get permission, but that shouldn’t be too hard to arrange. There’s an overnight train. All the comforts. Better than a Pullman.”
Simon was staring at him now. Frank had turned away, not looking at him, his voice pitched somewhere else, to Boris, to whoever was listening in the walls. When he finally met Simon’s eyes, the question in them, he said, “Jo would like it, I know,” keeping his voice even, and Simon understood that for some reason he was meant to go along, play to the unseen galleries.
“Well, the Hermitage—” he said, neutral.
“After we finish. A kind of treat. Unless you really have to go back,” Frank said, eyes steady.
“Let’s see how we do. The Hermitage.” Being persuaded.
“Of course there’s lots to see in Moscow. All work and no play. After we finish this we’ll take a walk. It’s so nice out. We could have a picnic. What do you say, Boris?” he said, raising his voice, as if Boris had been out of range before.
“A walk is good. For the mind.”
“If Ludmilla were here, she’d make sandwiches. There’s some salami. But we can pick something up.”
“I can make,” Boris said.
“That’s okay.”
“Pickles?” Boris said, paying no attention.
Frank opened his hands, a conceding gesture.
They were another hour, then left by the far end of the courtyard, a passageway leading out to the Garden Ring.
“We’ll make a little circle,” Frank said, turning left.
Simon moved closer to him. “Leningrad?”
“Well, it’s an idea,” Frank said, dropping it.
Boris, carrying a string bag, walked with them and not with them, a few steps behind, a courtier’s distance. When they rounded a curve in the road, another Stalin skyscraper came into view, closer than the one they could see from the study window.
“Kudrinskaya,” Frank said. “That one’s apartments. Pilots.”
“Pilots?”
“Housing authority likes to bunch people together. I don’t know why. Maybe they think it gives them something to talk about in the elevator. Anyway, lots of air ministry people. American embassy’s just down from there, past the square. I suppose you’ll have to check in?” Another veiled glance, his voice pitched to Boris.
“At some point,” Simon said vaguely, waiting for a cue.
“We’ll have Boris fix you up with a lift. Right, Boris? But it’s just down there, if you want to walk. Ugliest building in Moscow. And that’s a hard contest to win.”
They were almost at the square when Frank pointed to a two-story house on their left. Faded pink plaster, a side entrance through a gate.
“Take a look. Chekhov’s house. Where he used to see his patients. There’s really nothing much left, but it’s his house, so at least they won’t tear it down. Put up something else.”
They turned down Malaya Nikitskaya and walked to the end of the block. Another house, this one pale blue, partly hidden by a high wall. “Beria’s house,” Frank said. “They say this is where he brought the little girls. Eight years old. Nine. Nobody said a word. You wonder if the neighbors heard anything.”
Boris said something to Frank in Russian.
“Boris doesn’t approve. Bringing you here. Raking up the past. So, on to better times. We’ll swing back this way,” he said, leading them down the side street. “But imagine. Chekhov, Beria. Just one block away. You wouldn’t see that anywhere else.”
“You wouldn’t have Beria anywhere else.”
“Yes, you would,” Frank said calmly. “Lots of variations on that theme. He just had a longer run than most of them. A monster. But he gave Stalin his bomb.”
“He had help.”
“Not from me, if that’s what you’re asking. The Service, yes. We gained a few years. A matter of time, that’s all, not science. But Stalin couldn’t wait. That’s all he could think about then. The bomb. When? We had to have it.”
“And now you do. Pointing right at us.”
“Well, it takes two, Jimbo. Somebody puts a gun to your head, you better put one to his.” He paused, glancing toward Boris. “Anyway, he got it. And that bought Beria a little time. And then, once Stalin was gone—” He let the thought complete itself. “Everything ends sooner or later. Even Beria.”