“So open house on Yermolaevskiy Street. Smile for the camera.”
“You don’t have to, if you’d rather not.”
“You mean only Frank has to. They don’t care what’s happened to me.”
“I just meant—”
“I know. But I must have a certain curiosity value. We’d want to do right by Look. Just give me fair warning, will you? I’d have to get my hair done. After a certain age, it’s all about hair.” She picked up a spoon and turned it over, hesitant. “Simon, do people think I helped him? That I did it too?”
“Some people.”
“You?”
“No.”
“But you wondered. Everybody did. How could I not have known? His wife. Sometimes I wonder myself. But you weren’t supposed to ask. During the war. If things were secret. So I didn’t.”
“We can put it in the book if you want. Clear it up once and for all.”
“Who’d believe Frank? He’d lie to protect me.” She took a drink. “The least he could so. Considering. No. Keep Carrie Porter guessing. Who cares?” She glanced around the room. “They don’t care. They don’t even know who Frank is. See, here he comes and nobody even notices. Now what? He looks like the cat who swallowed the cream. What did Boris want?” she asked him, back at the table.
“Something at the office,” he said, then looked at Simon, pleased with himself. “One of our people overseas.”
Simon raised an eyebrow, another conversation without words.
“What happened?” Jo said. “Do you have to go?”
“No, no. Just a general APB for the Department. They could have waited until tomorrow but people like to know things. Makes them feel important.” His voice unconcerned, nothing to do with him.
Simon stared at him, imagining the scurrying at the Lubyanka, cables landing on desks, worried phone calls, an agent betrayed, the balls moving faster in the air.
“Shall we have some wine?” Frank said, looking at him again.
They had two bottles, a rough Georgian red that went well with the lamb and made Simon’s face feel hot. They talked about Moscow, other restaurants, and the weekend, Boris’s office crisis put aside. Except by Simon, who kept calculating time zones, how many hours it had taken for Pirie to move, the surprising speed a kind of vote of confidence in Frank. Kelleher now in a room somewhere, wondering how much they knew. Put there by a few clicks of a keyboard. His. And for a moment he wondered how he should feel about that, which of his selves to ask. Something Frank had learned years ago.
There was sticky phyllo pastry for dessert, then thick Turkish coffee, an endless meal. It was only after they ordered brandy and Jo excused herself to go to the ladies’ that Frank and Simon could use their real voices.
“So he bit,” Simon said.
“Right away too. I thought he’d sniff around for a while, but no, just snatched it off the line. Maybe Don’s getting decisive in his old age. So. Let’s see what it buys us.”
“Jo doesn’t know,” Simon said.
“Not yet. Nobody,” he said. “I told you, we have to do this right. Not even a hint.”
“Was that all Boris wanted? You’d think the Service would want to keep it to themselves.”
Frank looked over at him, appreciative. “You might have potential. No, that wasn’t all. In time-honored fashion, they’ve already begun an investigation. Desks upside down, all of it. Boris wanted me to know. No surprises.”
“They suspect you?”
“No, no. I had nothing to do with Kelleher. I knew who he was, but so did other people in the department. First you work on his control, then you move out from there. By the time they get to me I’ll be—well, that’s the plan anyway.”
“But you’re the only one with a brother who sent a cable to the Agency.”
“Did you? Boris doesn’t know that. And he was right there with you. Nobody knows. It was a secure line.” He picked up his brandy. “I’m beginning to get the feeling you don’t think I know what I’m doing.”
“You’d better know.”
“Jimbo,” he said, making a toasting gesture with his glass, “I’m famous for it. Look, stop worrying. Right now they’re hoping against hope he gave himself away, did something stupid. What usually happens. But what if? That would mean one of our people sold him. Which means somebody’s been turned. Here or in Washington. What’s the logic? It’s a lot easier to turn somebody there. And if they’ve got a rotten apple, the whole barrel— So they’ll start there.”
“And what if they talk to Boris. About my little trip to the embassy?”
“He was with you. It would never occur to him now that you— He thinks you’re here about the book.”
“I am here about the book.”
“You see? An innocent. And you stay that way. No intrigue. No double backing. Getting on and off buses. You never try to shake a tail because you never think anybody might be following. Why would they? Boris can read all the signs and you’re not flashing any. Besides, he likes you.”
“Me?”
“You’re my brother,” he said simply, looking across at Simon, another wordless conversation.
“And any brother of yours—?”
Frank took up his glass. “I saved his life.”
“Saved it how?”
“His name was on a list. I got it taken off. A while back. When things—” He downed the drink. “God, this stuff takes the lining off, doesn’t it? Armenians. They swill it down.” He paused, a grimace from the burning brandy. “How did Jo seem to you?”
“All right. It wasn’t so bad tonight, the drink.”
“You weren’t counting. See how her lipstick looks when she comes back.”
Simon glanced over at him. Every detail. Watching without watching.
“She said you don’t go to the office much anymore.”
“Well, they mostly come to me. Nice in the winter. One of the privileges of age.”
“Age.”
“Seniority. And the book kept me home. All of which plays out nicely for us just now. My name won’t be on any cable traffic to Kelleher. No connection.”
“Who is he anyway? American?”
Frank nodded.
“Why did—? A true believer?”
“Too young. We were the last of those,” he said with a wry smile. “We turned him. Demon rum.” He held up the brandy glass. “It’s a hell of a weakness. Makes you sloppy about everything. He fell right into a classic honey trap. That usually goes with the booze. So we had him. Never a very happy situation, though. He couldn’t stay away from it,” Frank said, tapping his glass. “And like I say, he was getting sloppy.”
“So throw him over? I thought you said the Service—”
“The Service didn’t throw him over. We did.”
Simon looked up, Frank’s eyes steady on him. “What’ll happen to him?” he said, a spasm in his stomach, not the brandy.
“After the debriefing? Depends on whether they want to go public with it. A trial? Twenty years.”
“For being bait.”
“No, for betraying his country. Don’t look like that. He did, you know. For years. So don’t waste your sympathy. You should be glad he’s caught. America can sleep just that much safer tonight.”
“And what does the Service do now?”
“Deny it. It’s Washington. You don’t want people sent home. An incident. So we never heard of him.”
“Or his bank account.”
“The piece Don was looking for,” Frank said, pleased.
“And if he talks?”
“He will. He’s the type. But he won’t have enough to buy himself anything. Just his control. Who’s probably packing right now.”
“So he’s on his own.”
“With lots of time to contemplate his sins.” He looked over. “It was just a matter of time. Don may be an idiot, but once you start sniffing around like that—Kelleher’s days were numbered. We just hurried things along a little, that’s all. In a good cause.”