“And now he’ll spend the rest of his life—”
“He should have thought of that when he agreed to work for us.”
“Agreed.”
Frank brushed this aside. “There’s always a choice. He made it.” He looked at Simon. “It’s not publishing. It’s not a gentleman’s profession.”
Simon said nothing, staring at him, hearing the sounds of the restaurant around them. How long did it take? To become like this?
Frank glanced over, reading his face, then looked down, fingering the glass.
“Would you mind not doing that? That look. You make a choice. He knew that. I knew it. And then you have to—do things. Then more. But I don’t want to anymore. Does that surprise you?”
Simon said nothing.
“It wouldn’t if you knew. You’ve just had a taste. Kelleher? Nothing. But after a while it gets harder to live with. The ends justify the means. You have to believe that, to be able to do it. And they do. I still think we’re on the right side of history. It’s just—in the beginning you don’t know about the means. Not all of them. Not until you’re in it.” He looked at him. “I said it was for Jo. It’s for me too. I want out. Don’t worry, I’ll pay. But I want out.” He put his hand on the table, a miming gesture, reaching. “Don’t go soft on me, Jimbo. I need you. To make it work.”
Simon looked at the hand. Just get up and walk out. Past the Georgian waiters, Dolgoruky on his horse. Their lives, not his, dulled with regret and brandy. And if Frank was caught? On his own, like Kelleher. No, worse. Willing to risk that, a different floor in the Lubyanka. The first step already taken, irrevocable. And then the moment was over and Frank was moving his hand back, smoothing the tablecloth, as if he had just taken a trick.
“You know why Don moved so fast on this?” he said. “I’ve been thinking. It’s because he trusts me. I know, after all the— But we used to work together. You put in years like that and— He hears the bank account and he knows he can trust it. No double-checking. He knows it’s right. That kind of trust—that’s coin of the realm. Coin of the realm.”
“And now?”
“Now they’ll want a meeting. They’ll want to hear it from me. Coin of the realm or no,” he said, a small smile. “I suppose I’d better be disillusioned. That always plays with them. They can’t imagine what you saw in it in the first place.” He glanced over at Simon. “They’ll contact you to set it up. Interesting to see who they send. And then we meet with them.”
“We?” Simon said, feeling the spasm again. “I’m the messenger. I sent the message.”
“I can’t just meet somebody in Gorky Park. You’re the cover. We’re all over the place, showing you Moscow, looking at this, looking at that. Boris is used to it. Nobody thinks twice. I’m with you.”
“And we just happen to run into—?”
Frank nodded. “The most natural thing in the world.”
“And when does this happen?”
“That depends on them. They have to send somebody out. To make the deal. But look how fast Don— Soon. So meanwhile we see some sights. Set up a pattern. Do what we’d be doing anyway. How about the Tretyakov tomorrow?”
“You want the meeting there? The art museum?”
Frank shook his head. “No, the Tretyakov wouldn’t work. With meetings, there’s a kind of—choreography. You have to work out where everybody needs to be. Entrances and exits. There’s a flow to it.”
“So where?”
“Let them make contact first,” Frank said calmly, reassuring. “I’m just being careful. Then nothing goes wrong. For either of us. I’ll pick the place. One guy, not a posse. Someone who has the authority. Pity they can’t send Don. But everybody in the Service knows that face by now. And I don’t see him showing up in a fake nose, do you? He’d never get out of the airport. So somebody else. One meeting. We need to be clear on that. One meeting. Otherwise, we start pushing our luck.”
“And if they say no? They’re not interested?”
Frank shook his head. “They’re not coming all this way to say no.”
“Look who I found,” Jo said, suddenly next to the table, her voice brighter.
“The bad penny,” Gareth said, next to her. “Imagine twice in two days. Even for me. You’ll think I’m stalking. But I promised, just one brandy and we’ll vanish.” He made a swooshing motion with his hands.
“One,” Jo said. “I know you. One.”
“Scout’s honor,” he said, raising his hand. “Guy, you hear that? We’re on our honor.”
He stepped aside to make an opening for the man behind him. Simon looked up, surprised. “Guy Burgess,” he said. A man whose picture he’d seen for years, forgetting that it was the same picture, young Burgess down from Cambridge, not the bloated figure in front of them. If anything, he was even more slovenly than Gareth, clothes rumpled, his face puffy, the flesh pushing up to his eyes.
He nodded his head, as if they’d been introduced, and unsteadily sank into the chair Gareth had pulled out for him.
“We were out having a few drinks,” Gareth was saying. “And Guy wanted to go to the Praga, didn’t you, and I thought, I can’t face another dumpling, why not here? But imagine seeing you. You never go out.”
“You say that, but we are out,” Jo said, a little insistent, and Simon saw that Frank had been right, the lipstick was slightly uneven, the eyes not quite focused.
Frank signaled for more glasses, clearly annoyed. Gareth now pulled up another chair.
“Very kind of you,” Burgess said to no one in particular.
“I love this place,” Gareth said. “It reminds me of the Gay Hussar. Don’t you think, Guy?”
“Don’t know it,” he said, sitting up as Frank poured out his drink.
“Of course you do. Greek Street. Just down from Soho Square.”
Burgess drank, then shuddered a little. “After my time.”
“But it’s been there forever.”
“No. No such place when I left. You forget, it was years before you did,” he said into his glass. “Years before.”
“Certainly a lot more sensational,” Gareth said.
Burgess stared into his drink, apparently not hearing, all the old notoriety and insouciance now slack and vague. But the good posture was still there. Eyes half-closed, he sat with his shoulders back, as if he were waiting for a valet with a clothes brush.
“That’s the trouble,” he said. “You think everything will be the same and it’s all changed. I don’t think I’d recognize it now, London.”
“Oh, are we planning to go, then? Get tickets from Cook’s?”
“Don’t be an ass,” Burgess said, reaching for the bottle. “Do you mind?”
“Quite a welcome that would be. Bands out and everything. Handcuffs more likely.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Burgess said, his voice serious, considering this. “The last thing they’d want. A trial. Think who’d have to take the stand. Admit they hadn’t the faintest clue. For years. Very embarrassing. They hate being embarrassed. Calls the whole thing into question.”
“So you’d just slip in on the quiet, is that it? Go see Mum. Maybe a few drinks at White’s. And then what?”
“I don’t know,” Burgess said, his eye on Gareth. “Maybe better just to stay here. It’s nice, being able to come and go and nobody notices. Best thing about Moscow. Of course someone always is noticing. Bless their suspicious hearts. But not the general public.”
“Why would they be suspicious of you?” Simon said.
“You know, I don’t know. It does seem a waste of manpower, doesn’t it? I mean, I cashed in my chips years ago. But there they are, keeping an eye. Like a bloody great croupier,” he said in exaggerated French. “Except he’s supposed to watch who’s winning. Not—” His voice fell, letting this drift.