“Not yet. He hasn’t seen it yet.”
“You think so? Then he’s more incompetent than I thought. Anyway Pirie and the boys at the Agency will love it. They’ll back you up.”
“I’m not exactly popular there either. They think you want to make them look bad. Keystone Kops.”
“Is that what you think I want?”
Simon looked at him. “I don’t know. What do they want? Your people?”
“The Service?”
“They never talk. Never admit to anything. And now we’ve got Public Enemy No. 1 going on about the high old times he had in the war and how he fooled everybody, Hoover and Pirie and—”
“And?”
“Me.”
“You’re not in the book,” Frank said quietly.
“And the Brits. And State. Why leave anybody out? But why say anything in the first place, if you’re an organization that never says anything at all?”
“Why do you think?”
“I think they want to embarrass us. Maybe stir up a little interagency rivalry. That’s always worth doing. Make trouble. And now I’m part of it. Helping you do it. Again.”
“Jimbo.” Simon James, another nickname, another hook from the past.
Simon turned and looked out the window. Nearly dark now, the beginning of the city, concrete apartment blocks and warehouses, an occasional church with onion domes. Anywhere. But not anywhere. Not even Europe. Signs in Cyrillic. Everything in shadow, enemy territory.
“I never got much out of you, you know. If that’s what’s bothering you. The republic wasn’t in any danger because of you.”
“The republic didn’t think so. I got the heave-ho.”
“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that. You never know how people are going to react. Overreact.”
Simon looked at him, speechless.
“Anyway, this suits you better. A book man. Very distinguished. And now it turns out, just what the doctor ordered. A book like this needs—a certain amount of respectability. Which is one thing you can say for Keating. Just the place if you’re bringing a little notoriety to the party. Do they really think I’m that? Public Enemy No. 1? Like Dillinger?” Amused, or pretending to be amused.
“They used to. What did you think you were?”
“A soldier. That’s all I ever was. I was proud to be in the Service. I still am. An officer now. You understand that, don’t you? You must have seen that when you signed on for this. It’s not a mea culpa.”
“No, it’s a ‘see what a clever boy I am.’ Is that how you pitched it to—the Service. Get them to okay it?”
“You’ve got it the wrong way around. It wasn’t my idea. It was theirs. I’m still not sure they were right. But they were looking for aktivnyye meropriyatiya,” he said, his whole voice changing with the language, suddenly a Russian.
Simon glanced up front. But Vassilchikov hadn’t moved, just stared placidly out the window. Listening to both, English and Russian the same, so unobtrusive that after a while you forgot he was there, a human tape recorder, spools circling in his head.
“Active measures,” Frank translated. “Something to show people how effective we can be. I had a pretty good run, you know. Nobody had a clue—Donovan, Pirie, any of them. If Malenko hadn’t defected and brought his little CARE package of names with him, I might still be there. Who knows? I’m a hero in the Service. So why not tell my story?”
“Parts of it.”
“Well, yes. And I suppose nobody’s saying no to a little collateral damage. Some friction with MI6. Give Hoover’s blood pressure a nudge. All that. But that wasn’t the reason. It’s an active measure. To show the Service—in a good light.”
“Like a recruiting poster.”
Frank shook his head. “These old stories? A lot of water over the dam since I was leading Pirie around in circles. Different world now. Not so many idealists these days. People here still want to be in the Service. It’s a good job. But in the West— Now you have to buy them. They never had to pay me a dime. Any of us.” He smiled. “Maybe that’s why they think it was a golden age. We did it for nothing. Because it was the right thing to do.”
“All of it?”
“I thought so. At the time.” He paused. “Jimbo, if you’re having cold feet about this, just say. It’s not some piece of disinformation. The Service doesn’t need to make things up. It’s all true.”
“But you need Keating to make it respectable.”
“That’s right.” He looked over at Simon. “I want you to make me look good again. An A from Whiting. A B, anyway.” He looked down. “And maybe I thought it was a little payback too. For all the trouble I caused you. The book’s going to sell—that’s what everybody tells me. So why not sell for you? Last year’s figures—you could use the cash. Keating, I mean.”
“How do you know?”
“Jimbo.”
“You looked at our books?”
“Not me personally, no.” He took out a cigarette and tapped Vassilchikov on the shoulder for a light. “So I thought, good for you, good for me.”
“You could have got more money from someone else.”
Frank waved this away with the smoke. “I don’t need the money. I get eight hundred a month. That doesn’t mean anything to you, but it’s a generous pension here. I have everything I need. Anyway, Mezhdunarodnaya Kniga takes 70 percent, so how much more could there be?”
“Who?”
“The agency your people dealt with. That sells the book abroad.”
“70 percent?”
Frank smiled. “The Soviets are very good capitalists when foreign currency’s involved.” He lowered his voice, serious again. “It’s not the money. I trust you. I don’t want this to be something for the tabloids. It’s my life. I want to explain what I did. So it makes sense to people. To you. Maybe even to Pa.”
Simon was quiet for a minute. “Have you been in touch?”
Frank shook his head. “I thought he’d write when Mother died. But he didn’t.” He paused. “How is he?”
“He still goes to the office.”
“And the Symphony?”
“No. He doesn’t go out much. You remember once you said his world was small? Now it’s smaller. He dropped the Somerset.”
“Because of me?”
Simon said nothing.
“Rotten food anyway.” He looked away. “I’ll bet nobody had to say a word. Just look. Christ. Boston.” He drew on the cigarette. “I suppose you get the house now.”
“I don’t know.”
“Well, he’s not going to leave it to me. A little impractical under the circumstances.”
“What would I do with it?”
“Live in it. No one else has ever lived there. Just Weekses. So now, you.”
“I’m in New York, Frank.” He looked at him. “I thought you hated the house.”
“I hated what it stood for. The house— It’s funny the things you remember. That leather pig by the fireplace. Nobody even knew whose it was originally, how it got there. The whole place was like that. Things nobody could explain. They’d just always been there.” His voice trailed off. “I hate him thinking he’s the last. It must kill him, to think that.” He paused. “Does he ever talk about it? What happened.”
“No.”
“No, he wouldn’t. He has the PO number here. I thought he might—but he never has. Mother did. Before she died. A good-bye letter, but she didn’t say it—not a word about the cancer—so I didn’t know. She said she never thought she’d be writing to a box number. There was a five-dollar bill for Richie. That’s the last I heard.”
Simon turned to the window again. Dark now, an occasional window light from the side of the road. “What a fucking mess,” he said quietly.
“What?”