Shift: A Novel

insiders felt there weren’t enough votes to pass it. Beyond that, there was a smallish article on the continuing chaos in Saigon following Diem’s assassination, and a sidebar on JFK’s upcoming trip to New Orleans and Dallas as part of the long windup to the ’64 election.

“The Post? I thought they got their stories from you, not the other way around.”

Melchior finished the sentence he was reading before looking up.

“I’d say it’s more a question of give-and-take.” He placed the newspaper on the bench to his right, patted the space to his left. “Comrade Ivelitsch. Please, take a seat.”

Ivelitsch smirked as he sat down.

“You Company men and your protocol. Seat a potential target to your left so you can shoot him without removing your weapon from its shoulder holster, while at the same time placing him in the awkward position of having to draw and turn.”

“Given the fact that you’re left-handed, that strategy would be only half-effective. Also, since my objective is Naz’s recovery, killing you ranks rather low on my list of priorities—at least for this meeting.”

From the corner of his eye, Melchior saw Ivelitsch pretend to look around. He knew full well the KGB man had cased the joint as thoroughly as he had himself.

“And the beautiful Madam Song? Will she be joining us today? Or any of her associates?”

“She’s shopping for a replacement lamp for the one you broke. Charles Rennie Mackintosh. I’m sure that seems hopelessly bourgeois to you, but apparently it was quite expensive.”

“On the contrary. Even a Communist can appreciate the need for domestic comforts. The Russian winter is long, dark, and cold. You should spend more time with her, Melchior,” Ivelitsch continued. “Aside from the fact that the girls in her house are even more beautiful than the antiques, she’s a clever girl. She could teach you a few things.”

“Such as?”

“The need for an organization. Going rogue requires a flight of inspired lunacy. But going solo is just insane.”

Ivelitsch’s words were so similar to Song’s that Melchior wondered if they were conspiring together. But he managed to keep his face and voice impassive.

“And what makes you think I’m going rogue?”

“Rip Robertson’s corpse for one thing. And Orpheus for another.”

Melchior tapped the paper. “Rip’s death hasn’t made the news, so I take it this is your way of telling me you’ve got a man inside CIA. However, I was just batting cleanup on Orpheus, so whoever your man is, he’s only getting half his facts.”

“Our man is Stanley.”

“Stanley?” Melchior did his best to keep his voice level. “The mythical mole who penetrated MI-5? He’s the British version of the Wise Men.”

“He’s Kim Philby,¹¹ and he’s every bit as real as the Wise Men. He has lunch several times a week with James Jesus Angleton¹⁰ whenever he’s in DC. After three or four gimlets, there’s very little Mother won’t tell his old friend.”

This time Melchior made no attempt to hide his surprise. “Why in the world would you tell me that?” he said, although he knew there could only be one answer. “Philby’s been missing since January.”

“He’s in Moscow, drinking all the vodka his liver can stand. Now, turn around, you half-caste moron, before you attract attention.”

Melchior looked forward again. He stared at the shrouded faces of the wet commuters, wondering if any could even begin to imagine what was happening while they raced toward their trains.

“You’re rogue too,” he said, and again wondered if Ivelitsch and Song were in cahoots—it seemed like an awfully big coincidence (the very thing that BC had said about Melchior’s presence on the train, come to think about it) that she would ask Ivelitsch to turn against KGB when, in fact, he already had.

“I prefer the term enlightened,” Ivelitsch was saying now. “The Cold War is a lose-lose scenario. The United States and the Soviet Union can’t make a serious move without risking nuclear reprisal. They put on frivolous headline dramas like the Cuban Missile Crisis or mount expensive but largely pointless proxy wars—the Baathists versus General Qasim in Iraq, say, or Movimiento 26 de Julio in Cuba, the North and South Vietnamese—and send them to the slaughter. What’s needed is a smaller organization, more nimble, more obscure, free of the restraints of dogma and politics that neither side actually believes, let alone adheres to.”

Melchior flicked a picture of President Kennedy shaking hands with Martin Luther King on the cover of his paper.

“I think both of these men would disagree.”

Ivelitsch looked at the two beaming faces as if he couldn’t tell them apart.

“As a Negro, Reverend King leads the only American manifestation of a phenomenon so common in the old world, namely, the remarkable tenacity of ethnic groups to resist integration into the modern heterogeneous state. His idealism is tribal, which makes it resistant to compromise, but also confines it to his own constituency. The last I checked, Negroes made up about ten percent of the U.S. population, which is a number that means more to retailers than pollsters. President Kennedy, by contrast, wants to have it both ways. His optimism is ridiculously naive—ridiculously American, one wants to say—but his cynicism is Irish to the core. He’s trying to appease everyone—the hawks and the doves, the businessmen and the beatniks, the New Men and the Negroes. In the end it’s going to be the death of him.”

Something about Ivelitsch’s use of the word “death” suggested it wasn’t a euphemism.

“Lemme guess,” Melchior said. “The mob. Johnny Roselli? Jimmy Hoffa? Sam Giancana maybe? Pissed off that Bobby isn’t giving them quid pro quo for Cuba?”