by Joseph Kanon
“No, he had you checked out,” Nick said. “He believed you.” A love affair, his father had said, young people always had love affairs. Some plausible young man at the embassy, not CIA, nobody to worry about. “Everybody believed you.”
“Yes.”
“So you wanted to call it off, but you saw Foster here anyway.”
“I had to. I couldn’t just leave. I had to put an end to it, tell him to stop. I was afraid if I didn’t-”
“What?”
“That he’d talk to you. That you’d find out from him.”
“Oh. Instead of from you. Just when were you planning to tell me?”
She turned to look at him. “Never.”
“Never. Not even after we were home. Why not?”
“Because I knew you’d look at me the way you’re looking now.” Her eyes were moist, filling.
“So no one would be the wiser,” he said, angry at the tears, not wanting to be disarmed. “Especially me. But it didn’t work out that way.”
“No.”
“What did you tell Foster?”
“There was nothing to tell. We went to the country. No dark secrets from the past. Nothing that would interest anybody at home. Just a visit. End of story.” She hesitated. “I told him I didn’t want you to know about me. That it would ruin things. I made him promise.”
“Don’t worry, he kept it. Your secret’s safe with him.” He took out a handkerchief and held it out to her. “But that wasn’t exactly the end. You told Foster he was planning to leave. Didn’t you?”
She blew her nose, nodding at the same time.
“Why?”
“I never thought he was serious. It was just some crazy idea. And Jeff kept hounding me. What did they talk about? What did they talk about? He wanted to know who his contacts were, who he saw in Prague. As if I’d know. So I said it wasn’t like that. He was out of it, retired. He even had this idea about going back and he wanted you to help. That’s how out of it he was-in some dream world.” She looked up at him, her face still covered by the handkerchief. “I didn’t want Jeff to think it was real, get all excited. Maybe try to contact him. I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t.” A thin wail.
Nick turned away, not wanting to face her, waiting as she caught her breath. “Tell me something else you were never going to tell me,” he said quietly. “He wasn’t going to leave it alone, was he? Not after that. He wanted you to find out more. From me. Stay close to me. Let him know. He made you promise to keep going, didn’t he? Then he’d keep his.”
He waited, hoping he’d overshot, his stomach turning when he saw her nod again into the handkerchief.
“But I wasn’t going to,” she said. “I just said it to make him stop. I wasn’t going to.”
“God, Molly.” He leaned back against the bridge, feeling hemmed in. His Czech watchdog down the road was staring at the river. The American was closer, stifling a sniffle. “Tell me something. What did that feel like? In bed. Spying on me.”
“I wasn’t spying on you.”
“What do you call it?”
“I thought we were making love,” she said quietly. “That’s what it felt like to me.”
“Spare me.”
She raised her head, stung, then shrugged and gave him the handkerchief. “It’s true, for what it’s worth. Anyway, how would you know? Did you even know I was there?”
“Not both of you.”
“Maybe you can’t,” she said, ignoring him. “You don’t care about anything unless it happened twenty years ago. I hate what he did to you. Making you think you could get it back. Who could compete with that? You don’t have room for anybody else. Just him.”
He stood, saying nothing, only vaguely aware of the traffic sounds, as if someone had sliced him with a knife and he had to hold his insides close so they wouldn’t slip out.
Then it worked, he’d held himself in and was able to breathe again.
“Well, now he’s dead. Somebody else didn’t want him around either.”
“That’s unfair. I didn’t mean-”
“I know.”
“Then why say it? To make me feel worse? You don’t have to. I can do that myself.” She shook her head. “Oh, what’s the use? You’re too hurt to see anything. But what happened with Jeff-it didn’t matter to me, Nick. It didn’t matter.”
“But it did matter. My father’s dead, because someone knew.”
“Because I told Jeff? But how could it? Do you think I’ve thought about anything else for two days? What if I did it? Me. Killed him just by- But how? Jeff didn’t kill him. He may be a shit, but he didn’t do that.”
“But who else knew? Me. You. Foster. Unless he told somebody. Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
He hesitated. “But you could find out.”
“How?”
“Use your wiles. They worked on me.”
“Don’t.”
“It’s not much to ask, considering.”
“Nick-”
“Not for me. Do it for my father. He’s entitled to one favor.”
She looked down. For a moment there was nothing, just the sound of a truck going by. “Do what?”
“Go see Foster. Tell him I still don’t suspect anything. And you’d like to keep it that way. Just between you and old Jeff. Has he talked to anyone else? In the embassy. Or even back home. Find out if he signaled the Bureau about this, if anyone in Washington has any idea.”
“Why Washington?”
“And when. If he said anything before.”
“Nick, what’s the point? What does this have to do with anything? The Bureau didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe my father wasn’t as careful as he thought. Maybe his friends already knew. But maybe he was careful. Maybe he got tripped up because somebody wanted a new job and thought he was the ticket. I just want to find out who knew. It’s important. Maybe it stops with Foster. At least we eliminate possibilities.”
Molly stared up at him. “If it stops with him,” she said slowly, “that leaves me. Do you think I did it?”
“No.”
“Really. Why not me? Why not Anna? It’s usually the wife, isn’t it? Why not the Bureau, who didn’t even know where he was. Except in some old file nobody cares about anymore. Who else? Do you see what this is doing to you? It’s crazy.”
Nick nodded. “But he’s dead. And whoever killed him knew he was going to leave. It’s the only way it makes sense.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense to me. Why not just lock him up? They lock up everyone else. What made him so special?”
“I don’t know.”
She raised her head, scanning his face. “You do, though. That’s it. That’s why you’re so sure he was killed. Why you’re worried. Signing things. I thought it was just an idea he had, but you didn’t. You knew he could do it. You even bought him a ticket. There’s something else. That’s why you want to know who Jeff told.” She glanced up, her eyes narrowing. “In Washington. That’s what you want to know. Who in Washington.” Nick said nothing, still not looking at her. “Leaving was only part of it. There’s always been something else. That you wouldn’t tell me.”
He turned back to her. “Well, that makes two of us.”
He saw the flush rise in her face, a kind of blood wince. She lowered her eyes. “Not anymore. Now there’s just you.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you don’t trust me.”
“I mean I can’t. It’s not safe.”
She shook her head. “You think I’m going to tell Jeff. You still think that.”
“They killed him, Molly. It doesn’t matter whether I trust you or not. It’s not safe.”
“But why?”
He hesitated, then said, “Just ask him who knew.”
“I’m surprised you trust me to do that. What is it, a kind of test?”
“It’s important.”
“Then ask him yourself. I’m tired of playing Mata Hari. First him, now you. If
I don’t know what you’re doing, I don’t want any part of it.”
“You are a part of it. That’s the other thing. Find out if he told them about you, if anyone in Washington knows about you.”
“Me?”
“Let’s hope he took all the credit. He looks the type. Old matchmaker Jeff.”
“What would he tell them?”
“That you arranged it. That you’ve been sleeping with me.”
“So what?”
“Somebody might get the idea that I confided in you. That you know why too.” He stopped, letting it sink in. “Ask him. And tell him we both think it’s suicide. Can you make him believe that?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes wide. Then she reached out and touched his arm lightly, tentative. “We have to talk about things.”
“There isn’t time now.” An echo, somewhere in the back of his head. There isn’t time.
“I never meant-” She looked up, a new thought. “Nick, whatever it is-what he told you. Do they know?”
“Not yet. Nobody does. Not even you. Do you understand?”
“But it’s true? You’re sure?”
“It has to be. He’s dead.”
He left Molly at the corner and turned left toward the tank square, his mind buzzing. What if Foster hadn’t told anyone after all? What if Anna didn’t have the list? He’d have to leave Prague with nothing but a history lesson from Zimmerman, a half-answer eating away at everything. Silver safe and sound, still sending his useful reports. The woman is the key, his father had said, but that trail had ended in the Mayflower Hotel, as cold now as the snow on the car where she’d fallen. Now there was only the list, with the name that could lead him to Silver.
When he got to Holeckova, he looked back to see if one of the shadows had split off to follow Molly, but they were both there. Only interested in him.
The same hill, steep. Then the gate, the concrete steps leading up to the apartment building. He stopped when he reached the lawn, his eyes drawn to the spot in helpless fascination, like a car accident. No bloodstains, everything cleared away. Just grass. Surprised at how much it had hurt.
You don’t have room for anybody else. But it wasn’t true. That elation, opening out to her, and then the ice pick stabbing at him on the bridge, betrayed, the way he had felt that night, looking at footprints. He had thought no one could make him feel that again, and here it was, the same surprised bleeding. Now there were two who had done it, touched that part of him. And oddly, some twisted joke, they were the only two he still trusted. He knew it now, looking at the lawn, his anger gone. You could trust a touch, despite everything. It came back again and again, a heartbeat, making room.
He took the lift, avoiding the stairs where the killers had crept past the brick glass. Or had they clunked their way up, heedless, not caring if the neighbors heard? Just following orders. Anna opened the door at the first touch of the buzzer.
“Nicholas, come in. You got the message.”
He nodded. “You have something for me?” He looked around at the bland Scandinavian furniture. Everything was clean, almost antiseptic, as if it had been scrubbed down.
“Come,” she said, leading him to the bedroom.
“Where did you find it?”
She looked at him, confused, then continued into the room. He stopped at the door. Everything the same-bed, desk-but tidy now, no signs of disturbance. He looked at the neat pillows, feeling queasy. Did she sleep on them? She went over to the desk and brought back a small urn shaped like a squat loving cup.
“The ashes,” she said simply. “Here, I want you to have them.”
He took the urn, stupefied. It was cool to the touch. “Anna, I-”
“No, it’s better.” She looked down at the urn. “You have them.”
The urn was surprisingly heavy. He stared at it, not knowing what to say. His eyes wandered over to the desk. Not the list. Nothing hidden here.
“I can’t.”
“Yes. Take him home. That’s what he wanted.”
“Did he say that? Did he tell you?”
She shook her head. “I knew. I was his wife. He was never happy here. Only a little. Take him home.”
So small. The tall body reduced to a bowl of ash. He could hold it in his hands.
“Perhaps you would bury it somewhere he liked. At the country house.”
“It was sold,” Nick said numbly.
But no list. In a minute he would have to go, turn his back on the flat for good, leaving the list behind. But was it here? What had his father said? The echo again. There isn’t time now. But why wouldn’t there be time if it had been here in the flat with him? He was careful. The passport had been safe with Anna Masaryk. Not at the flat.
“Nicholas, do you hear me?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
“If it’s not possible in the country, then wherever you think best.” She handed him a slip of paper. “This is the document. You’ll need it for customs, so they won’t open it. It’s sealed.”
Why tell him that? Was she afraid they’d violate the remains, spilling ashes in a clumsy search through the luggage?
“I can’t take this.”
“You must.” Her eyes on him, an order. She nodded. “For him.”
Unless it wasn’t just ashes. He stared at her. His father had sent her away that night. Visiting relatives, or a last errand? Now that she had it, she’d be careful too, speaking in code for the listening walls. He looked down at the urn again, his hands clammy on the cool metal. Sealed. Was it possible? His father would carry it out after all. “Thank you,” Nick said finally.
“Be careful with it. The seal is easy to break.”
“I understand.” Another glance. “So he told you.” She looked hard at him, her face as closed as it had been at the police station. “Nothing,” she said.
She led him out of the room. At the door, when he leaned to embrace her, she stepped back awkwardly, extending her hand instead. “ Na shledanou,” she said, using Czech to move away, no longer connected to him.
He carried the urn all the way back to the hotel, covering it with his raincoat, not risking a tram. The room was empty, and he locked the door before he sat down at the writing desk. He looked at the urn for an edge of wax or plastic, but there was nothing but the lid. Maybe the seal was only a tightly fitted groove, like the top of a jam jar. He took the urn and tried to twist the cover, his hand slipping on the smooth metal. A handkerchief. He gripped it and tried to unscrew the top. What did you do with jars? Run the top under hot water. Tap it with a knife. He squeezed again, straining, putting his weight into it. Then a tiny jerk, a loosening, and the lid began to turn slowly. He followed it around, then turned again. Easier now, coming off. He lifted the cover and looked in. Not the black-and-white ash of a fireplace, different. An unexpected brown mixed with gray.
He stared at the urn, queasy again. Human ash. He touched it gently, as if it might still be warm, but it was cool, so fine that it left a smudge, like cigarette ash. He pulled back his hand. He took a pen from the writing pad, poked it in, and stirred. It wouldn’t be paper. Film. His father had said you could copy things on film, even a whole manuscript, like Frantisek’s brother’s. He pushed the pen through the brown-gray ash, as light as powder but dense, as if the pen were moving through fine sand. Better to think of it as anything except what it was.
A clink, something hard. He worked the pen around and hit it again. Impossible to bring it up like this. He reached in with two fingers and pushed the ash aside, searching for the round cylinder. Then he felt it, smooth. He drew it out, careful of the ash, and looked at it. A piece of bone. He dropped it back in the ash, his stomach jumping, then took the pen again and poked more frantically. Another piece of bone. Once more through the ash, knowing now that it wasn’t there but unable to stop. No film. His father hadn’t told her. It’s here, he’d said, tapping his head.
Nick took the pen out, covered with ash, feeling sick. Then he looked at his
fingers, covered the same way, dirty with it, and ran to the bathroom and held his hand under the running tap until the smudges washed away, coloring the water like faint gray blood. He stood against the basin for a moment, breathing hard, ashamed. His hands in it, digging, like a grave robber.
But the list had to be somewhere. His father hadn’t intended to rely on memory. He knew they’d want more. There just hadn’t been time to get it. Nick went to the desk again, staring at the urn as he screwed the top back on. Bury it somewhere he liked. The country house. A formal name for a simple cabin. Reproduced here, a private place away from the prying world. Of course. Not with another Anna Masaryk, around the corner. But there wouldn’t have been time for a run to the country. He’d have to leave without it. So it must still be there, waiting to be found. Where? Nick felt the pricking at the back of his head. Simple, if you knew him. People don’t change. And if he was wrong? A wild goose chase. But with no other options, it was worth, at least, a try.
He left Molly a note-‘back later, don’t worry’-and rushed out of the room. He’d have to hurry to get back before dark. He ran down the stairs, making a plan-could he lose the watchdogs in the back streets? — so that he missed the expression on the desk clerk’s face when he asked him to call the garage.
“But the police have the keys, Pan Warren. There is some problem with repairs, I think. Were you planning to leave Prague?”
Nick imagined for a second the clerk’s hand on the phone, ready to send out the alarm.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s just the trams. I suppose I can take a taxi.”
“Of course. Shall I call for you?”
“I’ll find one,” Nick said vaguely. Why had he thought they’d let him go? He stood in the middle of the lobby, knowing the desk clerk was watching him but unable to move. There had to be a way. In America there would be fleets of rental cars and drivers for hire, but movement was a luxury here, the great privilege in a country under house arrest. He thought of Jeff, tearing easily through Prague with his close-shaven Marine. Who else?
