The Prodigal Spy

by Joseph Kanon

  She nodded.

  “And?”

  “Come for a walk,” she said, raising her eyes toward the ceiling. She picked up her jacket, then went over to put the box on the desk. “What’s this?” she said, touching the urn.

  “My father. His ashes.”

  She pulled her finger away, staring at it. “God. What are you going to do with it?”

  “Take him home.”

  She kept staring. “It’s so small.”

  Outside, it had begun to drizzle, so instead of walking they crossed the street to the broad island in the middle where the trams ran. Out of the corner of his eye he could see one of Zimmerman’s men leave his car and follow them. The evening rush was over. Only a few people were waiting for the clanging bell of the approaching tram.

  “What did he say?”

  “What you thought. He couldn’t wait to get back to Washington with the news. He called them right after I talked to him.” Everything in place.

  “Who did he tell?”

  “His boss. Somebody called Ellis.”

  “Who else?”

  “I couldn’t exactly get a personnel chart, Nick,” she said wearily. “He hopes it might have gone up to the director. In other words, it’s around. People know.” The agencies were like a sieve, his father had said, secrets dripping through a hundred holes. Anybody. “But I don’t have to worry,” Molly said, her voice a parody of Foster’s. “You’ll never suspect a thing. The Bureau keeps things to itself.” The tram doors opened and they waited for people to get off. She turned to him. “I can keep on going. Be your playmate.” Nick said nothing.

  They sat at the back of the nearly empty tram. Zimmerman’s shadow was in front, pretending to read a newspaper.

  “Did he tell them before?” Nick said, his voice low. He leaned into her, making them a couple out for an evening’s ride, trying to find some privacy in the brightly lit car.

  She shook her head. “Just that he had made contact.”

  The tail turned a page, looking in their direction. Nick put his arm over the back of the seat. When she felt it, she looked at him, surprised, as if he were making a pass.

  “The man in front is watching us,” he whispered.

  But she kept her eyes on him, not bothering to turn her head.

  “He didn’t mention you?” he said.

  “I don’t think so,” she said, throaty, so close now that he could feel the heat of her breath. “You were right about that too. He wanted it to be his show.”

  “Good.”

  “Not for him.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ellis thought it was a joke-that Jeff was being taken for a ride, to embarrass the Bureau. Now it’s not so funny. Especially since you called Kemper to rescue you. Everybody wants to know what’s going on. How he died, whether he meant it about coming back. All of it. So they’re all over Jeff. He wants to call you in.”

  “When?” Nick said, aware again of the film in his pocket. How much time did he have?

  The tram lurched to a sudden stop, throwing their heads together with a sharp bump. She raised her fingers to his forehead, touching it gently, as if she were soothing away a bruise. She left them there, a surprise of skin. “Nick-” she said. Then the tram started again and he saw an old woman coming toward them with string bags, glowering. She plopped down in front of them, as disapproving and unmovable as a duenna.

  He lowered his head to Molly’s neck. “When?” he said again, in her ear.

  Molly was shaking her head, her face grazing his. “I said I could handle it.”

  “Handle what?”

  She looked at him, her fingers now at the side of his head. “You,” she said, in a murmur, intimate. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  He could smell her now, everything close, as if the film and her body were part of the same thing, the same unexpected excitement.

  “I don’t want you to do anything. It’s not safe.”

  “I will, though. I’ll do it.” Her eyes on him. “Like a double agent,” she said softly, the phrase itself suddenly erotic. “Ask me.”

  “No.”

  “Ask me,” she said in his ear, her hair brushing his skin. So close he could not tell which of them moved, but her mouth was on his, the same touch, and then her hand was at the back of his neck, keeping him close, as if afraid he’d pull away. “I’ll do it. I don’t care,” she said, her breath on his mouth. “You believe me, don’t you?” She lifted her mouth to him again, a yielding. When he broke off and nodded, his head next to hers, he could feel her shake, a tremor of release, and she began kissing his face, moving over him. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry. I never meant-”

  “Ssh.” He kissed her again, almost involuntarily, caught by the smell of her, remembering her opening to him. She gave a faint moan, and the old woman turned, glaring, but her eyes were like the hotel microphones, making everything illicit, more exciting. Improbably, he felt himself growing hard, his prick rising to bump against the film.

  “It’s all right now, isn’t it?” Molly was saying in a rush. “I don’t want to lose you. I keep losing people.”

  “Ssh.”

  “I’ve been so worried.”

  “No, don’t.”

  With a burst of Czech, the old woman made a show of gathering her bags and moving across the aisle. Molly, ignoring her, held him closer, her face next to his, necking.

  “I’ll help you,” she said, kissing him again.

  “You don’t know what you’re asking,” he whispered, out of breath. He felt her moving against him, the rocking of the tram, in a kind of haze.

  “Yes, I do,” she said, nuzzling his ear. “I’ve got you back. I don’t care about the rest.”

  He raised his head a little, catching sight of their tail in front, staring frankly at the unexpected blue movie. “We have to talk,” he said, trying to bring himself back.

  But Molly wouldn’t listen, her hands on his face. “Not now.” She put a finger to his lips. “Don’t say anything.”

  “But-”

  “Just keep doing that.” She smiled, leaning her neck into his hand. “Keep doing that.” Putting herself literally in his hands.

  He looked down at her, so sure of him, and in that second he knew that what he did next would decide everything. Life could change without even thinking, a hair-trigger response, everything changed by a second, a phone call in Union Station, an accidental bump on the head. Make room.

  “Let’s go back,” he whispered, his face on hers, giving in, letting the rest go.

  She nodded absently, letting him kiss her, and then she looked up at him, a glint. “We’ll make out.” A backseat phrase. His skin jumped, like drops of water on a skillet, ready for her. The windows of the tram were shiny with condensation, catching the light of the bare bulbs that lined the warm car. Outside, the city slid by, drizzly, unseen.

  “Do you have any idea where this goes?” he said, his face still close.

  “It’ll turn around,” she said. “They always go back where they started.”

  When they got back to the hotel, he only left her for a moment, taking the urn into the bathroom, shoving the film down into the ashes, then closing the door behind him, so that nothing else was with them in the room.

  Chapter 15

  He watched the ceiling turn milky gray and realized it wasn’t going to get any lighter. Another Prague morning. It was time. He’d been up half the night, dozing fitfully, then wide awake, listening to her breathe beside him, making plans. It had become a simple question of mathematics: how long? If Jeff’s message had spread through the embassy, it was just a matter of time before the talk in the corridors leaked out into Prague itself. He wouldn’t have to wait for Silver to act again. But how much time? Did they have people inside? And once the Czech security police knew, they would have to act. Real interrogations, the embassy powerless to help him. If they found the film, he would be guilty of espionage, kept, like his father, a prisoner here
forever. All that protected him now was a little time and a discredited policeman. Unless, of course, Zimmerman wasn’t discredited, the bad cop after all, one of them, quietly tightening a noose. Nick moved his body carefully toward the edge of the bed. If he waited, he would lose, his time finally run out. Except now there were two of them. He looked over at Molly, sleeping, hair tangled, her face smooth and unaware. In his hands.

  He shaved and showered, knowing the sound of water would wake her. In the mirror his face seemed drawn and apprehensive and he took a breath, pushing his cheeks back to wipe away any trace of fear. It had to work.

  She was lying on her elbow, the sheet drawn up modestly over her breasts, smiling drowsily.

  “Where do you get the energy?” she said, her voice lazy, unconcerned. “I don’t think I can move.”

  “I told Zimmerman I’d see him in the morning. To sign the statement,” he said, dressing, not looking at her.

  “Hmm. Wake me when you’re back.”

  “It might take awhile.” He looked at the canvas bag. No, no things. Not even the Order of Lenin, still lying on the desk.

  “Then I’ll order room service. Have breakfast in bed like a capitalist. Maybe I’ll spend the day in bed. What do you think?”

  “No, you’d better get dressed.”

  “Where are we going?” she said, sitting up, pulling the sheet around her.

  Nick walked over to the bed and sat next to her, lowering his voice. “Do you really want to help me?”

  She nodded, no longer playing.

  “Then listen. I want you to go see Foster, as soon as you’re dressed.”

  She looked away, disappointed. “You don’t waste any time.”

  “Listen to me, Molly, please. Tell him to get you out of Prague in one of the embassy cars. They can make a lettuce run. Tell him you’re scared. Whatever you think would work. But get him to do it right away, this morning. He owes you that much.”

  “But-”

  “Stay at the embassy until you leave. You’ll be safe there. Technically, you’re on American soil. They probably won’t even know you’re there-they’re not following you.”

  “What about you?”

  “Just you. I’ll come later.”

  “He won’t want me to go.”

  “Tell him to talk to me himself. You’ve had it.”

  “I’ll wait for you.”

  “No, this morning. As soon as you can.” He reached up, putting his hand against her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll come. I think I can make this work with Zimmerman. They won’t have any reason to hold me. Maybe even today. Tomorrow at the latest. Wait for me in Waldsassen, at the hotel. I’ll find you.”

  “Don’t leave me,” she said softly.

  “I’m not leaving you.” He took her face in both hands. “Help me. I’ve got to settle this. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”

  “They don’t want me.”

  “They will. It’s dangerous, if they find out about you and Foster.” He stopped her lips with his finger. “It’s dangerous for me.” A beat. “You’d be a liability.”

  She stared at him, then turned away. “Are you telling me the truth?”

  “Promise me,” he said, bringing her eyes back.

  “What if it doesn’t work? With Zimmerman.”

  “Then I’ll call Foster for help. I promise.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll be there. It’ll be all right. But you have to leave now. Do you understand?” She nodded slowly. “Good.”

  She leaned over and took a cigarette from the night table. “I don’t want to be a liability,” she said, an edge in her voice.

  “You’re not,” he said, knowing he should say more. But there wasn’t time. He got up and put on his jacket.

  “But it was because of me,” she said, brooding, “that he was-you know.”

  “No, not because of you. Don’t think that.”

  “But Jeff called Washington. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Your father knew.”

  Nick stopped. “No. I don’t see how he could have.”

  “Then why did he change his plans?”

  A wrinkle, something that didn’t fit. “I don’t know,” Nick said slowly, standing still.

  Molly looked up, watching him. “You’d better go if you’re going.” A small smile. “You’ve mussed your hair.”

  He picked up the raincoat and went into the bathroom, slipped the urn into the folds of the coat, and ran a comb through his hair. No time.

  When he came back, she was still sitting there, looking at nothing. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, the coat awkward under his arm.

  “Promise me?” he said, and when she nodded again, he whispered, “Okay. I’ll see you in Germany.”

  At the door he turned, and for a moment he wondered if this was how his father had felt leaving, the small lie, sure he could make things right later.

  She looked back at him, smiling ironically. “ Auf wiedersehen,” she said.

  He went down the back stairs, passing a chambermaid on her way up. The lobby was impossible-Zimmerman’s men would stick to him now-but there seemed to be no back door, just a long corridor leading to the kitchen, breakfast trolleys lined up outside, waiting to be delivered. A white-jacketed boy with a tray came out, looking at him curiously, so he went into the WC, locking the door behind him. The window was high, but large enough. If he climbed onto the sink he could reach it, then slither out to the back street. He stopped. He saw himself, feet dangling, dropping onto the pavement, amazing everyone in the street, a comic scene from a silent movie. Keep calm. The easiest way to be invisible was to be ordinary.

  He went into the kitchen, all steam and banging pots, pretending to be lost. “ Vychod?” he said to a girl folding napkins on a tray, a word he’d seen on exit signs, hoping he was pronouncing it properly. She giggled, either at his Czech or his hapless sense of direction, and cocked her head toward the end of the steam table. A fire door, half open to let in some air. Then he was on the street behind the hotel, just another morning walker, not even worth a glance.

  He walked up the hill toward the university, not bothering to switch back on side streets, invisible because he had nothing to hide. At the station there was the same rush of commuters pouring out of the art nouveau arch, the same uniformed policemen standing guard, part of the scene, no more threatening than mailboxes. He bought a copy of Rude Pravo and went into the station cafe. When he handed over the Czech crowns for coffee, he wondered if there was a currency form for leaving the country, a mirror of the exchange document coming in, some small thing to trip him up. But crowns were worthless in the West; why would they care? Still, a detail he hadn’t considered. How many others? Czechs walked literally through a minefield to the wire. Why did he think he could ride out with a ticket and a visa and a Western face, as if it were another stroll through the Alcron’s kitchen? He took a table near the far end of the cafe window and tried to imagine everything that might happen, his face bent to the newspaper.

  From his angle at the window he could see part of the big hall and the long row of platforms. The same ticket window and news kiosk, people hurrying across the floor. No one loitered. The same platform, marked BERLIN-PRAHA-WIEN, still empty. Next to it, a short train had pulled up, but the doors opened only on the right, to another platform, as if the boxy-suited commuters couldn’t be trusted to mix with international passengers. Then Nick saw that they were handing in ticket stubs to a conductor at the gate. Not a plot; simple crowd control, to ease the morning rush. He sipped his coffee and looked at his watch. Molly would be at the embassy now, safe. A maid would be making up their room, maybe sneaking a look at the Lenin medal on the desk, everything still there, as if they were just out for the morning.

  He was on his second cup of coffee when he saw the men. There were two of them, not in uniform but with the unmistakable swagger of policemen, ready to take charge. They spoke briefly to one of the attendants, then placed themselves at the entrance to the Vienna
platform, waiting. For a moment Nick thought they were meeting someone. But when the first passengers arrived, a family with innumerable suitcases, he saw that they were acting as a checkpoint. They examined the father’s papers, then waved him onto the empty platform. This was something new. The other morning no one had stood guard at the gate. Were they looking for him? He told himself not to panic. In a police state, everybody was guilty of something. There could be a hundred reasons for a passport check. They couldn’t know yet that he was leaving.

  He watched them pass another man through with a bored wave, then a third. Maybe it was a routine security check, a morning assignment no one wanted, their bad luck to come up on the duty roster. But it wasn’t a routine morning.

  Nick was unaccounted for. Even if they were looking for someone else, they would notice him, remember him later, an unexpected risk. How long before the train got to the border? If they were looking for him, it wouldn’t matter. He thought of the other train pulling out, leaving his father behind. His eyes darted around the platform, which was beginning to fill up. There had to be a way.

  “Nick.”

  When he turned, startled, he saw only thighs, barely covered by a miniskirt, then the blouse and her worried face.

  “Zimmerman came to the hotel to see you,” she said, explaining herself. She sat down.

  “What did you say?”

  “I said you’d gone to see him, to sign the statement.” She took a sip of coffee. “But you didn’t.” A reproach.

  “No.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Does he know I’m here?”

  She shook her head. “I said he’d probably just missed you. Or you went to see Anna first.”

  “Good.” But how much time did that buy? Then he looked up at her. “How did you know?”

  “You took the urn. So-” She let it go, shrugging her shoulders. “‘I’ll meet you in Waldsassen,”’ she said, sarcastic.

  “I will. I told you.”

  “You tell me lots of things.”

  “Molly, there isn’t time for this. I will meet you there. Go to the embassy.”

  “And bum a ride from Jeff? I’ve already got one,” she said, tapping her shoulder bag. “The ticket’s still good, isn’t it?”