The Prodigal Spy

by Joseph Kanon

  “You don’t understand. It’s serious. The security police may be looking for me.”

  “Then we’d better get started.” A promise, well meant, unaware that it would complicate things. “I won’t be a liability,” she said, reading him.

  “Take a look over there.” He nodded toward the platform. “See those guys? They’ve been checking passports. They may be looking for me, I’m not sure. If you’re with me, they’ll arrest you too. They’d have to.”

  Molly looked at the men nervously and Nick thought he had finally frightened her, but when she turned back her eyes were calm, in control. Then I’ll go first. If they stop me, you’ll know.“

  “I can’t let-”

  But she stood up, ignoring him, then bent down and kissed his forehead. “If they don’t, meet me on the train.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

  “Molly?” But there was nothing to say that she didn’t already know. “It’s not a game. If I don’t make it, stay on the train. Don’t come back.”

  She looked at him, a tiny flicker of alarm, then said, “I’ll save you a seat.” She put her hand to her hair. “How do I look? I left in kind of a hurry.”

  “Don’t take any chances.”

  “Now you tell me,” she said softly.

  He watched her walk across the hall, bag swinging, and onto the platform area. If they did stop her, what would he do? The men looked at her carefully as she dug into the bag for her ticket and passport, exchanging glances. Nick sat up in his chair, ready to bolt. They were talking to her, not the indifferent wave they’d given the others. Could Foster really help if they took her? Then there was a nod, the papers were handed back, and she was through. It was when they turned to watch her walk down the platform that Nick realized, another comic moment, that what had interested them was not her passport but her wonderful legs.

  But what did that prove? They were obviously looking for someone. Why not him? He looked at his watch. The Berlin train hadn’t pulled in yet. How long would he have once it did? He tried to remember the other morning. Ten minutes? Maybe he should go now, not make a dramatic last-minute sprint. But if they stopped him, Molly would see and try to help. He sat paralyzed, trying to think of a way.

  The cafe was busier now. A few workmen were ordering morning beers, talking sullenly, glancing over at him with curiosity. An American reading Rude Pravo? He couldn’t stay here much longer without attracting suspicion. Where was the train? He lit a cigarette, an ordinary gesture, and when he looked up from the flame saw Zimmerman through the glass, walking across the waiting room.

  He was alone, without his watchdogs, but his eyes were scanning the hall, on the lookout. Nick sat back, away from the window, and watched him head straight for the Berlin platform, his movements as lithe and full of purpose as a dancer’s. He went up to the two men, who acknowledged him with a nod and huddled with him, familiar. The conversation seemed to go on forever, beyond a courtesy chat, as if they were comparing notes. Zimmerman turned and looked once more at the station floor, ticket office to newsstand. When his eyes stopped at the cafe, Nick wondered if he could see through the glare of the glass, a policeman’s radar. But he turned back, touched one of the men on the arm, and walked out onto the platform.

  He’d see Molly. There’d be no missing her. Maybe lead her back to the gate. It was the weak link he’d overlooked before. For an instant Nick thought of leaving, a quick dash for the station doors, a taxi to Foster. But if he went there now, there’d be no chance of getting out, no friendly hitch on the lettuce run. They’d want to know everything, and Nick’s safety would pass through the sieve, the same leaks that had killed his father. And maybe Zimmerman wouldn’t stop her after all. Hadn’t he advised Nick to go? Nick put out the cigarette. He couldn’t stay here, in the open.

  He left the cafe and crossed to the right, out of the line of sight of the gate, and went into the men’s room. One man, washing his hands. Nick went past him to the end, entered the last stall, and slipped the bolt on the door. He sat on the toilet and took a breath, finally hidden, like an animal gone to ground.

  But now he couldn’t see. The view of the platform, his eye on the checkpoint, waiting for the right moment, all gone. He was blind. The train would arrive without his knowing it. He wouldn’t know when Zimmerman left, or whether he was alone. His hiding place had left him only sound, magnified, the sensitive noises of the blind. When someone entered the men’s room the steps came out of an echo chamber, the zipper, the splash against porcelain, then steps again. It went on like this for a few minutes.

  Then there was silence. He thought he could hear the hiss and clunk of a train pulling in, but it might be his imagination. He checked his watch. Now every minute would count. But what had happened outside? He imagined opening the door and facing a circle of guns, trapped, the way he’d been at Holeckova.

  The slam of the door made him sit up. Steps, but no peeing, no water from the taps. The steps continued, not hurrying, perhaps searching. When they stopped outside his door, he could see the neat shiny shoes underneath.

  “Mr Warren.”

  Nick made no sound, drawing further into his hole.

  “Mr Warren, open. There isn’t time.”

  But how could he know? Nick’s American shoes, as obvious as a billboard. Nick unlatched the door, caught.

  “Why did you leave the cafe?” Zimmerman said. “We don’t have time for hide and seek.”

  “Molly told you I was there?” A silly betrayal. It would have been so easy to lie.

  “Miss Chisholm trusts me. I thought you did too. Evidently not.”

  “What do you want?” Nick said, standing up.

  “I came to warn you.”

  “Those men outside?”

  Zimmerman nodded. “STB. Direct orders from the Interior Ministry. I found out this morning. That’s why I went to your hotel. But you had flown the coop.” He mispronounced the word, like the French coup.

  “Are you arresting me?”

  “ They want to arrest you. I have come in here to relieve myself, that’s all. I saw no one. Now listen to me for once. Wait a minute after I’ve gone, then leave here and go straight to the taxis. Don’t even look back. Maybe you’ll be lucky. Then go to your embassy and stay there.”

  “I can’t do that.”

  Zimmerman looked at him curiously. “Maybe one day you will tell me why. It would be interesting. But now, just go. You cannot get on that train. They’re looking for you everywhere. They smell blood. I don’t want it to be yours.”

  “What about Molly?”

  “Miss Chisholm is getting on a train. No one asked me to look for her.”

  “You’re taking a risk with all this.”

  “No, I don’t take risks. I’m a Czech. Like the Good Soldier Schweik, a worm. A worm wriggles, he can move the earth without getting stepped on. We can’t do that. But we can move a little dirt.” He looked into Nick’s eyes. “I know who killed your father, Mr Warren. We both know. There’s nothing I can do about that. We live under that boot. So, a wriggle only. I won’t give them an innocent man. What will they do? A show trial? Another Masaryk case, somebody else to blame? We have to live with them. Let them live with themselves.” He stopped. “You must hurry.”

  “Help me.”

  “I can’t do that,” Zimmerman said, surprised. “I just came to relieve myself. My friends want me on the platform. You see, I know what you look like. I can’t let you get on the train.”

  “I can do it. You just have to distract them. You said yourself they’re looking everywhere. No one expects me to leave-how could I? You have my car. I don’t even know they’re looking for me. Do those men really expect to find me here?”

  Zimmerman looked at him thoughtfully, intrigued. “No, not really. It’s a point, the car. Even the STB could not imagine leaving a new car behind.” He smiled. “Even one with a knock.”

  “I only need a few hours. Call in Marty Bielak. Maybe I’ve gone to
the country again. Somehow.”

  “That would be enough time, yes,” Zimmerman said, considering.

  “They won’t stop the train at the border if I never got on in the first place. Their own men will know I didn’t.”

  Zimmerman sighed. “You have the adventurous spirit, Mr Warren. But you can’t do it, you know. They have orders to check everyone. If you get on that train, you’ll endanger Miss Chisholm. Go to your embassy.”

  “What makes you think they’re not watching there? If I were the STB, it’s the first place I’d stake out. I wouldn’t even have time to pay the taxi before they’d nail me.”

  Zimmerman acknowledged this by not saying anything.

  “Help me,” Nick said, closing it. “A wriggle.”

  Zimmerman looked at the door, an evasive spot-check, then back at Nick. “What do you want me to do?”

  “Just distract them.” He glanced at his watch. “The train must be there. I only need a minute. Pretend you see me somewhere else in the station. Someone who looks like me,” he added. “Just get them away from the gate.”

  “And if I can’t?”

  “Try.”

  “No. If I can’t, I want you to go to the phone and call your embassy. Have someone pick you up outside. Is that understood? I don’t want you on my hands, Mr Warren. And I don’t want you on my conscience either.”

  “I’ll never forget this.”

  “I hope you will. For my sake.” Zimmerman turned to go. “Oh, one more thing. Don’t sit with Miss Chisholm. My friends are thorough. They may search the train.”

  Nick looked at him, distraught. He’d never escape a search.

  “You have a fondness for lavatories,” Zimmerman said. “Stay in the WC. I’ll try to check those myself.”

  And then a courteous nod and he was out the door. Nick looked at his watch. Could Zimmerman manage it in a minute? A sighting near the ticket window-something. The door opened and Nick recognized one of the cafe beer drinkers. He glanced at Nick, then turned to the porcelain trough, mumbling in Czech. Nick washed his hands and dried them slowly on the grimy towel roll. A minute. Now. If he waited, the man might want to talk. He picked up his coat, still covering the urn, and walked out.

  He went out to the track area on the right, as if he were heading for another train. At the entrance, he bent to tie his shoe, hidden by one of the pillars. Zimmerman was leading one of the men away toward the newsstand. But only one. The other stood as before, unmovable. Of course. What could Zimmerman have said to make them both move away? The Berlin train was there, a long row of open doors waiting for straggling passengers. Everyone else was already on. No time.

  Nick stood up, shielded by a group of passengers heading for the short commuter train. The policeman never turned, focusing only on the Berlin platform. Nick moved with the others onto the commuter ramp, passing a signboard of indecipherable Czech names. It was more crowded than he’d expected, but no one else was carrying luggage either, so no one seemed to find him unusual, except for one woman who stared at his shoes. He walked to the end of the train, about two thirds the length of the Berlin train, and got on the next-to-last car. Open seats, not compartments, a few people reading newspapers and eating rolls.

  He didn’t turn into the seating area but crossed to the opposite door, pulled down the window, and looked out, just getting some air. The Berlin train was a few yards away across the empty platform, its passengers visible through the windows. So simple, if they didn’t see. He stuck his head carefully out the window. No Zimmerman, just the lone watchdog, looking toward the station hall. Now. There was a rustling behind him, someone getting on, a woman with a heavy shopping bag. He pulled his head back until she passed into the car, then looked again. Still clear. He turned the door handle slowly and pushed. Nothing. He looked down at the handle, amazed. He had only a minute. He jiggled the handle and pushed hard, trying not to feel frantic. He saw himself trapped, carried away to some unknown Czech town, his chance gone. He slammed the handle. Was it stuck? No, locked, sealed from the international platform. He felt around it, afraid to bend down and really look. If it needed a conductor’s master key-but there it was, the oblong deadbolt. He turned it, his hand slippery with sweat, heard the loud click, and swung open the door, free.

  He glanced toward the station as he closed the door behind him, alone on the platform, vulnerable. Three of them now, but only Zimmerman facing in his direction. He caught Zimmerman’s quick look, then saw him draw the others into a small circle, holding one on the shoulder to keep their attention. Seconds. Nick stepped across the platform. When he heard the shrill whistle, his heart stopped. Then, instead of shouts, the yells of pursuit, he heard the thunk of a closing door and saw one of the attendants walking down the platform, bored and poky, slamming shut the open doors, getting ready to leave.

  Nick jumped into the car, out of breath, as if he’d been racing to make the train. The same open seating arrangement, like an American train, no class compartments. He turned left into the car and started down the aisle, looking for Molly. But what if she were in front-could he risk backtracking? Pretending to look for a seat when there were so many available? A small family, looking harried, with piles of suitcases. Russian Jews? Businessmen. No tourists. Everyone looked up as he walked by, frankly curious. Where was she? She’d never leave without him, despite the promises. If he didn’t appear, she’d get off the train, then get stuck with the mess his leaving would cause. Why had she gone to the front?

  But there she was, staring out the window, anxious. When she saw him she smiled and began to remove her jacket from the seat, but he lowered his eyes, shaking his head as he passed her. He went into the next car, to put distance between them, and found the WC at the end. Almost there. He turned the handle. Another lock, a woman’s voice behind the door. He saw the Besetzt notice above the handle: occupied. Why now? But maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe Zimmerman had taken them away for a beer. He peeked out the still-open door onto the platform. They were getting on the train, all three of them, as the conductor methodically shut the doors. He wanted to bang on the WC door, tell the woman to hurry up. He couldn’t wait here. They’d spot him down the long connecting corridor. He knew because he could see them, far off, beginning to move through the cars, coming toward him.

  He slipped across the car to the opposite door. The same kind of bolt. He turned it with a heavy click and swung the door open. On this side there was no platform. Just tracks, two sets of them, no train waiting at the next platform. He looked down. Too far. He could jump down, wait it out, but then he wouldn’t be able to reach the handle to get back in. He looked at the side of the train. Smooth, only a narrow runner of metal trim. But maybe just wide enough, if you were desperate. He put on the raincoat, wedging the bulky urn into the deep inside pocket. What if the runner didn’t hold his weight? But it was a German train, solid workmanship. He was about to risk his life on a national cliche.

  He reached along the car to grab the windowsill, then swung one of his feet onto the trim and found a toehold. With his free hand he closed the door behind him then, crouching, moved his other foot onto the runner. His feet slipped a little, but he held the windowsill tightly, his whole weight supported now by his fingers. Then his shoe caught, and he flattened himself against the car like a barnacle, hanging on with fingers and toes. How long could he keep it up? Already his fingers felt the pressure. It occurred to him that everything he had done up until this moment could be explained away somehow. Now he’d run out of answers. Hanging on to the railway car where anyone outside might see him, he had become visibly, absurdly, a fugitive.

  Only sounds again, like the men’s room. The conductor slamming the platform side door. Another door closing — with any luck, the woman leaving the WC. But too late now. A loudspeaker in the station, scratchy. The engine humming. If the train started moving, he’d never make it; the jolt would throw him from the car. Then voices, indistinct. Finally Zimmerman’s, loud, as if he were announcing thei
r presence as they moved through the cars. Nick felt sweat running down the side of his face. Worse, his fingers were getting numb. Come on. Then the voices were nearer, a door opened. “No,” he heard Zimmerman say-the check on the WC? — and they were moving into the next car.

  Now. He couldn’t wait any longer. His breathing was ragged, as if his fingers were gasping for help. Gripping even tighter with his right hand, he slid his left toward the handle, straining, terrified he’d slip. It turned smoothly, without a sound, and then he had the door open and was moving his foot inch by inch until finally it was there, and shifting his weight to the supporting handle, he dragged himself back inside. He was panting. How much farther along were they? He glanced toward the WC door. Frei. He had to risk it. He couldn’t stand in the open back of the car, waiting for conductors and attendants to look at him in surprise. Don’t slouch, act normal. He took a breath, straightened, and quickly crossed over to the door. He jerked it open and went in, waiting for a cry of discovery. Instead there was another whistle on the platform, a louder throb of the impatient engine. He clicked the lock behind him. Besetzt.

  Another few minutes and the train had still not moved. How much longer would they be? A cursory second check, just to make sure? He took a rough paper towel and wiped his face. His shirt, he saw, had begun to soak through; his fingertips were red. Then he heard them doubling back through the car, presumably on their way out. Zimmerman’s voice was disgruntled, fed up, his time wasted. Steps in front of the WC, a burst of Czech. “ Ano, ano,” Zimmerman said, bored. A knock on the door. He had to open it; a refusal would be the end. But what if they were all standing there, looking in? He turned the lock and opened the door a crack. Zimmerman stuck his head in, meeting Nick’s eyes, his colleagues inches away. I don’t take risks. A worm. Nick closed his eyes, waiting.

  “ Ne,” Zimmerman shouted to them and then, to Nick, apologetically, “ Trominte, pani.” He bowed his head and closed the door.