by Joseph Kanon
“So what are you going to do?” Molly said finally.
“Why did it have to be him?” he said, almost to himself.
“Because it is.”
“I don’t know,” he said, answering her question.
“Finish it. That’s what you came here to do. End it.”
“It won’t end. It’ll start all over again.”
“Nick,” she said softly, “if you don’t do this, it’ll never stop.”
“Just name a few names.”
“That’s their politics. I’m tired of being them. He’s selling us out now. Us. I can’t be that neutral. Is this how we’re going to live, like them? They made a mess of their lives.”
“But we won’t,” he said ironically.
“Well, we can do it our own way. At least then we won’t know how it comes out.” She took out the envelope and handed it to him. “Here. It’s yours. You decide.”
Nick looked down at the envelope. “I can’t be his executioner, Molly.”
“Somebody’d better be. He’ll do it to you too.”
“He’s not going to kill me.”
“Yes, he is. Every time you look at him.” She hesitated. “It’s a lousy deal, Nick.”
He watched her turn away.
“Where are you going?”
“Over to the rally. If you want to join the living, meet me by the monument.” She stopped. “Then I’m going back to New York. I hate this place.” She looked up at him. “Come with me?”
“I’m not finished here.”
“I am,” she said, and walked away.
He went toward the Justice Department and stared up at the balcony, the envelope like a weight in his pocket. A lousy deal. But would this one be any better? Could you really buy freedom in a pact with the devil?
The lobby was busy, full of men in suits and short-cropped hair, Bureau style. A bank of phones. Guards, armed. Where Hoover had started the phony war that had finally circled them on 2nd Street and now-beyond an irony, something grotesque-Nick would hand him, so many years later, the unexpected paper to win it. The pragmatic deal.
But as he walked toward the reception desk, surrounded by Hoover’s foot soldiers, he knew he couldn’t do it. Not here. The old enemy. He saw Hoover snatching the prize, vindicated, unassailable at last. Which was worse, Larry for a few months or Hoover tape-recording for the rest of his life? How did you measure the damage? Molly had to see that. He’d be one of them. He turned, pretending he’d forgotten something, and walked out past the indifferent guards.
The rally was noisy and crowded. He walked past the line of police and portable toilets and parked ambulances-were they expecting trouble? — and into the mass swarming over the Mall. He felt a million miles from the somber candle vigil for Jan Palach. Bubbles and painted faces and scraggly hair. Shirts off in the sun. The defiant smell of dope. In the distance was a concert stage with loudspeakers, a group at its base yelling “Out now!”, the chant rippling back through the crowd in a wave. Homemade posters and peace buttons.
Where was she? Everyone looked young. Nick realized with a start that no one in the huge eager crowd had ever heard of the hearings, that the old war was not even a distant memory to them. Like Welles, the survivors had moved on to the next thing. An embarrassing moment in the republic, not even worth teaching in school, so the children, absorbed in their own war, would not even know it had happened. And Larry would survive this one too, betraying them all. A lousy deal. Molly was right. They needed to breathe their own air.
He’d never find her in this. He scanned the broad slope by the monument. A scuffle had broken out near the transverse road, and policemen were wading in to contain it. A kid next to him was watching it through binoculars.
“Pigs,” he said. “There go the pigs again.”
“Could I borrow these for a sec?”
“Look at the pigs, man,” he said, handing the glasses to Nick.
It wasn’t yet an incident. People stood watching without getting involved, like a highway accident. The police were leading two men away, but no one was protesting. Probably a fight someone had to break up, not a bust. People stepped back to clear a path, then started up the road again. Nick moved the binoculars across the young faces, then stopped, jarred by something out of place.
The woman was looking away, a little farther up the hill, annoyed she’d had to stop, anxious. In the carnival of the rally her determined face stood out like a warning. Not just any face. Ruth Silberstein. Nick followed her, hypnotized. What was she doing here? And when she turned to speak to the man with her, Nick felt the fear begin. Ponytail and acne: the guy from the adult store. Then Ruth pointed and Nick followed her finger to Molly, standing on the curb, looking around. Waiting for him.
“Hey, man,” said the kid, reaching for the binoculars.
“Just a minute. Please.”
It hadn’t been Hoover’s tail. He’d been telling the truth. Rrown, or someone, had been following her. Or had Barbara called in an alarm? And now they were here, just a few feet from her. He wanted to shout out. Hopeless. But she’d know them, run for it. Except she’d never seen Ruth Silberstein, never been in the store. Nick watched through the binoculars as they approached her. What story would they have? At first she smiled. Then a moment of panic on her face, a quick glance around for help. She stepped away, but Ruth pulled her in and the ponytail moved behind her, close to her back, and then they were moving off together toward Constitution Avenue in a huddle. Run.
Nick dropped the binoculars and started racing through the crowd, bumping into people, dodging section leaders with bullhorns. The chant came back from the stage again, and those who had been sitting, picnic style, jumped up. “Out now!” Nick tried to push through a wall of people, not even able to see the road anymore. Flailing through vines in a jungle, shoving them aside. “Hey, where’s the fire, man?” Someone said “Peace,” as if the word itself had power. Had they known all along, been aware of their amateur shadows? Brown’s elaborate route, a lure. Not just a dirty bookstore. Nick’s mind raced through the crowd, faster than his blocked feet. But why here, in public? What would have drawn them out? The envelope. They knew she’d taken the envelope. And then, as he edged around a group of girls, stalled, the other thought occurred to him. Larry. Of course he’d lie. There had never been any deal. You don’t wait. The oldest instinct in the book. She really had become Rosemary.
By the time he reached the road, calling out her name now, they had disappeared. He ran faster, trying to catch up. Police glared at him. Then he saw a car across the avenue, the ponytail bundling her in. He screamed her name. As she got into the car, she turned her head as if, impossibly, she’d heard him, and he thought, a final panic, that it could be the last time he’d ever see her. He ran across the avenue, halting traffic, but the car was pulling away, too far for him even to make out the license plate, and then sped around the corner.
He stopped and stood still, heaving. They’d question her first. But for how long? It was the lawn at Holeckova again, feeling utterly helpless. He glanced toward the line of police. But what would he say? And then, another jolt, what if they were following him too? Or was she just bait, Larry’s new bargaining chip? Bastard, he thought, and began running toward Pennsylvania Avenue. Somewhere they wouldn’t follow, if he could make it.
He tried to calm his breathing as he walked into the Justice Department. Don’t look out of place. He went to the row of phone booths and pulled out some change. If it had been Larry, they might not even question her. He already knew. Nick tried the Hay-Adams-not there. But you couldn’t call the White House. Unless your life depended on it. He dialed. The switchboard believed the emergency-the operator could hear it in his ragged breathing.
“Nick, are you crazy?” Larry said when he came on. “Pulling me out of a meeting. What-”
“Be quiet. I’m at the Justice Department. I’m going up to Hoover’s office unless you let her go. Do you understand?”
“No. N
ick, these phones.” Hedging. “They’re not secure.”
“I don’t give a fuck. Let her go.”
“Calm down. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You kidnapped her. Molly. I fucking saw them. Ruth and the freak from the porno store. They probably had Brown in the car. Where’d they take her, Larry? Christ.”
“Stop it. You’re babbling. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Was it possible? “Look, come over here. I’ll meet you outside. Not the phones.”
“Forget it. I’m not leaving here. It’s safe. Even you wouldn’t try to get me here. I’ll go upstairs, Larry, I mean it. I’ll tell him everything.”
“What do you mean, safe? Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not all right. They’ve got her. They’ll kill her unless you stop it.”
“Nick, I’ll say it one more time. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“She was following Brown. He must have spotted her. Or your girlfriend.”
“Nick-”
“I don’t give a fuck!” he yelled. “You have to get her. Fix this. That’s what you do, isn’t it? They’re your people-talk to your boss. You must have one. He’ll know. Tell him I’m already at the Bureau. If they touch one hair, one hair, I’ll blow the whole fucking operation. I can do it. I have the names, Larry. You want to hear them? You’re not supposed to know. Nobody’s supposed to know. But they will. Tell him I have the envelope too.”
“What envelope?”
“Your envelope. Your last fucking report.”
“Nick-” A beat. “Stay where you are. I’ll be right there. Where in Justice?”
“In the lobby. Right next to an armed guard.”
He took ten minutes. Nick sat in the booth, sweating, the receiver cradled at his ear, the constant dial tone drowning out the buzzing in his head. All that mattered-not any of the rest of it, all the complicated loyalties. He saw her walking past the guards on the Prague station platform. In the room at the Alcron. His. The only thing he hadn’t lost yet. By the time he saw Larry walking into the lobby, the fear had set into something harder, without margins. The oldest instinct in the book.
“It wasn’t me, Nick,” Larry said, his voice brisk, setting things straight.
“I don’t care. Just get her. John Brown works upstairs somewhere. He’s the one who’d know her. He’s probably had her watched. What about Barbara-she take packages from anybody else?”
Larry nodded.
“Then she must have tipped one of them.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Larry said, getting into the booth. “I can’t promise anything. I don’t know the others. It may be out of my hands.”
“But you’re in mine. Do it.”
Larry picked up the receiver and began closing the booth door. Nick put his hand on it. “Secrets, Larry? Still?”
“Theirs.”
He closed the door and dialed. Nick stood outside the booth, watching the Bureau pass by, unaware. Larry was right, there was an excitement in knowing the only secret at the table. He heard him make another call, brusque, a man used to getting his way. Nick looked at his watch. They’d question her first.
“All right,” Larry said as he came out. “They’ve got her somewhere. They want to know what’s going on.”
“They tell you where?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
“One thing.”
Nick stopped and turned.
“I’d like the envelope,” Larry said, holding out a hand. Even now.
“And if I don’t?”
Larry just looked at him.
Nick reached into his pocket. “Here.” He tossed it at him. “You’re a lousy deal anyway.”
“Nick-”
“Let’s go.”
Outside, they walked to the waiting black car. Larry opened the driver’s door.
“Personal errand,” he said. “Take an hour and I’ll meet you back at the White House.”
The driver, surprised, handed him the keys. “They don’t like that.”
Larry winked. “Wouldn’t want to do anything personal on Government time, huh?”
“No, sir.”
When they pulled away, Larry said, “In my briefcase. Left compartment.”
Nick took the case from the back seat, opened it, and pulled out a gun, staring at it.
“Just put it in my pocket.”
“Why?”
“The man holding her doesn’t know me. If my person doesn’t reach him, we may need a little help. Just in case.”
“God, Larry.”
“Still enjoying yourself?”
They drove up 13th Street toward New York Avenue and stopped-why hadn’t he thought of it? — at the adult store.
“That’s why you didn’t want the driver.”
“They talk,” Larry said simply.
There was a CLOSED sign on the door, nothing visible inside. Larry knocked.
“We’re fucking closed.” The ponytail.
“Joseph sent me,” Larry said.
“Who?”
“John Brown,” Nick said. The one man he’d have to know.
The door opened a crack. “What the fuck do you want?”
“We came for the girl,” Larry said. “Come on, open. Quick. Before someone sees.” He pushed the door.
The man was holding the baseball bat, his eyes widening as he recognized Nick. “Who the fuck are you? Nobody said anything about the girl.”
“Where is she?” Larry said. “ Now.”
The man nodded toward the film cubicles in the back. “Nobody said nothing about this.”
“Nobody had to. Put the bat down. You look like an idiot.”
“Yeah, well, who the fuck are you? I gotta make a call.” He went toward the register counter.
“Just put it down,” Larry said, holding the gun. “And the bat.”
“Fuck,” the ponytail said, amazed. He dropped the bat, which clattered on the floor.
“I thought you said just in case,” Nick said.
“Just get her. Where?” he said to the man.
“In the back on the right.”
Nick stared at Larry, suddenly frightened, then moved quickly into the back. Dim, after the garish front room. Doors with light bulbs over them.
“Molly?”
He heard a pounding inside one of the cubicles. His eyes adjusted to the dark. At the end, a chair was propped against a door.
“Molly.” He threw the chair aside and pulled the door open. She was standing there cowering, holding her forearm. “You all right?”
She nodded, still stunned. Her face was blotchy, and she moaned when he took her in his arms, hugging her.
“It’s my wrist. I think it’s broken. He grabbed-Oh God, Nick. What’s happening?”
“Come on.”
He held her by the side and walked her out of the dark room.
“They’re coming back,” she said. “Who are they?”
“Later. Come on.”
She blinked when the light hit her eyes, dazzled by the slick covers full of flesh. “Where are we?” Then she saw Larry holding the gun and drew closer to Nick, clutching him.
“Get her to the car,” Larry said.
“Nobody told me about this,” the ponytail said.
“Shut up.”
“Fuck you.” He moved toward Molly.
Larry raised the gun. “Don’t. I mean it.”
The man stopped, glowering.
“Get in the car,” Larry said to her. “Quick.”
She looked at Nick, who nodded and opened the door.
“You don’t know what fucking trouble you’re buying,” the ponytail said.
“I always know what I’m buying,” Larry said. “Now you can use the phone.”
The man snorted and turned toward the counter. The blast caught Nick by surprise, making him jump, so loud it was still ringing in his ears as he watched the man fall onto the counter, then slump and sl
ide off, with magazines slipping around him. When he hit the floor Nick heard his head crack. He stared at the blood. Like the war — blood coming out, quietly. He looked up at Larry, for a second expecting the other shot. But Larry was taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the gun, then tossing it next to the man.
“He saw me,” he said simply.
Nick said nothing, lost in the stillness that follows a violent death. It had been that easy. No witnesses. A girl falling out the window. Barbara next, whoever else might be a threat. His father jerking under the pillows. No end to it, ever.
“Now get out of here,” Larry said. “You’ve got her. We’re quits.”
“I saw you too,” Nick said quietly.
“Then I’m in your hands again,” Larry said, matter-of-fact. “But we have a deal.” He wiped his hands. “Come on, Nick, we have to get out of here. You’ll see. It’ll be fine.” He moved toward the door.
“You’re going to get away with it.”
“Yes, I am. Come on.”
He lifted his hand to the door, his back to Nick, the familiar shoulders. No end to it. I won’t be his executioner. Not to Hoover, giving comfort to the enemy. But no end to it. He reached down and picked up the gun. Larry turned. Nick looked down at his hand, outstretched, the way it had been at the White House gate, unable to pull the trigger. Locked together in the tangle Larry had made.
“Nick. Leave it. They’ll-”
Nick fired, the sound splitting the room again. He saw Larry’s shocked face, his graceless stumble and fall to the floor.
“Nick.” A gasp, like a plea.
Nick wiped the gun, just as Larry had, and threw it toward the clerk. Then he went over, leaned down, and took the envelope out of Larry’s pocket. No scandal. Just a crime. Larry’s eyes were still open. “Don’t worry,” Nick said to the ground. “Your secret’s safe with me. That was the deal.”
A pounding on the door. “Nick!”
