Los Alamos

by Joseph Kanon

  She stopped, looking toward the creek as if it were the past, then shook her head. “Well, never mind. You don’t want to hear all that. You want to know about Karl. That was Berlin. We went to Berlin—I never knew whether it was Matthew’s idea or the party’s. The party’s, I suppose. I don’t know if he had any ideas by then. He liked being a soldier. It suited him. Which is odd when you think of it, since he’d never obeyed an order in his life. But now he did. I suppose he thought they were moving him back from the front lines to some other unit. Anyway, we went. Not so romantic this time, though. It was useful to them to have an Englishman there. The Huns always gave us a wide berth—I suppose they thought we were all like Uncle Arthur. The German comrades couldn’t do much. I think they were paralyzed with fear. I know I was. But Matthew—well, naturally he was up for anything. I’d no idea what he was actually doing—he kept telling me it was better my not knowing, but of course that only meant I imagined the worst. I hated it. Terrible little flats. Not that I minded that, really. I was doing a course at the university, that was our cover, and students weren’t expected to live high. And God knows it was better than Spain. Berlin was pretty. If you weren’t being thrown into jail, you could have a good time there. But I hadn’t come for any of that. I was just—isn’t it awful? I suppose I was actually a camp follower, just like those women they used to drag along. Except my soldier was never there. He was always out fighting the good fight. And of course it was the good fight, so you couldn’t complain. I’d go to the meetings just to be with him. You can’t imagine the dreariness of it, all secret and squalid and—endless. Hours of it. Matthew would natter on and I’d just drift off. I doubt he even noticed I was there. But Karl did. At least, he said he did. I don’t remember him being there, but I wasn’t seeing much of anything then except Matthew and how miserable I was. But Karl remembered me. Evidently I made a striking impression. So.”

  She got up and began to walk, absently kicking small stones as she paced.

  “So you went to bed with him because he saw you at a few meetings?”

  She snorted, a pretend laugh. “I said I’d tell you what happened. I didn’t say it would make sense.”

  His stare followed her as she paced, waiting. “When was all this?”

  “Just after he got here. I was getting a pass and he recognized me. And then later he asked me about it. Wondered why it wasn’t in my file.”

  “And why wasn’t it?”

  “Nobody ever asked. I was just a wife. Daniel was vetted in London. They knew I’d been in Spain. So had lots of people. It was the thing to do. Maybe no one there thought anything of it. But you know what it’s like here.” She turned to face him. “Look, I was scared. Is that so hard for you to understand? Being here is all Daniel ever cared about. You know what happens if they pull your security clearance. I couldn’t do that to him. Just because his wife went to some silly meetings? They didn’t mean anything anyway. I don’t even remember what they talked about. It was all—innocent. But would your lot believe that? ‘Why didn’t you tell us before? Who else was there?’ You know what it’s like. They’d never trust him after that.”

  “Is that where you met him? At the meetings?”

  “No,” she said dismissively, “he didn’t know anything about that. We met at the university.”

  “So it was your little secret.”

  “I didn’t think it mattered. It didn’t. And then later—well, then it was too late. They’d always want to know why I hadn’t told them in the first place. I just wanted things to go on as they were. No one was the wiser. What did it matter?”

  “But Karl was wiser.”

  “Yes.”

  “So you decided to do Daniel a real favor and make a new friend.”

  She stared at him. “That’s right. I needed a friend.”

  “And was he? A friend?” She shrugged and turned away, pacing again.

  “What else?”

  “Why should there be anything else?”

  “Because there is. Emma, half the people on the Hill went to political meetings ten years ago. You didn’t sleep with him for that.”

  “Maybe I wanted to. Who knows why we do things? Why do you?”

  “What else?”

  “Oh, leave me alone.”

  “What happened in Berlin? To your husband?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “He left.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Yes, just like that. He deserted me.” She looked at him for a reaction. “I guess my charms weren’t enough to keep him. He must have had something more important to do.”

  “But where did he go?”

  “I’ve no idea. I never heard from him. I assume he died. Given everything.”

  “Did you try to find him?”

  “No. He left me, you see. He didn’t want to be found.”

  “What did you do? Go back to London?”

  “No, I stayed on.”

  “You stayed on. In Berlin. With a missing Communist husband.”

  “Nobody knew he was my husband. That was—I don’t know, part of it. Look, I know it sounds silly now, but things were different then. He didn’t want anybody to know. For my sake. In case something happened.”

  “What the hell was he doing?”

  “Oh, don’t get your hopes up. He wasn’t the Comintern’s man in place or anything like that. At least, I don’t think so. Probably just leaflets and setting up those awful meetings. But he liked to pretend it was dangerous. Maybe it was. Anything was then, I suppose. Anyway, he thought so.”

  “So you stayed.”

  Emma shrugged again. “I didn’t fancy running home to Daddy. I’d made my bed—I thought I’d better lie in it.”

  “In Berlin,” he said skeptically. “Living hand to mouth with the Nazis in the street.”

  “That’s right. Stupid, wasn’t it?”

  He watched her as she lit another cigarette, not meeting his eyes. “Tell me, Emma,” he said quietly.

  She blew out the smoke, raising her head to look at him. “I was pregnant.”

  He waited for a minute, but she simply continued to smoke, staring at him. “What happened?”

  “I got rid of it. I killed it.”

  “God—”

  “Well, what was I supposed to do?” she said, her voice breaking for the first time.

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  “Didn’t you? Well, never mind. It doesn’t make any difference. I had it—taken care of. One office visit. Easy, really. Not so easy to arrange, though. The Germans had views on that sort of thing.” She snorted. “Matthew always thought he was so frightfully clandestine. Try finding a friendly doctor—that was the real secret world.”

  “How did you?”

  “Daniel helped me,” she said simply. “Surprised? No German would have touched me. But he knew the refugees. They were always open for a bit of business.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. It was a long time ago.”

  “No. For asking.”

  She nodded. “Yes. It makes things different, doesn’t it? It’s not always nice knowing things.”

  “And that’s why you helped him get out?”

  She smiled wryly. “Take one life and save another? Maybe it was something like that, I don’t know. I didn’t look into things then, I just did them. Maybe you can sort it out for me.” Her eyes were moist. “I don’t know why I’m explaining all this to you. Hardly what you want for your report, is it?”

  “No.”

  “Anything else, then? While you’ve got the light in my face?”

  “Why did it stop?”

  “Well, there’s a question. Because I asked. I just couldn’t anymore.”

  “And he agreed? He didn’t insist? Threaten you?”

  “Threaten me? Karl? It wasn’t like that. You’ve become as mad as the rest of them. He didn’t bloody blackmail me. I’m sorry, but he didn’t. That’s what you want to think. He never threatened me. He kne
w things. Ordinarily it wouldn’t have mattered—not exactly the end of the world to go to a meeting, is it?—but in a place like this it was—awkward, okay? There wasn’t time to sort anything out. I thought they’d send Daniel packing. So.” She paused, looking away. “Anyway, it’s done. Now you’ll tell them anyway, so it seems I needn’t have bothered.”

  “But he didn’t care?”

  She considered this for a minute, as if the idea were new to her. “You know, oddly enough, I don’t think he did. Oh, he was fond of me in his way, but in the end I don’t think it interested him very much. He wasn’t—personal. He was afraid of it. It’s hard to explain. Once he had his file complete, I think he just wanted to move on.”

  “You liked him.”

  “I felt sorry for him. It’s a terrible thing, not being able to trust anyone. Prison did that, I guess. I often wondered what happened to him there—oh, I don’t mean physically, the fingers and all that. But inside. It made him a little crazy, I think. Goblins everywhere.” She paused, wiping sweat from her face with her handkerchief. “Anyway, he came to the right place for it. Here he got paid for not trusting anybody. I think he liked that better than sex, all the—untangling. He was excited by that. Maybe it was just prison all over again, get them before they get you. He couldn’t help it anymore. He always thought somebody was out to get him.”

  “Somebody did.”

  “Yes,” she said, then went over to gather up the picnic things. “I think you’d better take me home now. I’ve had enough time in the confessional. It’s not as good for the soul as they say.”

  Connolly watched her pack the knapsack, gracefully picking up the cups, making room for the Thermos. What was she thinking? For a moment he thought he finally understood the pleasure Karl took in it, that tension of not knowing, of wondering what was true.

  “Did he ever mention anyone else?”

  “What? Any other bad security risks? No.”

  He followed her to the car. “Don’t you think it’s strange, his just letting go like that?”

  “I didn’t say he was pleased—he just didn’t make a fuss, that’s all. I didn’t think about it, I was relieved. Maybe he was too. Maybe he found someone more interesting. When you’re paranoid—isn’t that the word?—there’s nothing more boring than an open book. No mystery there. After all, he knew everything about me.”

  He stopped at the car door. “Do I?”

  She hesitated. “I thought you did,” she said softly. “Everything that mattered. I thought—well, never mind what I thought.” She busied herself putting the pack in the car, then stood up, looking at him over the roof. “There is one more thing. I wasn’t going to tell you, but you may as well know. Maybe it will make a difference to you.” She hesitated again, still not sure. “Karl was—well, Karl was very good at what he did, you know. He knew things that even I didn’t know. Don’t ask me how.” He waited. “I suppose you can find out anything if it’s really what you care about,” she said to him with a wry half-smile. “He knew that Matthew was still alive.”

  “I thought—”

  “So did I. I’d no idea. You can see what that means, can’t you?” she said, her voice pleading. “I was frantic. Daniel only got out because of the marriage. Now he’s British.”

  “You thought they’d send him back?”

  “No, not then,” she said, her voice trembling. “We weren’t exactly sending trains into Berlin. But what about now? If the marriage isn’t real, what happens to him? Is he supposed to go back to Poland? I can’t let that happen to him.”

  “They wouldn’t do that.”

  “How do you know? I didn’t. So logical. I couldn’t be, don’t you see? I couldn’t think straight. All I knew was that Daniel would have no legal status at all and it was my fault. I had to do something.”

  “So you went with him.”

  “Yes, I went with him,” she said, almost shouting. “It always comes back to that, doesn’t it? I needed time. I thought after the war I’d sort it out—I couldn’t do it here. Besides, no one knew.”

  “Except Karl.”

  “Yes, except Karl. And now you. Michael, I’m asking you—”

  “Don’t. Don’t ask me.”

  She bit her lip again, her face resigned. “At least Karl—”

  “You don’t know what you’re asking.”

  “I can’t help it. I saved him once—I won’t let anything happen to him. I thought it all died with Karl. Do I have to buy you too? Or have you already had everything you want?”

  “Get in the car.”

  They drove up the dirt canyon road in silence, Emma looking out the side window, her face blotchy but dry. Connolly stared at the road, as if he could quiet the jumble in him with a grip on the wheel.

  “You can have the marriage annulled.”

  “Yes,” she said absently.

  “How did Karl find him?”

  “No more. Please.”

  “How?”

  “He’s here.”

  Connolly almost stopped the car in surprise. “Here? On the Hill?”

  “No. In the States. For years. Karl used to keep tabs on aliens who were friendly to the comrades. It was his specialty, remember?”

  “Where is he?”

  “I don’t know. New York. He was, anyway. Karl lost track of him when he left Washington and all his precious files there. It shouldn’t be hard if you want to find him.”

  “Do you?”

  “No.”

  “Did Karl tell him?”

  “Karl didn’t know him. He was just a name in a file.”

  “Does he know where you are?”

  “Nobody knows where I am. I’m a post office number. Box 1663, Santa Fe. New name. New person.” She trembled again. “I got clean away, remember? A lovely new life.”

  They were approaching the turnoff road for the west gate. “Let me off here. I’ll walk in.”

  He looked at her. “Walk?”

  “Yes, walk. Why not? I’m a great hiker, didn’t you know? I could do with a walk now. Besides, there’s my reputation to consider.” He stopped the car. “Well,” she said, not wanting to get out yet, “I’ll see you.”

  “Emma, what you said before, about his not blackmailing you. There must have been someone else. There’s the money.”

  She smiled sadly. “You never give up. What are you suggesting? That I gave him the idea? Is that my fault too? Once he saw how easy it was with me, he went on to better things? Maybe he did. You find out, Michael. I don’t care.” She opened the door, half getting out. “Will you put us in your report too?” When he opened his mouth, she put her fingers to his lips, barely touching them. “No, don’t say anything. I don’t want to hear it—it’s all in your face. Do what you have to do. I’ll just get out here.” She kept her hand on his face, a Braille touch, keeping him still. “I seem to have made a mess of things, haven’t I? You always want things to make sense. Sometimes they make sense and it’s still a mess.” She ran her fingers across his mouth as if she were kissing him. “It was nice for a while, though. Before it was such a mess. No, don’t say anything.” She dropped her hand and got out of the car, then leaned through the window. “You’d better go on first. It’ll look better.”

  He sat there for a minute, not knowing what to say, and then it was too late. She had moved off to the side, starting to walk, and when he put the car in gear and saw her in the rearview mirror she was looking somewhere else.

  He drove back to the office, random phrases darting through his mind so quickly he could not assemble them. They bounced off each other, uncontrollable, until all they lived for was their speed. Fission. He knew in some part of him that he had no reason to feel angry or betrayed or shamed at his own inability to know what to do, how he ought to feel, but the feelings bounced off each other too, like glandular surges that swept through his blood, drowning thought. He saw her with Karl, in some motel room like theirs, sweaty and half lit. She had felt sorry for him. And Karl? What had he fel
t? Surprise at his good luck? Or did he worry, wondering what it all meant? But he had kept quiet, cared enough to lie for her. Now she wanted him to lie, another Karl. For Daniel. Because she cared enough to protect him but not enough to be faithful.

  But who was he to accuse her of that? He’d never even thought about Daniel before, betraying him again and again, because for them it had been different, as natural and carefree as a hike through the canyon. I didn’t know you then. But what if she had? Would it have been any different? It always comes back to that. She had walked in through the gate. I thought it died with him. But no, this was crazy. You’ve become as mad as the rest of them. And suddenly he felt for the first time what it had been like for Karl, this endless noisy suspicion ricocheting so loudly inside him that he couldn’t hear anything else. And when it stopped—and now it did—his mind blank—absolutely nothing. She disappeared in the rearview mirror. He felt as empty as Karl’s room.

  When he parked and walked through the Tech Area fence, his mind was still cloudy and preoccupied, but it was Weber who didn’t see him, bumping so hard into his shoulder that he was stopped in midflight.

  “Ouf. Pardon, pardon,” he said in the all-purpose French used in crowds at railway terminals. He looked up at Connolly dimly through his glasses, trying to focus his memory. “Ah, Mr. Connolly. The music. Yes, I’m so sorry. I’m late again, you see.”