by Joseph Kanon
“What, then?”
“We need to get the information out of the country.”
“Out of the country,” he repeated slowly.
“To the Russians. They don’t know.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Yes, it is. There isn’t a single Russian on the project. Brits galore, even Germans, but not one Russian. I know, I live there. Think what that means.”
“What do you think it means?”
“I think they’d make one unholy fuss if they found out—maybe enough to stop all this before it’s too late. They’re the only ones who could now.”
He was quiet for a minute. “Do you know what you’re saying?”
“Yes, I know, it’s an awful chance. But someone has to take it.”
“You, for instance,” he said skeptically. “Joan of Arc.”
“No, not me. I’m just a messenger. Someone on the project.”
“Your husband.”
“No, someone else. I’m—I’m seeing someone else. You needn’t look that way. I’m all grown up, remember?”
“Were you all grown up in Berlin too?” he said. “I’ve often wondered.”
“No. Were you? Look, don’t let’s start. It’s a little late in the day for that. Will you help?”
“You can’t be serious. Do you think I’m a spy?”
“Do you think I am?”
He paused. “I don’t know what to think. It’s all so extraordinary. You coming here like this. Bloody thirty-nine steps. What’s it to do with you, anyway?”
“I told you, I’m a messenger. I want to help him. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? Surely you remember that.”
“That was different. I never asked you to do anything like this. Anyway, why you?”
“Because I know you. I couldn’t think of anyone else. Do you think if I had, I’d have come to you? You’re the last person I’d ask for help. But as it happens, you are the last person. I’m not exactly on speakers with the other comrades. They’d never believe me.”
“But I would.”
“I thought you might,” she said softly. “Maybe I was wrong. Still, it doesn’t matter. You don’t have to believe me. I have some papers. Here,” she said. Connolly heard her take out the envelope. “Let someone else decide.”
“You are serious. What is it?”
“Scientific information about the project. A part of it. People only know parts. But Steven has more. Give them to somebody who’ll know what they mean. I wouldn’t have the faintest, and neither would you, so don’t even bother. But they’ll know. And they’ll know he’s real. He just wants to talk to somebody, that’s all. While there’s time.”
“What makes you think I can do this?”
“You know people—you were always good at that. Look, Matthew, I never said you were a spy, whatever that means. Maybe you are—I don’t care, so much the better. All the comrades are a little bit, aren’t they? They all like a bit of intrigue between meetings. Anyway, you don’t have to spy on anybody. Just pass it on and there’s an end to it. Nothing to do with you. Nothing to do with me. Let the comrades decide.”
“You haven’t changed. You always hated them.”
“I hated what they did to you.”
“And now you want to help them.”
“Maybe I don’t care what they do to you anymore.”
In the silence, Connolly could hear a coffee spoon clank against the cup. Don’t quarrel, he wanted to shout. Not yet. You haven’t got him yet.
“I never meant to hurt you,” he said.
“If I said I believed you, would it make any difference?”
He sighed. “You’ve become hard, Emma.”
“Well, for Christ’s sake,” a voice boomed next to Connolly. “I thought you were in Washington. How the hell are you, anyway?”
Connolly looked up, startled and annoyed, palming the earpiece and lowering his hand. Not now. “Jerry,” he said.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were back? Been over to the paper yet?”
“I’m not back. Just for the day.”
But Jerry, taking a seat, wasn’t listening. “Oswald’s gone, you know. Keeled over right in the city room. Broad daylight. I almost felt sorry for the bastard. But what the hell are you doing up here?”
“Jerry, I’m waiting for somebody,” he said nervously. Behind him he could hear them talking.
“Oh yeah? What, some skirt? For Christ’s sake, Connolly, when are you going to grow up? Hey, you’re looking good, though. You know they promoted that fuck Levine. If you’re smart, you’ll stay in Washington.”
And on. Connolly watched his mouth open and close, the eager sounds a blur of distraction from the low voices on the other side of the booth. Why didn’t he go? Connolly didn’t have to talk, just nod from time to time, but he couldn’t hear the others either, so he sat there in an anxious limbo, trapped while Emma carried on alone. What if they were fighting, picking at old scabs while the envelope sat there, ignored? Still, what could he have done in any case? She had always been alone here. Was she even aware of him? Was she explaining the earnest Corporal Waters? What were they saying? But she didn’t need him any more than Jerry did.
“Come on, Jerry, blow,” he said finally. “I’m waiting for somebody.” He smiled, a kind of leer. “She’s the nervous type.”
“All right, all right,” Jerry said, getting up. “Hey, Ken’s in the bar too. Come and say hello.”
“On the way out, okay? Have one on me.”
“Nah, I’ve got to go,” he said, looking at his watch. “Looks to me like she stood you up.” He grinned.
“Not a chance.”
Connolly lit a cigarette, waving to Jerry at the door, and tried to calm himself. What if Jerry had seen the wire? Made a scene? He picked it up anyway and cradled it against his ear.
“There is one condition,” Emma was saying. What was this? They hadn’t talked about this. Had he agreed, then? “You know I wouldn’t lift a finger for your friends. They’re as bad as the rest.”
“They’re not, but go on,” he said.
“This,” she said, referring to the envelope. “It’s not for them to keep. Not another secret. They’ve got to talk about it, do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“People have to know what it is. Otherwise there’s no point. Steven isn’t—political. They have to know that. I won’t have him tricked. Will you promise me that?” she asked, an impossible request.
“People do things for different reasons. We respect that,” he said, oddly formal, on duty.
“No, you have to tell them. It’s not some windfall for your bloody army. He won’t do that.”
“Then why this?” he said, fingering the envelope.
“There’s not enough there to make a bomb, you know. He’s not completely bonkers. Just enough to go public. That’s all he wants. It’s not for him. He’s—he’s a good man.”
“Unlike the rest of us.”
“No,” she said thoughtfully, “in some ways he’s very like the way you used to be. I was always a fool for the good-of-humanity line, wasn’t I? I thought you meant it.”
“I did.”
“Yes. It was caring for one person that was difficult.”
“Emma—”
“Never mind. We haven’t time. I’m supposed to be shopping or something. This is important—thousands of people, not just two. Promise me you’ll explain about Steven.”
“They’ll want to know more, if this is really what you say it is.”
“Yes, he’s prepared for that. But they have to know the why of it. That’s the bargain.”
“They don’t like to bargain.”
“No one’s ever given them something like this before. You’ll see. They won’t believe their luck. God knows they don’t deserve it.”
“Then why hand it to them?”
“Well, it’s a funny old world, isn’t it? They’re all we’ve got. Anyway, it’s not me. I’m just th
e postman. But promise me, about Steven. No tricks.”
Connolly waited for his answer, the sensible evasion, the obvious impossibility of taking any kind of responsibility for what would happen.
“Yes, I promise,” he said. It was as easy and expedient as a vow, and it was then that Connolly knew she’d wanted him to lie to her, a personal proof.
“That’s that, then,” she said. “I’d better go. Do put that away now, will you? Not the sort of thing one leaves lying about. I can’t tell you the relief, getting rid of it.”
“Emma,” he said, “is it true, all this?”
“Why?” she said, disarming him. “Don’t you think I’d have the guts?”
“I don’t know what you’d do anymore. You’re different.”
“No, still marvelous,” she said, her voice bitter. “But I tell you what. If you have second thoughts, just chuck it in the bin and no one’s the wiser. But I’d have someone give it a look, I really would. Who knows? There might be a promotion in it for you. Just keep my name out of the thank-you speech. Come to think of it, you don’t know my name now, do you? Maybe that’s best.”
“You never used to be like this,” he said, not really answering her. “How do I contact you?”
“You don’t. I’m finished with it now. Steven’s address is inside. A box number. They read the post, by the way, so tell whoever it is to be careful—well, that sounds silly, doesn’t it? Of course they would. Just tell them to give him a time and a place and he’ll know. Somewhere in Santa Fe—he’s not allowed to travel. If he doesn’t hear, well, then he’ll assume the comrades aren’t interested and we’ll have to think of something else.”
“Emma,” he said, his voice low. “In Berlin, when I—I was under orders.”
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“No, don’t go. You have to know what happened when I left. I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t tell anybody. They said lives might depend on it.”
“Lives did,” she said sharply.
Connolly heard her get up. Flustered, he turned and looked up to see her standing there, her padded shoulders pulled back, rigid with anger. He wanted to signal her, but her eyes were fixed on Matthew, oblivious to the room around them.
“I don’t mean ours,” Lawson was saying. “We were just kids. The others—they had a list, the whole network. I had to disappear. I couldn’t tell anybody. They ordered me not to, do you understand? It was important. There were people involved. It wasn’t my decision.”
“Wasn’t it?”
“No. Do you think I’d run away? Just like that? They had something for me to do. I couldn’t say no. It’s the discipline—every link. I had to do what they told me. Then, after—”
“Why are you telling me this?” she said, her voice cold. Connolly had dropped the wire and was staring at her.
“I don’t want you to think—I couldn’t help it, do you see?”
“Do you want me to forgive you? What a bastard you are.”
“I just wanted you to know what happened,” he said, hesitant now under her glare.
“That’s not all that happened in Berlin, Matthew,” she said, her voice so low and intense that the noise of the room seemed to step away from it, afraid. “You left a child. I cut it out.”
Connolly stared, helpless, as her eyes filled with tears.
She leaned in. “I saw it in a pan. Like a blood clot. But they cut out all my children. Didn’t mean to, but they did. You think I’m hard? I’m barren, Matthew. That’s what happened in Berlin. Here,” she said, picking up the envelope and throwing it at his chest. “Go save the world. Save it for your children.”
For a minute, no one moved. Then Emma picked up her bag and walked quickly out of the restaurant, her shoes clacking hard on the wood floor. Connolly watched her go, expecting Lawson to follow her, but there wasn’t a sound in the booth. He waited another minute, catching his own breath, then got up to go.
When he looked over the partition, he saw Lawson sitting, his face as red as if it had been slapped, staring at the brown envelope. Then suddenly he got up, bumping into Connolly.
For a split second Connolly met his eyes, wide and frantic. “Sorry,” he said automatically, but Lawson was already running out of the room.
Connolly followed through the noisy bar and pushed the door out into the hot air. Lawson was halfway down the block, walking quickly. He stopped and shouted something—her name?—but it was lost in the roar of the overhead train. At the corner, he had to stop for a light, and Connolly could see Emma across Third, already far along the side street, her white dress darting in and out of the crowd. They crossed together, Connolly hanging back a little, waiting for him to sprint, but there were too many people now and he couldn’t break through. Instead he sidestepped them, jumping into the street, then back again, trying to keep her in sight. When she turned right on Lexington, he quickened his pace, pushing against the crowd.
Emma hadn’t noticed any of it. When she reached the hotel she went straight in, not looking around. Lawson followed her to the door, dodging a car against the light, and then, finally there, stopped unexpectedly. Connolly turned at the window of a deli, watching to his left. Lawson stood for a second, rooted in indecision, then took a step toward the entrance and stopped again. A soldier and a girl came out of the hotel, carrying suitcases. Lawson took a handkerchief to wipe his face, then, his whole body slumping in some final resignation, turned and started walking slowly away. When he passed Connolly in the deli window he was looking at the sidewalk, glum and confused, as if he had just missed a train. Then Connolly lost him in the crowd.
Emma was sitting on the bed, breathing deliberately to calm herself. She glanced up when he came in, then looked away again, obviously not wanting to talk. He touched her shoulder, then went into the bathroom and started putting things in his Dopp Kit.
“Did you hear?” she said finally from the bedroom. “I’m afraid I muffed it.”
“No,” he said, coming out, “it was fine. Perfect.” His voice went low. “Emma, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
“No, you didn’t.” She shrugged, shaking the hair off her neck. “Now what?”
“Now we wait.”
“Like a message in a bottle.” She stood up and went over to the window. “Anyway, it’s done now. Good luck to him.”
“You all right?”
She nodded. “Funny how voices don’t change. Everything else, but not voices. It gave me quite a turn at first. ‘We respect that.’ My God.” She lit a cigarette, still looking out the window. “Promise me something, will you? When this is over, all this Karl business, no more, all right? You see what it’s done to him. Always some war to fight, whether there is one or not. He’s stuck in the trenches for good now.”
“It’s a promise. You can count on this one.”
She turned, smiling a little. “He couldn’t help himself, could he? What are you doing?” she said, noticing the Dopp Kit. “Going somewhere?”
“I thought we might change hotels. Our last night. Change of scene.”
She smiled. “You don’t have to do that. I’m all right, really.”
“Actually, I think we’d better,” he said. “He followed you.”
“Followed me?”
“Not like that. I think he probably wanted to make up.”
“But he didn’t come in,” she said quietly.
“No,” he said, closing the kit. “But he knows you’re here. Which means they’ll know I’m here too, if anyone’s interested. And they might be, once they get a look at his mail. We can’t afford to take that chance.”
She folded her arms, holding herself. “You think he’d have us watched?”
“It wouldn’t be up to him.”
She took that in. “I thought this was over.”
“Almost. It’s just a precaution.”
“Still on the job,” she said, putting out her cigarette. “Right. And here I thought you were being romantic.”
“I c
an still be that.”
“Where now?” she said brightly. “Do you think you could manage something a bit grander? The Waldorf?”
He grinned. “No. I was thinking of the Pennsylvania. It’s the one place we’re sure to be alone.”
“Unless that man’s still there.”
“He won’t be. Anywhere but there.”
He was there, however. After dinner, a little tight, they went to the Café Rouge to hear the music, and it was Emma who spotted him, sitting not far from the band.
“It’s him,” she said. “He must be off duty—he’s checked his hat.”
“And picked up a girl,” Connolly said. “What do you know.”
“I don’t think he’s seen us.”
“Come on, let’s dance.”
Emma giggled as Connolly maneuvered her toward the other table. “You’re torturing him,” she said, watching the man pretend not to recognize them. The girl, all bright lipstick, was drinking a highball.
“Just a little.”
“He’ll be furious.”
“Because we ruined his little night on the town? I doubt he’ll want to go into that. Looks bad on the report.”
She giggled again. “But what will he think?”
“That we’ve been here all along and he should have kept his mouth shut. Now he’s going to have to explain it.”
“Who do you think she is?”
He grinned. “There’s a question.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Now he’ll be on the train.”
“Paying very close attention this time. Just think of him as your personal bodyguard. Look, he’s getting up to dance. I didn’t think there was anybody in G-2 who could do that.”
“Stop. He’ll see you laughing. We shouldn’t be doing this, you know. It’s not supposed to be funny. Why is it?”
“He doesn’t think he’s funny. And he’s going to write a report and it’s going to sit in a file until it’s useful to someone who isn’t funny either. And there won’t be a thing in it about his pumping his way across a dance floor and trying to get some girl into bed. That’s the way it works.”
“Not funny at all.”
“No. How do you feel?”
