Molly was sitting by the window, waiting for him. “What happened?”
“A condolence call,” he said, crossing the room, avoiding her.
She waited, then looked down, disappointed. “Anna called. She wants to see you, at your father’s.”
“She say why?”
“No. Just that she has something for you.”
He stopped, attentive now. Not in the desk. Anna had found it somewhere else.
“Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“I’ll come,” she said, getting up.
“You don’t have to.”
“Yes, I do. I’m going crazy here. I keep thinking they’re picking you up again.”
“They won’t. I called Zimmerman. I told him I’d sign a statement saying my father was depressed. I was worried about him. That’s why I went to see him that morning.”
“But I thought-”
“That’s how you remember it too, isn’t it?” he said, partly to the walls. “He left the concert early, after that little fight we had. If they ask.”
She stopped in front of him. “Nick, what’s going on?”
“Just say it.”
“If that’s what you want,” she said, trying to read his face.
“That’s what I want.” He turned away. “I’ll go see him after Anna and get it over with. I won’t be long.” He went over to the window and drew back the edge of the curtain. “Our friends are still here.”
“Where?” She came over and looked out. “Not very subtle, are they?”
“Not the ones we know about.”
She shivered. “Stop.” She picked up her shoulder bag from the chair. “I’m not staying here. I’m just not.”
They walked down Wenceslas, past the parky stalls and half-empty shops, heading inevitably toward the Narodni Street bridge. Where had Anna found it? Did she know what it meant? Molly, wary, said nothing, glancing over her shoulder. One of the men followed on foot, the Skoda lagging behind. They passed the corner where she had caught the tram and started across the bridge. He waited until they were halfway across before he stopped, looking over at the tree where he’d stood.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t want them to lose us. I like having a bodyguard.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“My father was killed, Molly. Not depressed, killed. I don’t want to end up the same way.”
“You?”
“The guy from the embassy said I should watch my back.”
“Did he?” she said, her face blank. “Why would he say that?”
“Maybe he’s paranoid. They get like that over here. Maybe he knows.”
“Knows what?”
But instead of answering, he said, “Molly, I want you to do something. Get out of Prague, today. The ticket’s still good. Take the car if you want.”
“Why?”
“Maybe I’m paranoid too. But do it. There’s nothing you can do here. At least you’ll be safe.”
She shook her head. “Knows what?” she said again. “ Tell me.”
He turned to her, angry now. “You tell me.”
“What?”
He grabbed her arm. “Who’s Foster, Molly? Tell me.”
“Why are you acting like this?” she said, pulling away.
“I’m watching my back. He didn’t have to tell me, we learned that in the war. You get like that when people shoot at you. You start seeing things. You, for instance. Standing right here, having a little talk. Not shopping. Definitely not alone. I was over there.” He indicated the tree. “But maybe I was seeing things. Was I? Tell me.”
She took her arm away, subdued. “What did he tell you?”
“Him? Nothing. Not a word. A real gentleman, if you like the type. Which I guess you do. So why don’t you tell me?”
She looked down. “He’s a friend. Was.”
“A bed friend?”
“What difference does it make?”
“A bed friend?”
“All right, yes. We had a thing. So what? In Paris. He used to work there.”
“But not anymore.”
“No.”
“So you came here. A Czech filmmaker-Christ, was that his idea or yours?”
“Mine.”
“What else did you make up? Why?”
“I didn’t think you’d come if you knew.”
“And it was important to get me here. That was the idea.”
“It was important for him. He wanted it, not me.”
“But you made it happen. You arranged everything. A little family reunion, with the CIA sitting right there beside me.”
“He’s not with the CIA.”
“So he said. What about you? Who do you work for?”
“Nobody. I did it for him.”
“Why, if it was over?”
“I thought it would get him back.”
“Did it?”
“Things-changed.” She looked up at him. “You know that.”
“I don’t know anything, Molly, remember? I’m not supposed to. Is that why we went to bed? Was that part of the plan too? So I wouldn’t suspect anything?”
“No.”
“No, you just couldn’t help yourself. Christ, and I was worrying about the Czechs bugging us, not our side.”
“Stop it. It wasn’t like that.”
“You tell him about it? Was that part of the report?”
She shook her head. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. It just did.”
“What was supposed to happen?”
“You don’t want to hear this.”
“Yes, I do. I’m dying to hear it. How stupid I was, fucking an agent.”
She flinched and turned away from him, facing the water. “I’m not an agent. I told you, he’s not CIA. He hates the CIA, as a matter of fact. It’s like a sports thing. They’re these big rivals.”
“Who?”
She bit her lip. “The Bureau. There, so you know, okay? You got it out of me. Happy? He works for the FBI.”
Nick stared at her. His father’s voice. I know where.
“In Paris,” he said sarcastically.
“At the embassy. They’re not supposed to operate overseas. It’s against the law. Like they care. Anyway, they get around it by putting people in the embassies. Legats-that’s what they call them. Legal attaches. The CIA knows, but there’s nothing they can do about it, so they make each other crazy.” She stopped. “He’s not an agent.”
“And that’s supposed to make it all right.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Some difference. So you get together in Paris. I’m amazed. An old rock groupie like yourself. I didn’t think he’d be your type. How was it?”
“Don’t do this,” she said quietly.
“How was it?”
She glared at him. “Fine, if you want to know. It was fine. Look, I’m not proud of this. What do you want me to say? What about you? Are you proud of everyone you’ve been to bed with?” She turned to face the river. “We had a thing, okay? I was attracted to him-I don’t know why. Kind of like sleeping with the enemy. It’s so wrong it’s-interesting. You know, what’s that like? I mean, God, the Bureau. The last thing I would have imagined. I thought they were like Nazis. But he wasn’t. He was nice-at least, he was then.
“So I was wrong. I thought it would just be that one time, but it wasn’t. It went on. And then, when he left I didn’t know what to do. Maybe I wanted him to miss me. But I didn’t want it to be over.”
“So you followed him here.”
She nodded. “But things were different. I thought it was the place-everything’s different here. But what was really happening was that it wasn’t important to him anymore. Just his stupid job. Who wants to admit that? So I didn’t. Then I met your father and he got interested again. I had him back for a while.”
“Why was he interested?”
“He knew the Bureau would be. Your father was the one who got away. They never closed the file. Because of Hoover. It’s never over for him. Jeff says he lives in the past. I guess when he isn’t spying on the Panthers and whatever else they do. But that period, your father’s time-that was it for him. So he’d be interested if anything turned up. Jeff just wanted to do himself some good, get out of Prague and back home. Prague’s a dead end. But if he could get the director’s attention-” She paused. “I don’t know, maybe he thought he could get something out of him. That your father might tell you things he could use. He’s like that. Ambitious. So he used me and I used you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“Every detail.”
“I already told you. I was at a party with Jin. There was a Jiri, somebody I met here. I didn’t make him up, just what happened. Your father was there and I was amazed. I thought he was in Moscow or dead or something. It was like meeting a ghost. So I told Jeff I’d met him, what he’d said, and he got interested. I don’t think they even knew he was in Prague. So what was he up to?”
“And you told him my father wanted to see me.”
“Why not? As far as I was concerned, he was-”
“I know, a murderer. So you decided to catch him.”
“No. I never thought I’d see him again. I went back to Paris. Then Jeff came and said he’d been thinking about it and why did your father want to see you and maybe I should do it, do what he asked, and it might be important and wouldn’t I do it for him?”
“But not tell me.”
“Would you have come?”
“No.”
“So I thought, why not? I didn’t even know you. Jeff really wanted it. And it was interesting. I wanted to know Narodni I figured I owed it to her. To find out once and for all. And then when it started, I thought, I can’t do this. It’s like working for the FBI, not Jeff. That’s when I realized what he was, really one of them. And by that time I knew you. I was going to call it off in Vienna-I was supposed to check in with him there, before we crossed the border. But you changed the plan, remember? You didn’t want to wait and I–I went with it. I couldn’t tell you. I thought, what if nothing happens? Just a visit. Nobody had to know. Your father never suspected.”
“No, he had you checked out,” Nick said. “He believed you.” A love affair, his father had said, young people always had love affairs. Some plausible young man at the embassy, not CIA, nobody to worry about. “Everybody believed you.”
“Yes.”
“So you wanted to call it off, but you saw Foster here anyway.”
“I had to. I couldn’t just leave. I had to put an end to it, tell him to stop. I was afraid if I didn’t-”
“What?”
“That he’d talk to you. That you’d find out from him.”
“Oh. Instead of from you. Just when were you planning to tell me?”
She turned to look at him. “Never.”
“Never. Not even after we were home. Why not?”
“Because I knew you’d look at me the way you’re looking now.” Her eyes were moist, filling.
“So no one would be the wiser,” he said, angry at the tears, not wanting to be disarmed. “Especially me. But it didn’t work out that way.”
“No.”
“What did you tell Foster?”
“There was nothing to tell. We went to the country. No dark secrets from the past. Nothing that would interest anybody at home. Just a visit. End of story.” She hesitated. “I told him I didn’t want you to know about me. That it would ruin things. I made him promise.”
“Don’t worry, he kept it. Your secret’s safe with him.” He took out a handkerchief and held it out to her. “But that wasn’t exactly the end. You told Foster he was planning to leave. Didn’t you?”
She blew her nose, nodding at the same time.
“Why?”
“I never thought he was serious. It was just some crazy idea. And Jeff kept hounding me. What did they talk about? What did they talk about? He wanted to know who his contacts were, who he saw in Prague. As if I’d know. So I said it wasn’t like that. He was out of it, retired. He even had this idea about going back and he wanted you to help. That’s how out of it he was-in some dream world.” She looked up at him, her face still covered by the handkerchief. “I didn’t want Jeff to think it was real, get all excited. Maybe try to contact him. I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t.” A thin wail.
Nick turned away, not wanting to face her, waiting as she caught her breath. “Tell me something else you were never going to tell me,” he said quietly. “He wasn’t going to leave it alone, was he? Not after that. He wanted you to find out more. From me. Stay close to me. Let him know. He made you promise to keep going, didn’t he? Then he’d keep his.”
He waited, hoping he’d overshot, his stomach turning when he saw her nod again into the handkerchief.
“But I wasn’t going to,” she said. “I just said it to make him stop. I wasn’t going to.”
“God, Molly.” He leaned back against the bridge, feeling hemmed in. His Czech watchdog down the road was staring at the river. The American was closer, stifling a sniffle. “Tell me something. What did that feel like? In bed. Spying on me.”
“I wasn’t spying on you.”
“What do you call it?”
“I thought we were making love,” she said quietly. “That’s what it felt like to me.”
“Spare me.”
She raised her head, stung, then shrugged and gave him the handkerchief. “It’s true, for what it’s worth. Anyway, how would you know? Did you even know I was there?”
“Not both of you.”
“Maybe you can’t,” she said, ignoring him. “You don’t care about anything unless it happened twenty years ago. I hate what he did to you. Making you think you could get it back. Who could compete with that? You don’t have room for anybody else. Just him.”
He stood, saying nothing, only vaguely aware of the traffic sounds, as if someone had sliced him with a knife and he had to hold his insides close so they wouldn’t slip out.
Then it worked, he’d held himself in and was able to breathe again.
“Well, now he’s dead. Somebody else didn’t want him around either.”
“That’s unfair. I didn’t mean-”
“I know.”
“Then why say it? To make me feel worse? You don’t have to. I can do that myself.” She shook her head. “Oh, what’s the use? You’re too hurt to see anything. But what happened with Jeff-it didn’t matter to me, Nick. It didn’t matter.”
“But it did matter. My father’s dead, because someone knew.”
“Because I told Jeff? But how could it? Do you think I’ve thought about anything else for two days? What if I did it? Me. Killed him just by- But how? Jeff didn’t kill him. He may be a shit, but he didn’t do that.”
“But who else knew? Me. You. Foster. Unless he told somebody. Did he?”
“I don’t know.”
He hesitated. “But you could find out.”
“How?”
“Use your wiles. They worked on me.”
“Don’t.”
“It’s not much to ask, considering.”
“Nick-”
“Not for me. Do it for my father. He’s entitled to one favor.”
She looked down. For a moment there was nothing, just the sound of a truck going by. “Do what?”
“Go see Foster. Tell him I still don’t suspect anything. And you’d like to keep it that way. Just between you and old Jeff. Has he talked to anyone else? In the embassy. Or even back home. Find out if he signaled the Bureau about this, if anyone in Washington has any idea.”
“Why Washington?”
“And when. If he said anything before.”
“Nick, what’s the point? What does this have to do with anything? The Bureau didn’t kill him.”
“Maybe my father wasn’t as careful as he thought. Maybe his friends already knew. But maybe he was careful. Maybe he got tripped up because somebody wanted a new job and thought he was the ticket. I just want to find out who knew. It’s important. Maybe it stops with Foster. At least we eliminate possibilities.”
Molly stared up at him. “If it stops with him,” she said slowly, “that leaves me. Do you think I did it?”
“No.”
“Really. Why not me? Why not Anna? It’s usually the wife, isn’t it? Why not the Bureau, who didn’t even know where he was. Except in some old file nobody cares about anymore. Who else? Do you see what this is doing to you? It’s crazy.”
Nick nodded. “But he’s dead. And whoever killed him knew he was going to leave. It’s the only way it makes sense.”
“Well, it doesn’t make sense to me. Why not just lock him up? They lock up everyone else. What made him so special?”
“I don’t know.”
She raised her head, scanning his face. “You do, though. That’s it. That’s why you’re so sure he was killed. Why you’re worried. Signing things. I thought it was just an idea he had, but you didn’t. You knew he could do it. You even bought him a ticket. There’s something else. That’s why you want to know who Jeff told.” She glanced up, her eyes narrowing. “In Washington. That’s what you want to know. Who in Washington.” Nick said nothing, still not looking at her. “Leaving was only part of it. There’s always been something else. That you wouldn’t tell me.”
He turned back to her. “Well, that makes two of us.”
He saw the flush rise in her face, a kind of blood wince. She lowered her eyes. “Not anymore. Now there’s just you.”
“I can’t.”
“You mean you don’t trust me.”
“I mean I can’t. It’s not safe.”
She shook her head. “You think I’m going to tell Jeff. You still think that.”
“They killed him, Molly. It doesn’t matter whether I trust you or not. It’s not safe.”
“But why?”
He hesitated, then said, “Just ask him who knew.”
“I’m surprised you trust me to do that. What is it, a kind of test?”
“It’s important.”
“Then ask him yourself. I’m tired of playing Mata Hari. First him, now you. If I don’t know what you’re doing, I don’t want any part of it.”
“You are a part of it. That’s the other thing. Find out if he told them about you, if anyone in Washington knows about you.”
“Me?”
“Let’s hope he took all the credit. He looks the type. Old matchmaker Jeff.”
“What would he tell them?”
“That you arranged it. That you’ve been sleeping with me.”
“So what?”
“Somebody might get the idea that I confided in you. That you know why too.” He stopped, letting it sink in. “Ask him. And tell him we both think it’s suicide. Can you make him believe that?”
She nodded slowly, her eyes wide. Then she reached out and touched his arm lightly, tentative. “We have to talk about things.”
“There isn’t time now.” An echo, somewhere in the back of his head. There isn’t time.
“I never meant-” She looked up, a new thought. “Nick, whatever it is-what he told you. Do they know?”
“Not yet. Nobody does. Not even you. Do you understand?”
“But it’s true? You’re sure?”
“It has to be. He’s dead.”
He left Molly at the corner and turned left toward the tank square, his mind buzzing. What if Foster hadn’t told anyone after all? What if Anna didn’t have the list? He’d have to leave Prague with nothing but a history lesson from Zimmerman, a half-answer eating away at everything. Silver safe and sound, still sending his useful reports. The woman is the key, his father had said, but that trail had ended in the Mayflower Hotel, as cold now as the snow on the car where she’d fallen. Now there was only the list, with the name that could lead him to Silver.
When he got to Holeckova, he looked back to see if one of the shadows had split off to follow Molly, but they were both there. Only interested in him.
The same hill, steep. Then the gate, the concrete steps leading up to the apartment building. He stopped when he reached the lawn, his eyes drawn to the spot in helpless fascination, like a car accident. No bloodstains, everything cleared away. Just grass. Surprised at how much it had hurt.
You don’t have room for anybody else. But it wasn’t true. That elation, opening out to her, and then the ice pick stabbing at him on the bridge, betrayed, the way he had felt that night, looking at footprints. He had thought no one could make him feel that again, and here it was, the same surprised bleeding. Now there were two who had done it, touched that part of him. And oddly, some twisted joke, they were the only two he still trusted. He knew it now, looking at the lawn, his anger gone. You could trust a touch, despite everything. It came back again and again, a heartbeat, making room.
He took the lift, avoiding the stairs where the killers had crept past the brick glass. Or had they clunked their way up, heedless, not caring if the neighbors heard? Just following orders. Anna opened the door at the first touch of the buzzer.
“Nicholas, come in. You got the message.”
He nodded. “You have something for me?” He looked around at the bland Scandinavian furniture. Everything was clean, almost antiseptic, as if it had been scrubbed down.
“Come,” she said, leading him to the bedroom.
“Where did you find it?”
She looked at him, confused, then continued into the room. He stopped at the door. Everything the same-bed, desk-but tidy now, no signs of disturbance. He looked at the neat pillows, feeling queasy. Did she sleep on them? She went over to the desk and brought back a small urn shaped like a squat loving cup.
“The ashes,” she said simply. “Here, I want you to have them.”
He took the urn, stupefied. It was cool to the touch. “Anna, I-”
“No, it’s better.” She looked down at the urn. “You have them.”
The urn was surprisingly heavy. He stared at it, not knowing what to say. His eyes wandered over to the desk. Not the list. Nothing hidden here.
“I can’t.”
“Yes. Take him home. That’s what he wanted.”
“Did he say that? Did he tell you?”
She shook her head. “I knew. I was his wife. He was never happy here. Only a little. Take him home.”
So small. The tall body reduced to a bowl of ash. He could hold it in his hands.
“Perhaps you would bury it somewhere he liked. At the country house.”
“It was sold,” Nick said numbly.
But no list. In a minute he would have to go, turn his back on the flat for good, leaving the list behind. But was it here? What had his father said? The echo again. There isn’t time now. But why wouldn’t there be time if it had been here in the flat with him? He was careful. The passport had been safe with Anna Masaryk. Not at the flat.
“Nicholas, do you hear me?”
“Yes, I’m sorry. I was thinking.”
“If it’s not possible in the country, then wherever you think best.” She handed him a slip of paper. “This is the document. You’ll need it for customs, so they won’t open it. It’s sealed.”
Why tell him that? Was she afraid they’d violate the remains, spilling ashes in a clumsy search through the luggage?
“I can’t take this.”
“You must.” Her eyes on him, an order. She nodded. “For him.”
Unless it wasn’t just ashes. He stared at her. His father had sent her away that night. Visiting relatives, or a last errand? Now that she had it, she’d be careful too, speaking in code for the listening walls. He looked down at the urn again, his hands clammy on the cool metal. Sealed. Was it possible? His father would carry it out after all. “Thank you,” Nick said finally.
“Be careful with it. The seal is easy to break.”
“I understand.” Another glance. “So he told you.” She looked hard at him, her face as closed as it had been at the police station. “Nothing,” she said.
She led him out of the room. At the door, when he leaned to embrace her, she stepped back awkwardly, extending her hand instead. “ Na shledanou,” she said, using Czech to move away, no longer connected to him.
He carried the urn all the way back to the hotel, covering it with his raincoat, not risking a tram. The room was empty, and he locked the door before he sat down at the writing desk. He looked at the urn for an edge of wax or plastic, but there was nothing but the lid. Maybe the seal was only a tightly fitted groove, like the top of a jam jar. He took the urn and tried to twist the cover, his hand slipping on the smooth metal. A handkerchief. He gripped it and tried to unscrew the top. What did you do with jars? Run the top under hot water. Tap it with a knife. He squeezed again, straining, putting his weight into it. Then a tiny jerk, a loosening, and the lid began to turn slowly. He followed it around, then turned again. Easier now, coming off. He lifted the cover and looked in. Not the black-and-white ash of a fireplace, different. An unexpected brown mixed with gray.
He stared at the urn, queasy again. Human ash. He touched it gently, as if it might still be warm, but it was cool, so fine that it left a smudge, like cigarette ash. He pulled back his hand. He took a pen from the writing pad, poked it in, and stirred. It wouldn’t be paper. Film. His father had said you could copy things on film, even a whole manuscript, like Frantisek’s brother’s. He pushed the pen through the brown-gray ash, as light as powder but dense, as if the pen were moving through fine sand. Better to think of it as anything except what it was.
A clink, something hard. He worked the pen around and hit it again. Impossible to bring it up like this. He reached in with two fingers and pushed the ash aside, searching for the round cylinder. Then he felt it, smooth. He drew it out, careful of the ash, and looked at it. A piece of bone. He dropped it back in the ash, his stomach jumping, then took the pen again and poked more frantically. Another piece of bone. Once more through the ash, knowing now that it wasn’t there but unable to stop. No film. His father hadn’t told her. It’s here, he’d said, tapping his head.
Nick took the pen out, covered with ash, feeling sick. Then he looked at his fingers, covered the same way, dirty with it, and ran to the bathroom and held his hand under the running tap until the smudges washed away, coloring the water like faint gray blood. He stood against the basin for a moment, breathing hard, ashamed. His hands in it, digging, like a grave robber.
But the list had to be somewhere. His father hadn’t intended to rely on memory. He knew they’d want more. There just hadn’t been time to get it. Nick went to the desk again, staring at the urn as he screwed the top back on. Bury it somewhere he liked. The country house. A formal name for a simple cabin. Reproduced here, a private place away from the prying world. Of course. Not with another Anna Masaryk, around the corner. But there wouldn’t have been time for a run to the country. He’d have to leave without it. So it must still be there, waiting to be found. Where? Nick felt the pricking at the back of his head. Simple, if you knew him. People don’t change. And if he was wrong? A wild goose chase. But with no other options, it was worth, at least, a try.
He left Molly a note-‘back later, don’t worry’-and rushed out of the room. He’d have to hurry to get back before dark. He ran down the stairs, making a plan-could he lose the watchdogs in the back streets? — so that he missed the expression on the desk clerk’s face when he asked him to call the garage.
“But the police have the keys, Pan Warren. There is some problem with repairs, I think. Were you planning to leave Prague?”
Nick imagined for a second the clerk’s hand on the phone, ready to send out the alarm.
“No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s just the trams. I suppose I can take a taxi.”
“Of course. Shall I call for you?”
“I’ll find one,” Nick said vaguely. Why had he thought they’d let him go? He stood in the middle of the lobby, knowing the desk clerk was watching him but unable to move. There had to be a way. In America there would be fleets of rental cars and drivers for hire, but movement was a luxury here, the great privilege in a country under house arrest. He thought of Jeff, tearing easily through Prague with his close-shaven Marine. Who else?
His eyes scanned the room and stopped at the entrance to the bar, where Marty Bielak was already perched on his stool. Who would want to stay closer? His legman, tempted with a scoop.
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Shoot.”
“It’s just that I don’t know anyone else to ask.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I need to borrow a car. Just for a few hours. I’ll pay for the gas. Mine’s in for repairs.”
Bielak looked at him, waiting for more.
“I need to get something. You know Walter Kotlar was my father.”
Bielak said nothing, too interested to pretend he hadn’t known.
“He wanted me to have something. You know, a memento. But it’s in the country, and I don’t have any way to get there. Would you mind? I’d really appreciate it.”
“I’ll take you,” Bielak said, almost eagerly.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“No, I do. See, over here-you’re a foreigner. We can’t lend-” He paused, apologetic.
“You wouldn’t mind?”
“I’m just taking up space here. Let me get this.” He put some money on the bar. “Sorry to hear about it, by the way. To go that way. Sad. Must be hard for you.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m sorry.”
“At least I got to see him again. That’s something, anyway.”
“Why didn’t you want anybody to know? If you don’t mind my asking,” he said, collecting the change.
“He didn’t want it. He was afraid-you know, if the press got hold of it. He wanted it to be just family.”
“I heard he was sick.” Bielak hesitated. “Is that why he did it?” A trial balloon for the party line.
Nick nodded. “I suppose. I don’t know.”
“No. We never do, do we, when they go like that. Not really.”
“No, not really.”
Bielak got up from the stool. “What did he leave you, anyway? That we’re going to pick up. If you don’t mind my asking.”
“What? What would he have left? ”The Order of Lenin,“ Nick said, leaving Bielak, for once, with no reply.
Outside, he saw the tails come to attention, their faces registering surprise at Bielak’s appearance.
“Listen, I think you should know that the police have been following me since he died. I mean, I don’t want to get you in any trouble.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Bielak said easily. He looked at Nick seriously. “Your father was a hero. What do they know? Traffic cops.” Nick caught the tone: rival agencies, then, not colleagues, like the squabbling offices in the embassy. Who did Bielak work for? It occurred to him, a grisly irony, that he had inadvertently picked the perfect chauffeur, the only way he could ever have left Prague without an escort.
“How far is it?” Bielak asked.
“Out past Theresienstadt.”
“Oh, nice,” Bielak said. “The country, I mean.”
What Nick hadn’t counted on was that Bielak would want to talk, using the long drive as a pretext for a fishing expedition, casting for information. Nick’s life. His father’s health. And after a while Nick began to welcome the distraction, so preoccupied with shaping his answers, the careful feints, that he had no time to think about what really concerned him, what he would do if the list wasn’t there. A wasted trip. But it had to be. All of it had to be true. Everything he’d said.
The questions told him something else-Bielak hadn’t known about him before, which meant his superiors hadn’t known either. The connection had come out with the death, surprising them as much as the police, the unexpected son. His father had been careful right up to the end. The order to kill had come from somewhere else.
They fell behind a convoy of trucks, back flaps open to reveal sitting rows of soldiers. When the road opened out to a long stretch, Bielak beeped his horn and passed, waving to them as he pulled in front.
“Russians?” Nick said.
“And Poles. Some Hungarians. They’re here for the Warsaw Pact maneuvers.” Did he really believe it?
“You never see them in town. I thought they’d be everywhere. You know, since-”
“The invasion?” Marty said, almost playful. “That’s what they call it in the West. Some invasion. See for yourself. You notice they never say NATO troops have invaded Germany. They’re guests. Only the Russians are occupiers. But the Americans stay and the Russians go home when the maneuvers are over. So where’s the occupation, Germany or here? It’s always the same. Don’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“No. So when do they go home?”
“When the Government asks them to. Right now it’s useful. We could use a little order. Things go too far. These kids-they play right into the hands of the capitalists, and they don’t even know it. Your father understood. That’s why he came last year, to help out.”
Nick froze. “Help out how?” he asked quietly.
“Well, the Czechs wouldn’t look at a Russian cross-eyed. But a Czech-American with a Czech wife? He could talk to anybody.”
And report back. Selling them, the way he had sold sailors who jumped ship in San Francisco. Still in the game, not retired, not everything true. What had he been buying this time? The flat with a view? A way to bring Anna home? Or the chance to get in the files again, get something worth a few dissidents?
“How do you know this? Did you work with him?” Nick said, remembering his father’s easy dismissal.
Bielak squirmed in his seat. “No, no. But you hear things.” He paused. “He wasn’t wrong, you know. Things were going off the rails here. They see the flashy cars, but they forget what the West is really like.” He paused. “But maybe you don’t agree.”
Nick glanced at him, the unlikely defender. Who still believed in the great dialectic, without his wife, thousands of miles from the old Glen Island Casino. A capacity for self-deception as limitless as faith.
“What are your own politics?” Bielak said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”
“I don’t have any,” Nick said. “My father had enough for one family.”
Bielak was quiet. “You know,” he said finally, “when you get to be my age, you don’t point so many fingers. It takes a lot of guts to do something for what you believe in. I mean, the Order of Lenin, that has to count for something.”
“If you’re a Communist.”
“It still has to mean something to you. Isn’t that why you want it?”
“It meant something to him.”
“It’s a shame you didn’t get to know him better, how he thought. Maybe you have more in common than you think.”
The voice was no longer casual but insinuating. Nick looked at him, amazed. Was Bielak recruiting him? Was this the way it worked-the awkward fumbling, looking for the right spot, promising something else? Like teenage sex.
“I never cared about politics,” Nick said, trying to be light. “I don’t think I’d make a very good spy, either. I don’t even know if the police are still following us.”
“No, we lost them just outside the city,” Bielak said, sure, not inept, a professional after all.
The driveway was still muddy.
“I’ll only be a minute,” Nick said, but Bielak got out too, looking curiously at the cottage. Now he’d have an audience.
He went toward the woodpile at the side of the house, where his father always hid the key. But before he could reach down and scoop it out, Bielak said, “Here we go,” taking a key from under the terra-cotta planter near the door. Nick stopped, disconcerted. People don’t change. But maybe the planter was Anna’s idea, better than fumbling under logs.
“I figured,” Bielak said. “If it’s not the mat, it’s always the flowerpot, isn’t it? You’d think people would know better. Where’re you going?”
“I have to take a leak,” Nick said, improvising. “I don’t know if the water’s turned on. Go on in.”
“Well, me too,” Bielak said, moving away from the house. “That last half-hour.”
So they peed together at the side of the house, backs to each other, while Nick looked toward the woodpile, wondering. Where else?
Inside, he switched on the lamp. The same room, so familiar to him that he could have moved through it in the dark. The table by the window where they’d had lunch, gloomy now in the fading light. Everything spotless, still. But not his. He walked quietly to the desk, feeling like a burglar.
Bielak had stopped by the door, looking around. “Not much, is it?”
“No.”
“I mean, a man in his position, you’d think they’d-” He seemed genuinely surprised, a little shaken. What had he imagined? A hero’s dacha.
“He said they never really trusted Americans,” Nick said, then, seeing the wounded expression on Bielak’s face, instantly regretted it. Why not leave him his faith, when it was all he had left?
The medal wasn’t on the side table. Now there were two things out of place. Nick opened the desk drawer and pushed papers aside. The list wasn’t at Holeckova; it had to be here somewhere. Bielak, subdued now, was looking at the bookshelves. Nick sorted through clipped articles from Russian magazines. Papers. It could be anywhere. Wedged behind a book. Think.
He went upstairs, leaving Bielak to the shelves, and turned into the bedroom. The nightstand drawer, nothing. Then Anna’s, face creams and tissues. He found it on the bureau, a flat box next to their picture, out in plain sight. He opened it to find the medal and its piece of ribbon lying on a square of velvet. But what about the other? Somewhere personal, where she wouldn’t have looked. He went to the bathroom and opened the medicine chest. Pill bottles, about the size of a roll of film. He started opening them, twisting off caps, his fingers clumsy.
“How we doing up there?” Bielak called. “Got it,” Nick shouted down. Two more bottles. Nothing. He took a last glance at the room where he’d helped his father to bed and went downstairs. He handed Bielak the box.
“A few more minutes, okay?” he said.
“Take your time.” Bielak opened the box. “This is something, isn’t it?” He fingered the medal, fascinated.
Nick went over to the shelves. English books. Anna never would have bothered with them. He ran his hands over the titles, pulling a few out, squatting to reach the lowest shelf, half expecting to find one hollowed out, a jewel cache. But they were neat and dusted, part of Anna’s house too.
“Looking for anything in particular?”
“No, not really.” He stood and looked around the room. He’d have to come back alone, go through everything. But how? “I guess we’d better go,” he said, feeling helpless. “It’s getting late.”
It was dark outside, and they had to follow the faint shine of metal to the car. Somewhere she wouldn’t have looked. Bielak got in the car.
“I can’t believe it,” Nick said, dropping the medal on the car seat. “I have to go again. Be right back.”
He went toward the end of the woodpile, pretending to fumble with his clothes. Bielak started the car. The headlights were facing away from Nick. Could he be seen from this angle? He stooped quickly, not caring, and felt along the bottom logs for an opening. Yes, where the key would have been, as always. He shoved his hand through, scratching the top, and felt around the dirt, rummaging again through ashes, remembering the moment when he had felt the bone. Nothing.
He reached farther, groping, his arm pressed now against the wood. It had to be. A place she’d never look. He heard Bielak call, “You all right over there?” and then he touched it. Something cool. His fingertips grazed plastic, and he pushed a little more until he covered it with his palm. The size of a pill container. He pulled his hand back, feeling slivers biting his skin, and put it in his pocket.
Then he stood up and hurried back to the car, exhilarated. All of it true.
“You left your fly open,” Bielak said. “I’m not in that much of a hurry.”
Nick yanked his zipper up, then put his hand back in his pocket, afraid to let go, and got into the car.
“I’ll put the heater on,” Bielak said, thinking he was chilled. Nick drew his hand out and rubbed it against the other, playing along. But it wasn’t the heater that made his face warm as they drove toward the main road. He could feel the film in his pocket, heavy as a gun, the excitement of finding it curdling into a new kind of dread. Now he wasn’t innocent. If they caught him, they would never let him go.
He felt the warm lump against his leg all the way back to Prague, while Bielak’s one-sided conversation drifted in and out like a weak radio signal. How would he get it out? Maybe like this, in his pocket, where not even a legman would think to look. Molly and her tampons. Why not? The embassy car on its weekly lettuce run, immune to prying. Then he remembered what it was. Not a joint. Something only he could carry. He was back in the snow, with no one to help.
When they reached Wenceslas, Nick offered to pay for the trip, but Bielak shook his head. “Buy me a drink sometime.” Then, when Nick’s hand was already on the door handle, Bielak held out the medal and said, “Tell me something. Your father, he knew he was sick.”
“Yes.”
“I mean, it was that. Knowing he was sick.” Convincing himself. Then, unexpectedly, “Do you think he ever had any regrets?”
Nick looked at him, dismayed. All that was left. “No,” he said firmly. “Never.”
Bielak sat back. “Well, that’s something to think about it, isn’t it?”
He found Zimmerman waiting in the lobby, his usual calm betrayed by an impatiently jiggling foot. When he stood up, Nick panicked, sure that he was looking at the pocket.
“So you’re back. A pleasant trip?” Zimmerman’s voice was angry.
“No.”
“Where were you?”
“At my father’s house.”
“You were told not to leave Prague.”
“I went to get this.” He opened the box, showing the medal.
“And this has a special significance for you? You surprise me.” Zimmerman nodded toward the door. “Do you know who he is?”
Nick shrugged. “I met him in the bar. You have my car, remember?”
“Again with the charades. Is it possible you don’t know?” Zimmerman shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Who is he?”
“It’s possible you don’t take me seriously. That would be a mistake. Have I not made myself clear to you? Your position?”
“You mean he’s one of yours?”
“Stop it. Listen to me carefully. Don’t make yourself too interesting. A man is questioned; his embassy immediately protests. He is ordered to stay in Prague, so he goes for a ride with-with someone who is known to do odd jobs for the security police. Please, don’t look surprised, there isn’t time.”
“Is that why your men didn’t follow us?”
“Their jurisdiction ends with Prague, Mr Warren. Naturally they thought I would alert the other department.”
“But you didn’t.”
Zimmerman looked away. “Such a call would take things out of my hands entirely. The security police have much to do these days-so many dangers to the state. It’s unwise to burden them with false alarms. Luckily, you returned.” He paused. “Don’t do it again. You did not, I trust, confide in Mr Bielak?”
“No.” Nick smiled. “In fact, I think he wanted to recruit me. Maybe he thinks it runs in the family.”
Zimmerman looked at him. “Maybe it does, Mr Warren. But that is not my concern. I brought your statement.” He pulled some papers out of his breast pocket. “Sign it, please.”
“It’s in Czech,” Nick said, a lawyer’s son.
Zimmerman sighed. “The second sheet is the English. Sign the copy.”
“But am I responsible for all of it, the Czech too?”
Zimmerman handed him the pen. “Sign it, Mr Warren.”
Nick read it through, a bureaucrat’s account. His father’s distress at his illness. In this version the depression had been deepened by Nick’s visit, a new twist. He raised his eyes, then took the pen.
“Does this mean I can go?”
“That will depend on the STB. But it would be useful, I think, for them to have my police report before they begin their own speculation. That much I can do.” He gestured toward the medal. “That’s a nice touch. They’ll like that. I hope Mr Bielak mentions it.”
“He will. Nothing else happened.”
“Assuming they believe him. I wonder, Mr Warren, has it occurred to you that you might have compromised him?”
He nodded at Nick’s surprised look. “Sometimes, you know, there’s nothing so dangerous as an innocent man. Everyone has to explain him. Why you picked him, of all people.” He took a breath. “Why your embassy was so eager to help. Why the police-well, the police are so often inept, losing people, not understanding the implications. For the STB there is nothing but implications. I hope they don’t find you too interesting. I hope, for example, they don’t find that you are involved with your intelligence group. Nothing would interest them more than that, not even other Czechs.”
Nick stared at him, chilled. Was Foster right? Had they monitored the call to Kemper? How long before they knew about it? He stood there, feeling the film in his pocket.
“You see,” Zimmerman finished. “Nothing so dangerous.”
“Well, at least you think I’m innocent,” Nick said, trying to be light.
“Only of murder, Mr Warren,” Zimmerman said. “For the rest-” He took back the paper. “Thank you for the statement. Don’t leave again. Don’t do anything. Do you understand?” He turned. “Oh, by the way, your car is fine. What did you say was wrong?”
“A knock in the engine.”
“Yes, that can happen. A knock for no reason. It’s often the case with a new car.”
Molly had double-locked the door.
“Thank God,” she said. “Where have you been?”
“Getting this,” he said, handing her the medal box.
She opened it. “So that’s what Anna wanted.”
He didn’t correct her. “Did you see Jeff?”
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.