The Prodigal Spy (25 page)

“The secretary again. What was her name? You’d think I’d remember. Pani Know-it-all. She finally retired, just before Christmas. They gave her a party.” He caught Nick’s surprise. “They have parties, you know, just like everyone else. A big one this time. Toasts all night. Sturgeon. For a secretary. Maybe they wanted to make sure she wouldn’t come back. Anyway, they invited all the old crowd, those of us who were left.”

“This was here?”

“No, in Moscow. I was there at the time.”

“Why?”

“It’s not important, Nick,” he said, impatient at the interruption. “Anička had to go. I’m not in prison. I’m allowed to travel.”

“That’s right. I forgot. You have a medal.”

“Yes,” he said quietly. “A medal. All the privileges. They gave the secretary one too. Not Lenin,” he added quickly, as if it mattered, “just a service medal. She wore it all night. Pinned here.” He put his hand on his chest. “She was glad to see me. Sentimental. You know how those things are. The good old days. My God, the good old days–Beria. We saw the best of it, she said. Nonsense like that. Tears even, with the drink. So what can you do? You play along. ‘It won’t be the same without you,’ I said. I wonder if she thought I meant it. I suppose so. What else did she have then? A room somewhere out in Sokol? Her medal? ‘You were the last.’ And she nods, the cow. Yes, yes, we were the last. She takes my arm, all tears–I thought she was going to kiss me. ‘Now there’s only Silver,’ she says. ‘He never stops.’ I remember she had my arm and it jerked–I couldn’t help it. ‘I thought he was dead,’ I said. ‘Him?’ She just shook her head, Miss Know-it-all again. ‘Not him. He’s too clever for them. Not like the ones they have now. Amateurs. Not like the old days.’ As if it had been different then,” he said to Nick. “What did she think we were? ‘I can’t believe it,’ I said. ‘All this time.’ She patted my arm, like a child. ‘Yes, just like before,’ she said. ‘Just like before. They don’t retire him.’ And I knew then she’d been forced out–she wanted to die at her desk, I suppose. In the saddle. Nina, that was it. Her name.” He smiled to himself, as if remembering it had been the point of the story.

“And was he?” Nick said. “Still there?”

“Oh, yes. I checked. I still have some friends inside–I saw one of the reports. She was right. It was the same. Same style, same name. So I knew he was operating again. He’s still there, Nick. The one who sent me here. And now I know how to get him. Not Hoover. Me.”

Nick waited, but his father seemed to have finished.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you would know it’s not just for me. In case—” He hesitated. “I didn’t know if you would do it for me.”

Nick felt the soft words like a slap. In case.

“Do what?”

“I told you. I need your help. To come out.”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Yes. It’s possible.”

“What am I supposed to do? Hide you in a trunk and drive across the border?”

“No,” his father said steadily. “I would never put you at risk, never. You believe that, don’t you? I want you to take a message, that’s all.”

“That’s all,” Nick repeated dully.

“Something for your country,” his father said. “Call it that. You were a soldier. You were willing to–now, just take a message. I can expose Silver. It’s important. Do it for that, not for me.”

Nick was quiet, following his father’s logic. “Sort of a patriotic act,” he said finally, his voice unexpectedly sarcastic. “One for our side.”

“Yes, one for your side.”

“And whose side are you on now?”

He meant to provoke, unable to stop himself, but his father just shrugged. “Sides. We both lost this war. What was it all about–does anybody know? Like the statues. Hussites. Catholics. No one remembers. What war?”

“You’re living behind barbed wire.”

His father shook his head. “It’s over. Look at us here. All those ideas. Pan-Slavism. Only twenty years ago. Now look. There are half a million troops in Czechoslovakia. We’re at war with ourselves. No idea survives that. And America. Communists in the State Department. Now Communists in Asia. They don’t know it’s already over. We’re fighting our children now. That’s how it’s ending for both of us.”

Nick said nothing, surprised at the outburst. What had he been like young, before everything turned to disappointment?

“Then let it go. Make peace.”

“I can’t,” his father said, quiet again. “I can’t let it go. For me it’s personal.” His voice picked up, ironic. “But for you. A spoil of war for your side. I owe that much.”

Nick lowered his voice, sensible. “You can’t go back, you know. It’s impossible.”

“No,” his father interrupted, “it’s possible. I have it all worked out. I can make it worth it to them.”

“Is it worth it to you? To go to prison? They’re all still there. Welles, all of them–Nixon’s the President, for God’s sake. There
was
a Communist in the State Department -you. Do you want to go through all that again?”

“I won’t go to prison,” he said calmly. “I’m an old man. Aside from anything else, there’s the statute of limitations. That ran out a long time ago. Anyway, I was never charged with anything. Who’s going to charge me now? The witch-hunts are over. Nobody wants that again.”

“Yes, they do. You were a spy. You said so. In public.”

“And now they’ll have a bigger one, brand-new. It can work, Nick. I’m not asking them to roast a fatted calf. Just make a quiet deal. They will.”

“It won’t be quiet,” Nick said, seeing the flashbulbs.

“Maybe they’ll like that. Who knows? Nobody’s ever asked to come home.”

Nick felt the sinking sensation again. The almost jaunty self-importance. The old game. One for our side. Brass bands and bunting. But that was now a country of the imagination, as distant as an old grudge. Maybe it happened like that. Maybe after all the years of dingy streets and bad clothes, America began to be a dream. He didn’t know he’d been forgotten.

“They’ll never let you go. Here.”

He turned to Nick. “That’s the risk. But I can do it.”

“I’ll come see you,” Nick said, a last try. “It’s easy for me. You don’t have to risk anything. We can start over.”

His father was quiet. “I don’t want to die here, Nick. Not here.” He placed his hand on Nick’s arm, a reassurance, not a plea. All worked out. “We’ll talk more,” he said, patting him. “Take that next turning, by the plum tree.”

The tree, heavy with blossoms, had scattered white markers over the one-lane road. Nick thought of Hansel’s pebbles, leading deeper into the forest. A mile later, they forked onto a narrower dirt road dotted with mud puddles.

“It’s almost time for lunch,” his father said, glancing at his watch. “I didn’t realize.”

“What kind of message?” Nick asked, still absorbed.

“Not now,” his father said quickly, as if they could be overheard. “And nothing in front of Anička.”

“She doesn’t know?” Nick said.

“No. It could be dangerous for her.”

“Why does she think I’m here?”

“I wanted to see you, before it’s too late. It’s natural.”

“Yes,” Nick said flatly. A cover story.

“She’ll be worried,” his father said. “She worries when I’m late.”

THEY WERE IN the garden, hammering in stakes for tomato vines. Anna wore rubber boots and worker’s overalls, which had the effect of making her look even broader, her hips ballooning out like Churchill’s in his siren suit. Nick thought of his mother at the embassy party, slim and glossy. Molly, holding the stakes, had rolled up her jeans and taken off her shoes, playing peasant in the mud. They had clearly been at it for some time, their faces damp with perspiration in the humid air.

Molly waved at the car and grinned, and he felt her smile like a wakening hand at his shoulder, something real again. Her hair, piled on her head, fell down in wisps around her face, but the back of her neck was clear, as white and vulnerable as a child’s. She seemed too fresh for the tired countryside, with her freckles and American teeth.

Anna wiped her hands and started over to them, her face tentative and somehow relieved. “We started. Before the rain comes. You had a good trip?” she said to Walter, glancing at Nick.

“Yes, perfect,” his father said easily, not answering her real question. “Here, let me help you with that.”

“No, no. You sit. I’ll start lunch.”

“She treats me like an invalid.”

“You are an invalid.”

“And you always expect rain,” he said, smiling.

She looked up at the cloudy sky, unimpressed by the patches of light breaking through, then leaned against him to take off her boots, holding on to his upper arm for support. “There are left a few,” she said to Nick, handing him a hammer. “You don’t mind? Your father should rest.”

“Sure,” Nick said automatically, staring down at her feet, surprisingly small and pale.

“Is there beer?” his father said.

“For you?”

“Anička,” he drawled, a mock pout.

She giggled good-naturedly and turned to the house. It was small, ordinary stucco with wooden shutters and sills, but placed at the top of a rise so that the lawn in front looked out over the trees to a field beyond. The landscape was unremarkable, not the dramatic rolling hills of Virginia, but the trees enclosed them in privacy. A rusty gas tank at the side. A stack of firewood, like the one at the cabin where they used to hide the spare key. A tiny tool shed in the back. A spigot with a green plastic garden hose attached, curled in a pail. Beyond the muddy driveway, woods to keep out the world. They came every weekend.

“Having fun?” he said to Molly as he reached the garden.

“You can’t imagine. Gidget goes to Prague,” she said. “Careful of the beans.”

He sidestepped a row of tiny green seedlings.

“You had a good trip?” Anna’s question, with the same edge.

Nick hammered in the stake. “We went to Theresienstadt.”

“The concentration camp?”

“My father seems to think it’s a tourist attraction.”

“The Germans go,” Molly said simply. “Pretty amazing, when you think of it.” She moved to the next stake. “How was it? With your father, I mean.”

“Fine,” he said. Then, “I don’t know. One minute he’s the same, then the next –I can’t get a fix. You know when you’re adjusting binoculars? It’s fuzzy, then it’s clear, then it’s all fuzzy again. Like that.”

“Why? What did he say?” she asked, curious.

Nick moved away from it. “It’s not what he says. It’s–maybe he’s just getting old. I never thought of him as old. I don’t know why. Of course he’d be old. What’s she like?”

“Not old. She doesn’t miss much. Her English is better than you think. She’s nervous about you.”

“Why?” Nick said quickly.

“Well, why not? Here she is, cozy in her garden, and you drop in. The long-lost son. She wants you to like her–it’s natural.”

Natural, his father’s word. “Yes,” he said again.

“So smile a little,” she said, pretending to be airy. “You look like you’ve just seen a concentration camp.” She stepped back from the last tomato stake. “There, that’s done. Just in time. Looks like soup’s on.”

She nodded toward the cottage door, where Anna was waving to them. She had changed the overalls for a skirt and blouse, and Nick noticed that her hair was brushed back, all tidied up.

“I hate soup,” Nick said absently.

“You’d better like hers,” Molly said.

She sprayed her feet with the hose and stamped them dry on the ground, taking down her hair and finger-combing it while she slipped into her loafers. Involuntarily, Nick smiled. Both Kotlar women seemed determined to make a good impression.

And, in fact, lunch was pleasant. The round dining table, set near the window corner of the room, was draped with a crocheted tablecloth anchored with a porcelain jug of fresh wildflowers. Across the table Anna had spread plates of pickles and hard-boiled eggs and salami arranged in pretty concentric circles. Nick glanced at the larder shelf, just like the one in their old cabin, but filled here with glass jars of cucumbers and tomatoes and beets, a garden preserved all year in vinegar and dill. He looked for the rainy-day snacks of his youth–peanut butter and saltines and cans of tuna–but this was a serious pantry, with real food to last a season. Anna ladled some form of borscht, beet red, from a decorated tureen and poured tall glasses of beer.

“Did you do all this yourself?” Nick said to her, indicating the shelves.

She nodded. “In the winter it’s difficult for vegetables. We are fortunate to have the garden.”

“Difficult. Nonexistent,” his father said. “Carrots–that’s it. Of course, the Americans have lettuce. Once a week the car goes to Germany. The lettuce run. Sometimes they share with their friends–the British, the Czech staff. Everyone in Prague knows someone who can get a German cabbage from the Americans. But Anička doesn’t like to do that. She thinks it’s disloyal,” he said playfully.

“Not disloyal. Illegal. Ruzyně for a salad? No.”

“Ruzyně,” Nick said. “The airport?”

“A prison,” his father explained. “Nearby. Same name.” Then, smiling at Anna, “Where they put you for groceries.”

“In the summer it’s different,” Anna said, ignoring the tease. “We have cherries down below. Plums. For jam.”

“Jam,” Nick said to his father. “Remember the time Mom tried with the blackberries?” It had slipped out before he could catch it and now it hung there, an embarrassment, but Anna smiled.

“Your mother was a gardener too?” A figure of the past.

“No. She said it would ruin her nails.” A half-truth, making her seem frivolous. Why had he said it? To make one feel comfortable at the expense of the other? But Molly was right–Anna didn’t miss much, and sensing his discomfort, she examined her hands and sighed.

“It’s a price, yes. She was right, I think.”

“But look how we eat,” his father said, pointing to the array of pickles. “Anna can make anything grow. A magician.”

“Oh, a magician. With peasant hands. That’s the price. For the planting thumb.”

“Green,” Molly said. “Green thumb.”

“Yes?” Anna giggled. “Green thumb. English–why do you make it so difficult?”

“You should try Czech,” Molly said.