The Prodigal Spy (39 page)

“Better? For whom, the police? I won’t let them do this.”

“You won’t?”

“I’m his family.”

“I’m his family here, Nicholas. Me.” She glared at him, then lowered her head. “It’s not for you to decide.”

“But don’t you want to know?”

“What? I know he’s dead. It’s enough.” She moved back. “What I said before–I know you meant well. But now, leave Prague. There’s nothing more for you to do here.” She nodded at the paper in his hand. “Ten o’clock,” she said, and walked away.

Nick got into the back seat with Foster, behind the driver, who had a Marine’s shaved head.

“What was that all about? I thought you said he killed himself.”

“She’s his wife. What would you say?” He looked away, feeling in his pocket for a cigarette. “Let her think it was an accident.”

“An accident. With an autopsy.” Foster leaned forward to the driver. “The Alcron, over on Wenceslas.” The car swung into the street. “You don’t want to get involved in anything,” he said to Nick. “Not here. There’s only so much we can do, you know. We can make a little noise if they haul you in for no reason, but if there’s anything wrong—”

“I’m on my own, I know.” He lit the cigarette. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong, not that way. They think he killed himself. Everybody does.”

“But not you.”

Nick looked at him. “He must have.”

“I’m sorry. They said you found him. That’s rough.”

“Yes.”

“After all these years.”

“You know who he was?”

“Well, after I heard the name. He’s the one that got away.” Foster paused. “Must be a hell of a thing to live with.”

The car was quiet with the tension of someone not rising to the bait.

“You guys keep tabs on him? Keep the files up to date?”

“We don’t have the manpower for that,” Foster said flatly. “By the way, before you get any other ideas, I don’t work for the Agency.”

“You just work at the embassy.”

“That’s right.”

“Doing what?”

“Trade relations, mostly.”

What had Kemper been in? Agricultural development.

“Really. What do we import?”

“Glass.”

Nick took another pull on the cigarette. “I’d like to know.
Did
you keep tabs on him? Tail him, that kind of thing? Yesterday, for instance?”

“Why yesterday?”

Nick shrugged. “I just wondered. Something was bothering him. I thought maybe you—”

“I wouldn’t know. I was in meetings all day.” He turned to Nick. “Nobody was tailing him. I told you, we don’t have the people for that. I don’t think the intelligence guys—” He looked at Nick. “We have
some
. I never heard they were interested. Is there any reason why they should have been?”

“No good reason, no.”

“Anyway, it would fit, wouldn’t it? Something bothering him.”

“Perfectly.”

“Yeah, well.” Foster turned away, embarrassed. “Hell of a thing, to live with that. I’m sorry. Here we go.” The hotel doorman came to meet them. Foster put his hand on Nick’s shoulder, a coach’s gesture. “Do us a favor, okay? Keep your nose clean. We don’t want to run interference with the police. The Czechs don’t like it. They have to watch themselves too, since the Russians came in. You don’t want to start anything.”

Nick took in the friendly hand, the open face, an American kind of menace. What had he said on the bridge?

“No. I just want to get out of here.”

“You and me both. I used to be in Paris. Now that’s a place. Here you have to watch your back all the time.”

Nick nodded. “I’ll remember.”

He got out and saw the Skoda two car lengths behind. In the hotel lobby he could feel the change immediately. The desk clerk’s eyes followed him across the room, a disturbance, someone the police had asked about. When Molly opened the door and hugged him–the same smell, the same smooth skin–he felt they were onstage, with one part of him out front, watching. It was easy to do, being someone else. His father’s son.

She sat on a chair a few feet away, curled into herself, while he told her about the morning at Holečkova, the body on the grass, feeding her only what he wanted her to hear, watching, measuring the distress in her face. They ate in the hotel dining room, old starched napkins and pork with sludgy gravy, sleepwalking through the meal. She took his distance for grief, picking at her food, waiting for him to speak. Then they sat drinking wine, almost alone in the faded room.

“You haven’t told me about the train.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I mean why. I don’t understand.”

“Something happened yesterday.”

“Yesterday? What?”

“I don’t know. He was all right at noon. Then at the concert, all of a sudden he has to leave. Something happened.” But how many possibilities were there? The gallery. The walk to the Loreto. The bridge. He looked at her.

“Did Anna know?” she said. “About the train?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t think so.”

“Is it possible that—” She stopped.

“What?”

“Please don’t be angry. That he did kill himself?”

“No.” She waited for more. “Why would he have gone to all the bother about the train? The whole plan, making me get tickets. Would he have done that to me?”

She shook her head.

“He was murdered.”

She flinched. “But why?”

“Because someone didn’t want him to leave. There can’t be any other reason.” He looked straight at her. “So who else knew he was planning to go?”

She didn’t meet his eyes but looked down at her glass, somewhere else. Then she folded her arms across her chest, shivering, as if there were a draft in the stuffy room.

“What?” he said.

“I’m sorry. It’s the wine.”

“It’s not the wine.” Tell me.

“No, it’s everything. It’s my fault, isn’t it? Starting this. We never should have come.”

Not what he’d expected. “Stop.”

“You blame me.”

“I don’t blame you.” But why did you lie?

“It never would have happened.”

“Stop it, Molly. Somebody killed him, not you. This isn’t helping anything.” He put his napkin on the table. “Come on, we’re both tired. Let’s go up.” Play everything through.

“Sorry,” she said, stung by his tone. “This is just making it worse, isn’t it?”

And upstairs it was no better. They got into bed, an acting kiss, then turned away from each other, lying on their sides. He looked at the light on the ceiling, thinking of the other night, the tram bells outside, drowning in her. Now he was alert but absolutely still, as if he were afraid moving would wake her, even though he knew the reason he could not sleep was that she was awake too.

They took a taxi to the funeral address, a street out past the station, near the outskirts of town. The room, a kind of chapel with pews, was plain and functional, stripped down to a lectern, a
Czech
flag, one vase of flowers, and the wooden coffin on a platform in front. An undertaker in a black suit hovered near the door, an anxious maitre d‘ waiting for the room to fill, but after a few early arrivals no one came, and finally he had to start.

Anna sat in front, with Anna Masaryk behind her, like two squat matrioshka dolls. Zimmerman, in a suit, sat near the back, his curious eyes darting frankly around the room. There were four people Nick did not know, scattered off to the side, and František, sober now, who went to the lectern to speak. No one else. Where were the others? Would there have been more people in Moscow, old friends? Or was this the extent of his father’s life, a pared-down circle and a son?

He and Molly sat across from Anna, and he kept his eyes fixed on the closed coffin. The eulogy was in Czech, so he had no idea what was being said. Probably the usual empty phrases, as comfortless as medals. In Moscow they would have mentioned the Order of Lenin, but not here. No socialist heroes, not since the invasion. His father had, somehow, become nobody at all.

The loneliness of the room was oppressive, and Nick shifted in his seat, causing a creak. Were they watching him? He had seen it in their faces, that he had a new role to play now, the cause of his father’s despair, the unbearable reminder of everything he’d lost. His fault. And for a moment he gave in to it, became what they wanted. What if none of it was true, the whole story a pretense his father could no longer keep up? No Silver. No plan. Just a story whose plot had run out. Easier for everybody. What had he actually seen in the flat but the disorder of a final night? Then Molly squirmed beside him and he was alert again. He turned. People were nodding at the speech, their heads down. Only Zimmerman was looking at him, his eyes bright, interested. Who knew it hadn’t been suicide, only that people wanted it to be.

The Czech went on, František dropping to a guttural rumble, then chopping the air with his hand, making some point. Anna was crying quietly. A hurried funeral, her decision. Did she think it was Nick’s fault too? Or had she discovered that his father was going to leave, even helped him? Out of the way, visiting relatives. But she must have been with him that afternoon, when something had happened. Nick looked at the wooden box, his mind freed by the droning language to sift through the last few days. Everything that had happened. Except for Molly, sitting next to him, pale, who couldn’t be explained.

The words ended abruptly, and František sat down next to Anna and patted her hand. No one moved. Nick waited for music, some formal signal, but there was just the quiet. The undertaker and a helper came forward, said something in Czech, and pushed a button. Behind the platform, doors opened in the wall, and Nick saw that the coffin was on a kind of ramp, maneuvered now by the two men so that it began sliding toward what must be the crematorium, shuddering a little until the angle took it and it fell away, like a ship being launched into the water. Then the doors closed and his father was gone.

The room emptied quickly, a few polite condolences to Anna, then a shuffling toward the door. No one talked to Nick.

“I’m sorry, Anna,” he said when the others had gone.

“Thank you for coming,” she said formally. Then, softly, “He would have wanted that.”

He felt his insides lurch. “I wish I had known him better.”

“I think you knew him better than anyone,” she said sadly. “You knew what he was like before.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, at a loss. “Can we take you home?”

“No, no. I have to stay here. For the arrangements. Goodbye,” she said to Molly, holding out her hand. “He liked you.”

“Oh,” Molly said, struck. She reached over and embraced Anna, surprising her. “Is there anything—”

“No,” she said stiffly. “It’s all arranged. Goodbye.”

Nick looked at her, not knowing what else to do. His stepmother, a stranger. But she was already turning away from him, back to her life.

“Anna? Would you tell me something? What did he do that last day, before the concert?”

She looked up at him. “He took a nap.”

“You were with him? I mean, did he see anybody?”

“No,” she said, sterner now. “He took a nap. He was thinking. He would do that, lie on the sofa thinking and then fall asleep.”

“He didn’t go out?”

“No, I told you. Leave me alone now.” She looked up, her eyes fierce. “Leave Prague.” Then she turned her back to him and walked over to the undertaker.

Outside, the street was empty except for the Skoda, parked in front where he would see it.

“Maybe they’ll give us a ride,” Nick said.

“Don’t,” Molly said, nervous. “It’s not funny. There’s a tram stop down there at the next street.”

They walked to the corner.

“Mr Warren.” A voice from a car window, rolled down.

“Miss Masaryk,” he said, surprised.

“You remember. Good. Please, come to lunch.” She handed him an address.

“That’s very kind of you, but—”

“No, it’s not kind. I want to talk to you. Alone.” She glanced at Molly. “Excuse me.”

“Why?”

“About your father. It’s important. You’ll come?”

“When?”

“An hour. Don’t ring the bell, it’s broken. The top floor. There’s a good view,” she said irrelevantly, then rolled up the window and started the car.

“Who was that?”

“A friend of his,” he said, not wanting to give her a name. “She probably wants to talk old times.”

“It didn’t sound that way.”

“I won’t be long.”

“Let me know if—”

“If what?”

“You’re going to be late. I’ll be worried.”

A narrow street in the Old Town, near the river. The downstairs bell in fact was broken, the panel taped over, and the lobby itself, heavy stone cool as a monastery, was in disrepair. A pail sat in one corner to catch drips, and the broad stairs were worn down by the years, crumbling near the edges. When he began to climb, he could hear the echo of his steps in the stairwell.

She opened the door immediately, as if she had been listening for him, and motioned him in.

“Good, good, I was afraid you would miss it. The door, it’s confusing. Come in. Some coffee? Maybe a brandy.”

Nick shook his head, looking around. The room followed the curve of the eaves, vaulting near the windows, dipping lower toward the back. There were books everywhere, stacked to the ceiling on their sides, too many for shelves. Yellowing cream French spines, shinier English jackets. What wall space had escaped the stacks was crammed with picture frames, next to each other, a collage of old photographs and prints. The dining table near the window, already laid with open-faced sandwiches and pickles, was set for three. A pack of Marlboros had been placed in the center like an extra course.

He looked at the third plate, but she misinterpreted, following his eyes farther, to the window.

“Yes, come and see. It’s why I stay. My little nest. It’s too small, but the view makes up for that.”

A romantic view, the Charles Bridge and the hill rising behind it to Hradčany Castle, spires everywhere.

“I saw the tanks from here. A friend telephoned, so early. Who calls at such an hour? Go to your window, he said, the Russians are here. And there they were, coming over the bridge. I was standing right here all morning, watching them. The bridge was shaking. I thought, if one of the statues comes down. Bastards.” She waved her hand dismissively.