The Prodigal Spy (59 page)

“Just get her. Where?” he said to the man.

“In the back on the right.”

Nick stared at Larry, suddenly frightened, then moved quickly into the back. Dim, after the garish front room. Doors with light bulbs over them.

“Molly?”

He heard a pounding inside one of the cubicles. His eyes adjusted to the dark. At the end, a chair was propped against a door.

“Molly.” He threw the chair aside and pulled the door open. She was standing there cowering, holding her forearm. “You all right?”

She nodded, still stunned. Her face was blotchy, and she moaned when he took her in his arms, hugging her.

“It’s my wrist. I think it’s broken. He grabbed–Oh God, Nick. What’s happening?”

“Come on.”

He held her by the side and walked her out of the dark room.

“They’re coming back,” she said. “Who are they?”

“Later. Come on.”

She blinked when the light hit her eyes, dazzled by the slick covers full of flesh. “Where are we?” Then she saw Larry holding the gun and drew closer to Nick, clutching him.

“Get her to the car,” Larry said.

“Nobody told me about this,” the ponytail said.

“Shut up.”

“Fuck you.” He moved toward Molly.

Larry raised the gun. “Don’t. I mean it.”

The man stopped, glowering.

“Get in the car,” Larry said to her. “Quick.”

She looked at Nick, who nodded and opened the door.

“You don’t know what fucking trouble you’re buying,” the ponytail said.

“I always know what I’m buying,” Larry said. “Now you can use the phone.”

The man snorted and turned toward the counter. The blast caught Nick by surprise, making him jump, so loud it was still ringing in his ears as he watched the man fall onto the counter, then slump and slide off, with magazines slipping around him. When he hit the floor Nick heard his head crack. He stared at the blood. Like the war –blood coming out, quietly. He looked up at Larry, for a second expecting the other shot. But Larry was taking a handkerchief from his pocket, wiping the gun, then tossing it next to the man.

“He saw me,” he said simply.

Nick said nothing, lost in the stillness that follows a violent death. It had been that easy. No witnesses. A girl falling out the window. Barbara next, whoever else might be a threat. His father jerking under the pillows. No end to it, ever.

“Now get out of here,” Larry said. “You’ve got her. We’re quits.”

“I saw you too,” Nick said quietly.

“Then I’m in your hands again,” Larry said, matter-of-fact. “But we have a deal.” He wiped his hands. “Come on, Nick, we have to get out of here. You’ll see. It’ll be fine.” He moved toward the door.

“You’re going to get away with it.”

“Yes, I am. Come on.”

He lifted his hand to the door, his back to Nick, the familiar shoulders. No end to it. I won’t be his executioner. Not to Hoover, giving comfort to the enemy. But no end to it. He reached down and picked up the gun. Larry turned. Nick looked down at his hand, outstretched, the way it had been at the White House gate, unable to pull the trigger. Locked together in the tangle Larry had made.

“Nick. Leave it. They’ll—”

Nick fired, the sound splitting the room again. He saw Larry’s shocked face, his graceless stumble and fall to the floor.

“Nick.” A gasp, like a plea.

Nick wiped the gun, just as Larry had, and threw it toward the clerk. Then he went over, leaned down, and took the envelope out of Larry’s pocket. No scandal. Just a crime. Larry’s eyes were still open. “Don’t worry,” Nick said to the ground. “Your secret’s safe with me. That was the deal.”

A pounding on the door. “Nick!”

He slid out, not opening it wide enough for her to see, and he took her good arm, leading her away from the corner.

“Leave the car. If anyone asks–when they ask–just say he dropped us at the hotel. We didn’t see him after that.”

“The shots—”

“They’re both dead.”

“We can’t just leave.”

He turned to her. “We were never here, understand? Nobody will ever know.”

She nodded, frightened.

“Come on, we’ll pack and get you to a hospital.”

“Pack?”

“For New York. But first we’ll see about the wrist.”

“I’m all right.”

“No, you’re not. Besides, I have one more thing to do. Stay at the hospital until I get back. Don’t leave. You’ll be safe there.”

She looked at him. “One more thing,” she said dully.

“I have to see Hoover.”

She glanced at the envelope.

“No,” he said. “Only the others. They still know about us. Now I have to.”

“But not him.”

“No.” He tore the envelope into small pieces, then bent over and tossed them into a storm drain, where they would float, like a shirt, to the Potomac. “He’s not a spy anymore.”

“They’ll find out. What would he be doing there?”

“What does any man do in a store like that? They’ll cover that up. Out of respect,” he said, an edge in his voice. “He’s a crime victim, Molly. Mugged. It happens in Washington all the time.”

“Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

He looked at her. “Yes, I’m sure. It’s over.”

“Except for one more thing.”

“Yes.”

They took a taxi to the hotel and he made the phone call while Molly packed. No one was outside, watching. He drove her to a hospital out in Georgetown, the late sun still glowing on the buildings.

“Why Georgetown?”

“It’s on the way to Hoover’s. He said he’d see me at home.”

“God, his home,” she said, sounding better, as if movement itself had begun to rub away the shock. “I never thought of him
living
anywhere.”

“Remember, don’t leave,” he said as they pulled up to the hospital. “For any reason. They’re still out there.”

Thirtieth Place was a quiet cul-de-sac near Rock Creek Park, large brick houses with Georgian windows set back on narrow lawns. For a second Nick stopped, disbelieving. Hoover’s grass, a hardy even green, was Astroturf.

A Negro houseman opened the door and led him into the living room. At first Nick thought he had walked into a gift shop–there were hundreds of antiques, vases and statues, silver teapots and curios, oriental carpets laid on top of each other so that every space was filled. An oil portrait of a young Hoover on the stair landing. Hoover himself, in an open-necked shirt and slacks, came into the room followed by two Cairn terriers, who sniffed at Nick’s ankles, then padded away. The voice, still quick, had lost its machine gun effect, as if it too had been softened by domesticity.

“Drink?”

A drink with Hoover.

“No. I can’t stay.”

Hoover indicated the overstuffed couch. He took the chair next to it, sinking into the cushion so that his body became foreshortened, the round head bobbing on it like Humpty Dumpty’s. He made the first move, extending his hand and opening it. The lighter.

Nick took it, staring at the initials. No longer shiny, a dull gold, from the days when they used to go dancing. “Thank you,” he said.

“Now what have you got for me?”

“I want to make a deal.”

“The Bureau doesn’t make deals.”

“That’s no way to do business. You haven’t heard what I’ve got.”

A flash of irritation, then a slow smile. “The father’s son. Larry never comes empty-handed. What have you got?”

“Names. I want to trade you some names.”

Hoover looked surprised, then distracted as a thin, once good-looking man shuffled vaguely into the room.

“Speed?”

“I’ll be with you in a minute, Clyde.”

“Oh, I thought it was time for drinks.” He was illness thin.

“Why don’t you start? I’ll be down as soon as I’m finished with my young friend here.”

The man nodded, still vague, and headed for the basement stairs, the rec room, where Larry had told him Hoover had an obscene cartoon of Eleanor Roosevelt. A joke from the past.

“Clyde’s staying here for a few days,” Hoover said, as if he needed to explain him. The rumored companion. But it was impossible to think of Hoover being intimate with anybody. Nick wondered what they talked about over, dinner. The Dillinger days, maybe, filled with public enemies.

“Speed?” Nick said.

“A nickname,” Hoover said, annoyed. “What kind of trade?”

“Five for one. Five Russian spies. Here, in Washington.” Hoover looked at him, impressed. “You were right about my father. He knew he’d have to buy his way out. This is what he had. It’ll be a coup for the Bureau. Headlines. You can pick them up now.”

“On your say-so.”

“The names are good. He knew.”

“Proof?”

“You’ll find it once you’ve got them. The Bureau’s good at that, isn’t it?”

Hoover’s face was wary and eager at the same time. “Why so helpful all of a sudden?”

“My father wanted you to have them. You were wrong about him. He wasn’t disloyal, he was trapped.” Hoover looked confused. “This was his way of giving something back.”

“A friend of the Bureau,” Hoover said, almost sneering. “Why didn’t you tell me this at the office?”

“I’ve been checking them out. But I’m not as good as you are–they caught me doing it. They know about me. Now I want you to pick them up.”

A slow smile. “That’s more like it. So you want me to save your behind. For two cents I’d let them take care of you. Not ‘disloyal’–your father was a traitor. You just want me to save your behind.”

“And yours,” Nick said easily. “You could use a little press. Nixon wants you out. You made him, but now you make him nervous. You could use this.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“No? One of them’s in Justice.”

Hoover raised his head, as if he’d heard a bell.

“If you don’t want them, maybe Nixon will. He could make you look awfully pathetic. Director’s so past it he doesn’t even know he has a spy in his own department. He’d do it. With a speech about your long record of service.” A twitch in Hoover’s jowls; anxious now. “But I’d rather give them to you.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t trust him to get them off the street in time. You could do it in an hour. Keep my behind safe for walking around.” He paused. “And I want something from you.”

Hoover peered at him, waiting.

“I want to know who told you about Rosemary Cochrane. One name.”

“For five.”

“Well, four, to be precise. One of them’s at the Russian embassy. I only have the code name. But you probably know all the players there anyway. Maybe on tape. I’d like that destroyed too, by the way, the tape you played the other day. I always sound funny on tape.”

“A real wise guy, aren’t you?”

Nick shrugged. “I grew up in Washington. You get to know how a place works.”

“No, you don’t. A trade. What makes you think I wouldn’t get them out of you anyway?”

“What, with a rubber hose? Like the Commies? You don’t do business that way. You do business this way.”

Hoover said nothing.

“One name.”

“What do you want it for?”

“I just want to know. It’s worth it to me. But not as much as my names are worth to you. It’s a good deal.”

Hoover watched him, thinking, then leaned over and picked up a silver pen from an antique set on the coffee table. He scribbled on a notepad, then tore off the page and held it up.

“There’s not much you can do now anyway,” he said with a sly smile, making the better bargain.

Nick reached over, but Hoover raised his eyebrows. Nick nodded and took the sheet of names and addresses from his pocket. He handed it to Hoover with a formal gesture, like a diplomatic exchange, then looked at the small piece of paper.

It took a second to sink in–a name, just a squiggle on a piece of paper. Rosemary’s letter. The overlooked clue. One confession is enough. The start of everything that had happened to them.

“You’re surprised,” Hoover said, enjoying it.

Nick stood up. “Thank you for the lighter.”

“I knew you’d be a friend to the Bureau.”

Nick looked at him. That’s one thing I’ll never be.“ He pointed to the list in Hoover’s hand. If you start now, you can probably get them before you go down for drinks.”

“You’re a cold bastard,” Hoover said, a kind of admiring salute.

“I didn’t start that way,” Nick said.

He found her in the emergency room, her wrist taped but not in a sling.

“It’s just a sprain. They don’t know why I’m still hanging around.”

“Just sit tight for a few more minutes. I have to pay a visit.”

“Your face,” she said, studying him.

“I’ve just been with Hoover.”

She nodded at the TV monitor in the waiting room. “There’s been nothing on the news, by the way.”

“There won’t be. Store’s closed, remember? I doubt if any of our friends are running to report it. I’ll be right back.”

“A visit here?”

“An errand of mercy. Five minutes.”

The night-duty nurse was sympathetic. “It’s after hours. Just a few minutes, okay? He gets tired. It’s difficult for him to talk. He still slurs.”

Nick went into the private room and closed the door. There was a small reading lamp, but no books. Father Tim’s head was raised on an inclined pillow, his body motionless. Only the eyes moved in recognition.

“Nick,” he said, the word muffled by the twisted face. A string of drool hung out of one side of his mouth. His hands still had some movement. He was clutching a rosary, a nurse’s call button nearby. “Nick,” he said again, that awful forced sound. “Livia— ?”

“You hateful bastard,” Nick said.

Tim’s eyes blinked in astonishment.

“You told me to think of him as dead.”

A gargled sound came from the bed.

“Shut up. He is dead now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No—”

“It was you. Hoover told me. One confession. That poor, stupid girl. She’d never imagine, would she? It’s supposed to be sacred. Did you run right over from church to tell him? You interfering sonofabitch. One of Hoover’s little helpers. Root out the Communists, protect the Church. Christ.”

“Godless,” Tim mumbled, struggling to explain.

“She didn’t know you were just like the party. Means to an end. She
trusted
you. You were a fucking
priest
. But you’re the real party. No doubts.”