The Prodigal Spy

by Joseph Kanon

  But how exactly? Nick thought. Maids in the embassy? Repairmen going through desks? Somebody nursing a drink at a bar, all ears?

  “Like Marty Bielak?”

  His father frowned. “Who?”

  “An American. He lives here. He was at the bar in the Alcron.”

  “Bielak,” his father said, evidently remembering. “You talked to him?”

  “No, he talked to me. Don’t worry-I didn’t say anything. Just a tourist. Is he one of yours?”

  “Well, a Winchell,” his father said dismissively. “A legman. He collects items-do they still call them that, items? He worked for the radio. Then his wife left, last year, when people could go out. So now he’s a legman. To rehabilitate himself, I suppose. I met him once. He’s a believer. For him, still the workers’ paradise.”

  “Then why does he need to rehabilitate himself?” Nick said, slipping into the language.

  “They won’t trust him now. Unless she comes back, of course. Anyway, better avoid him-you don’t want to become an item.”

  “But is it useful, what he does?”

  “It gives them something to read. What else is there, Rude Pravo?”

  Nick said nothing, and in the stillness that followed he could hear his father’s faint breathing. He looked over at the closed eyes, the lined face smoothing out with sleep. He had drifted off with a cigarette still in his hand, and Nick leaned over and gently slipped it from his fingers, taking a puff himself, familiar, like sharing a toothbrush. A lazy afternoon. But nothing was peaceful here, not even the torpid landscape, tense with rain.

  He looked toward the garden, where Anna was planting. Why bother? Soon it would be overgrown, abandoned. But she didn’t know. If they thought she had helped- He felt the cigarette hot on his finger as the thought swept through him, stiffening him with dread. She didn’t know because she wasn’t going. His father was going to leave her, walk away from this life the way he’d walked away from theirs. Leaving everything behind. Only this time it would be Nick on the other end in the phone booth. That’s what he was being asked to do.

  He let the cigarette fall, staring ahead, not trusting himself to look at his sleeping father. The same crime all over again. He saw his mother weeping on the sofa. But Anna wouldn’t be rescued by a rich man. She’d need to be rehabilitated-to denounce him, make them trust her. He watched her work, bending and straightening, unaware, and he could feel the heat in his face. We have a life here. But it would go too, the dim cottage and the jars of food, whatever peace they’d managed to scrape together. How could he do it? But how could he have done it the first time?

  Nick got up and moved away from the chairs. The lawn sloped west, into the sun, and for an instant he wondered if he could keep going, all the way through the barbed wire, until he was home. In Prague they kept reminding you they were west of Vienna, Molly had told him, as if their history had violated a logic of geography. It was forty, fifty miles to the border, not far. He could simply walk through. But his father needed someone to help. A small favor. A message. And then it would never stop, one step after another until everyone was swept up in the turmoil again. Not history, just his father’s endless mistake.

  As he reached the trees he could hear the sky begin to rumble, a sound effect. He followed the path down to the water, pushing past bushes until the house was hidden behind him, out of sight. He stopped. What if the message were never delivered? A small betrayal, for everyone’s sake. He started down again, with something like relief. It was that easy. Stop it finally. His father would never know. But he’d wait, expecting a call, some signal. That’s how it would end, waiting, wondering why nobody came. The way Nick had waited. Could he do that to him? I don’t want to die here, Nick.

  The water was a crick, just as he had said, channeled by a low bank. Nick picked up a few small stones and began throwing them into the stream, listening for the familiar plops. He’d have to tell him, not let him waste what life was left here. Don’t excite him, Anna had said, but which was worse? You can’t expect me to do this. But his father had expected it, sure of him. So he’d sent for him, finally. That had been the point all along. Not to see him; to get an accomplice. He threw another stone, staring at the ripples.

  “Just a boy at heart,” Molly said, behind him. He turned, surprised, her voice bringing him back. “You never see little girls throwing rocks, but boys can do it for hours. Now why is that?”

  He smiled. “I don’t know. We used to pretend they were grenades. Here, try it.”

  She took a stone from his hand and pitched it, then shrugged. “Nothing. It must be one of those throwback things. You know, from the caves. When you were out there hunting and we were home stitching hides.” She paused. “Anything wrong?”

  He shook his head. “My father fell asleep. Pretty exciting, isn’t it, life behind the iron curtain?”

  “I don’t know. My father used to spend the weekend watching golf on TV. Compared to that, it’s a hoot.”

  He threw another stone. “How’s the garden?”

  “She’s starting dinner. It takes hours, apparently, whatever it is. I suppose I should help. Boil nettles or something. God knows what little treat she’s cooking up this time.” She stopped. “Now why am I being like this? She’s nice. It’s just-I don’t know, a little strange. Different, anyway. I feel like I’m meeting the in-laws and I haven’t even been asked out yet.”

  He smiled at her. “Will you go out with me?”

  “Oh.” She glanced up at him. “Soon,” she said, light again. Then she turned to the water, and in the silence that followed he felt her mood shift, like a faint stirring in the heavy air. “Want to tell me what’s going on? The two of you were thick as thieves.”

  “He wants me to do something for him. I don’t think I can.”

  “Then don’t,” she said quickly, trying to be casual. “What is it? Smuggle something out? It’s usually that. Letters and things. They call it the tourist post.”

  “No. He-”

  But she swung around suddenly, holding up her hand. “No, don’t tell me. Really. I don’t want to know. It’s better. Just don’t do it.” The urgency in her voice caught him by surprise. “Don’t do anything.”

  He nodded, still surprised, waiting for her to go on, but she turned away.

  “God, I wish we could go,” she said.

  “Go?” His own idea, thrown back at him, a lifeline. Drive through the fence.

  “Before anything happens.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nothing’s going to happen.”

  “We could, you know,” she said. “Just leave. Tomorrow. We could do that stupid Danube boat if you want. Anything.” She turned. “We could start over.”

  The words made him look at her, an unexpected twirl of the binoculars. He saw her freckles, suddenly clear. Not complicated.

  She raised her head and held his eyes for a moment. “Couldn’t we?”

  He touched her arm, an almost involuntary movement, and nodded.

  “Would you like that?” she said, her eyes still on him.

  There was a streak of dirt on her forehead, left over from the garden.

  He nodded again. “But not on the Danube.”

  “No.” She leaned closer. “Where?” she said, her voice low.

  They stood for an instant, not moving, and then it was too late. The rain came all at once; no first drops, just the sudden burst of a punctured water balloon shocking them into place. They looked at each other, startled at being wet, then Molly, catching the water on her face, started to laugh. Nick took her hand and pulled her under a large tree. They stamped their feet, shaking themselves.

  “Christ,” Nick said. He picked at his shirt, sticking coldly to his back. Molly shook her hair, then leaned against the tree, her breasts showing through her blouse.

  She smiled. “Not here, I guess.”

  They were both gulping air, as if they’d been running, and he stared at her
for a second, watching the rise and fall of her chest, then moved nearer to the tree.

  “Isn’t that what they do in the army?” she said. “Cold showers?”

  He leaned down, rubbing his hand along her face, slick with rain.

  “It’s what they advise,” he said, his mouth almost touching hers.

  But the rain had broken the mood. She pulled back. “Well, what’s got into you?” she said, but pleased, still holding him. “We don’t have to start over before dinner.”

  “The ground’s dry.” He bent forward again.

  She reached up, putting her hand to his face. “We’re a little old for this. Rolling around in the mud.” She moved aside, shaking her blouse.

  “Is that what you used to do?” he said, watching her.

  “What? In my hippie days?” she said airily. “No. I like it better in a room.”

  “What’s so special about a room?”

  “You will, too.”

  “Promise?”

  She grinned. “I guarantee it.” Then she looked up at him, serious. “There’s plenty of time. Now that you’ve asked me out.”

  “Okay, I’ll get us a room,” he said.

  She rubbed her hair between her hands. “Mm, with hidden microphones.” Her eyes widened, a glint of mischief. “I hadn’t thought of that. What’s that like? Do they listen? You know.”

  “If we make noise.”

  She stepped over to the edge of the dry area, facing the rain. “Should we make a run for it? They’ll be worried.”

  Beyond the first few feet, the woods had become a blur. A few drops were coming through the leaves overhead now, but the leaky tent held, shutting everything else out.

  “Not yet. Stay a little.”

  She glanced at him. “A little time out?” she said softly. She walked over to him. “Got a cigarette?”

  He took out the pack, half dry, and lit one, then handed it to her. “Isn’t this what we’re supposed to do after?”

  She looked away. “Everything’s backward, isn’t it? Maybe we’re ahead of ourselves.” She shook her head, a weak smile. “Now, too. We’re ahead of ourselves.”

  “Molly-”

  “It’s all right. He’s why you’re here. I–I just came along for the ride.”

  “That’s all?” he said.

  She looked up at him, her eyes caught. “I thought so.” She took a drag on the cigarette. “Anyway, it’s too late now. Let’s just get through it. Two days. But no tourist post, okay? No letters. They look for that. You don’t want to end up in a Czech jail.”

  “It’s not that.”

  “Oh. I thought-” She stopped short, waiting now.

  He looked at her. They had started together, a bar in London. “He wants to go home.”

  “What?” As if she hadn’t heard, had missed a joke. “What are you talking about?”

  “He wants me to arrange it-to get him out.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Maybe he is. But that’s what he wants.”

  “He can’t be serious. You think they’re going to let him out? It’s not the kind of trip you make twice.”

  “He thinks he can.”

  She took a breath. “Nick, listen to me. Don’t get involved with this. I mean it. You don’t know-it’s different here.”

  “I don’t have to do anything here. Just deliver a message.”

  She looked up at him. “To whom?” Then she looked away, as if she had overstepped. “Tell him to deliver his own message. Go to the embassy or something.”

  “He can’t. You know that.”

  “Why not? Maybe they have forms for defectors. I wouldn’t be surprised.” She stopped. “I’m sorry. It’s just too crazy. Why would he want to?”

  “He’s sick, Molly. He wants to go home.”

  “To jail?”

  “He won’t. Not now.”

  “Home free,” she said, with a hint of sarcasm. “What makes him think anybody wants him back?”

  He looked away. “Maybe nobody does.”

  She said nothing for a minute, watching him. “You do. It’s what you’ve always wanted, isn’t it?” She shook her head. “I don’t believe this.”

  “He’s my father. I can’t just leave him here. He doesn’t belong here.”

  “Nobody belongs here. The Czechs are stuck, that’s all. So is he.” She walked back toward the rain, folding her arms over her chest. “How is it supposed to work, anyway? Swap him for one of theirs?”

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t think he wants me to know. He seems to have it all planned.”

  “He’s crazy. You don’t go back. You just don’t. It’s a one-way thing.”

  “And what if he could? And I didn’t help?” he said, almost to himself.

  “So you’re going to.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I do. I can tell. Look, I don’t want any part of this.”

  “It doesn’t involve you.”

  “That’s right,” she said sharply. “I just came along for the ride.” She looked up at the leaves, dripping now with rain, closing in on them. “Well, you’re full of little surprises today. No wonder you’re all excited. Nick to the rescue. God. He still thinks he can get away with it.”

  “He didn’t get away with anything. It’s a long time, twenty years, to live like this. For something you didn’t do.”

  She glared at him, a sudden inexplicable anger. “Is that what he said?”

  “He’s not a traitor-not the way you think.”

  “Really? How many ways are there?”

  He looked at her, surprised at her tone. “What’s wrong?”

  “Him. Everything. I can’t believe he’s doing this.”

  “He’s sick.”

  “I know he’s sick,” she said quickly. “Why do you think I came? I thought that’s what he wanted-to tell you about her. You know, a little confession. So good for the soul. I’d finally get to hear it from him.” She looked at him. “All right, from you. Why not? I wanted to know how it happened.”

  “How what happened?”

  “Ask him. Before you start all this.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “He can’t go back, Nick. He killed her. He thinks they don’t know, but they do. They’ve always known.”

  “He didn’t kill her.”

  She nodded. “He did, though. He was there, in the hotel room. It’s in the police report. You can see it for yourself. He was there. He’s lying to you, Nick.” She turned to him. “Still want to get him out?” Then she stepped out into the rain and started up the hill without looking back.

  The storm went on all afternoon, trapping them indoors, and Nick retreated into a kind of hangover wariness, afraid that the smallest gesture might give him away while he waited for his head to clear. Around him they busied themselves with the usual motion of a rainy day. A fuss was made about their wet clothes, exchanged for dry upstairs, Anna’s old slacks and sweater hanging loosely on Molly, a child playing dress-up, his father’s fitting him comfortably, uncannily like his own. He watched his father make a fire in the wood stove, poking at the kindling, and then they were in their usual cabin places, his father in his rocker, sitting opposite, Molly curled up in the corner of the couch with a mug of tea. Nick looked at the coffee table, half expecting to see the Sunday paper folded open to the puzzle, a pencil lying across the filled-in blocks. What did they used to do? Play Hearts. Read. Now they talked, not free to withdraw, moving words like pieces in a board game to fill the time.

  Molly avoided him, chatting lazily with Anna, afraid to meet his eyes. What police report? But the presence of the others, the makeshift family, made it impossible to talk about anything he wanted to know. They picked at conversation, strained, like old army friends who think they want to see each other but have only the past in common. What they should see in Prague. What it was like last August when the tanks rolled in, everyone’s trace memory. The almost comic surprise of the Soviet soldiers, expecting to be wel
comed, dodging stones. Finally Anna got up to start dinner, leaving an empty moment of silence.

  “Where did you go that night?” Nick said suddenly. “The night you left?”

  His father looked at him, surprised by the shift. “That night?” He sat back, as if he needed to refresh his memory. “To Canada. There was a ship. I went to Detroit. It’s easy to cross there. We had to go all the way to Philadelphia to catch the plane, in case I was recognized at National. So unnecessary. That long drive-it took hours, I remember, because of the snow. The roads were still slippery. There had been a lot of snow.”

  “Yes,” Nick said, remembering footprints.

  “Hours. We almost missed the plane. I remember I was dying for a cigarette. I’d forgotten my lighter, and the driver didn’t have any matches. Can you imagine, a Russian who didn’t smoke? Finally I made him stop at a gas station outside Baltimore. He went in-he wouldn’t let me. I’d be recognized. By someone pumping gas in Baltimore.” He shook his head. “It never changes.”

  Nick could feel Molly stir beside him on the couch, sitting erect, watching his father.

  “I mean in Washington. Where did you go in Washington?”

  “In Washington,” his father said, puzzled. “New York Avenue, I suppose. We took the Baltimore Pike. He picked me up out back and we took the pike, so it must have been New York. Does it matter?”

  “You didn’t stop anywhere?”

  “No,” he said easily, “of course not. We were in a hurry. He knew the roads would be bad. We could have had an accident, the way he drove. How different everything would have been. But he didn’t-we made it. Does it matter to you?” he said again. “All these details?”

  “Yes.”

  But his father eluded him, lost now in other details, telling stories beside the fire.

  “I remember the ship. My bunk, anyway. I couldn’t go on deck. The crew wasn’t supposed to know I was there. They locked me in. Nothing to read. No air. A cell. I never knew what they were carrying. Grain? Pig iron, maybe. Who knows?”

  Nick leaned back, listening.

  “Then I got seasick, so they let me out, for the air. It was freezing. You had to hang on to something or the wind would knock you over. But at least it was outside. The crew pretended I wasn’t there-it was dangerous to ask questions in those days. I don’t know who they thought I was. I ate by myself. The captain had a little English, but nobody else. I don’t think I said ten words the whole trip.” He paused. “I had a lot of time to think.”