by Joseph Kanon
“Yes, tell them to get me out of here. They can’t keep me without a formal charge.”
“And what if they do charge you?”
“Then they were going to do it anyway.”
“What if he’s right? That it takes them forever to-”
“Molly,” he said, stopping her. But what if it did? An in-box of tourist problems? He’d have to flash their attention. A flare, someone they’d know. “Tell them I’m working for Jack Kemper. In the London embassy. They’ll move. I guarantee it.”
“Who?”
“Just do it. Please. I’ll explain it all later.” He kissed her. “Do it.”
“Nick, what are you doing?”
“Kemper,” he said. “Don’t forget. His wife’s name is Doris.”
“Doris?” she said, flailing, but before he could say anything else, the guard led him away.
“Later,” he said over his shoulder, watching her fold her arms across her chest as if she were cold.
The guard stood at the door while he washed his hands. Flakes of dried blood, forgotten, came off in the water, turning it rust-colored. He stared at the drain, suddenly weak, then washed again, and again, until the water ran clear. On the way back, passing a long row of cubicles, he spotted Anna over a waist-high partition. She was bent over a desk, her arm moving, and for a moment he thought she was washing her hands too. Then he saw that she was writing, signing a paper. He imagined the statement-his father’s depression, the upheaval of the weekend, his state of mind, all signed away now, more blood down the drain. When she looked up, her face blotchy from crying, she was startled to see him, as if Nick had died too. Then she took in the guard leading him by the arm and looked away, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Anna,” he said, forcing her to turn back. “I’m sorry.”
“They said you found him,” she said, her voice distant with grief.
“Yes.”
“He wanted me to go to my sister’s. After the concert. I thought he wanted to be with you. Was that it?” The troubling detail.
“No.”
She nodded, piecing it together, then turned away again, cutting him out.
“I wish you had never come,” she said.
Zimmerman was waiting with a pot of coffee, talking to Novotny, who sat on the windowsill eating a salami sandwich.
“Tell me about your trip to the country,” Zimmerman began.
“It rained,” Nick said dully.
“Yet you told the hotel you were going to Karlovy Vary. Why?”
Deeper. Zimmerman’s voice droned on, elaborately polite, refusing to be discouraged by Nick’s vague replies. There was always another question. He had all the time in the world, his patience as relentless as a light in the face. Wasn’t that the way they were supposed to do it? The bright lamp hurting your eyes. No sleep. Shouts. Beatings. But nothing here was what he’d expected. He thought of the watchtowers at the border, his first sensation of fear, a movie iron curtain bristling with menace. But the countryside had been placid, the pokey guard interested only in his car. Now Zimmerman talked patiently, lulling him. But what did he really want? There was no way of knowing. The polite questions might be as deceptive as the placid landscape, still after all lined with barbed wire. So Nick stalled, repeating himself, giving away nothing that mattered. And after a while it was easier. The story became real to him. There was something wrong with the car. Molly did have business in Vienna. Why not? He saw that Zimmerman recognized it too, the tipping point after which nothing would be revealed, because the lies were now true. His eyes, shrewd, witnesses to a hundred interrogations, began to anticipate Nick’s answers — the cards fell where he expected them. Why go on? Unless this was part of the weakening process.
They took a break. Zimmerman sighed and lit another cigarette, his manner easy and intimate. He reminded Nick, in fact-an odd thought-of his father, the resigned irony, the personal reaching out. Trust me. He’d watched his father the same way, trying to guess how much was true behind the words, sorting through his conversations as if they were index cards. Except his father was dead. What if everything he’d said had been true, all of it? No hidden meanings or little deceptions, just what he’d said, the story he’d proved by dying. While Nick had wasted time wondering if he could trust him. He looked up at Zimmerman. But not him. Only the dead could be trusted here. Had Anna really been with relatives? Wouldn’t it have been easy to- Improbable. But then, everything was improbable. A list. They’ll want this, he’d said. What did Zimmerman want?
“Can I ask you a question?” Nick said suddenly.
“Yes, certainly.”
“Did they find anything? When they searched his desk?”
Zimmerman stared at him, trying to figure out what he meant. So they hadn’t. “What did you expect them to find, Mr Warren?”
“I don’t know. A note.”
“No,” Zimmerman said quietly. “No note.” A beat. “You don’t think a note would have been left out where it could easily be found?”
“Then where was it? If the list didn’t exist, then none of it was true, and it had to be true, because he was dead. But Zimmerman was waiting.”
“Is that your experience?”
Zimmerman shrugged. “Every case is different.”
More questions. The afternoon passing, only faint light now against the wall outside the window. They were alone, Novotny having left, giving up any pretense of following their talk. When he came back, it was with a burst of Czech, agitated. Zimmerman raised his eyebrows and followed him out. The quiet was worse. The interrogation at least was a distraction; his whole mind was forced to pay attention. Now it was released, skittering back to his father on the lawn, cradling him.
“Well, Mr Warren,” Zimmerman said as he came back in. “You interest me more and more.” He cocked his head toward the door. “Your rescue party is here.”
“Molly?”
“No, your embassy. Remarkably efficient. They find it objectionable for us to detain you any longer. I didn’t know you were so important.”
“I’m not. We don’t detain people in America.”
“No doubt that explains why you have so much crime.”
“So can I go?”
“For now. I have persuaded Chief Novotny that you’re not such a dangerous character. It is as I predicted — an official protest would upset him. But I wish you had followed my advice. Now he will have to take an interest. So much work for everyone. Well.” He opened his hand, a follow-me gesture. “I must ask, however, that you do not go far. We are not so accommodating as that. So you will stay in Prague.”
“Until when?”
“Until we have no more questions.” He stepped aside to let Nick pass. “Of course you have my personal sympathies. It is a difficult thing, a parent’s death.”
“Thank you.” He was almost at the door.
“Oh, one last question. I forgot. Your father-the report does not say-did he by any chance lose control of his bowels?”
Nick stopped. “Yes. Why?”
“I was curious. For the details. Sometimes the reports- Thank you.”
He opened the door. Chief Novotny, glowering. Next to him a man in a raincoat, extending his hand.
“Mr Warren? Jeff Foster, American embassy.”
Nick froze for a minute, his hand stuck in midair. Then he took Foster’s, aware of Zimmerman watching him, not wanting him to catch the look on his face as he recognized the coat, the sandy hair, the man on the bridge with Molly.
Chapter 13
“You want to tell me what the hell’s going on?” Foster said outside. “We called Kemper. He never heard of you.” Nick stared at him, his mind racing. Together on the bridge. “You okay?”
Say something. “I met him in London.”
“Yeah? He never met you. Now he’s got bells and whistles going off all over the place. Here,” Foster said, indicating the car.
“Where are we going?”
“Back to the embassy. There’s a little receptio
n committee waiting to hear what you have to say. It better be good.”
“Look, we did meet, at a party. I knew he was CIA. I wanted to get out of here and I figured that would get your attention.”
“You got that part right.” He nodded toward the police building. “You probably got their attention now too.”
“How?”
“You think the Czechs don’t monitor our calls? Christ, it’s how half the country makes its living.”
“Well, sorry. It was all I could think of.”
“Sorry.”
“Back off, okay? I came to see my father. He killed himself and I got hauled into a Czech police station-what would you do? It worked, didn’t it? I’m not going to tell anybody Kemper’s CIA, I don’t give a shit. I’m not trying to make trouble for anybody. I just want to get out of here.”
Foster looked at him, surprised. “He killed himself?”
“He’s dead. Maybe they think I did it, I don’t know. Didn’t Molly tell you?” Nick said, watching him closely.
“Nobody told me anything,” Foster said smoothly. “I got a message sent up there’s an American in jail says he works for Jack Kemper and would I go and get him. Now I’ve got this mess. He doesn’t know you. You don’t know him. How’d you know he was CIA, anyway?” Actually looking around as he spoke.
“I didn’t,” Nick said, not wanting to involve Larry. “I just figured it was a safe bet. All you embassy guys are, aren’t you?”
Foster held up his hand. “I just work here.”
“Yeah, stamping passports.”
“Okay, let’s just calm down. We’ll go for a little ride and you tell the good folks what you told me.”
“You tell them. Look, I’ve been answering questions all day. You’re supposed to be on my side, remember? I’m just an American who pushed a button for help. The wrong button, I guess. Tell Kemper I’m sorry, his secret’s safe with me. Tell him he has a nice wife. We sat together at dinner, that’s why I remembered his name. That’s all it is.”
“That’s all.”
“I won’t be hard to find if you want me tomorrow. The police are making me stay in Prague. Can they do that, by the way?”
Foster nodded. “It’s their country.”
“So can we skip the debriefing? I’m not a spook. I’m not anything — just tired. I just want to go back to the hotel.” Did he? What would he say? Careful of her now. Quicksilver.
Foster was looking at him. “Some stunt.” Then he smiled. “You don’t know what you started. They’ve even got the ambassador jumping around.”
“Well, make my apologies.”
“You’ll have to do that one yourself.” He looked at him again, assessing. “Okay, tomorrow. He’s got a dinner tonight anyway. You’re out, that’s the main thing. We don’t want the Czechs thinking it’s anything serious. That would really start something. Come on, I’ll give you a lift.”
“I’ll walk.”
“That makes it harder for them,” Foster said, sliding his eyes toward a parked car. Two men. “They’ll have to go slow, and it messes up traffic. Easier to follow a car.”
“I’ll never be alone again, huh?”
“Not in Prague.”
“Nicholas?” He heard a voice at his side. Anna. How long had she been there? “Everything is all right?”
He nodded. She glanced at Foster, then handed Nick a piece of paper.
“It’s the address. For the funeral.”
“The funeral?” Already arranged.
“Yes, tomorrow. If you would come.”
He looked down at the paper. A meaningless street name. “Tomorrow? Aren’t they going to do an autopsy?”
She shook her head. “No one said. There’s no need.”
He grabbed her arms. “Anna, he didn’t kill himself. They should-”
But she shrank from him, looking around to see if anyone was watching. “Please.” She turned her back to Foster, who felt awkward enough to step toward the car. “You don’t understand,” she said to Nick, almost a whisper. “How it is here. It’s better not to wait.”
“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 th
e 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 Holeckova, 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.”