The Sunday Spy

by William Hood

Tweed Cap turned to Emily and bowed slightly. “The police. There’s a small problem, some questions. You must come with us now … ”

  From across the street, a handful of pedestrians gathered to stare. Along the sidewalk a hundred feet away, two young men and a blond girl, smoking and chattering, fell silent and edged closer. Czech students, Trosper assumed.

  “You have identification?” Trosper said loudly. “Some slight token of authority?” Over Tweed Cap’s shoulder, he could see Widgery start to run along the sidewalk toward Grogan.

  Tweed Cap pulled a folded identification card with a silver badge pinned to it from his pocket. “You will come now. No more problem, please.”

  “I don’t know what the hell your problem is, but my wife has nothing to do with it,” Trosper said, his voice harsh with anger. “She will not go with you.”

  “No difficulties, mister. Sergeant Hlinka will be with Madame at all times.” He shoved Trosper toward the car. In the distance, Trosper saw Grogan grab Widgery’s arm and spin him to a halt.

  “This is stupid nonsense,” Emily said, the color draining from her face. “And I will protest at the embassy the minute I can get to a phone … ” She attempted to pull free of Sergeant Hlinka.

  “My wife will come with me,” Trosper said firmly.

  “Mister, there is not room in the car for everyone,” Tweed Cap said with a hint of apology. “Sergeant Hlinka and her driver will come behind.” He turned angrily to confront the three students who had moved closer, and barked something in Czech. The shortest student, a girl in a New York Yankee baseball cap, shouted back. The three moved closer to Trosper.

  Tweed Cap waved his open ID document and badge toward the trio and grasped Trosper’s elbow. “Get in the car now, before real trouble.”

  The tall student, in a worn green fatigue jacket, raised his arms and beckoned to the gathering crowd across the street. He shouted in Czech. All Trosper understood was “Státni bezpečnost!” — the STB, the former Soviet-controlled, Czech security service. Tweed Cap, his face flushed, shouted “Verĕjná bezpečnost,” which Trosper recognized as the current name for the Czech police. Still grasping Trosper’s elbow, the policeman shoved him toward the open door of the lead car. “Get in the car now!”

  Trosper tore his arm free and turned to Emily. “You’d best go along with the sergeant until we can sort this out.” He clasped her hand and led her toward the rear car. At the curb, she paused long enough to straighten her coat and to adjust her hat. Dignity restored, she kissed Trosper lightly on the cheek, signaled Sergeant Hlinka to open the door more widely, and slipped gracefully into the back seat of the Skoda.

  Trosper wedged himself into the other sedan. He pulled off both gloves and stuffed them on top of the film canister in his trench-coat pocket. The Skoda lurched as it pulled from the curb, and Trosper twisted around to be sure the second sedan was following.

  The Skoda tires spun on the wet pavement as the driver skidded into a sharp right turn. Trosper checked again to be sure the second car had made the turn. It had.

  Trosper leaned back and took off his hat, which was brushing against the upholstered top of the small sedan. The Skoda picked up speed. Steamer coats, he said to himself. The reversible topcoats were known as steamer coats, and thought to be just the thing for the changing weather in the days when the gentry crossed the Atlantic by ship.

  In moments of crisis it was Trosper’s habit to fix on something entirely irrelevant. The students, all smoking as they walked along beside the park … The New York Yankee baseball cap … Steamer coats …

  Was it luck, prudence, or had Sinon been warned to leave the area before the police arrived? No matter, there would be time enough to sort it out.

  He loosened the belt on his trench coat and twisted around to glance through the rear window. The black sedan with Emily still followed close behind.

  19

  Prague

  The man behind the desk motioned Trosper to the wooden armchair. He studied Trosper for a moment and said, “Zitkin, Chief Inspector Zitkin.”

  Trosper sat down. He had not unbuttoned his trench coat since he had been hustled past the uniformed policeman inside the door of what seemed to be a shabby office building.

  “Your passport … ”

  Trosper pulled his passport from his breast pocket and pushed it across the desk. He glanced around the office. It was standard Central European issue. A bulky, old-fashioned intercom and telephone occupied much of the left side of the large wooden desk. Scarred in-and out-trays were stacked on the right side. Aside from a calendar, a detailed city street map, and a large map of the former Czechoslovakia, with a bright red line marking the border between the Czech Republic and Slovakia, the walls were bare. Trosper sat in the wooden armchair directly in front of the desk. Two slightly smaller chairs stood at either side and a bit behind Trosper.

  “You will be more comfortable if you take off your coat,” Zitkin said softly. He pulled a pair of half-frame reading glasses from a collection of pencils in a pewter tankard on his desk. Close-cropped gray hair, brown eyes, the upper half-inch of his left ear missing, tanned complexion, muscular build, brown tweed jacket, dark blue shirt, red knit tie. The impression of self-confidence was so strong it seemed to be a deliberate effect.

  “I must demand to see my wife and that she be released immediately thereafter,” Trosper said.

  “Madame will have coffee with Sergeant Hlinka,” Zitkin said without looking up from the desk. He began to thumb the pages of the passport. “She will leave when you do.” He reached to flip a switch on the intercom. “Syrovy!”

  The heavy door swung open and a man — rugged features, dark blond hair, and about thirty-five years old — stepped into the office. Tweed Cap, Trosper realized, looked ten years younger indoors. Syrovy said something in Czech.

  “Take Mister’s coat.” Zitkin spoke with a slight accent.

  “It’s all right,” Trosper said. “I’m not going to be here that long.”

  “Please take off your coat,” Zitkin said with a faint smile. “Regulations do not permit me to sit in my office with a man who may be carrying a weapon.”

  “I can assure you I am not armed … ”

  “Syrovy,” Zitkin barked. “Help this man with his coat.” Syrovy stepped smartly behind Trosper’s chair.

  Trosper shrugged, got to his feet, and handed his hat to Syrovy.

  “Your coat, please Mister,” said Syrovy.

  Trosper unbuttoned his trench coat and dropped it over the back of the chair. He opened his jacket to show he wore no shoulder holster, and patted his side pockets.

  Zitkin said something in Czech, and Syrovy pulled Trosper’s trench coat from the chair.

  Trosper ignored Syrovy, and sat down. “I must protest the entirely unwarranted treatment my wife and I are being subjected to. I demand to be allowed to call my embassy.”

  “In time,” Zitkin said. He looked up from the passport and appeared to be studying Trosper.

  “I demand to know on what grounds you have brought me here.” Trosper’s voice was firm, but not harsh or emotional. There was no point in provoking a policeman, probably a security service officer, in his own office.

  Syrovy dropped Trosper’s gloves onto the desk and fished more deeply into the trench-coat pocket. The condom was still tightly wrapped around the plastic 35-mm film container. Syrovy tossed it twice in his hand before gently placing it on the blotter in front of Zitkin.

  “Zo-zo” Zitkin said as he poked at the package with a long yellow pencil. “This is yours, ah … ” He paused to check the passport again. “This is yours, Mr. Anderson?” He raised his eyebrows, glanced again at the passport, and said, “You are Mr. Sam Anderson?”

  “I am Sam Anderson, and that is my passport,” Trosper said. “What’s more, I demand to be allowed to call my embassy.”

  “This is a peculiar little package, Mr. Anderson. Is it also yours?”

  “I found it on the bench, when my wife a
nd I sat down,” Trosper said.

  “It was in your pocket, Mr. Anderson. We both just saw Lieutenant Syrovy take it out.”

  “In the course of all that hugger-mugger with your men, I must have dropped it into my pocket.”

  “For safekeeping, I suppose you might say?”

  “A reflex,” Trosper said. “I assumed we were about to be robbed and I wanted to free my hands.”

  “Not bad,” Zitkin said as he continued to toy with the package. “But hugger-mugger? I have not heard that word.” He said it again. “Hooger-mooger?”

  “It’s an old usage, but these days usually means a sort of disorderly melee,” said Trosper, now ruefully weighing the probability that Sinon had addressed whatever message might be in the canister to Sam Anderson by name.

  Zitkin turned to Syrovy and said something in Czech. Syrovy hurried out of the office.

  “So, I am correct in saying that you claim this … uh … peculiar little package does not belong to you?”

  “You are.”

  “Things like this remind me of the old days,” Zitkin said with a sigh. He picked up the canister, and flicked the intercom open. “Pika!” The door opened and a heavyset, older man stepped in. Zitkin spoke in Czech as he handed the canister to the man, who smiled and hurried out. “For photographing,” Zitkin explained. “Everything exactly according to our rules.”

  Trosper affected to be waiting expectantly.

  “Your device takes me back,” Zitkin said, his heavy-lidded eyes fixed on Trosper. “Early 1942, during the German occupation, I was a kid. Before the Heydrich affair, no one suspected a twelve-year-old, and I was useful as a courier. After the team from London assassinated Heydrich, we had terrible losses. I came within seconds of being taken.” He swallowed heavily. “You know about Heydrich?”

  “Reinhard Heydrich — the one the Germans gave the title Protector of Bohemia and Moravia? Everyone knows about him. Your people got him early on, and the Germans burned a village — Lidice. It’s covered in every history of the war.” If Sinon had addressed the message in the canister to Sam Anderson by name, as Trosper now considered likely, his only defense would be to stop answering questions and to keep insisting on seeing some American authority. Unless Sinon’s message had implicated Trosper in a violation of Czech law, no serious charge could be brought.

  “History or not, no one remembers what swine the Germans were,” Zitkin said slowly, his eyes fixed on Trosper. “They killed every man in the village, and then burned it and plowed the ruins flat to destroy every trace. One hundred seventy-three men were shot, as many, maybe more of the women died in Ravensbruck.” Zitkin’s fist tapped lightly on the desk. “No one was in any way connected with the parachutists. Everyone was totally innocent.”

  Trosper was baffled. Was Zitkin playing both roles, good cop, bad cop, or were these apparent confidences merely part of a softening-up routine? “Are you from Lidice?”

  “No, no,” Zitkin shrugged. “From Lizaky, smaller than Lidice, but also destroyed because the parachutists used a transmitter from there.” Zitkin’s fist continued to tap gently on the desk. “All these memories just because of this one peculiar package.” He squinted at Trosper over the rim of his half-glasses. “Before they were through avenging Heydrich, the Germans had murdered two thousand people, maybe more.” He waited before saying, “There are times when I feel I’ve outlived my own death.”

  Trosper hoped his bewilderment did not show.

  “General Moravec took care of me after the war, but I’m afraid he overvalued my work. It was boys’ play until Heydrich. There were no problems until right at the end when I got hit — too sure of myself. Later, when Moravec came back from London, he insisted I have some education, even got me into university. A fine man. A brilliant officer.” Zitkin looked up to squint speculatively at Trosper. “You know of him?”

  Trosper shook his head. He remembered reading Moravec’s modest account of his intelligence life, and in other circumstances would have liked to discuss it with Zitkin.

  “After the war, after the Soviet occupation, he was invited to the States?” It was half statement, half question.

  Trosper shrugged and shook his head.

  Zitkin continued to study Trosper. “After Heydrich, it was a while before anything started again. By the time our group had re-formed, I was too confident, and got shot at … ” He touched his mutilated ear. “A near thing … it couldn’t have been closer, but it had its uses.” He closed the passport and pushed himself back from the desk. “It convinced me that I’m not half so smart as I thought, and not nearly so brave. The way things developed, it probably saved my life.”

  The door opened and Pika handed the canister to Zitkin. As he walked slowly out of the office, Pika spoke in Czech, over his shoulder. Zitkin grunted a response as he picked up a metal letter opener and appeared ready to cut the canister free of the condom. “Do you understand what I’m saying, Mister … ah … Anderson?” he asked, staring intently across the desk.

  Trosper nodded. “I’ve always thought that experience is a great teacher, but very, very expensive.”

  “There’s a problem about confidence too,” Zitkin said. “Too much confidence makes for wasted heroes.” He reached for the intercom. “Syrovy!”

  The door swung open and Syrovy came in carrying a stenographic notebook.

  “Make a note that you are witnessing the opening of this concealment device in the presence of Mr. Anderson, and give date and time,” Zitkin directed. “Make it ultra-legal, with a copy for the American ambassador.” Zitkin waited before adding with an ironic flourish, “Maybe one for the White House in Washington too … ” He freed the canister and glanced up at Trosper, who managed a confident smile. Zitkin popped the canister open, examined it closely, looked again at Trosper, and tapped the canister loudly on his desk. “Make a note that the device is empty,” Zitkin said stiffly. “And check the bloody thing so that you can testify to my statement.”

  Trosper made an effort to conceal his surprise.

  Syrovy ran his finger around the inside of the canister. “Empty … ”

  “Get your statement typed up, and ready for Mr. Anderson’s signature,” Zitkin said as Syrovy headed for the door.

  Zitkin leaned forward, putting both elbows on the desk. “A lot of trouble for nothing,” he said. “Do you agree, Mr. Anderson?”

  “I think you’re the best judge of that,” Trosper said.

  “There’s something you must understand, Mr. Anderson.” Zitkin took a deep breath and exhaled heavily. “The Czech Republic is an independent country, free of the Germans, free of what was the U.S.S.R., and now, stupidly if I may say so, of Slovakia as well. After what we’ve gone through since ’48 — I myself spent most of my career with criminal investigations, never with security matters as I do now — we will not tolerate secret intelligence activity within our borders, no matter who the sponsor may be. Do you understand me, Mr. Anderson?”

  “I understand what you’re saying, but I fail to know why you are lecturing me … ”

  “I think you do know, Mr. Anderson,” Zitkin said sharply. “My experience with General Moravec taught me a few things that stood me well during the Russian time. But, thanks God, those days are over. Now, I have no wish to interfere with your work, Mr. Anderson, as long as you do not do it here in the Czech Republic.”

  Trosper raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

  “For that reason, I must insist that you and your wife, and your … ah … friends leave the Republic within thirty-six hours — there are planes tomorrow, mid-afternoon.”

  “My wife and I would have preferred to remain here long enough to see some of this city we have read so much about,” Trosper said. “But in the circumstances, I’m sure she will be quite ready to leave.”

  “You will understand that we do not expect you or your friends to be back here for at least a year?”

  “That would be a most unlikely possibility.” Trosper got up and reach
ed for his trench coat. “My wife and I will be on a plane tomorrow afternoon.” In the past, he had always been able to leave one step ahead of the sheriff. This was the first time he had ever been apprehended, and declared persona non grata. For all of Zitkin’s tact and informality, it nettled.

  “Sergeant Hlinka will drive you back to your hotel … ”

  Trosper pulled on his coat and reached for his hat.

  Zitkin got up from his desk. “As I have heard you Anglo-Saxons say, no hard feelings, eh, Mr. Anderson?”

  “Speak for yourself,” Trosper said, as he managed a slight smile and a wink.

  20

  Prague

  “It’s for you, sweetheart,” Emily called, her hand cupped over the telephone. “It sounds fearfully official.” She had just finished dressing and sat on the side of the bed. “It’s only nine-fifteen — you haven’t been naughty already, have you?”

  “Very funny … ” Trosper was not in the best of humor as he stepped out of the bathroom, shaving brush in hand. He balanced the brush on the table beside the telephone and reached to take the receiver from Emily. The cord flicked across the brush, toppling it off the table and onto an open book on the floor beside the bed. He muttered an imprecation, and took the phone. “Anderson here.”

  “Ya, here Zitkin, Mister Anderson. Good morning.”

  Surprised, Trosper spoke loudly, and with a transparently specious geniality. “And a very good morning to you, Inspector Zitkin.” He glanced across the room at the rain slashing against the windows, and attempted to wipe the shaving cream off the book with a corner of the bedsheet.

  Emily began to giggle.

  “Breakfast?” Trosper said, staring angrily at Emily. “Breakfast? No, I haven’t had breakfast yet … ”

  “I usually have my parek — my second breakfast, Gabelfruehstuck the Austrians call it — at about ten. Would your lady be offended if you came to have some snacks with me?”

  “A moment, please … ” Trosper turned to Emily and said hesitatingly, “I’ve just been invited out for some snacks … ?”