Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

She was walking quickly, not stopping to look at windows, heading toward Farragut Square. She took a diagonal path across the park, unaware of Nick in the crowd. Downtown. The Bureau wasn’t far away. Then she went into a coffee shop, forcing Nick to stop at the corner, exposed. He fed some coins into a newspaper vending machine and took out a Post. A peace rally. District police requesting additional crowd-control units. People streamed by, carrying briefcases. What if she was just a boarder after all? But the address had been there, on the list.

When she came out, sipping from a Styrofoam cup, Nick turned away and almost lost her. Then, in front of a DON’T WALK sign, the blond hair came into view again. She crossed the street and disappeared through a door: EMPLOYEES ONLY. Nick looked around, then at the block-long row of plate-glass windows, trying to orient himself. It was only when he stepped back to the curb, taking the whole building in, that he finally recognized it, as familiar to him as an old dream. Garfinkel’s. Still. His father had said the reports never changed, the same pattern. You could tell just by the prose. One of them will lead me to him.

Nick went through the door. Don’t show yourself. But how else could he be sure? He walked past aisles of cosmetics and women’s handbags. She could be anybody. But when he reached the men’s department, there she was, just arrived behind the counter, talking to another clerk as she arranged the tie display, the shelves behind her lined with row after row of white shirts.

“We have to figure out a way to get in there,” Nick said later, excited. “I can’t spend all day trying on suits.”

They were in the lobby bar at the Madison, the soft spring light still flooding into the windows from 16th Street, not yet evening. Molly, unexpectedly subdued, picked out a cashew from the bowl of nuts.

“You want me to be her,” she said, not looking up.

“No, he probably knows her by sight. But if you were there. They’re always looking for extra help. You could talk your way in. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

“No, I meant her. Rosemary. You want me to be her.”

Nick said nothing, surprised at her mood.

“Do I have to?”

“Molly, we’re so close.”

She nodded and looked out the window. In the corner, a man in black tie was playing the piano. Cocktail hour. These Foolish Things‘, one of the songs his mother must have danced to.

“It’s funny,” she said. “All my life, my mother kept telling me I was like her. Political. That’s what she said when I wanted to go to Kennedy’s funeral. A whole bus went down from school. You don’t want to get mixed up in anything, not like her. God. Every time I brought someone home. You’ll turn out boy-crazy, just like-” She broke off. “But I never thought I was. I didn’t even know her. That was just my mother. Half the time I didn’t know what she was talking about. Now it turns out maybe she was right. I am like her. I know just how she felt.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, she did it for him, didn’t she? Mr Right. Anything, right up to the end. New dress. Order up a bottle-I’ll bet it was the kind he liked. Everything was going to be all right.”

“Everything is going to be all right.”

A weak smile, ignoring him. “And now I’m going to be her, do everything she did. Even sell the shirts.”

“Molly, if it bothers you, don’t do it. We’ll figure out something else.”

“Oh, don’t worry, I’ll do it.” She paused. “I am like her. I’ll do it for you.”

“No. Do it for her.”

She sighed. “She’s dead, Nick.” She turned from the window. “I’ll do it for you. So you’ll be finished with it.”

“We’re so close,” he said again. “What do you want to do, walk away from it? I need to do this for him.”

Another wry smile, looking down at the nuts.

“What?” Nick said, annoyed.

“Not for him,” she said. “Don’t you know that?” She raised her hand, stopping his response. “It’s okay. I want you to bury him. But how do you end it, Nick? What are you going to do if this works, if you do get Silver? Have you thought about it?”

Nick looked down, embarrassed because he hadn’t. It had seemed enough to know, to see a face. “This one we turn in,” he said finally.

“But not the others.”

“He’s a murderer.”

“Maybe they are too.”

“And maybe they just sell shirts. Would you have turned Rosemary in?”

She shrugged, shying away. “I guess not. I don’t know.”

“Molly, what’s wrong?” he said, touching her arm. “What are you so worried about?”

“You’re just so determined.”

“We’re going to get him.”

“Then what? Push him over a balcony? Nick, let’s just give the whole thing to the FBI now. Let them do it.”

Nick took a drink, calming himself, so that when he spoke his voice was steady and reasonable. “Molly, for all we know it is the FBI.”

“You just want to do it yourself.”

“Yes,” he said, still calm. “I want to do it myself. I want to see his face.” A beat. “Then it’ll be over.”

“Will it?”

He held her eyes, sure. “Yes.”

She glanced out the window, avoiding him, then busied herself lighting a cigarette. She exhaled, then nodded. “When do I go to work?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Selling seashells by the shore,” she said. “Let’s hope I don’t end up the same way she did.” Then, before he could answer, “And just when I was getting somewhere with Mr Brown.”

“What do you mean? I thought you said he wasn’t there.”

“He wasn’t. But there’s another thing, if you had let me finish. I took a drive over to the parking lot at National-that’s where you said he left the car, right? Well, it wasn’t there. So what is he up to?”

Nick thought for a minute, then frowned. “It doesn’t matter. It isn’t him.”

“But funny, don’t you think?”

“We don’t have time. She’s the only one who matters now.”

“Well, you have to do something while I’m playing salesgirl. Why not find out? Unless you want to protect him from the FBI. One of your innocent spies.”

“What are you talking about?”

“See the guy at the end of the driveway? He’s been keeping an eye on us.”

Nick looked out the window. “You’re sure?”

“I’ve developed this instinct-in my new professional capacity,” she said airily, then nodded. “Pretty sure.”

“He follow you here?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. I just noticed him while we were talking. I told you Lapierre would have them put a tail on us.”

“Then he’s interested in me. Good. We can’t have anyone walking you to work.”

“Take the car out tomorrow and see.”

“Damn. Why now?” Nick said, worried. “What do they want?”

“Like old times, isn’t it?” Molly said, her eyes back at the window.

“We have to get rid of them.”

“The FBI?”

“Hoover can.”

She glanced back, amused. “That would do it.” Then, seeing he meant it, “Right to the top. Larry’s name again?”

“No.” He smiled. “I thought I’d use Jeff’s.”

But he didn’t have to use either name: Hoover sent for him.

He drove out to National in the morning, avoiding Chevy Chase, his eyes almost fixed on the rearview mirror, but the tail, if it was there, had been trained in a better school than Zimmerman’s-he seemed to be alone. He went slowly through the parking lot. No car. Had someone taken it? A day ago he would have felt uneasy; now it was only a piece of a different puzzle.

He took the direct route home, then doubled back across the Mall, where they were putting up a stage for the peace rally. Still no obvious tail. Then, at the hotel, he saw they hadn’t bothered. The two men approached him in the lobby, said the boss wanted to see him, and led him to the car. When they hustled him into the back seat with a peremptory shove, he was at Holeckova again, the same helpless anxiety, his palms damp, as if he were back in handcuffs.