Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“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.”