Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

Hoover raised his head, as if he’d heard a bell.

“If you don’t want them, maybe Nixon will. He could make you look awfully pathetic. Director’s so past it he doesn’t even know he has a spy in his own department. He’d do it. With a speech about your long record of service.” A twitch in Hoover’s jowls; anxious now. “But I’d rather give them to you.”

“Why?”

“Well, for one thing, I don’t trust him to get them off the street in time. You could do it in an hour. Keep my behind safe for walking around.” He paused. “And I want something from you.”

Hoover peered at him, waiting.

“I want to know who told you about Rosemary Cochrane. One name.”

“For five.”

“Well, four, to be precise. One of them’s at the Russian embassy. I only have the code name. But you probably know all the players there anyway. Maybe on tape. I’d like that destroyed too, by the way, the tape you played the other day. I always sound funny on tape.”

“A real wise guy, aren’t you?”

Nick shrugged. “I grew up in Washington. You get to know how a place works.”

“No, you don’t. A trade. What makes you think I wouldn’t get them out of you anyway?”

“What, with a rubber hose? Like the Commies? You don’t do business that way. You do business this way.”

Hoover said nothing.

“One name.”

“What do you want it for?”

“I just want to know. It’s worth it to me. But not as much as my names are worth to you. It’s a good deal.”

Hoover watched him, thinking, then leaned over and picked up a silver pen from an antique set on the coffee table. He scribbled on a notepad, then tore off the page and held it up.

“There’s not much you can do now anyway,” he said with a sly smile, making the better bargain.

Nick reached over, but Hoover raised his eyebrows. Nick nodded and took the sheet of names and addresses from his pocket. He handed it to Hoover with a formal gesture, like a diplomatic exchange, then looked at the small piece of paper.

It took a second to sink in-a name, just a squiggle on a piece of paper. Rosemary’s letter. The overlooked clue. One confession is enough. The start of everything that had happened to them.

“You’re surprised,” Hoover said, enjoying it.

Nick stood up. “Thank you for the lighter.”

“I knew you’d be a friend to the Bureau.”

Nick looked at him. That’s one thing I’ll never be.“ He pointed to the list in Hoover’s hand. If you start now, you can probably get them before you go down for drinks.”

“You’re a cold bastard,” Hoover said, a kind of admiring salute.

“I didn’t start that way,” Nick said.

He found her in the emergency room, her wrist taped but not in a sling.

“It’s just a sprain. They don’t know why I’m still hanging around.”

“Just sit tight for a few more minutes. I have to pay a visit.”

“Your face,” she said, studying him.

“I’ve just been with Hoover.”

She nodded at the TV monitor in the waiting room. “There’s been nothing on the news, by the way.”

“There won’t be. Store’s closed, remember? I doubt if any of our friends are running to report it. I’ll be right back.”

“A visit here?”

“An errand of mercy. Five minutes.”

The night-duty nurse was sympathetic. “It’s after hours. Just a few minutes, okay? He gets tired. It’s difficult for him to talk. He still slurs.”

Nick went into the private room and closed the door. There was a small reading lamp, but no books. Father Tim’s head was raised on an inclined pillow, his body motionless. Only the eyes moved in recognition.

“Nick,” he said, the word muffled by the twisted face. A string of drool hung out of one side of his mouth. His hands still had some movement. He was clutching a rosary, a nurse’s call button nearby. “Nick,” he said again, that awful forced sound. “Livia-?”

“You hateful bastard,” Nick said.

Tim’s eyes blinked in astonishment.

“You told me to think of him as dead.”

A gargled sound came from the bed.

“Shut up. He is dead now. Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“No-”

“It was you. Hoover told me. One confession. That poor, stupid girl. She’d never imagine, would she? It’s supposed to be sacred. Did you run right over from church to tell him? You interfering sonofabitch. One of Hoover’s little helpers. Root out the Communists, protect the Church. Christ.”

“Godless,” Tim mumbled, struggling to explain.

“She didn’t know you were just like the party. Means to an end. She trusted you. You were a fucking priest. But you’re the real party. No doubts.”

Tim’s eyes darted about the room in frustration.

“Just one bad moment, when you thought you caused her death. But you forgave yourself, didn’t you? God always forgives if you ask him in time, isn’t that the way it goes? And for such a cause. But I don’t forgive you. I want you to die knowing that. Never. You ruined our lives. For what? So you could have dinner with Clyde and Edgar? Do God a favor? Rosemary Cochrane was murdered. My father was murdered. Does God forgive that? Maybe yours does, but it’s a chance, isn’t it? What if you’re wrong? Maybe they’re just beads.” He brushed the rosary in Tim’s hand.

“Communists-”

“Yes, they were Communists. So what? Anyway, they died for it. I want you to see their faces when you go. Do you know how my father died? Somebody took a pillow, just like this one, and held him down till he couldn’t breathe. Till his legs stopped kicking. Yours wouldn’t even move.”

Tim, his eyes wide with fright, moved his hand toward the call button, but Nick snatched it and put it on the table, out of reach.

“Don’t worry. I’d like to, but I won’t. You’re not worth it. Let God do it.” Nick leaned over. “I just wanted you to know what you did. So you can live with it too.” And then suddenly, the fury broken, Nick felt his eyes fill with tears. “You started everything. You unholy bastard. Just so you could be somebody-with your lousy piece of gossip.”

He looked down at the figure, the still, wasted frame, the twisted face, already punished. What was the point? Tim’s eyes leaping.

“You thought I’d never know,” Nick said calmly. “All that time, watching it happen. My mother. Nobody blaming you. Not even blaming yourself-not after putting yourself in God’s hands. I’ll bet you made a private confession. Only a fool would trust the box.”

“Nick-” Another gurgle, his breathing ragged.

“But I do know. So die knowing that. I do know. No absolution.”

Nick turned to go. A frantic sound. He looked back. The breathing was a gasp now, Tim’s hands motioning toward the call button. Nick started toward the table to get it, then stopped.

“No,” he said. “Let God do it. He owes you.”

The old man’s eyes wild now, afraid. A grunt.

“Pray, Tim,” Nick said, backing away. “Maybe he’ll hear you.”

Molly, seeing his face, said nothing in the car, fiddling with her bandage instead.

“Who were you seeing?” she said finally.

“An old friend of my mother’s. He’s dying.”

“What a good little boy you are.”

“The best.”

She looked at him. “You all right?”

He nodded. “It’s over. We’re going to New York.”

“They’ll call. About your father.” For a moment she was quiet. “You killed him, didn’t you? Not the other man.”

He looked straight ahead. “Yes.”

She bit her lower lip. “Was it-self-defense?” Wanting it to be true.

Nick saw Larry’s surprised face, finally betrayed. “Yes,” he said. She was about to speak again when he turned to her. “It’s over.”