Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“I didn’t know I felt it then.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Something else. Proving yourself, I suppose. Men. And we’re the ones who end up worrying.”

Nick looked away, seeing himself for a minute as he had been, the blind desperation to be thought loyal, beyond reproach. Like everyone else. His friends, who were safe, without a past, could afford to be different. So he’d gone, not fighting for his country, just asking for its good opinion. Not that that was any excuse. He turned back. “You know why.”

Her eyes widened, as if they had felt the crack that opened up in her, and for a moment he thought the crack would widen, that at least she could admit this. But the lacquer worked; she came back together, sealed up. He saw that he had frightened her and he retreated, literally taking a step back.

She looked at him for a moment but didn’t answer, and then began her own retreat, walking back over to the coffee table.

“Would you do something for me? Could we just not talk about any of this at lunch? I don’t think I’m up to it. I really don’t.”

Nick spread his hands. “No politics. No religion.”

“Oh God, that reminds me. Did I tell you? Father Tim had a heart attack. You might send him a note.”

“Serious?”

“Well, he thought it was indigestion,” Larry said, coming out of the bedroom, smoothing his tie.

Nick laughed.

“You’re both terrible,” his mother said indulgently. “I don’t know why you’re so mean about him,” she said to Nick. “He’s very fond of you.”

“He means well,” Nick said, tongue-in-cheek.

“Well, he does. Anyway, at his age anything’s serious. It would be sweet if you did write.”

“I thought you were the same age,” Nick said.

“Not quite,” his mother said. But her eyes were happy again, enjoying herself.

“What gets me,” Larry said, “is how anybody dares to confess anything to him. Man’s the biggest gossip I’ve ever met.”

“That’s because you’re not a Catholic. You don’t confess to a man-a priest is someone else then. Tim takes that sort of thing very seriously, you know, whatever you might think.”

“Come on,” Larry said. “I’m starving. You two solve all the problems of the world while I was in there?”

“We left a few for you,” Nick said.

“You go ahead,” his mother said. “I just want to fix my face.”

“Should we start without you?” Larry said, implying the usual long wait.

“Don’t be fresh. Five minutes. Not everybody slept all the way over. I need a little armor.”

“Don’t do any damage.”

“Go on. Off,” his mother said, shooing them out the door.

They passed up the elevator for the thick-carpeted stairs, Nick quickening his step to keep up.

“So how are things, Nick?” Larry said, putting a hand on his shoulder as they walked. “Do you like it here?”

“It beats law school.”

Larry stopped. “You can always go back and finish, you know,” he said seriously.

“Larry-”

Larry held up his hand. “Withdrawn,” he said, smiling, and started down the hall again. “But what are you actually doing? Except having a good time. You are, I hope. When I was your age- You seeing anybody?”

Nick shook his head. “You know, a girl tried to pick me up this morning. At least I think she did.”

Larry grinned. “If you don’t know, then it’s time to get out of the library.”

“I guess,” Nick said, returning the grin. “It suits me, though. For now,” he added, wondering if it did, if the long afternoons in the stacks were anything more than an academic time-out.

“Well, it’s your life. Sounds a little quiet to me. What do you do all day?” Larry said, his voice filled with telephones and secretaries and agendas.

Nick smiled to himself. “At the moment I’m doing some research for Aaron Wiseman.”

“So he said.” Then, catching Nick’s look, he smiled. “I ran into him when he was in the States last month.”

“Checking up?”

“Just a little. Old habits.” He brushed it aside. “What exactly are you writing?”

“He’s writing. I look things up. He says history’s like a criminal investigation. The documents are the clues.”

“And you’re the detective?”

Nick heard it, the tiny edge under the geniality. Instinctively he glanced over, but Larry was nodding to the bellman at the bottom of the stairs, ignoring him.

“So the students do the spade work,” Larry said easily. “The old fox. No wonder he keeps churning them out.” They turned into the long corridor of the lobby. “What’s this one? Something about HUAC, I gather.”

“He didn’t tell you more?” Nick said, amused at Larry’s cat-and-mouse. “One old fox to another?”

“You tell me.”

“Jacobinism,” Nick said flatly. “How the patterns never change. HUAC, the other committees. He’s got me on SISS, the Senate committee.”

“Mr McCarthy,” Larry said after a pause, as if he’d been trying to place the reference. “You know, he never really cared one way or the other,” he said, his voice oddly reminiscent.

“He did a lot of damage for not caring.”

“He didn’t, though. I think he was surprised anybody took it seriously.” They had passed the Palm Court, with its swirl of angels and gilded moldings, when Larry stopped and turned to him. “Do you think this is a good idea, Nick?” he said, still trying to be casual, but Nick was alert now.

“You don’t.”

“I’m not sure what it means to you, that’s all,” Larry said softly. In his voice Nick heard the old protection, transferring him back from the field again.

“It’s a research assignment, Larry, that’s all. There are four of us. Nothing personal,” he said. He smiled at Larry. “It’s okay.”

Larry looked at him, but apparently decided not to press the point. “Well, you know your own mind. I just don’t want you picking at scabs.” He hesitated. “Don’t mention this to your mother.” Nick nodded, wondering for a second if that had been his real point all along.

“You know, when you live through it-” Larry said suddenly, talking to himself. “Wiseman never knew them. Drunks. Opportunists. Little men who wanted to be somebody — that’s all it ever was.” He paused. “They’re not worth your time, Nick. Anyway, they’re gone.”

“Not all of them,” Nick said, looking straight at him. “Your new boss is still there.”

Larry held his eyes for a minute, then turned toward the dining room. “Let’s go in.”

The maitre d‘ recognized Larry and took them across the pink room to a table near the tall windows facing Green Park. The day was still gray and dreary, but overhead, clouds floated across the painted ceiling sky. Gold ran along the walls and hung in long swags between the bright chandeliers, giving the room the summer luster of a giant jewel box. As they opened their napkins, waiters swarmed around them, removing cover plates, dishing out butter, taking drink orders, so that finally, when they were gone, Nick smiled at the sudden peace.

“Imagine what it’s like at dinner,” he said, apologizing by moving on.

But Larry refused to be distracted. “I didn’t elect him.”

“It’s none of my business.”

“Yes, it is. I don’t want you protesting me too. You think-well, what do you think?”

“I don’t see how you can do it,” Nick said simply. “Nixon. Of all people.”

“Yes. Of all people,” Larry said slowly, looking down at the table. “Leader of the Free World. One of history’s little jokes.” He paused as the waiter filled their wineglasses, then looked up at Nick and said quietly, “He isn’t Welles, you know.”