Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“Quite a restaurant,” Larry said, nodding at the room. Men smoked near the fireplace, ignoring the women, who perched on the edges of the deep couches, busy with each other. A waiter was passing brandy. It looked to be a long night.

“Quite an invitation,” Nick said. “Thanks. Good luck tomorrow.”

Larry nodded and shook his hand. “Don’t forget to call the lawyer.”

“I won’t. By the way, who’s Jack Kemper?”

Larry grinned. “What did he tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Well, he wouldn’t. He’s CIA.”

In the hall, Molly was being helped into her gaucho cape, a remnant of her morning self. The servant, stiff and correct, held it as if it were mink, and as she slid into it, the two halves of her life seemed put together without matching.

“Shall I call you a taxi, sir?”

“No, thank you. We’ll find one.”

The man raised a dubious eyebrow, but nodded and opened the door. “Mind how you go,” he said, indicating the dark driveway, dense now with night mist.

But it was the obscurity Nick wanted. He took her arm on the steps and they walked out of the range of the house lights, over the canal toward Prince Albert Road.

“You okay?” he said.

“I’ve never felt so out of place in my life.”

“No, you were the hit of the party.”

“I kept thinking, what if they knew?”

“Knew what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That I didn’t belong there, I guess.” She paused. “What was it like, growing up like that?”

“I didn’t grow up like that. It was just-normal, you know. The usual stuff. School. Sports. They went to parties, I did homework.”

“An all-American boy.”

“Mm. Eagle Scout.”

“You’re kidding.”

“On my honor,” he said, holding up three fingers in the oath position.

She stopped, looking at him. “You’re not what I expected.”

“You said that before. Anyway, I’m not a Scout any more.”

“No.”

“There’s something I’ve wanted to do all evening.” Before she could say anything, he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, pressing her lips gently until she opened her mouth and he tasted the faint trace of wine. But then she pulled back and put her hand between them.

“Don’t you want to?” he said, surprised.

She nodded. “That’s the problem. Then later you’d think-”

He grinned. “I’m not old-fashioned. I’d respect you in the morning. Promise. Scout’s honor.”

She bit her lower lip. “No, you don’t understand. Look, I need to talk to you. Let’s go somewhere.”

“No, here. What’s wrong?”

She looked to the side, avoiding him, then took a breath and turned back. “Okay. I was going to explain, but I couldn’t in there. And then-” She stopped. “Let me have a cigarette, will you?”

He fished one out of his pocket, still looking at her. He was amazed to see her hand trembling slightly as she took it. “What’s this all about?” he said, lighting it for her.

She inhaled as if drawing strength from it.

“I told you someone asked me to look you up. You never asked who.”

“Who?”

“I was supposed to give you a message. I never meant to-”

“Who?” he said, impatient now.

She looked up at him as if she were afraid of his reaction. “Your father.”

“Larry?” he said, so that he wouldn’t have to think anything else.

“No, your father. Walter Kotlar. I met him. He asked me to-” She paused, taking another drag on the cigarette. “He wants to see you.”

It was her idea to go to Jules Bar. A pub would have been noisy, her flat impossible, and when they got into the taxi he seemed incapable of suggesting anything, so she said the first thing that popped into her head. He was quiet all the way to Jermyn Street, not sure where to start or whether to start at all, one thought canceling out the other until he felt empty, staring at the meter. She didn’t try to talk either, and for one crazy moment it seemed to him that they’d already entered the clandestine world, afraid to be overheard in taxis.

He wants to see you. Why? How? When the taxi stopped, she got out and paid and he just stood looking at the blue neon martini glass, now a little wary of her because, like a lover, she knew the most intimate thing about him.

“Who are you?” he said when they sat down. The bar was supposed to be like a New York cocktail lounge, dark and cool, little tables with flickering votive candles.

“Who I said. I just met him, that’s all.”

“Two vodkas,” he said to the waiter, then turned back to her. “That seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Of course I want to hear it. Christ.” He lit a cigarette. “What were you doing in Moscow?”

“He’s not in Moscow. He’s in Prague.”

“All right. What were you doing in Prague?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“We have to start somewhere. Tell me. Or are you with the CIA too?”

She looked at him blankly, having had a different dinner partner. “Well, if you must know, I went to see a guy I knew in Paris. He’s from there. There were lots of Czechs in Paris last year. You know, before the invasion.”

“But he went back.”

She nodded. “I thought we were-well, wrong again. Imagine my surprise. He didn’t even want to see me. I suppose he thought it would get him in trouble. So like an idiot I show up at his door, and voila, the new live-in girl takes one look and-anyway, what’s the difference? Satisfied?” She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m not a spy. I just went to Prague to make a fool of myself.”

“My father was a spy,” Nick said simply.

“I know who he was.”

The waiter brought the drinks in Jules’s widemouthed martini glasses and he gulped his, managing half before it burned.

“So how did you meet him? After the girlfriend threw you out.”

“Well, that’s the funny thing. Jiri let me stay there — I think it was her idea, actually. To torture him or something. But I really didn’t have anywhere else and I’d already exchanged my money, so I just hung out and saw Prague. They took me places. To tell you the truth, I think Jiri liked the idea of people thinking he was with both of us. You know, that he had some menage a trois going.”

“Did he?”

“No.” She glared at him, then let it go. “Anyway, they took me to a party one night and that’s where I met him. Your father.”

“At a party,” Nick said. “When was this?”

“Last month.”

“You took your time.”

She shrugged. “I went back to Paris. I wasn’t sure what to do. But I kept thinking about it. So.”

“So here we are.” He paused, looking down at his glass. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, he knew where you were. He knows all about you. I guess he keeps tabs.”

For a second, his life seemed to tilt on its axis. He kept tabs. He never left.

“How is he?” he said finally.

“He’s fine,” she said, which told him nothing he wanted to know. “I mean, I guess he is. I only met him once. Well, twice.”

He looked up at her. “Go ahead.”

“I met him at the party. I knew who he was. And I thought, well, maybe there’s a story. Maybe he’d talk to me-you know, give me an interview. He’s never given one.”

“No, never,” Nick said.

“So I thought there’d be a piece in it.”

“For Rolling Stone,” Nick said sarcastically.

“For somebody.”

“They weren’t even born,” Nick continued. “Do you honestly think anyone cares?”

“Are you kidding? Walter Kotlar? After all these years? Everybody’d want that piece.” She paused. “It would be a huge break for me. Anyway, I thought it was worth a try. So I asked him and he agreed to meet me.”