Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“All right, stop yelling at me.” She went over to the cosmetic bag, took out a tampon, and tossed it on the bed. “There.”

“Is that all of it?”

“Would you like to search me?” she said, spreading her arms.

“Christ, that’s all we need, to get nailed for drugs. Then what?”

She walked over to the bedtable and lit a cigarette, annoyed now. “I don’t know. You’ve got connections. Maybe your father would get us off.”

“That’s not funny.”

“All right,” she said. “I’m sorry. What do you want? I thought it wouldn’t matter. It’s not legal in the States either, you know.”

“We’re not in the States. We’re in fucking Austria, with Lisa Koch downstairs and a trip to Husak’s workers’ paradise just down the road. They put people in jail for reading Playboy, for Christ’s sake.”

“No, they don’t.”

“You know what I mean. You want to test them? ”Welcome to Czechoslovakia — you’re busted.“ Christ, Molly, what were you thinking?”

“All right. You made your point. Go flush it down the toilet.” She walked over to the open window. “Boy Scout.”

As she stood by the window, he could see the length of her, the filmy material of her nightgown outlining the lean body, and he bounced between being aroused and irritated, his senses made alert by contradiction, as if the air around him were scratchy. It always seemed to work this way with her, feeling taunted and protective at the same time, then becoming impatient with himself for being distracted. He saw, looking at her, that it wasn’t going to go away, the static, and that most of it was coming from somewhere outside them, the larger interference of the trip and what he would find. Meanwhile, they rubbed against each other, not sure why they were nervous in the first place.

“Sorry,” he said, quietly now. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

He picked up the tampon and walked toward the door.

“Nick?” She came over to him, a peace gesture, and held out her palm. “I’ll do it. What if Frau Berenblum’s out there?” She smiled. “How would you explain this?”

He handed it to her. “I was looking at the map before. If we backtrack to Freistadt, we can head straight up to Dolni Dvoriste tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she said quickly. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” he said, puzzled at her reaction.

“We’re supposed to be in Vienna. I thought we had to keep to a schedule. You know. Anyway, don’t we have reservations?”

“We’ll cancel. Change of plan.” He turned away from her. “I want to get this over with. We can see Vienna later.”

“But-” She paused. “Are you angry? About the dope? Is that what it is?”

He shook his head. “Forget it. I just want to get there, Molly. Don’t you? What’s so important about Vienna?”

She looked down, at a loss. “Nothing, I guess. It was the plan, that’s all. A little more time.”

“We can be in Prague tomorrow. We’re so close. A drive away. I used to think it was impossible-to go there-and it’s just a drive away.”

“Only from this direction,” she said.

They had their last salad in Freistadt and drove to the border through gently sloping, wooded country, still and empty during the long rural lunch time. He had expected the road to the border to be grim, but the land was placid and rich, neat farms and stretches of old forest promising mushrooms. Then the road curved and the woods fell away and they were looking across a long cleared tract to the checkpoint. Beyond it another empty stretch rose uphill to the Czech crossing. In these open fields it would be impossible to hide.

Without thinking, Nick slowed down, already intimidated. He looked at the guardhouse, the tall watchtower, fences of barbed wire, all the props. But real to them. If you ran out across the field, you would be shot. The Austrian farms ran right up to the border like some jaunty declaration of freedom, but on the Czech side the land was empty. Just the fence. There would be searchlights at night. The guards, playing by the rules, wouldn’t hesitate for a minute. So you kept away, behind the other side of the forest. Maybe nobody ever came this close, to see the elaborate watchtower. If you don’t see the bars, you can pretend you’re not in a cage.

The Austrian border police were bored and perfunctory, stamping their passports and waving them through. Nick wondered how useful they’d be to any escapees. He put the car in gear and moved slowly up the broad hill, aware that they had now left Austria and whatever protection it offered. It was crazy-he had not expected to be frightened, but the years of pictures and warnings flooded through him. They had crossed, just a plain field, into enemy territory.

The Czech guard waved them over to the side of the road. A machine gun hung from his shoulder.

“ Dobre odpoledne,” he said, which Nick understood as good afternoon, and then a line of incomprehensible Czech. When they didn’t respond, he pointed the gun toward the guardhouse.

“He wants us to go in,” Molly said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s like this. Relax.”

She got out of the car, smiling, but the guard ignored her, looking at the back of the car, peeking in through the window.

Inside they managed the essentials with Molly’s smattering of German, but the uniformed officials seemed to be moving underwater, drugged by their heavy lunch. Finally they were led into a plain room-nothing but Husak on the wall-that reminded Nick of interrogation rooms in movies. But there were no questions, just nods and papers being taken to another room, visas being examined, then passed on to someone else, even the offer of tea from the gas ring in the corner. Then they were left alone.

Nick stared out the window at the two guards going over the car. They had placed their guns on the ground and seemed to be examining everything, one of them lying underneath, the other bent over to catch what seemed to be a running commentary. Earlier they had asked for the keys, and now they opened doors and explored the trunk. Inexplicably, they didn’t touch the suitcases, just poked their heads in for a look, then continued to walk around the car. For a second Nick thought they might actually kick the tires, like customers in a showroom.

“There’s something wrong. I can feel it,” Nick said, jittery.

“Maybe,” Molly said. “I don’t know. I flew in before. It’s different at the airport.”

One of the officials came in, handed them their passports, and spoke to Molly in rapid German. Nick watched the exchange, a verbal badminton, waiting to be told.

“It’s the currency form,” Molly said, her voice amused. “It says we changed sterling, but we’ve got American passports, so it’s a confusion.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants you to change money again. Got any dollars? Amazing what a dollar buys here. I hope his wife comes in for a piece.”

“But-”

“Do it, would be my advice.”

Nick shrugged and pulled out a traveler’s check. “This any good?”

“As gold.”

The exchange, with its forms, took a little longer. They were allowed to wait outside now, and Nick stood by the car, looking up at the watchtower and the soldier staring down at him, gun ready. How could his father want to live here? Russia would be even worse. In the patchy sunshine, Nick began to sweat. The barbed wire was higher than he’d expected-you’d have to cut it to get through. He took a cigarette pack from his pocket.

“American?” a guard said, walking up to him. For a wild moment Nick thought it might be contraband, but the guard’s eyes were friendly and Nick realized he was just trying to cadge one. When he offered the pack, the guard smiled and took two.