Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

Instead he was thrown into a chair and photographed, the flash blinding him, then yanked down the hall to a bare room. Not a cell. A plain table, two chairs, a picture of Husak on the wall. They pushed him down into one of the chairs, hands still behind his back, delivered another volley of incomprehensible Czech, then left. The door slammed.

No one came. What should he do-kick the door, demand to see someone, to have his one telephone call? But there were no rights here. He was a foreigner with blood on his clothes. Maybe they were watching him. He looked around. No mirror, just blank walls, Husak looking down. The bump on his head throbbed. They couldn’t leave him here, throw away the key-a child’s fear. An interior room, one small window facing a wall, the light always the same, no way to tell the time until it was dark. The story was the important thing now, what to say. The truth would start another web, catching him, sticking to him like his pants. He looked down. Would it never dry? He felt his eyes fill again. You always brought me luck. But he hadn’t. Dancing, careless, while his father made a new plan, an emergency exit that hadn’t opened. Why the change? He sat back, still dazed, and waited to see what would happen.

It was at least an hour before they came, or had waiting distorted his sense of time? His hands were numb. The two policemen again, with another, not in uniform, his fat neck spilling over his collar. He gave an order, the cuffs were taken off, and while Nick rubbed his wrists, the new man leaned over the table, glaring and talking into his face. When Nick didn’t answer, signaling that he didn’t understand, he said, “Ach,” a sound of disgust, and sent one of the policemen out. Now they all waited, the big man in the suit pacing. Eventually there was a knock on the door and another man in a suit came in. This one was slight, with a moustache, and his eyes took Nick in like a jeweler. Then he listened to the big man grumble in Czech. He turned to Nick.

“This is Chief Novotny,” he said, pointing to the big man. “Criminal Investigation Department.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“He’d like to ask you a few questions,” he said formally, sidestepping it. “I will translate. My name is Zimmerman.” He caught Nick’s glance. “Sudeten,” he explained, “but Czech.” An unexpected courtesy, almost social.

Novotny snapped at him, evidently telling him to get on with it. He nodded. Good cop, bad cop. Novotny handed him Nick’s passport. What had happened to Molly’s?

“You are Nicholas Warren.”

“Yes.”

“And how do you come to be in Holeckova this morning? In Pan Kotlar’s flat. You were acquainted?”

“We met at a concert last night.”

“Concert?”

“Yes, Benny Goodman.” The sound of it absurd, even to him. Novotny grunted. “He invited me to come for coffee.”

“A kaffeeklatsch,” Zimmerman said. “Why?”

“He used to be an American,” Nick said. Used to be. “I think he wanted-”

“News from home,” Zimmerman finished.

“Something like that.”

“So early. In the morning. Not the afternoon coffee.”

“I’m leaving Prague today. It was the only time. So I went. But he was-I found him on the grass. He was dead. He’d been dead for a while.”

Zimmerman looked at him sharply. “How do you know?”

“His skin was cold.”

“I see. You examined him?”

“To see if he was alive. That’s why the blood.”

Novotny interrupted in Czech; the other answered him, annoyed but polite. Then he turned back to Nick.

“But you went into his flat?”

“To call the police.”

“But you didn’t.”

Nick pointed to the policeman. “He got there before I had the chance. Someone else must have called.”

“Yes. You were there long?”

“A few minutes. Look, what’s this all about? He was dead. Do you think I killed him?”

“I don’t know, Mr Warren. I don’t know that anyone killed him,” he said carefully. “Do you have reason to believe someone did?”

“I didn’t mean that.”

“No. Last night, at the concert, how did he seem to you? Was he upset in any way?”

Desperate, Nick wanted to say. But had he been, or did it just seem that way now? “I don’t know. I don’t know what he was usually like. He seemed all right to me.”

“So you were surprised, this morning.”

“Of course. It was-horrible.”

There was another exchange of Czech, then Novotny went to the door, said something, and came back with Nick’s canvas bag. By the body. Why had he forgotten? Novotny handed Zimmerman Molly’s passport and the tickets.

“You were going on from coffee? To the station?”

Caught. “Yes, later.”

He opened Nick’s passport. “Your visa includes an entry permit for a car. You are aware that it is illegal for you to sell a car to a Czech citizen?”

“I didn’t sell it.”

“A present, then, perhaps? You were not by any chance leaving it for Pan Kotlar?”

A hopeless tangle now. “No, why would I do that?”

“If you had just met. Yes, I agree. But you were traveling by train?”

Think. “It was acting up. I was going to have it fixed and come back for it.”

“You’re very trusting, Mr Warren. To leave a car.”

“The hotel would take care of it.”

“But you couldn’t wait.”

“No, I had to be in Vienna.”

“What is your business, Mr Warren? You’re a journalist?”

“No. I’m at the London School of Economics.”

“A student?”

“A research assistant.”

“With business in Vienna.”

“I’m traveling with someone. She had to be there.”

He fingered Molly’s passport. “Miss Chisholm,” he said, pronouncing it correctly. “Your friend?”

“Yes.”

“She was not invited for coffee?”

“She had other things to do.”

“It’s a pity you did not join her, Mr Warren.”

He turned to Novotny and reported in Czech, a brief summary.

“You had better think of a better explanation for the car, Mr Warren,” he said, almost confiding. “He’s interested in the car. By the way, the next Vienna train doesn’t leave until late afternoon. I thought you should be aware of that.” Nick stared at him. “Now, quickly please, what did you see in the flat? Had anyone been there?”

“I think so. Furniture was pushed around, as if there had been some kind of fight. Chair moved out of the way. I suppose he might have done it himself, but why?”

“Anything else?”

“Scrape marks on the railing. But there was nothing on him to make a scrape with, so I assume it was someone else.”

Zimmerman nodded approvingly. “If it was made then. How long did you say he’d been dead?”

“I don’t know. I can’t tell. He wasn’t stiff, just cold.”

“All right. Thank you.” He stood up, talking again to Novotny. “Think about the car.”

“Can I go now?”

“Go? Mr Warren, I’m afraid you are in difficulties. Unless of course Pan Kotlar seemed-agitated to you last night. It might have been. Otherwise, the police will be interested in you.”

“I don’t understand. Aren’t you the police?”

He smiled. “Actually, I was chief of police. Until last year. A year can make a great difference here, you see. Today, Chief Novotny. He’s more comfortable with the regime, or perhaps they with him-it depends how you look at it. Now I help him.” Another tram driver. “A research assistant,” he said, his voice ironic. “But I’m glad of the work. It’s hard, you know, to break the habit.”

They brought Molly in sometime after noon.

“Nick. Thank God,” she said, her face drawn and nervous. “What’s going on? I’ve been frantic.” She moved toward him, then looked at the police and stopped. Novotny watched them blankly, shut out by language, but Zimmerman followed her with interest.