Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

The room emptied quickly, a few polite condolences to Anna, then a shuffling toward the door. No one talked to Nick.

“I’m sorry, Anna,” he said when the others had gone.

“Thank you for coming,” she said formally. Then, softly, “He would have wanted that.”

He felt his insides lurch. “I wish I had known him better.”

“I think you knew him better than anyone,” she said sadly. “You knew what he was like before.”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, at a loss. “Can we take you home?”

“No, no. I have to stay here. For the arrangements. Goodbye,” she said to Molly, holding out her hand. “He liked you.”

“Oh,” Molly said, struck. She reached over and embraced Anna, surprising her. “Is there anything-”

“No,” she said stiffly. “It’s all arranged. Goodbye.”

Nick looked at her, not knowing what else to do. His stepmother, a stranger. But she was already turning away from him, back to her life.

“Anna? Would you tell me something? What did he do that last day, before the concert?”

She looked up at him. “He took a nap.”

“You were with him? I mean, did he see anybody?”

“No,” she said, sterner now. “He took a nap. He was thinking. He would do that, lie on the sofa thinking and then fall asleep.”

“He didn’t go out?”

“No, I told you. Leave me alone now.” She looked up, her eyes fierce. “Leave Prague.” Then she turned her back to him and walked over to the undertaker.

Outside, the street was empty except for the Skoda, parked in front where he would see it.

“Maybe they’ll give us a ride,” Nick said.

“Don’t,” Molly said, nervous. “It’s not funny. There’s a tram stop down there at the next street.”

They walked to the corner.

“Mr Warren.” A voice from a car window, rolled down.

“Miss Masaryk,” he said, surprised.

“You remember. Good. Please, come to lunch.” She handed him an address.

“That’s very kind of you, but-”

“No, it’s not kind. I want to talk to you. Alone.” She glanced at Molly. “Excuse me.”

“Why?”

“About your father. It’s important. You’ll come?”

“When?”

“An hour. Don’t ring the bell, it’s broken. The top floor. There’s a good view,” she said irrelevantly, then rolled up the window and started the car.

“Who was that?”

“A friend of his,” he said, not wanting to give her a name. “She probably wants to talk old times.”

“It didn’t sound that way.”

“I won’t be long.”

“Let me know if-”

“If what?”

“You’re going to be late. I’ll be worried.”

A narrow street in the Old Town, near the river. The downstairs bell in fact was broken, the panel taped over, and the lobby itself, heavy stone cool as a monastery, was in disrepair. A pail sat in one corner to catch drips, and the broad stairs were worn down by the years, crumbling near the edges. When he began to climb, he could hear the echo of his steps in the stairwell.

She opened the door immediately, as if she had been listening for him, and motioned him in.

“Good, good, I was afraid you would miss it. The door, it’s confusing. Come in. Some coffee? Maybe a brandy.”

Nick shook his head, looking around. The room followed the curve of the eaves, vaulting near the windows, dipping lower toward the back. There were books everywhere, stacked to the ceiling on their sides, too many for shelves. Yellowing cream French spines, shinier English jackets. What wall space had escaped the stacks was crammed with picture frames, next to each other, a collage of old photographs and prints. The dining table near the window, already laid with open-faced sandwiches and pickles, was set for three. A pack of Marlboros had been placed in the center like an extra course.

He looked at the third plate, but she misinterpreted, following his eyes farther, to the window.

“Yes, come and see. It’s why I stay. My little nest. It’s too small, but the view makes up for that.”

A romantic view, the Charles Bridge and the hill rising behind it to Hradcany Castle, spires everywhere.

“I saw the tanks from here. A friend telephoned, so early. Who calls at such an hour? Go to your window, he said, the Russians are here. And there they were, coming over the bridge. I was standing right here all morning, watching them. The bridge was shaking. I thought, if one of the statues comes down. Bastards.” She waved her hand dismissively.

“Is someone else coming?” Nick asked.

“Yes.” He heard a kettle whistle. “Sit, sit. I’ll make the coffee.” Fluttering, not wanting to talk.

“How did you know my father?”

“Through Anna. We were at school. Of course, that’s a long time ago. But she came back, so I met him. He used to come here to talk about books, many times.” She stopped. “I’m so sorry for you.” Then, obviously relieved, she heard the knock. “Ah, he’s here.”

Nick stood waiting as she opened the door. Zimmerman, still in his mourning suit. They exchanged greetings in Czech, a social kiss.

“Mr Warren, you don’t mind? Anna was so kind to arrange. It’s easier to talk here.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

He held up his hand. “You misunderstand. It’s not the interrogation. I want to talk to you in a different way. No questions. Well, perhaps one.”

“Sit, sit,” Anna said, busying herself with the coffee, settling them in.

Nick sat down slowly, feeling ambushed. There was an awkward silence while Anna poured, neither of them saying anything. Zimmerman took one of the Marlboros.

“What question?” Nick said.

Zimmerman nodded to Anna, who went over to a stack of books and brought back an envelope.

“Your father asked Anna to hold this for him. He was going to collect it yesterday morning.”

“I’m always up early,” Anna said, as if that explained it.

“I took the liberty of opening it. Under the circumstances. Miss Masaryk, of course, had no idea what it was.”

“Then why did she tell you about it?” Nick said, looking at her.

“She was concerned when she heard the news of his death. She thought it might be important. You understand, we are very old friends.”

“It’s Karl who started the investigation into Uncle Jan’s death,” she explained. “It’s he who was helping Frantisek’s brother with the manuscript. You can trust him.”

Nick opened the envelope and drew out a Russian passport: his father’s picture, Cyrillic type.

“Your father was not Jewish.” Zimmerman pointed to the Cyrillic letters. “Not called Pechorvsky, either. But that is his picture, yes? Can you think why he would need such a thing? A Russian Jew’s passport?”

“No.” But Nick’s heart was racing. All of it was true. His father’s papers for the train-not at the flat, but ready. Everything just as he had said.

“That page is an exit visa,” Zimmerman said.

“But it’s not his.”

“No. Pechorvsky’s. Who died of kidney failure.” He picked up the passport, running his finger along the edge of the picture, the raised seal. “Not the best, but it would pass. The visa’s good for two more weeks.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.”

“Well, I don’t. Was that your question?”

“No.” He slipped the passport back into the envelope. “Mr Warren, a man with someone else’s exit visa can only mean one thing. He was planning to leave. Perhaps by train,” he said, looking away, casual. “But not, I think, to Israel, like poor Comrade Pechorvsky. My question is, why?”

“Why? Everybody wants to leave.”

“Not everybody. A man with the Order of Lenin, who betrayed his country-would such a man be welcome in the West? What made him think they would want him back?”