Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

He turned back to her. “Well, that makes two of us.”

He saw the flush rise in her face, a kind of blood wince. She lowered her eyes. “Not anymore. Now there’s just you.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you don’t trust me.”

“I mean I can’t. It’s not safe.”

She shook her head. “You think I’m going to tell Jeff. You still think that.”

“They killed him, Molly. It doesn’t matter whether I trust you or not. It’s not safe.”

“But why?”

He hesitated, then said, “Just ask him who knew.”

“I’m surprised you trust me to do that. What is it, a kind of test?”

“It’s important.”

“Then ask him yourself. I’m tired of playing Mata Hari. First him, now you. If I don’t know what you’re doing, I don’t want any part of it.”

“You are a part of it. That’s the other thing. Find out if he told them about you, if anyone in Washington knows about you.”

“Me?”

“Let’s hope he took all the credit. He looks the type. Old matchmaker Jeff.”

“What would he tell them?”

“That you arranged it. That you’ve been sleeping with me.”

“So what?”

“Somebody might get the idea that I confided in you. That you know why too.” He stopped, letting it sink in. “Ask him. And tell him we both think it’s suicide. Can you make him believe that?”

She nodded slowly, her eyes wide. Then she reached out and touched his arm lightly, tentative. “We have to talk about things.”

“There isn’t time now.” An echo, somewhere in the back of his head. There isn’t time.

“I never meant-” She looked up, a new thought. “Nick, whatever it is-what he told you. Do they know?”

“Not yet. Nobody does. Not even you. Do you understand?”

“But it’s true? You’re sure?”

“It has to be. He’s dead.”

He left Molly at the corner and turned left toward the tank square, his mind buzzing. What if Foster hadn’t told anyone after all? What if Anna didn’t have the list? He’d have to leave Prague with nothing but a history lesson from Zimmerman, a half-answer eating away at everything. Silver safe and sound, still sending his useful reports. The woman is the key, his father had said, but that trail had ended in the Mayflower Hotel, as cold now as the snow on the car where she’d fallen. Now there was only the list, with the name that could lead him to Silver.

When he got to Holeckova, he looked back to see if one of the shadows had split off to follow Molly, but they were both there. Only interested in him.

The same hill, steep. Then the gate, the concrete steps leading up to the apartment building. He stopped when he reached the lawn, his eyes drawn to the spot in helpless fascination, like a car accident. No bloodstains, everything cleared away. Just grass. Surprised at how much it had hurt.

You don’t have room for anybody else. But it wasn’t true. That elation, opening out to her, and then the ice pick stabbing at him on the bridge, betrayed, the way he had felt that night, looking at footprints. He had thought no one could make him feel that again, and here it was, the same surprised bleeding. Now there were two who had done it, touched that part of him. And oddly, some twisted joke, they were the only two he still trusted. He knew it now, looking at the lawn, his anger gone. You could trust a touch, despite everything. It came back again and again, a heartbeat, making room.

He took the lift, avoiding the stairs where the killers had crept past the brick glass. Or had they clunked their way up, heedless, not caring if the neighbors heard? Just following orders. Anna opened the door at the first touch of the buzzer.

“Nicholas, come in. You got the message.”

He nodded. “You have something for me?” He looked around at the bland Scandinavian furniture. Everything was clean, almost antiseptic, as if it had been scrubbed down.

“Come,” she said, leading him to the bedroom.

“Where did you find it?”

She looked at him, confused, then continued into the room. He stopped at the door. Everything the same-bed, desk-but tidy now, no signs of disturbance. He looked at the neat pillows, feeling queasy. Did she sleep on them? She went over to the desk and brought back a small urn shaped like a squat loving cup.

“The ashes,” she said simply. “Here, I want you to have them.”

He took the urn, stupefied. It was cool to the touch. “Anna, I-”

“No, it’s better.” She looked down at the urn. “You have them.”

The urn was surprisingly heavy. He stared at it, not knowing what to say. His eyes wandered over to the desk. Not the list. Nothing hidden here.

“I can’t.”

“Yes. Take him home. That’s what he wanted.”

“Did he say that? Did he tell you?”

She shook her head. “I knew. I was his wife. He was never happy here. Only a little. Take him home.”

So small. The tall body reduced to a bowl of ash. He could hold it in his hands.

“Perhaps you would bury it somewhere he liked. At the country house.”

“It was sold,” Nick said numbly.

But no list. In a minute he would have to go, turn his back on the flat for good, leaving the list behind. But was it here? What had his father said? The echo again. There isn’t time now. But why wouldn’t there be time if it had been here in the flat with him? He was careful. The passport had been safe with Anna Masaryk. Not at the flat.

“Nicholas, do you hear me?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

“If it’s not possible in the country, then wherever you think best.” She handed him a slip of paper. “This is the document. You’ll need it for customs, so they won’t open it. It’s sealed.”

Why tell him that? Was she afraid they’d violate the remains, spilling ashes in a clumsy search through the luggage?

“I can’t take this.”

“You must.” Her eyes on him, an order. She nodded. “For him.”

Unless it wasn’t just ashes. He stared at her. His father had sent her away that night. Visiting relatives, or a last errand? Now that she had it, she’d be careful too, speaking in code for the listening walls. He looked down at the urn again, his hands clammy on the cool metal. Sealed. Was it possible? His father would carry it out after all. “Thank you,” Nick said finally.

“Be careful with it. The seal is easy to break.”

“I understand.” Another glance. “So he told you.” She looked hard at him, her face as closed as it had been at the police station. “Nothing,” she said.

She led him out of the room. At the door, when he leaned to embrace her, she stepped back awkwardly, extending her hand instead. “ Na shledanou,” she said, using Czech to move away, no longer connected to him.

He carried the urn all the way back to the hotel, covering it with his raincoat, not risking a tram. The room was empty, and he locked the door before he sat down at the writing desk. He looked at the urn for an edge of wax or plastic, but there was nothing but the lid. Maybe the seal was only a tightly fitted groove, like the top of a jam jar. He took the urn and tried to twist the cover, his hand slipping on the smooth metal. A handkerchief. He gripped it and tried to unscrew the top. What did you do with jars? Run the top under hot water. Tap it with a knife. He squeezed again, straining, putting his weight into it. Then a tiny jerk, a loosening, and the lid began to turn slowly. He followed it around, then turned again. Easier now, coming off. He lifted the cover and looked in. Not the black-and-white ash of a fireplace, different. An unexpected brown mixed with gray.

He stared at the urn, queasy again. Human ash. He touched it gently, as if it might still be warm, but it was cool, so fine that it left a smudge, like cigarette ash. He pulled back his hand. He took a pen from the writing pad, poked it in, and stirred. It wouldn’t be paper. Film. His father had said you could copy things on film, even a whole manuscript, like Frantisek’s brother’s. He pushed the pen through the brown-gray ash, as light as powder but dense, as if the pen were moving through fine sand. Better to think of it as anything except what it was.