Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“Then we’d better get started.” A promise, well meant, unaware that it would complicate things. “I won’t be a liability,” she said, reading him.

“Take a look over there.” He nodded toward the platform. “See those guys? They’ve been checking passports. They may be looking for me, I’m not sure. If you’re with me, they’ll arrest you too. They’d have to.”

Molly looked at the men nervously and Nick thought he had finally frightened her, but when she turned back her eyes were calm, in control. Then I’ll go first. If they stop me, you’ll know.“

“I can’t let-”

But she stood up, ignoring him, then bent down and kissed his forehead. “If they don’t, meet me on the train.” She hitched her bag onto her shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

“Molly?” But there was nothing to say that she didn’t already know. “It’s not a game. If I don’t make it, stay on the train. Don’t come back.”

She looked at him, a tiny flicker of alarm, then said, “I’ll save you a seat.” She put her hand to her hair. “How do I look? I left in kind of a hurry.”

“Don’t take any chances.”

“Now you tell me,” she said softly.

He watched her walk across the hall, bag swinging, and onto the platform area. If they did stop her, what would he do? The men looked at her carefully as she dug into the bag for her ticket and passport, exchanging glances. Nick sat up in his chair, ready to bolt. They were talking to her, not the indifferent wave they’d given the others. Could Foster really help if they took her? Then there was a nod, the papers were handed back, and she was through. It was when they turned to watch her walk down the platform that Nick realized, another comic moment, that what had interested them was not her passport but her wonderful legs.

But what did that prove? They were obviously looking for someone. Why not him? He looked at his watch. The Berlin train hadn’t pulled in yet. How long would he have once it did? He tried to remember the other morning. Ten minutes? Maybe he should go now, not make a dramatic last-minute sprint. But if they stopped him, Molly would see and try to help. He sat paralyzed, trying to think of a way.

The cafe was busier now. A few workmen were ordering morning beers, talking sullenly, glancing over at him with curiosity. An American reading Rude Pravo? He couldn’t stay here much longer without attracting suspicion. Where was the train? He lit a cigarette, an ordinary gesture, and when he looked up from the flame saw Zimmerman through the glass, walking across the waiting room.

He was alone, without his watchdogs, but his eyes were scanning the hall, on the lookout. Nick sat back, away from the window, and watched him head straight for the Berlin platform, his movements as lithe and full of purpose as a dancer’s. He went up to the two men, who acknowledged him with a nod and huddled with him, familiar. The conversation seemed to go on forever, beyond a courtesy chat, as if they were comparing notes. Zimmerman turned and looked once more at the station floor, ticket office to newsstand. When his eyes stopped at the cafe, Nick wondered if he could see through the glare of the glass, a policeman’s radar. But he turned back, touched one of the men on the arm, and walked out onto the platform.

He’d see Molly. There’d be no missing her. Maybe lead her back to the gate. It was the weak link he’d overlooked before. For an instant Nick thought of leaving, a quick dash for the station doors, a taxi to Foster. But if he went there now, there’d be no chance of getting out, no friendly hitch on the lettuce run. They’d want to know everything, and Nick’s safety would pass through the sieve, the same leaks that had killed his father. And maybe Zimmerman wouldn’t stop her after all. Hadn’t he advised Nick to go? Nick put out the cigarette. He couldn’t stay here, in the open.

He left the cafe and crossed to the right, out of the line of sight of the gate, and went into the men’s room. One man, washing his hands. Nick went past him to the end, entered the last stall, and slipped the bolt on the door. He sat on the toilet and took a breath, finally hidden, like an animal gone to ground.

But now he couldn’t see. The view of the platform, his eye on the checkpoint, waiting for the right moment, all gone. He was blind. The train would arrive without his knowing it. He wouldn’t know when Zimmerman left, or whether he was alone. His hiding place had left him only sound, magnified, the sensitive noises of the blind. When someone entered the men’s room the steps came out of an echo chamber, the zipper, the splash against porcelain, then steps again. It went on like this for a few minutes.

Then there was silence. He thought he could hear the hiss and clunk of a train pulling in, but it might be his imagination. He checked his watch. Now every minute would count. But what had happened outside? He imagined opening the door and facing a circle of guns, trapped, the way he’d been at Holeckova.

The slam of the door made him sit up. Steps, but no peeing, no water from the taps. The steps continued, not hurrying, perhaps searching. When they stopped outside his door, he could see the neat shiny shoes underneath.

“Mr Warren.”

Nick made no sound, drawing further into his hole.

“Mr Warren, open. There isn’t time.”

But how could he know? Nick’s American shoes, as obvious as a billboard. Nick unlatched the door, caught.

“Why did you leave the cafe?” Zimmerman said. “We don’t have time for hide and seek.”

“Molly told you I was there?” A silly betrayal. It would have been so easy to lie.

“Miss Chisholm trusts me. I thought you did too. Evidently not.”

“What do you want?” Nick said, standing up.

“I came to warn you.”

“Those men outside?”

Zimmerman nodded. “STB. Direct orders from the Interior Ministry. I found out this morning. That’s why I went to your hotel. But you had flown the coop.” He mispronounced the word, like the French coup.

“Are you arresting me?”

“ They want to arrest you. I have come in here to relieve myself, that’s all. I saw no one. Now listen to me for once. Wait a minute after I’ve gone, then leave here and go straight to the taxis. Don’t even look back. Maybe you’ll be lucky. Then go to your embassy and stay there.”

“I can’t do that.”

Zimmerman looked at him curiously. “Maybe one day you will tell me why. It would be interesting. But now, just go. You cannot get on that train. They’re looking for you everywhere. They smell blood. I don’t want it to be yours.”

“What about Molly?”

“Miss Chisholm is getting on a train. No one asked me to look for her.”

“You’re taking a risk with all this.”

“No, I don’t take risks. I’m a Czech. Like the Good Soldier Schweik, a worm. A worm wriggles, he can move the earth without getting stepped on. We can’t do that. But we can move a little dirt.” He looked into Nick’s eyes. “I know who killed your father, Mr Warren. We both know. There’s nothing I can do about that. We live under that boot. So, a wriggle only. I won’t give them an innocent man. What will they do? A show trial? Another Masaryk case, somebody else to blame? We have to live with them. Let them live with themselves.” He stopped. “You must hurry.”

“Help me.”

“I can’t do that,” Zimmerman said, surprised. “I just came to relieve myself. My friends want me on the platform. You see, I know what you look like. I can’t let you get on the train.”

“I can do it. You just have to distract them. You said yourself they’re looking everywhere. No one expects me to leave-how could I? You have my car. I don’t even know they’re looking for me. Do those men really expect to find me here?”