Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

Only sounds again, like the men’s room. The conductor slamming the platform side door. Another door closing — with any luck, the woman leaving the WC. But too late now. A loudspeaker in the station, scratchy. The engine humming. If the train started moving, he’d never make it; the jolt would throw him from the car. Then voices, indistinct. Finally Zimmerman’s, loud, as if he were announcing their presence as they moved through the cars. Nick felt sweat running down the side of his face. Worse, his fingers were getting numb. Come on. Then the voices were nearer, a door opened. “No,” he heard Zimmerman say-the check on the WC? — and they were moving into the next car.

Now. He couldn’t wait any longer. His breathing was ragged, as if his fingers were gasping for help. Gripping even tighter with his right hand, he slid his left toward the handle, straining, terrified he’d slip. It turned smoothly, without a sound, and then he had the door open and was moving his foot inch by inch until finally it was there, and shifting his weight to the supporting handle, he dragged himself back inside. He was panting. How much farther along were they? He glanced toward the WC door. Frei. He had to risk it. He couldn’t stand in the open back of the car, waiting for conductors and attendants to look at him in surprise. Don’t slouch, act normal. He took a breath, straightened, and quickly crossed over to the door. He jerked it open and went in, waiting for a cry of discovery. Instead there was another whistle on the platform, a louder throb of the impatient engine. He clicked the lock behind him. Besetzt.

Another few minutes and the train had still not moved. How much longer would they be? A cursory second check, just to make sure? He took a rough paper towel and wiped his face. His shirt, he saw, had begun to soak through; his fingertips were red. Then he heard them doubling back through the car, presumably on their way out. Zimmerman’s voice was disgruntled, fed up, his time wasted. Steps in front of the WC, a burst of Czech. “ Ano, ano,” Zimmerman said, bored. A knock on the door. He had to open it; a refusal would be the end. But what if they were all standing there, looking in? He turned the lock and opened the door a crack. Zimmerman stuck his head in, meeting Nick’s eyes, his colleagues inches away. I don’t take risks. A worm. Nick closed his eyes, waiting.

“ Ne,” Zimmerman shouted to them and then, to Nick, apologetically, “ Trominte, pani.” He bowed his head and closed the door.

When the train started with a jolt, Nick was pitched to the side of the narrow cabin. The window, painted over for privacy, had no view. He could hear the slow moving of the wheels, then the clicks as they passed over the points in the yard, switching left, gathering speed, until the car was rocking steadily, on its way. They would be passing through the dormitory towns now, drab concrete towers with washing hanging from the balconies. He opened the door and started toward Molly, balancing himself in the center of the swaying car.

“You all right?” she said when he took his seat next to her, still breathing heavily. “You’re sweating.”

Through the window, the country was racing by in a blur. He took her hand and held it, then, an uncontrollable nervous reaction, broke into a grin, almost laughing out loud. “How did you get past them?”

But all he said was, “We made it,” still grinning, in a private haze of well-being.

“We’re not out yet,” she said, but she smiled back, catching his mood. “I thought I was going to throw up.”

“You?”

She nodded. “We just learn to put a good face on it. Girls. In case you haven’t noticed.”

He looked at her, then down at her legs. “They did.”

“I told you I could help,” she said, then looked at him seriously. “I did, didn’t I? Telling Zimmerman. I didn’t know what to do. I thought, what if I’ve given you away? But he seemed so worried.”

“You were right.”

“Then, on the train, he never said a word. Didn’t even look at me. I didn’t know what was happening, except that they hadn’t got you yet.”

“He didn’t want them to know about you. They’d have taken you off.” He touched her arm. “It doesn’t matter now. We made it.”

He leaned back and reached for a cigarette, looking out the window, content just to breathe. No more buildings, just trees.

“What happens now?” Molly said after a while.

“We stop at Brno, I think. Then the border.”

“No, I meant after.”

He lit the cigarette. “We finish it. We find out who killed her.”

“Oh, Nick, I don’t care about that.”

“It’s the same person who killed him.”

“In Washington,” she said slowly. “That’s what this is all about.” She turned to him. “Whatever it is.” A question.

“When we’re out of the country,” he said, answering it.

“For my own protection. Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?”

“No. I don’t want you sticking your neck out for me.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” she said. “Stick my neck out. I’m in love with you.”

He stopped. Out of nowhere, like the whistle on the platform, a rush of adrenalin. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

He looked at her, helpless. “I don’t know what to say back.”

She smiled. “You don’t have to say anything back. I just thought you’d like to know.”

He leaned over and kissed her, just brushing her lips, tentative, as if he were looking for words.

“Stick my neck out,” she said, her face close. “My God.”

“But if something happens-”

She put her mouth on his. They were still kissing, oblivious, when the conductor came into the car, trailed by the customs inspector. Nick sat up, embarrassed, then saw instantly that she’d brought him luck again. The men were amused, raising eyebrows at each other, glad of a break in the routine. Up ahead, tickets were taken, bags hauled down from the overhead rack. The luggage. Still not over. In a panic, Nick tried to think of the right excuse. Our things were sent ahead. We’re just going to Vienna for the day. None of it was logical. They’d notice someone without luggage. But in the end they didn’t even ask.

“American?” the conductor said, smiling, as he flipped the passport. “I have brother in America. Detroit. You know Detroit?”

Nick shook his head. “New York.”

“Ah, New York. You have good time in Prague?”

For a second Nick wanted to laugh, hysterical. A wonderful time. But the man was addressing Molly, flirting, his eyes on her legs.

“It’s very beautiful,” she said, the standard answer. How many times could they hear it?

“Like yourself,” the conductor said, courtly, handing the passports back.

They had begun to move along when the customs officer noticed the urn on Nick’s folded coat and said something in Czech.

“What is?” the conductor asked, evidently translating.

Nick felt his palms grow slick. “Ashes,” he said, then pointed to the end of the cigarette. “Ashes. My father.”

The conductor frowned. Something that didn’t make sense. “Open, please.”

Nick picked up the urn, unscrewed the top, and held it out. “Ashes,” he said again.

“Ah, ashes,” the conductor said, pretending to understand. He rested his finger on top, preparing to go through it. What did he expect to find? Drugs? Jewelry? There had to be a word.

“Krematorium,” Molly said suddenly, giving it a German pronunciation, catching the man just as he was about to poke inside. He stopped and made a face, squeamish, looking at a corpse, and handed the urn back to Nick. He spoke a line of Czech to the other, threw an odd look at Nick, then gave it up-Americans were inexplicable-and moved down the car to harass traveling Czechs. Nick screwed back the top, relieved, and put the urn under his coat. His father had made it out. “You’re shaking,” Molly said, watching him. “What was that all about? Have you got something in there?”