Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“He said he wanted to come home, that’s all. Maybe the FBI thought he meant it. I don’t know why. They don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time.” Larry paused. “He said that, about coming back? Christ. What did you say?”

“I didn’t say anything. It wasn’t real, Larry, just some dream he had.” And here, with the sun flashing on the yellow taxis, was it anything more?

“How could he think-? Come home. He must have been out of his mind.”

“Yes, he must have been,” Nick said, an edge. “He killed himself.”

Larry stopped and looked down, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean-”

Nick said nothing, letting the moment hang there, everything awkward. The chicken salad arrived. Larry sipped his iced tea.

“They said you found the body. That must have been-” He switched tack, avoiding it. “How did he do it? They didn’t say.”

“He jumped off the balcony,” Nick said, matter-of-fact.

“Jumped?”

“It’s an old Prague custom. Like Jan Masaryk.”

“Yes,” Larry said, surprised at the reference. “I remember.”

Another awkward pause, a sip of tea.

“That doesn’t always work. Was he still alive when you found him?” Larry asked, his tone almost delicate, talking around it, like asking a cancer patient the details of his medication because you couldn’t ask how it felt to die.

“No. No last words,” Nick said.

“It must have been terrible. Finding him.”

“Stay away from it. That’s why they thought I killed him, at first. It wasn’t jail, you know, just a few questions.”

“Christ, what a mess,” Larry said. “You’d think he’d have waited. Not while you were still there.”

“I don’t think he was thinking about that, Larry,” Nick said.

“No.” A quick step back.

“Maybe it’s because I was there. His seeing me. That’s what the police think.”

Larry grabbed his arm across the table, almost violent. “Don’t you think that. Ever. Don’t you do that to yourself.” Then he pulled his hand back and looked away. “Hell,” he said, general, meaningless, like shaking his fist in the air. He picked at his salad, letting the polite room settle around them. “What was he like?” he said finally, as if they were just making conversation.

“The same. Different. He was sick. I met his wife.”

“What’s she like? A Russian?”

“No, Czech. They met in Moscow, though. She didn’t talk much. He wanted to talk about old times.”

“Old times?”

“When I was a boy,” Nick said. “Not politics. Not what happened.”

“No, I guess he wouldn’t.”

“Jokes we used to have. You know.”

“No, I don’t,” Larry said, irritated, then caught himself. “Never mind. What else?”

“Nothing. We went to the country. We went to a Benny Goodman concert.”

“God.”

“He was just happy to see me. I thought so, anyway. I had no idea he was thinking about-”

“No, he was always good at that. The old Kotlar two-face.”

“Come on, Larry.”

He sighed and nodded, an apology.

What else? How Nick’s heart had turned over that first night at the Wallenstein? Putting him to bed? His face at the gallery, gazing at the fatted calf? The bottomless regret? None of it. “He showed me his Order of Lenin,” Nick said instead.

“Well, he earned it,” Larry said sourly. “I’m sorry, Nick. A couple of jokes and old fishing stories? I remember other things. I remember you. The way you walked around looking like you’d been kicked in the face.”

“I remember it too, Larry,” Nick said quietly.

“He shouldn’t have done it,” Larry said, as if he hadn’t heard. “Making you go there. All these years, and he just crooks his little finger like nothing happened. Jokes. I’ll bet he was charming. He was always charming.” He spoke the word as if it were a kind of smear. “He charmed me. Well, they’re all good at that. All smiles. You ought to sit across a table from them. Day after day. Not an inch. They don’t want us out, they want us to keep groveling. Showing you his medal-was that supposed to make you proud? What do you think he got it for?”

Nick stared at him, amazed at the outburst.

Larry put down his fork and looked out the window, visibly trying to retrieve control. “He shouldn’t have done it,” he said. “You might have got in real trouble. I didn’t know you were there.”

Nick waited a moment. “I’m sorry you were worried, but nothing happened. I’m back. He wasn’t charming. He was a sick old man. Now he’s dead. It’s over.” He paused. “What’s this all about?”

“I don’t know,” Larry said, still looking out the window. Then he turned back to Nick, his eyes thoughtful. “Maybe I’m jealous. It’s hard to share someone.” He picked up his fork, then put it down again, as if a prop would distract him. “You were so stubborn. Like an animal. You wouldn’t trust anyone. And I thought, I’m not going to let this happen to him. Okay, at first it was for your mother. I never thought about having a kid, not even my own. You were just part of the package. But there you were. You wouldn’t give an inch either.” He paused, a smile. “Just like old Ho. Maybe you were my special training. But then it changed a little. Then a little more. The funny thing was, I wasn’t winning you over-it was the other way around. I loved being your father. All of it-all those things I didn’t expect. Christ, those hockey games.” He looked up. “I thought you were mine. You remember the way people would say we were like each other and you’d give me that look, our little secret? But I loved it when they said that. We are a little, you know. I see myself in you sometimes. I don’t know how that happens. Of course, I don’t see myself farting around London when you could be making something of yourself here. Well, I had to say it. But I know you will.” He looked straight at Nick. “You’re the hardest thing I’ve ever done. So maybe I’m jealous when someone has you so easily. One call and you come.”

“And if you called, I wouldn’t?”

“Well, you like to be the only one. Maybe it’s wrong. I never thought I’d have to share you, but I do. So I’ll learn. Even with him. I thought Walter was a fool-I’m sorry, I did, I can’t pretend. But I don’t want you to think I am too.”

“I don’t think you’re a fool.”

“Well, you will if I go on like this. A little unexpected, isn’t it? Maybe I’m getting old, a little fuzzy. But a stunt like this. Christ, Nick. Wait till Hoover tells you your kid is locked up somewhere.” Larry paused and Nick saw the hint of a question in his eyes. “But it’s all over now.”

“Yes, it’s all over.”

Larry glanced at his watch. “I have to run, I’m sure you’ll be relieved to hear. Go see your mother, she’s expecting you. You might skip the body details-you know, after he fell. She’s been- It brings everything back. So maybe just the old jokes. And how you weren’t in jail.” He paused, a glint. “And his wife.”

He got up and started out, Nick following. “I shouldn’t leave her, but I’ll be back Friday. It’s like the shuttle, back and forth to Paris every week. They love face-to-face in Washington these days, I don’t know why. Maybe they don’t trust the phones. Well, they’re right. Remind me to tell you the latest about Nixon and old Edgar. The War of the Roses. To tell you the truth, I don’t mind the planes. No calls. You get to read the papers.” They were on the bright marble steps, traffic honking, the quiet formal rooms behind them like some misplaced dream of London. “By the way, what’s with the hotel? You’ve got a perfectly good room at home sitting there.”