Joseph Kanon - The Prodigal Spy

“Back there,” Nick said, nodding at the cubicles. “He go back there?”

“Fuck you.”

Nick glared at him, a cop’s look. “You want me to close you down?”

“Hey, man, I just work here. You see anybody back there? It’s slow, you know what I mean? He bought a magazine, that’s all. You want to buy one?” The kid reached under the register and picked up a baseball bat. “Then get the fuck out. You’re not fuzz. I know fuzz.”

“You sure?” He saw the kid hesitate, but let it go and turned to the door. His hand on the knob. “What’d he buy?”

“A lez mag. So he likes lez. What the fuck.”

“Thanks,” Nick said, leaving.

“Yeah, peace. Hey, close the fucking door.” Brown’s car was still there as Nick crossed the street. “He’s just sitting there,” Molly said. “What do you think he’s doing?”

“I don’t know,” Nick said, disappointed. “Beating off. He likes lesbians.”

“What’s wrong with you?”

“We’re wasting our time. He wasn’t shaking a tail, he just wanted to be sure no one saw him buying dirty magazines.”

“There he goes. Let’s make sure.”

But the trip back to Chevy Chase was uneventful, no diversions, and when he went back into his house the carriage lamp went off.

“Now they can both settle in for the night,” Nick said. “I wonder if he locks his door.” He turned to Molly. This isn’t working.“

“Yes, it is. It just takes time. They’re spies. We know that. Sooner or later-”

“But how much later?”

“Let’s get another car. That way at least we can cover two of them at once.” She glanced at him. “Unless you don’t think I can do it.”

He smiled. “I think you can do anything. All right, I’ll start with Ruth. You take the Russian girl.”

“I thought you said he wouldn’t use a Russian.”

“Not at the embassy. Let’s see where she works.”

He was in Alexandria at dawn, but not up before Ruth Silberstein. A small light on upstairs, presumably the bathroom. He sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup, prepared this time for a stakeout.

Twenty minutes later she was out of the house. Nick leaned forward and looked closely. Probably in her forties, carefully made up, dark hair teased into a kind of beehive helmet, like the Johnson daughters‘, a belted raincoat even though the morning was already warm. High heels and a black purse, the car keys ready in her hand, everything in its place. Even her walk was efficient, like the professional secretary she probably was. She got into a Volkswagen and ran the motor a few minutes before she pulled away. Ruth Silberstein, who are you? What do you do?

She took the direct route to the parkway, driving fast, breaking lanes. The river, shiny with sun, flew past the window. Nick got into the lane for the bridge, anticipating her, but she turned over to the Virginia side and he was forced to dodge cars to get back. Toward the cemetery. He stared at the little car, keeping her in sight, ignoring signs.

When she pulled off into a side road he had no idea where he was until he saw the vast parking lot, acres of it ringing the five-sided building. Well, the Pentagon, yes. Early, to get a space near the building, to minimize the distance in high heels. Or maybe her boss liked to start early, whoever he was, who probably thought the world of Miss Silberstein, because she knew where everything was. Nick watched her walk into the building, ready for whatever paperwork came her way, running two copies, to be on the safe side.

It was still early, so he decided to make another pass at Chevy Chase. The black Navy man seemed unlikely somehow-would Silver pass on sub designs? — and Brown, whatever his taste in magazines, was somebody at Justice. The street still seemed asleep, only a garbage truck clanking its way down the row of cans, but after two cigarettes Nick saw the door open and Brown come out, his mother on the stoop waving to him after a kiss goodbye. He was carrying a suitcase. He got in the car without even looking at the street.

This time he didn’t leave Wisconsin but headed toward the river, past the Georgetown cliffs and then over the bridge Nick had expected Ruth Silberstein to take, so that Nick found himself back on the parkway, going in the opposite direction. Not toward the Justice Department.

The car turned off for National Airport and inched its way through the crowded, winding access roads to the terminal’s long-term parking lot. Nick circled around, to see if Brown actually went into the terminal, then pulled into a space and sat, not sure what to do. The Eastern entrance. New York. Or maybe New York to somewhere else. For an instant Nick was tempted to go after him, hide behind a newspaper a few rows behind, follow his taxi. But what if it turned out to be as pointless as the adult store?

He drove back to Washington. Anacostia was down to his right, the Pentagon behind him, Chevy Chase beyond, a little necklace of spies-what did they actually do? — ringing the unsuspecting city. Or half of it, the only part he’d seen. He looked up at the Capitol in the distance. If he kept going straight on Constitution, he’d be there. The house on 2nd Street. He turned a sharp left. Never.

“I think he spotted us,” he said to Molly when he got back to the hotel room, slumping on the bed. “Going away the next day.”

“It might not be the next day to him. Maybe he’s on vacation.” She smiled slyly. “That’s why he got a magazine for the plane.”

She took out the telephone book and flipped some pages.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m finding out. If you want to know something, the easiest way is to ask.” She started dialing.

“What about Irina?”

“She works at the embassy,” she said over her shoulder.

“So.” Then, to the mouthpiece, “John Brown’s office, please.” A minute. “Yes, is he in, please? Oh, and he told me to call today. I see. Well, when do you expect him? Uh-huh. All right, I’ll try back. No, no, it’s just a friend of his mother’s.” She hung up and turned to Nick. “Was that hard? Not a vacation. He had to go out of town today, she doesn’t know why, he just called from the airport. But I should try back. He’s very good about checking in.”

“Which tells us what?”

“That he wasn’t planning to go. Something came up. I suppose we could try the New York field office, but that’s probably stretching it. I mean, what if he is there?”

“We don’t even know if he’s actually with the Bureau,” Nick said.

“Mm. Or just someone down the hall.”

“So now what?”

“Well, I knew you’d be bored. While they were at work. So I had a little idea of my own. Remember the police report on Rosemary? I got the name of the signing officer. Retired, but still alive. So I called. He’ll see us. I think he was amazed.”

“I’ll bet. Where does he live?”

“Actually, not too far from Ruth Silberstein. Al McHenry. He wheezes. Maybe he drinks. Still.”

The house smelled of medicine and old age, an oxygen tank and face mask standing guard near the lounge chair. He made tea, shuffling around in a cardigan and slippers. “It’s the emphysema. There’s not a damn thing you can do for it, either. It’s all the smokes, I guess. Well. Just throw it over there,” he said to Nick, who was fiddling with the bulky sofa pillow. “So what can I do for you? I wasn’t on that case long, you know. The FBI took it over. Moved right in, the way they do. National security. Noses up in the air, all of them. Like we’re just flatfeet. But I don’t see they got anywhere either, did they? We did everything right, you know, at the scene-the dusting, the plastic bags, the whole works, the way it should be. They’ll say we didn’t, but it’s a lie. We did it all. The fact is, there was nothing left for them to do, that’s the truth of it. If there’s one thing I’m always careful about, it’s the scene of the crime.”