The prodigal spy

“Through Anna. We were at school. Of course, that’s a long time ago. But she came back, so I met him. He used to come here to talk about books, many times.” She stopped. “I’m so sorry for you.” Then, obviously relieved, she heard the knock. “Ah, he’s here.”

Nick stood waiting as she opened the door. Zimmerman, still in his mourning suit. They exchanged greetings in Czech, a social kiss.

“Mr Warren, you don’t mind? Anna was so kind to arrange. It’s easier to talk here.”

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

He held up his hand. “You misunderstand. It’s not the interrogation. I want to talk to you in a different way. No questions. Well, perhaps one.”

“Sit, sit,” Anna said, busying herself with the coffee, settling them in.

Nick sat down slowly, feeling ambushed. There was an awkward silence while Anna poured, neither of them saying anything. Zimmerman took one of the Marlboros.

“What question?” Nick said.

Zimmerman nodded to Anna, who went over to a stack of books and brought back an envelope.

“Your father asked Anna to hold this for him. He was going to collect it yesterday morning.”

“I’m always up early,” Anna said, as if that explained it.

“I took the liberty of opening it. Under the circumstances. Miss Masaryk, of course, had no idea what it was.”

“Then why did she tell you about it?” Nick said, looking at her.

“She was concerned when she heard the news of his death. She thought it might be important. You understand, we are very old friends.”

“It’s Karl who started the investigation into Uncle Jan’s death,” she explained. “It’s he who was helping Frantisek’s brother with the manuscript. You can trust him.”

Nick opened the envelope and drew out a Russian passport: his father’s picture, Cyrillic type.

“Your father was not Jewish.” Zimmerman pointed to the Cyrillic letters. “Not called Pechorvsky, either. But that is his picture, yes? Can you think why he would need such a thing? A Russian Jew’s passport?”

“No.” But Nick’s heart was racing. All of it was true. His father’s papers for the train-not at the flat, but ready. Everything just as he had said.

“That page is an exit visa,” Zimmerman said.

“But it’s not his.”

“No. Pechorvsky’s. Who died of kidney failure.” He picked up the passport, running his finger along the edge of the picture, the raised seal. “Not the best, but it would pass. The visa’s good for two more weeks.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.”

“Well, I don’t. Was that your question?”

“No.” He slipped the passport back into the envelope. “Mr Warren, a man with someone else’s exit visa can only mean one thing. He was planning to leave. Perhaps by train,” he said, looking away, casual. “But not, I think, to Israel, like poor Comrade Pechorvsky. My question is, why?”

“Why? Everybody wants to leave.”

“Not everybody. A man with the Order of Lenin, who betrayed his country-would such a man be welcome in the West? What made him think they would want him back?”

“I don’t know,” Nick said, hammering each word in.

“No? But it’s a question, don’t you agree?”

“He’s dead. The question is who killed him. Why don’t you ask that?”

“Because I know who killed him, Mr Warren.”

Nick stared at him, almost afraid to go on. “Who?” he said quietly.

“That is, I know who must have killed him. It’s not difficult. What interests me is why.”

“Who?” Nick said again.

“So direct, Mr Warren. Sometimes an answer is indirect. Please listen. More coffee, Anna?”

Nick sat silently.

“Of course, every case is different,” Zimmerman said. “It’s the similarities that intrigue.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please. I said I had only one question. But I also have a story. That is why I wanted to see you. Will you listen to it? It will interest you, I promise. You are familiar with our history, I saw that at the station. ”The housemaid’s solution.“ How much do you know about the Masaryk case?”

“Hardly anything. Look-”

“Then listen carefully. I know a great deal about it, almost everything. It’s as Anna says. Last year, under Dubcek, there was an investigation, so we would know, once and for all. It’s a national obsession, that case, our great mystery. Does it matter, after so many years? A little-you’ll forgive me-like your President Kennedy. To know exactly what happened. So with Jan Masaryk.”

“Everybody knows the Russians did it.”

“But to know, Mr Warren, to prove it. It’s not easy. So many people have died-the night watchman, the doctor who signed the death certificate. Some natural, some not so natural. Just last year, a bodyguard who talked to me was shot on the highway. By thieves?”

“Karl himself was in danger,” Anna said, touching Nick’s arm, a conspirator. “He was threatened. They don’t want the truth to come out, even now.”