The prodigal spy

He carried the urn all the way back to the hotel, covering it with his raincoat, not risking a tram. The room was empty, and he locked the door before he sat down at the writing desk. He looked at the urn for an edge of wax or plastic, but there was nothing but the lid. Maybe the seal was only a tightly fitted groove, like the top of a jam jar. He took the urn and tried to twist the cover, his hand slipping on the smooth metal. A handkerchief. He gripped it and tried to unscrew the top. What did you do with jars? Run the top under hot water. Tap it with a knife. He squeezed again, straining, putting his weight into it. Then a tiny jerk, a loosening, and the lid began to turn slowly. He followed it around, then turned again. Easier now, coming off. He lifted the cover and looked in. Not the black-and-white ash of a fireplace, different. An unexpected brown mixed with gray.

He stared at the urn, queasy again. Human ash. He touched it gently, as if it might still be warm, but it was cool, so fine that it left a smudge, like cigarette ash. He pulled back his hand. He took a pen from the writing pad, poked it in, and stirred. It wouldn’t be paper. Film. His father had said you could copy things on film, even a whole manuscript, like Frantisek’s brother’s. He pushed the pen through the brown-gray ash, as light as powder but dense, as if the pen were moving through fine sand. Better to think of it as anything except what it was.

A clink, something hard. He worked the pen around and hit it again. Impossible to bring it up like this. He reached in with two fingers and pushed the ash aside, searching for the round cylinder. Then he felt it, smooth. He drew it out, careful of the ash, and looked at it. A piece of bone. He dropped it back in the ash, his stomach jumping, then took the pen again and poked more frantically. Another piece of bone. Once more through the ash, knowing now that it wasn’t there but unable to stop. No film. His father hadn’t told her. It’s here, he’d said, tapping his head.

Nick took the pen out, covered with ash, feeling sick. Then he looked at his fingers, covered the same way, dirty with it, and ran to the bathroom and held his hand under the running tap until the smudges washed away, coloring the water like faint gray blood. He stood against the basin for a moment, breathing hard, ashamed. His hands in it, digging, like a grave robber.

But the list had to be somewhere. His father hadn’t intended to rely on memory. He knew they’d want more. There just hadn’t been time to get it. Nick went to the desk again, staring at the urn as he screwed the top back on. Bury it somewhere he liked. The country house. A formal name for a simple cabin. Reproduced here, a private place away from the prying world. Of course. Not with another Anna Masaryk, around the corner. But there wouldn’t have been time for a run to the country. He’d have to leave without it. So it must still be there, waiting to be found. Where? Nick felt the pricking at the back of his head. Simple, if you knew him. People don’t change. And if he was wrong? A wild goose chase. But with no other options, it was worth, at least, a try.

He left Molly a note-‘back later, don’t worry’-and rushed out of the room. He’d have to hurry to get back before dark. He ran down the stairs, making a plan-could he lose the watchdogs in the back streets? — so that he missed the expression on the desk clerk’s face when he asked him to call the garage.

“But the police have the keys, Pan Warren. There is some problem with repairs, I think. Were you planning to leave Prague?”

Nick imagined for a second the clerk’s hand on the phone, ready to send out the alarm.

“No, no,” he said quickly. “It’s just the trams. I suppose I can take a taxi.”

“Of course. Shall I call for you?”

“I’ll find one,” Nick said vaguely. Why had he thought they’d let him go? He stood in the middle of the lobby, knowing the desk clerk was watching him but unable to move. There had to be a way. In America there would be fleets of rental cars and drivers for hire, but movement was a luxury here, the great privilege in a country under house arrest. He thought of Jeff, tearing easily through Prague with his close-shaven Marine. Who else?

His eyes scanned the room and stopped at the entrance to the bar, where Marty Bielak was already perched on his stool. Who would want to stay closer? His legman, tempted with a scoop.

“I need to ask a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“It’s just that I don’t know anyone else to ask.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I need to borrow a car. Just for a few hours. I’ll pay for the gas. Mine’s in for repairs.”

Bielak looked at him, waiting for more.

“I need to get something. You know Walter Kotlar was my father.”

Bielak said nothing, too interested to pretend he hadn’t known.

“He wanted me to have something. You know, a memento. But it’s in the country, and I don’t have any way to get there. Would you mind? I’d really appreciate it.”

“I’ll take you,” Bielak said, almost eagerly.

“You don’t have to do that.”