The prodigal spy

He went toward the end of the woodpile, pretending to fumble with his clothes. Bielak started the car. The headlights were facing away from Nick. Could he be seen from this angle? He stooped quickly, not caring, and felt along the bottom logs for an opening. Yes, where the key would have been, as always. He shoved his hand through, scratching the top, and felt around the dirt, rummaging again through ashes, remembering the moment when he had felt the bone. Nothing.

He reached farther, groping, his arm pressed now against the wood. It had to be. A place she’d never look. He heard Bielak call, “You all right over there?” and then he touched it. Something cool. His fingertips grazed plastic, and he pushed a little more until he covered it with his palm. The size of a pill container. He pulled his hand back, feeling slivers biting his skin, and put it in his pocket.

Then he stood up and hurried back to the car, exhilarated. All of it true.

“You left your fly open,” Bielak said. “I’m not in that much of a hurry.”

Nick yanked his zipper up, then put his hand back in his pocket, afraid to let go, and got into the car.

“I’ll put the heater on,” Bielak said, thinking he was chilled. Nick drew his hand out and rubbed it against the other, playing along. But it wasn’t the heater that made his face warm as they drove toward the main road. He could feel the film in his pocket, heavy as a gun, the excitement of finding it curdling into a new kind of dread. Now he wasn’t innocent. If they caught him, they would never let him go.

He felt the warm lump against his leg all the way back to Prague, while Bielak’s one-sided conversation drifted in and out like a weak radio signal. How would he get it out? Maybe like this, in his pocket, where not even a legman would think to look. Molly and her tampons. Why not? The embassy car on its weekly lettuce run, immune to prying. Then he remembered what it was. Not a joint. Something only he could carry. He was back in the snow, with no one to help.

When they reached Wenceslas, Nick offered to pay for the trip, but Bielak shook his head. “Buy me a drink sometime.” Then, when Nick’s hand was already on the door handle, Bielak held out the medal and said, “Tell me something. Your father, he knew he was sick.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, it was that. Knowing he was sick.” Convincing himself. Then, unexpectedly, “Do you think he ever had any regrets?”

Nick looked at him, dismayed. All that was left. “No,” he said firmly. “Never.”

Bielak sat back. “Well, that’s something to think about it, isn’t it?”

He found Zimmerman waiting in the lobby, his usual calm betrayed by an impatiently jiggling foot. When he stood up, Nick panicked, sure that he was looking at the pocket.

“So you’re back. A pleasant trip?” Zimmerman’s voice was angry.

“No.”

“Where were you?”

“At my father’s house.”

“You were told not to leave Prague.”

“I went to get this.” He opened the box, showing the medal.

“And this has a special significance for you? You surprise me.” Zimmerman nodded toward the door. “Do you know who he is?”

Nick shrugged. “I met him in the bar. You have my car, remember?”

“Again with the charades. Is it possible you don’t know?” Zimmerman shook his head. “No, I don’t think so.”

“Who is he?”

“It’s possible you don’t take me seriously. That would be a mistake. Have I not made myself clear to you? Your position?”

“You mean he’s one of yours?”

“Stop it. Listen to me carefully. Don’t make yourself too interesting. A man is questioned; his embassy immediately protests. He is ordered to stay in Prague, so he goes for a ride with-with someone who is known to do odd jobs for the security police. Please, don’t look surprised, there isn’t time.”

“Is that why your men didn’t follow us?”

“Their jurisdiction ends with Prague, Mr Warren. Naturally they thought I would alert the other department.”

“But you didn’t.”

Zimmerman looked away. “Such a call would take things out of my hands entirely. The security police have much to do these days-so many dangers to the state. It’s unwise to burden them with false alarms. Luckily, you returned.” He paused. “Don’t do it again. You did not, I trust, confide in Mr Bielak?”

“No.” Nick smiled. “In fact, I think he wanted to recruit me. Maybe he thinks it runs in the family.”

Zimmerman looked at him. “Maybe it does, Mr Warren. But that is not my concern. I brought your statement.” He pulled some papers out of his breast pocket. “Sign it, please.”

“It’s in Czech,” Nick said, a lawyer’s son.

Zimmerman sighed. “The second sheet is the English. Sign the copy.”

“But am I responsible for all of it, the Czech too?”

Zimmerman handed him the pen. “Sign it, Mr Warren.”

Nick read it through, a bureaucrat’s account. His father’s distress at his illness. In this version the depression had been deepened by Nick’s visit, a new twist. He raised his eyes, then took the pen.

“Does this mean I can go?”