The prodigal spy

He went out to the track area on the right, as if he were heading for another train. At the entrance, he bent to tie his shoe, hidden by one of the pillars. Zimmerman was leading one of the men away toward the newsstand. But only one. The other stood as before, unmovable. Of course. What could Zimmerman have said to make them both move away? The Berlin train was there, a long row of open doors waiting for straggling passengers. Everyone else was already on. No time.

Nick stood up, shielded by a group of passengers heading for the short commuter train. The policeman never turned, focusing only on the Berlin platform. Nick moved with the others onto the commuter ramp, passing a signboard of indecipherable Czech names. It was more crowded than he’d expected, but no one else was carrying luggage either, so no one seemed to find him unusual, except for one woman who stared at his shoes. He walked to the end of the train, about two thirds the length of the Berlin train, and got on the next-to-last car. Open seats, not compartments, a few people reading newspapers and eating rolls.

He didn’t turn into the seating area but crossed to the opposite door, pulled down the window, and looked out, just getting some air. The Berlin train was a few yards away across the empty platform, its passengers visible through the windows. So simple, if they didn’t see. He stuck his head carefully out the window. No Zimmerman, just the lone watchdog, looking toward the station hall. Now. There was a rustling behind him, someone getting on, a woman with a heavy shopping bag. He pulled his head back until she passed into the car, then looked again. Still clear. He turned the door handle slowly and pushed. Nothing. He looked down at the handle, amazed. He had only a minute. He jiggled the handle and pushed hard, trying not to feel frantic. He saw himself trapped, carried away to some unknown Czech town, his chance gone. He slammed the handle. Was it stuck? No, locked, sealed from the international platform. He felt around it, afraid to bend down and really look. If it needed a conductor’s master key-but there it was, the oblong deadbolt. He turned it, his hand slippery with sweat, heard the loud click, and swung open the door, free.

He glanced toward the station as he closed the door behind him, alone on the platform, vulnerable. Three of them now, but only Zimmerman facing in his direction. He caught Zimmerman’s quick look, then saw him draw the others into a small circle, holding one on the shoulder to keep their attention. Seconds. Nick stepped across the platform. When he heard the shrill whistle, his heart stopped. Then, instead of shouts, the yells of pursuit, he heard the thunk of a closing door and saw one of the attendants walking down the platform, bored and poky, slamming shut the open doors, getting ready to leave.

Nick jumped into the car, out of breath, as if he’d been racing to make the train. The same open seating arrangement, like an American train, no class compartments. He turned left into the car and started down the aisle, looking for Molly. But what if she were in front-could he risk backtracking? Pretending to look for a seat when there were so many available? A small family, looking harried, with piles of suitcases. Russian Jews? Businessmen. No tourists. Everyone looked up as he walked by, frankly curious. Where was she? She’d never leave without him, despite the promises. If he didn’t appear, she’d get off the train, then get stuck with the mess his leaving would cause. Why had she gone to the front?

But there she was, staring out the window, anxious. When she saw him she smiled and began to remove her jacket from the seat, but he lowered his eyes, shaking his head as he passed her. He went into the next car, to put distance between them, and found the WC at the end. Almost there. He turned the handle. Another lock, a woman’s voice behind the door. He saw the Besetzt notice above the handle: occupied. Why now? But maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe Zimmerman had taken them away for a beer. He peeked out the still-open door onto the platform. They were getting on the train, all three of them, as the conductor methodically shut the doors. He wanted to bang on the WC door, tell the woman to hurry up. He couldn’t wait here. They’d spot him down the long connecting corridor. He knew because he could see them, far off, beginning to move through the cars, coming toward him.