The prodigal spy

She nodded. “We just learn to put a good face on it. Girls. In case you haven’t noticed.”

He looked at her, then down at her legs. “They did.”

“I told you I could help,” she said, then looked at him seriously. “I did, didn’t I? Telling Zimmerman. I didn’t know what to do. I thought, what if I’ve given you away? But he seemed so worried.”

“You were right.”

“Then, on the train, he never said a word. Didn’t even look at me. I didn’t know what was happening, except that they hadn’t got you yet.”

“He didn’t want them to know about you. They’d have taken you off.” He touched her arm. “It doesn’t matter now. We made it.”

He leaned back and reached for a cigarette, looking out the window, content just to breathe. No more buildings, just trees.

“What happens now?” Molly said after a while.

“We stop at Brno, I think. Then the border.”

“No, I meant after.”

He lit the cigarette. “We finish it. We find out who killed her.”

“Oh, Nick, I don’t care about that.”

“It’s the same person who killed him.”

“In Washington,” she said slowly. “That’s what this is all about.” She turned to him. “Whatever it is.” A question.

“When we’re out of the country,” he said, answering it.

“For my own protection. Don’t you think it’s a little late for that?”

“No. I don’t want you sticking your neck out for me.”

“You still don’t get it, do you?” she said. “Stick my neck out. I’m in love with you.”

He stopped. Out of nowhere, like the whistle on the platform, a rush of adrenalin. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not?”

He looked at her, helpless. “I don’t know what to say back.”

She smiled. “You don’t have to say anything back. I just thought you’d like to know.”

He leaned over and kissed her, just brushing her lips, tentative, as if he were looking for words.

“Stick my neck out,” she said, her face close. “My God.”

“But if something happens-”

She put her mouth on his. They were still kissing, oblivious, when the conductor came into the car, trailed by the customs inspector. Nick sat up, embarrassed, then saw instantly that she’d brought him luck again. The men were amused, raising eyebrows at each other, glad of a break in the routine. Up ahead, tickets were taken, bags hauled down from the overhead rack. The luggage. Still not over. In a panic, Nick tried to think of the right excuse. Our things were sent ahead. We’re just going to Vienna for the day. None of it was logical. They’d notice someone without luggage. But in the end they didn’t even ask.

“American?” the conductor said, smiling, as he flipped the passport. “I have brother in America. Detroit. You know Detroit?”

Nick shook his head. “New York.”

“Ah, New York. You have good time in Prague?”

For a second Nick wanted to laugh, hysterical. A wonderful time. But the man was addressing Molly, flirting, his eyes on her legs.

“It’s very beautiful,” she said, the standard answer. How many times could they hear it?

“Like yourself,” the conductor said, courtly, handing the passports back.

They had begun to move along when the customs officer noticed the urn on Nick’s folded coat and said something in Czech.

“What is?” the conductor asked, evidently translating.

Nick felt his palms grow slick. “Ashes,” he said, then pointed to the end of the cigarette. “Ashes. My father.”

The conductor frowned. Something that didn’t make sense. “Open, please.”

Nick picked up the urn, unscrewed the top, and held it out. “Ashes,” he said again.

“Ah, ashes,” the conductor said, pretending to understand. He rested his finger on top, preparing to go through it. What did he expect to find? Drugs? Jewelry? There had to be a word.

“Krematorium,” Molly said suddenly, giving it a German pronunciation, catching the man just as he was about to poke inside. He stopped and made a face, squeamish, looking at a corpse, and handed the urn back to Nick. He spoke a line of Czech to the other, threw an odd look at Nick, then gave it up-Americans were inexplicable-and moved down the car to harass traveling Czechs. Nick screwed back the top, relieved, and put the urn under his coat. His father had made it out. “You’re shaking,” Molly said, watching him. “What was that all about? Have you got something in there?”

Nick nodded.

“I don’t think I can go through this again. That was like the station. What are you doing? You’ve got to tell me.”

Nick looked at her, the worried eyes. In his hands. Willing to walk through a gate, sick to her stomach. “Yes,” he said. “Everything.”