The prodigal spy

He sank back against the seat and began to talk, his voice low, almost a murmur, so that the other passengers thought they were simply a couple making plans. Molly said nothing, afraid he would stop if she interrupted, but her eyes talked back, wide and interested, then grave, finally intimate, part of it now. Outside they were passing through a Schweik landscape, passive, gentle hills wriggling across the countryside. Once they paralleled a road, passing a car, and Nick thought of Zimmerman driving his colleagues through the same rolling country to the empty cottage, giving Nick time, shrugging his shoulders when they got there, mistaken again. Another glance at his watch. How much time? It would only take a phone call to the border. But who would leave a car?

After Brno, even Molly became fidgety.

“Maybe we shouldn’t sit together,” Nick said. “In case.”

“You leave and I’ll scream.”

“You don’t have to go on with this. Now that you know. It’s dangerous.”

“Will you stop?” She glanced up, a hint of her old spirit. “At least you’re not boring. God. Imagine spending the rest of your life with Jeff Foster.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I. Can’t you see I’m just nervous? How much longer, anyway?”

But the border, when they got there, was empty and placid, as quiet as the crossing where they’d driven in. The train screeched to a halt, then idled while Czech guards in gray uniforms boarded and did another passport run, to make sure everyone was stamped for Vienna. The conductor, following, beamed at Nick and said, “American,” as if it were a kind of secret handshake. Minutes passed. Nick watched the guards move through the cars, examining papers, everything in slow motion. One phone call. Maybe this is how the Russian Jews felt, waiting for the cage door to open.

Molly sat rigidly, not saying anything. He was sweating again. Out the window the conductor was talking to one of the border guards on the tracks, this one in blue. What did the uniforms mean? Nick looked toward the control shed at the crossing, its roof laced with wires, where the call would come in. More minutes. Then the clump of boots, the guards getting off the train, a whistle, and the barrier gate began to rise.

The engine grew louder, revving up, but the train stayed in place, as if it needed a push. Then the car began to slide forward, slowly, into the no-man’s-land between the barriers. Another crossing gate going up, another group of uniforms waiting, and they were across, shuddering to a second stop as the Austrians got on. Nick looked behind. The Czech gate was going down. Were they technically in Austria, beyond recall? The new guards, speaking German, were perfunctory but correct, somehow more sinister than the shaggy Czechs, like movie Nazis. They stamped passports and moved on, efficient. Nick kept looking back toward the Czech sector, expecting to see someone running out of the signal house, waving his hands. But it had to be all right now.

And a few minutes later it was. The train picked up speed, leaving the border behind, streaming into the woods. Molly took his hand and squeezed it, but he was too drained to respond. He had been so focused on the crossing, a pinpoint of space, that everything beyond seemed a blank. Vienna. What if the embassy knew, had people waiting for them? He moved his hand, feeling the urn, just as deadly as before. But what did the film actually say? They were out, but the air wasn’t free, full of questions.

“Everything’s going to be different now,” Molly said, squeezing his hand again. But it wasn’t. The landscape was the same, unassuming hills and fields. It still wasn’t finished. They’d want him, if they knew. But they didn’t, not even Silver. They might watch, but they didn’t know. If he was careful. Nothing was different. Even the fear was the same, not left behind barbed wires. It stayed with you, like a new sense. There was no geographical alchemy. You took Prague with you.

Part III

Naming Names

Chapter 16

Larry was furious, and wounded. They had lunch in the quiet dining room of the Knickerbocker, overlooking Fifth Avenue, because he wanted to avoid the communal table at the Brook, but even here, so private that business papers were not allowed at table, people came over to say hello, a hand on the shoulder and an innocuous comment about Uncle Ho’s keeping him busy and who was the fine young fellow with him. Larry put on his Van Johnson smile, but Nick could see his irritation, each interruption wasting precious time.