“This is impossible, Molly. Even if we figure out the letters, we still have to translate the Russian.”
“Well, the numbers help. We can figure out the dates,” she said eagerly. “And see the words in block capitals? They all have them. It’s a format, if we can figure it out. They sign off that way too.”
But the dates, once deciphered, were all recent, none of them reaching back to his father’s time.
“They’re the active ones, that’s why,” Molly said. “These are the reports they’re getting now. I’ll bet the caps are names. Look, this one’s Otto. So who’s Otto?”
“A code name,” Nick said, then sighed. “We have to know the context, Molly. Look at the dates-they’re not consistent. It’s a selection. Maybe they’re the incriminating ones. Each one nails somebody, if you understand it.”
“Hold on,” she said, distracted, looking something up in the dictionary. Nick walked over to the window and looked across the street to where the hansom cabs were idling in the afternoon sun.
“Serebro,” Molly said, running her finger down a page. “Yes. Come look.” But Nick was still eyeing the street, watching the taxis pull up under the 59th Street awning. She brought the book over to him, pointing to the word.
“Silver,” he said. “By him or about him?”
“By him. The signature.”
He glanced at the photograph. A report, exactly like the others, same format, so not original, typed by someone in Moscow. From cables? By Nina, perhaps, his father’s friend, Silver’s admirer. “Yes, but we have to know what it says. Didn’t any of your friends go into the translating business?”
“No, only dirty pictures.” She hesitated. “You could ask your father. He’d know someone.”
“You could ask Jeff,” he answered back. “Want the phone?”
“Look, let’s think about this. What would reports say? Not necessarily who they are, just what they’re passing on. I mean, the reports still might not identify them. You’d have to know who the code names referred to.”
“Great. No, we need the context. I mean, if it’s a trade report, it’s someone in Commerce. Like that.”
“But how would we know exactly who in Commerce? Are you listening to me? What are you looking at?”
“It’s a pickup zone,” Nick said, still watching out the window. “So why is that car just sitting there? The doorman acts like he doesn’t even see it.”
“Maybe it’s waiting.”
“I don’t think so. Two guys. Feels like old home week to me.”
“Let me see,” Molly said, getting up, accidentally knocking the photographs to the floor. “Shit.” She bent down, collecting them.
“One of them’s on the corner, so they’ve got both entrances covered.”
“Don’t get paranoid,” Molly said, still crouched down, sorting the pictures. “I’ll bet it’s a divorce. This isn’t Prague, remember?”
Nick said nothing. The man below lit a cigarette.
“Well, bless me for a fool,” Molly said. “Nick, look.”
“What?”
“I thought they were all alike, but look. At the end.” Nick came over. “It’s a list.”
He took the photograph. “But of what?”
“Code names and addresses. Five of them. See. That’s NW at the end.”
“Washington.”
“There’s Otto. Come on, we can translate this. The street names’ll be in English.”
“What were the letters for Silver?”
She glanced down the list. “He’s not here.”
But someone can lead me to him. “Never mind. Let’s do the others.” He grinned at her. “How’d you get so smart anyway?”
“Bronxville High,” she said. “Look at Richie.”
The maid opened the door, someone new, a thin black woman wearing a housedress and comfortable bedroom slippers.
“She’s in there, feeling sorry for herself. See if you can get her to eat something.”
His mother was sitting on the long couch, staring out across the park. The room was almost dark.
“There you are,” she said, holding out her arms. “I was getting worried.”
He leaned down and kissed her, smelling the gin on her breath. “Want a light?” he said, reaching for the lamp.
“No, leave it. It’s nice like this. Anyway, I look terrible.” Her face in fact was blotchy, like a blur sitting on top the sharp edges of her perfect suit and its gleaming brass buttons. “I’m having a cocktail.” She glanced up. “Just one. You?” He shook his head. “I don’t know why. I don’t really like them.” She took a sip from the wide-mouthed glass. “Did you see Larry?”
He took a seat beside the couch, unnerved by her voice-dreamy, the way it had been the day after his father left.
“He said you were in jail.”
“No,” Nick said. “The police just asked me some questions. I’m all right.”
She turned her eyes back to the window. “What did he look like?”
“The same. Thinner. Not as much hair.”
“Waves,” she said absently. “It’s hard to imagine-” Nick waited.
“Was he happy?” But she caught the absurdity of it herself. “Before the end, I mean.” She reached for a cigarette.
“No. Not happy. I think he just made the best of it. While he could.”
“Isn’t it terrible? I don’t think I could stand it if he’d been happy. Isn’t it terrible. To feel that.”
“He asked about you.”