The prodigal spy

“You mean the Russian girl. There isn’t any trouble, is there? They told me there wouldn’t be any trouble. I mean, I never had a Russian, but she seems all right. Quiet. Of course, she plays these records, but I don’t mind that really. You have to expect things like that when you rent. Has she done something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Nick said. “We just like to keep tabs, see if she’s giving you any trouble. They’re guests here, you know. Sometimes they forget that. We do get complaints.”

“Really?” she said, interested, settling in. “Well, no, she’s good as gold. No men coming around. Of course, I don’t know what she does on her own time, but she’s been no trouble to me. I won’t rent to men, just girls. That’s what Mr Baylor said before he passed away. When he was fixing up the apartments. They’ll make a nice income, but you don’t want men in the house, it’s not worth it. Me being alone. Of course, these days girls are just the same as men, aren’t they? But Irina’s all right. It’s just those language records. But I suppose she’s learning. The other girl doesn’t complain.”

“She doesn’t live alone?”

“Oh yes, the flats are self-contained. They don’t even have to share a bath. Mr Baylor put another one in, said I could charge more if people had their own place. And they’ll keep to themselves. But of course you can hear the records, the way she plays them. Still, Barbara never complains, so I just leave well enough alone. As long as they pay on time, that’s what Mr Baylor used to say.”

“Mr Baylor.”

“My husband.” She looked at him. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Immigration,” Nick said, on firm ground now. “We just like to check. Thank you. I’m glad there’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Shall I tell her you were here?”

“You can,” Nick said carefully, “but sometimes it upsets them. You know what it’s like where they come from.”

Mrs Baylor nodded. “I do.”

“We don’t want them to think it’s like that here. Not with a routine check.” He had taken out a notepad and was pretending to write. “These last names,” he said, shaking his head.

“Aren’t they something? I can never remember either. Oh, well, here,” she said, flipping through the mail until she found a store catalogue. “ K at the end. Kova.”

He glanced at it. “Thanks.”

“Any time. You couldn’t do better, letting people like her in. Better than some we’ve already got.”

Nick got in the car and waved to Mrs Baylor as he drove off.

“Irina Herlikova,” he said to Molly. “Quiet as a mouse.”

“I wonder what she does.”

“She’s learning the language.”

“No. For them.”

The third address, surprisingly, was on D Street, in a black neighborhood southeast of Capitol Hill. Not a slum, but tattered, the respectable brick fronts frayed around the edges, needing paint.

“Well, at least this one’s not a Russian,” Nick said.

“We can’t stay here. Two white people sitting in a car.”

“No, let’s just get a look at the house. We’ll swing back.”

“As if no one will notice.”

But they were lucky. The house was in better repair than its neighbors, trim, a neat front yard, and on their third pass a man in uniform came out, moved a tricycle to the end of the porch, and, taking out his keys, walked toward a new car parked in front. Nick turned at the corner and waited.

“Let’s see where he goes.”

“Have you ever followed anybody?” she said, her voice eager, enjoying it.

“I’m learning on the job.”

It turned out to be harder than he expected. He waited a few minutes after the car passed, then rounded the corner to find it idling at a red light.

“Don’t slow down. He’ll notice,” Molly said.

Green. Their luck held. Another block and a car came out of a driveway and put itself between them. Nick relaxed. More blocks. The new car moved smoothly, never running lights, as orderly and correct as its owner.

“But where’s he going?” Nick said. “There’s nothing this way. Why doesn’t he go into town?”

They followed for ten more minutes, unhurried, and then Nick saw the wires and gates, the sentry checking passes. The black man held out an ID badge and was waved through. The sentry looked up at Nick, who turned away, pretending to be lost.

“What is it?” Molly said.

“Anacostia. The naval base. I forgot it was down here. Well, that fits, doesn’t it? A little Red dot on the sonar screen.”

They drove up around the Jefferson Monument, then out through the park along the river and over the bridge. The fourth address was in Alexandria, not the Old Town of cobbled streets and ice cream shops but the maze of streets behind, lined with two-family houses. Anywhere.

“They’re certainly not doing it for the money,” Molly said, scanning the street.

“No. A better world.”

“1017. Next to the one on the end.”

They found a space two houses down and parked, then sat and had a cigarette. Another quiet street, a few children coming home from school.

Molly looked at her watch. “I’ll bet there’s no one home. Not at this hour. They must all do something, work somewhere. Otherwise, what good would they be?”

“I forgot to ask where the Russian girl worked.”