The prodigal spy

“We still don’t know who the Russian is,” Molly said as they passed Embassy Row again.

“It doesn’t matter. He’d never use a contact from the embassy. They’re probably watched as a matter of routine. He’d never risk that.”

“So then there were four.”

“Unless Brown makes one.”

It was when they were passing the bland new buildings on K Street, glass boxes of lawyers and lobbyists, that he saw the sign and pulled up.

“United Charities Building,” Molly said. “It’s just an idea.” He pointed to the NO PARKING sign. “Move the car if someone comes. Five minutes.”

He was directed to the Events Office and a pretty blond girl who looked too young to have been alive the night of the ball. A Southern voice and perfect teeth. The office seemed a mystery to her, and Nick wondered whether she was paid or just a nice girl taking a semester off from Sweet Briar, doing good works for credit. She treated him like a prospective date from VMI, all smiles and helplessness.

“A social history? Do they know about it?”

“Not of United Charities, of Washington. Washington society.”

“Oh,” she said, interested now. “You want to know about the ball.”

“I thought you might keep the guest lists. To update them every year. Is there a file like that?”

“Well, I don’t know. I tell you what, you wait right here. I’ll ask Connie. She’ll know.” Another smile. “Nineteen-fifty? Just nineteen-fifty?” Unaware that anything had happened then; a date from the archives.

When she returned, holding a few pieces of paper, she seemed surprised that they existed at all. Nick glanced at the long row of typed names.“That’s it,” he said, nodding.

“Would you like a copy? I can use the machine,” she said, walking over to the copier.

Nick looked at the names as the sheets came out of the machine. On page two, Mr and Mrs Walter Kotlar. He saw his mother dressing, her off-the-shoulder gown.

“I don’t suppose they keep a list of who actually attended. You know, who showed and who didn’t show. One with check marks or something.”

“Check marks? No, this is all there was. You know, most everybody does show. It’s our big event. I was there this year-you know, to help out?”

“I hope they let you dance. They should.”

“Well, aren’t you nice?”

Back in the car, he flipped through the list again. “I wonder how many are dead,” he said.

“I still don’t see what you’re going to do with it,” Molly said.

“Did you see at the Mayflower how easy it would have been? You could go from the ballroom to the elevators without even passing the desk. Two exits, in fact. No one would know.”

“You could also just walk through the front door. Who’d notice, unless you were a bum?”

He glanced down. “The Honorable Kenneth B. Welles,” he said.

She looked at him. “Come on. John Brown’s body lies amolderin‘.”

There was traffic, and Brown’s car was already in the driveway by the time they got there. They sat for an hour, watching the house lights come on in the late spring dusk, occasional shadows moving back and forth behind the sheer curtains. The carriage lamp by the front door was on, as if they were expecting visitors. A dark corner, suddenly visible through the window, curtains open.

“The dining room,” Molly said, watching. “Look, a cozy dinner with Mom.” Brown sat at the table, his back to them.

Afterward the woman cleared, then passed out of sight. A light came on at the other side of the house; the dining room light was switched off. More waiting. Then they saw the blue-white light of a television in one of the upstairs windows.

“Let’s go,” Molly said. “They’re here for the night.”

“Give it an hour. Let’s see if anyone comes. The front light’s still on.”

But it was Brown who stepped into it, a middle-aged man with glasses, disappointingly nondescript, more clerk than G-man. He crossed to the driveway quickly and got into the car. A few seconds later, the glowing red taillights backed out into the street.

“Look alive,” Nick said, waiting until Brown’s car had turned the corner before he started his own.

They drove through quiet suburban streets, then finally into the busy broad sweep of Wisconsin Avenue.

“He’s going back to town,” Molly said. “Meeting somebody?”

“Maybe he’s just going back to work, now that Mom’s tucked in.”

They stayed several lengths behind, almost losing him once in the confusion of a traffic circle, but he swung onto Massachusetts and they found him again and followed, unhurried, all the way into town.

The left turn came out of nowhere, without a turn signal, and Nick missed it. He doubled back, making a u-turn in front of an annoyed taxi. Brown’s taillights were at the end of the block, turning right. At the next corner he took a right again, heading back to the avenue.

“He knows,” Molly said. “Why would he do that?”

“I don’t think so. He’s not trying to lose us.”

“No, to catch us, see if we’re here. Look, there he goes again.”

Another diversion, then back into the light traffic.

“Maybe it’s standard procedure. To make sure nobody’s following.”

“Before a meeting? I always thought they met on park benches.”