The prodigal spy

“You mean she’s gone?” First Brown, now Irina.

Well, don’t you know?“

Nick shook his head, confused.

“Oh. Of course, she did say it was temporary, but she seemed to like it here.”

“When did she leave?”

“Yesterday. Said she found something better. I don’t know what she means by better. There’s nothing wrong with the apartment. It’s self-contained. I thought you people sent her home.”

“No, nothing like that. Did she leave an address? They’re supposed to.”

“No. Of course, they come and go, the girls. But one month? No more for me, I can tell you, no more foreigners. Not that she wasn’t nice.”

“She was only here a month?” Could the list have been that recent? But his father must have had it earlier, when he had first planned to leave.

“One month. Hardly worth the time it takes to clean the place. Flighty.” Mrs Baylor’s arm shot up in the air, waving. “There’s Barbara.”

Nick looked toward the house, where a girl on the stoop was waving back. His eyes stopped, and he felt a tingling along his scalp. Not the Russian, the other girl. She started down the street.

“Thanks, Mrs Baylor. Sorry for your trouble. She’ll probably check in with us this week, when she’s settled. If she does send an address, let us know, okay? Just in case.” He turned on the ignition. “By the way, how did she find you? She give you references?”

“Well, I never thought to ask. Barbara told her about it. They met at work, I guess. Not that I blame Barbara. She was good as gold about those records.”

By the time Nick was able to pull away, the girl had turned the corner into the next block, shoulder bag swinging. A miniskirt, short heels, blond like Molly. Reliable Barbara, who’d met Irina at work. But she was heading downtown, away from the embassy.

Nick followed slowly, but even at this pace the car was bound to overtake her. She passed a bus stop, clearly intending to walk. He went through the light into the next block, keeping her in his rearview mirror. A car pulling away from the curb. He slammed on the brakes and backed into the spot, adjusting the parking angle until she went by. When he started down the sidewalk he kept his eyes on her hair, a tracking beam, so that everything around her blurred out of focus.

She was walking quickly, not stopping to look at windows, heading toward Farragut Square. She took a diagonal path across the park, unaware of Nick in the crowd. Downtown. The Bureau wasn’t far away. Then she went into a coffee shop, forcing Nick to stop at the corner, exposed. He fed some coins into a newspaper vending machine and took out a Post. A peace rally. District police requesting additional crowd-control units. People streamed by, carrying briefcases. What if she was just a boarder after all? But the address had been there, on the list.

When she came out, sipping from a Styrofoam cup, Nick turned away and almost lost her. Then, in front of a DON’T WALK sign, the blond hair came into view again. She crossed the street and disappeared through a door: EMPLOYEES ONLY. Nick looked around, then at the block-long row of plate-glass windows, trying to orient himself. It was only when he stepped back to the curb, taking the whole building in, that he finally recognized it, as familiar to him as an old dream. Garfinkel’s. Still. His father had said the reports never changed, the same pattern. You could tell just by the prose. One of them will lead me to him.

Nick went through the door. Don’t show yourself. But how else could he be sure? He walked past aisles of cosmetics and women’s handbags. She could be anybody. But when he reached the men’s department, there she was, just arrived behind the counter, talking to another clerk as she arranged the tie display, the shelves behind her lined with row after row of white shirts.

“We have to figure out a way to get in there,” Nick said later, excited. “I can’t spend all day trying on suits.”

They were in the lobby bar at the Madison, the soft spring light still flooding into the windows from 16th Street, not yet evening. Molly, unexpectedly subdued, picked out a cashew from the bowl of nuts.

“You want me to be her,” she said, not looking up.

“No, he probably knows her by sight. But if you were there. They’re always looking for extra help. You could talk your way in. Anyway, it’s worth a try.”

“No, I meant her. Rosemary. You want me to be her.”

Nick said nothing, surprised at her mood.

“Do I have to?”

“Molly, we’re so close.”

She nodded and looked out the window. In the corner, a man in black tie was playing the piano. Cocktail hour. These Foolish Things‘, one of the songs his mother must have danced to.