Los Alamos (47 page)

“The United States government offered the Marshall Plan to all European countries.”

“Maybe it would be more accurate to say that certain officials of the United States government offered that aid. Officials like yourself. Or maybe you disagreed. Did you feel that such an offer was in the best interests of the United States?”

“It must have been. They turned us down.”

This time there was real laughter, and Congressman Welles, leaning into the microphone, was forced to talk over it, so that when it stopped he seemed to be shouting. “May I remind our visitors that this is a congressional hearing?” There were a few flashbulbs. “Mr. Kotlar, you may consider this a laughing matter. I assure you, the American people do not. Now, this aid you were so eager to hand out. A little money for the old country—even if it was now a vassal state of the Soviet empire.”

“I think you have your chronology slightly confused, congressman. At the time of the offer, Czechoslovakia was a democracy, and President Beneš was eager to participate. Subsequently, of course, they declined.”

Nick lost his father halfway through—it was Whigs and Jacobites again, too mixed up to sort out—and he could tell the audience wasn’t really following either. They could hear only the rhythm of Welles’s interrogation, the slow build and rising pitch that seemed to hammer his father into his chair. The momentum of it, not the words, became the accusation. The congressman was so sure—he must know. It didn’t really matter what he said, so long as the voice rushed along, gathering speed.

“Round two,” the voiceover said, introducing another film clip. “And this time nobody was pulling any punches.”

“Mr. Kotlar, I’m sure we’ve all been grateful for the history lessons. Unfortunately, anyone who changes positions as often as you do is bound to make things a little confusing for the rest of us. So let’s see if we can find out what you really think. I’d like to talk again about your background, if I may?” Welles swiveled his head to the other men at the long table, who nodded automatically, absorbed in the drama of where he might be going. “You are, I believe, a graduate of the Harvard Law School?”

For a minute Nick’s father didn’t respond, as if the question were so unexpected it must be a trick. “That’s correct.”

“And can you tell us what you did next? Did you join a firm or hang out your own shingle or what?”

“I came to Washington to work for the government.”

“That would be, let’s see—1934. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”