The Prodigal Spy (14 page)

Larry nodded and shook his hand. “Don’t forget to call the lawyer.”

“I won’t. By the way, who’s Jack Kemper?”

Larry grinned. “What did he tell you?”

“He didn’t tell me anything.”

“Well, he wouldn’t. He’s CIA.”

In the hall, Molly was being helped into her gaucho cape, a remnant of her morning self. The servant, stiff and correct, held it as if it were mink, and as she slid into it, the two halves of her life seemed put together without matching.

“Shall I call you a taxi, sir?”

“No, thank you. We’ll find one.”

The man raised a dubious eyebrow, but nodded and opened the door. “Mind how you go,” he said, indicating the dark driveway, dense now with night mist.

But it was the obscurity Nick wanted. He took her arm on the steps and they walked out of the range of the house lights, over the canal toward Prince Albert Road.

“You okay?” he said.

“I’ve never felt so out of place in my life.”

“No, you were the hit of the party.”

“I kept thinking, what if they knew?”

“Knew what?”

“Oh, I don’t know. That I didn’t belong there, I guess.” She paused. “What was it like, growing up like that?”

“I didn’t grow up like that. It was just–normal, you know. The usual stuff. School. Sports. They went to parties, I did homework.”

“An all-American boy.”

“Mm. Eagle Scout.”

“You’re kidding.”

“On my honor,” he said, holding up three fingers in the oath position.

She stopped, looking at him. “You’re not what I expected.”

“You said that before. Anyway, I’m not a Scout any more.”

“No.”

“There’s something I’ve wanted to do all evening.” Before she could say anything, he put his hands on her shoulders and kissed her, pressing her lips gently until she opened her mouth and he tasted the faint trace of wine. But then she pulled back and put her hand between them.

“Don’t you want to?” he said, surprised.

She nodded. “That’s the problem. Then later you’d think—”

He grinned. “I’m not old-fashioned. I’d respect you in the morning. Promise. Scout’s honor.”

She bit her lower lip. “No, you don’t understand. Look, I need to talk to you. Let’s go somewhere.”

“No, here. What’s wrong?”

She looked to the side, avoiding him, then took a breath and turned back. “Okay. I was going to explain, but I couldn’t in there. And then—” She stopped. “Let me have a cigarette, will you?”

He fished one out of his pocket, still looking at her. He was amazed to see her hand trembling slightly as she took it. “What’s this all about?” he said, lighting it for her.

She inhaled as if drawing strength from it.

“I told you someone asked me to look you up. You never asked who.”

“Who?”

“I was supposed to give you a message. I never meant to—”

“Who?” he said, impatient now.

She looked up at him as if she were afraid of his reaction. “Your father.”

“Larry?” he said, so that he wouldn’t have to think anything else.

“No, your father. Walter Kotlar. I met him. He asked me to—” She paused, taking another drag on the cigarette. “He wants to see you.”

IT WAS HER idea to go to Jules Bar. A pub would have been noisy, her flat impossible, and when they got into the taxi he seemed incapable of suggesting anything, so she said the first thing that popped into her head. He was quiet all the way to Jermyn Street, not sure where to start or whether to start at all, one thought canceling out the other until he felt empty, staring at the meter. She didn’t try to talk either, and for one crazy moment it seemed to him that they’d already entered the clandestine world, afraid to be overheard in taxis.

He wants to see you. Why? How? When the taxi stopped, she got out and paid and he just stood looking at the blue neon martini glass, now a little wary of her because, like a lover, she knew the most intimate thing about him.

“Who are you?” he said when they sat down. The bar was supposed to be like a New York cocktail lounge, dark and cool, little tables with flickering votive candles.

“Who I said. I just met him, that’s all.”

“Two vodkas,” he said to the waiter, then turned back to her. “That seems appropriate, doesn’t it?”

“Do you want to hear this or not?”

“I don’t know. Yes. Of course I want to hear it. Christ.” He lit a cigarette. “What were you doing in Moscow?”

“He’s not in Moscow. He’s in Prague.”

“All right. What were you doing in Prague?”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“We have to start somewhere. Tell me. Or are you with the CIA too?”

She looked at him blankly, having had a different dinner partner. “Well, if you must know, I went to see a guy I knew in Paris. He’s from there. There were lots of Czechs in Paris last year. You know, before the invasion.”

“But he went back.”

She nodded. “I thought we were–well, wrong again. Imagine my surprise. He didn’t even want to see me. I suppose he thought it would get him in trouble. So like an idiot I show up at his door, and
voila
, the new live-in girl takes one look and–anyway, what’s the difference? Satisfied?” She looked up at him and smiled. “I’m not a spy. I just went to Prague to make a fool of myself.”

“My father was a spy,” Nick said simply.

“I know who he was.”

The waiter brought the drinks in Jules’s widemouthed martini glasses and he gulped his, managing half before it burned.

“So how did you meet him? After the girlfriend threw you out.”

“Well, that’s the funny thing. Jiří let me stay there -I think it was her idea, actually. To torture him or something. But I really didn’t have anywhere else and I’d already exchanged my money, so I just hung out and saw Prague. They took me places. To tell you the truth, I think Jiří liked the idea of people thinking he was with both of us. You know, that he had some
ménage à trois
going.”

“Did he?”

“No.” She glared at him, then let it go. “Anyway, they took me to a party one night and that’s where I met him. Your father.”

“At a party,” Nick said. “When was this?”

“Last month.”

“You took your time.”

She shrugged. “I went back to Paris. I wasn’t sure what to do. But I kept thinking about it. So.”

“So here we are.” He paused, looking down at his glass. “How did you find me?”

“Oh, he knew where you were. He knows all about you. I guess he keeps tabs.”

For a second, his life seemed to tilt on its axis. He kept tabs. He never left.

“How is he?” he said finally.

“He’s fine,” she said, which told him nothing he wanted to know. “I mean, I guess he is. I only met him once. Well, twice.”

He looked up at her. “Go ahead.”

“I met him at the party. I knew who he was. And I thought, well, maybe there’s a story. Maybe he’d talk to me–you know, give me an interview. He’s never given one.”

“No, never,” Nick said.

“So I thought there’d be a piece in it.”

“For
Rolling Stone
,” Nick said sarcastically.

“For somebody.”

“They weren’t even born,” Nick continued. “Do you honestly think anyone cares?”

“Are you kidding? Walter Kotlar? After all these years? Everybody’d want that piece.” She paused. “It would be a huge break for me. Anyway, I thought it was worth a try. So I asked him and he agreed to meet me.”

“You must have made some impression. He’s never talked to anyone before.”

“He didn’t then, either. Except about you. We met on the Charles Bridge and then we went for a walk. That’s when he asked me to get in touch with you.”

“On a bridge. Just like in the movies. In your trench-coats.”

“Well, it’s like that there. You have to talk outside.”

“And maybe somebody was putting you on. How do you know it was him? How do I know?”

“He said if you asked that to tell you he always remembered how you helped with the shirt. Whatever that means. He said you’d know.”

He felt his stomach move again, another tilt. The snowy street. The drain.

She looked at him. “It was him, wasn’t it?”

Nick nodded and then signaled to the waiter for another round. “Now what? I’m supposed to call him up and chat about old times?”

“No, he wants to see you.”

“What makes you think I want to see him?”

“Don’t you?”

“No.”

“Oh,” she said, at a loss.

“What did you expect? I’d be so thrilled he wants to see me after twenty years that I’d catch the next plane?”

“I don’t know what I expected. I thought you’d be–I don’t know, curious.”

“Curious. Is that how you’d feel if you saw a ghost?”

She looked at him for a minute, studying his face. “No. I guess I’d feel scared.”

“I don’t feel scared,” he said, taking a sip of his drink. “Let me tell you about my father. He walked out on us. Just left.
Defected
. That’s the word everybody prefers. Gives it a sort of ideological cast. But what he really did was run. And we had to clean up the mess. My mother. Larry. Christ, not to mention the country. Sometimes I think that’s the worst thing he did. That stupid fucking committee–he made them legitimate. They got something right finally. They just stepped right into it, and after that there was no stopping them. There
were
Communists in the State Department. Well, one. And they couldn’t get him. So then how many others? And on and on. That’s another little gift he left us.”

“You can’t blame him for that,” she said quietly.

“But he did it,” he said, placing his hand on hers for emphasis. “That’s the point. They were right. Before him they had nothing. And then—” He caught himself, pulled back his hand, and took another drink. “We had to pretend he was dead. And after a while he
was
dead. I don’t want to bring him back. You saw a ghost, that’s all.”

He stopped, waiting for her reply, but she said nothing.

“You know what I did the day he gave his press conference? That was the first time he came back from the dead. I played baseball. There was a game that afternoon and I saw him on television and I thought, Oh God, it’s starting all over again, everybody will know, they’ll throw me out of the game or look embarrassed or something. They’ll know. But they didn’t. I went to the park and nobody said a thing–the kids, the coaches, nobody. We just played ball, as if nothing had happened. Because it hadn’t. That’s when I realized it was over. I wasn’t his son anymore. I was somebody else.” He looked at her. “I’m still somebody else.”

“If you say so.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means I don’t believe you.”

He felt the lurch again, found out, back at the table with Doris Kemper.

“Have it your way. You delivered your message. Why did you, anyway? I mean, why bother? What’s in it for you?”

“I told you. He promised to talk to me.”

“And you believed him? He’s been known not to tell the truth, you know. In fact, he’s famous for it.”

“He’s not like that.”

“Really. What is he like?”

“He’s—” She searched for a word. “Sad.”

Nick looked at her, not quite sure how to take this. “Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? Forget it.”

“Old-sad,” she said thoughtfully. “He’s old. Don’t be angry. He just wants to see you.”

“So why not pick up the phone? They have phones there, don’t they? Why you? I don’t get it.”

“He wants me to bring you.”

Nick stared at her, dumbfounded. “Come again?”

“He said you’d need a cover. I guess that’s me. You’d be with me. He told me you had a different name. I didn’t realize it was
that
Warren.”

“Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. He walks up to you at a party and says go get my son and I’ll give you an interview. But don’t tell anybody, because I’m being watched. And you agree to do it? This doesn’t strike you as a little crazy? If you’re that hard up for a story, why not interview Barbara Hutton? Nobody remembers her either.”

“I’m just telling you what he said.”

“But why go through this? He’s not a prisoner, you know. He’s allowed visitors.”

“I know. I kept wondering about that too. What I think is, he doesn’t want them to know who you are. I don’t know why. He wants them to think you’re somebody else.”

“Your fiancé.”

“Look, I thought it was crazy too. All the cloak-and-dagger stuff. Why do you think it took me so long? But I kept thinking about it. First of all, it’s like that there. They’re all a little spooky. Jiří thought everybody’s phone was tapped. So maybe it’s crazy, but they ought to know. They live there. They’re always arranging to meet in parks, things like that. So I thought, well, maybe he thinks that way. He’s used to it. But the more I thought about it, the more I thought there was something else. Not just being careful. Like he had it all worked out. The problem was, I couldn’t figure out what. Then it occurred to me that maybe I wasn’t supposed to know, but you would. That you’d know what he meant.” She had been leaning forward, her voice eager, but now she sat back, opening her hands. “So I thought I’d better tell you. Just in case.”

Nick shook his head, staring at the glass. “What exactly did he say to you?”

“Exactly? He wants to see you. Don’t tell anybody. He said you’d understand.”

“No, about the shirt.”

“Oh.” She frowned, concentrating. “Tell him I always remembered how he helped with the shirt. He’ll know.” Like that, anyway. I don’t know exactly. At the time, I didn’t think–is it some kind of code?“

The word made Nick smile. “No. And this isn’t Nancy Drew either. No codes. No invisible ink. There was a shirt, so yes, I know it’s him. That’s it.”

“But what do you
think
it means?”

Nick looked at the table for a minute so she would think he was trying to sort out his thoughts, not push them away. It was starting again. Secrets. Listening at doors. But it didn’t have to start. All he had to do was push it away.

“I think it means you met an old man at a party. Maybe he’s sorry about what happened. So am I. But that doesn’t mean I want to see him. It’s a little late for apologies.”

“You’re wrong. There’s something else–it’s not that simple.”