The Prodigal Spy (46 page)

“Miss Chisholm trusts me. I thought you did too. Evidently not.”

“What do you want?” Nick said, standing up.

“I came to warn you.”

“Those men outside?”

Zimmerman nodded. “STB. Direct orders from the Interior Ministry. I found out this morning. That’s why I went to your hotel. But you had flown the coop.” He mispronounced the word, like the French
coup
.

“Are you arresting me?”

“
They
want to arrest you. I have come in here to relieve myself, that’s all. I saw no one. Now listen to me for once. Wait a minute after I’ve gone, then leave here and go straight to the taxis. Don’t even look back. Maybe you’ll be lucky. Then go to your embassy and stay there.”

“I can’t do that.”

Zimmerman looked at him curiously. “Maybe one day you will tell me why. It would be interesting. But now, just go. You cannot get on that train. They’re looking for you everywhere. They smell blood. I don’t want it to be yours.”

“What about Molly?”

“Miss Chisholm is getting on a train. No one asked me to look for her.”

“You’re taking a risk with all this.”

“No, I don’t take risks. I’m a Czech. Like the Good Soldier Schweik, a worm. A worm wriggles, he can move the earth without getting stepped on. We can’t do that. But we can move a little dirt.” He looked into Nick’s eyes. “I know who killed your father, Mr Warren. We both know. There’s nothing I can do about that. We live under that boot. So, a wriggle only. I won’t give them an innocent man. What will they do? A show trial? Another Masaryk case, somebody else to blame? We have to live with them. Let them live with themselves.” He stopped. “You must hurry.”

“Help me.”

“I can’t do that,” Zimmerman said, surprised. “I just came to relieve myself. My friends want me on the platform. You see, I know what you look like. I can’t let you get on the train.”

“I can do it. You just have to distract them. You said yourself they’re looking everywhere. No one expects me to leave–how could I? You have my car. I don’t even know they’re looking for me. Do those men really expect to find me here?”

Zimmerman looked at him thoughtfully, intrigued. “No, not really. It’s a point, the car. Even the STB could not imagine leaving a new car behind.” He smiled. “Even one with a knock.”

“I only need a few hours. Call in Marty Bielak. Maybe I’ve gone to the country again. Somehow.”

“That would be enough time, yes,” Zimmerman said, considering.

“They won’t stop the train at the border if I never got on in the first place. Their own men will know I didn’t.”

Zimmerman sighed. “You have the adventurous spirit, Mr Warren. But you can’t do it, you know. They have orders to check everyone. If you get on that train, you’ll endanger Miss Chisholm. Go to your embassy.”

“What makes you think they’re not watching there? If I were the STB, it’s the first place I’d stake out. I wouldn’t even have time to pay the taxi before they’d nail me.”

Zimmerman acknowledged this by not saying anything.

“Help me,” Nick said, closing it. “A wriggle.”

Zimmerman looked at the door, an evasive spot-check, then back at Nick. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just distract them.” He glanced at his watch. “The train must be there. I only need a minute. Pretend you see me somewhere else in the station. Someone who looks like me,” he added. “Just get them away from the gate.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Try.”

“No. If I can’t, I want you to go to the phone and call your embassy. Have someone pick you up outside. Is that understood? I don’t want you on my hands, Mr Warren. And I don’t want you on my conscience either.”

“I’ll never forget this.”

“I hope you will. For my sake.” Zimmerman turned to go. “Oh, one more thing. Don’t sit with Miss Chisholm. My friends are thorough. They may search the train.”

Nick looked at him, distraught. He’d never escape a search.

“You have a fondness for lavatories,” Zimmerman said. “Stay in the WC. I’ll try to check those myself.”

And then a courteous nod and he was out the door. Nick looked at his watch. Could Zimmerman manage it in a minute? A sighting near the ticket window–something. The door opened and Nick recognized one of the café beer drinkers. He glanced at Nick, then turned to the porcelain trough, mumbling in Czech. Nick washed his hands and dried them slowly on the grimy towel roll. A minute. Now. If he waited, the man might want to talk. He picked up his coat, still covering the urn, and walked out.

He went out to the track area on the right, as if he were heading for another train. At the entrance, he bent to tie his shoe, hidden by one of the pillars. Zimmerman was leading one of the men away toward the newsstand. But only one. The other stood as before, unmovable. Of course. What could Zimmerman have said to make them both move away? The Berlin train was there, a long row of open doors waiting for straggling passengers. Everyone else was already on. No time.

Nick stood up, shielded by a group of passengers heading for the short commuter train. The policeman never turned, focusing only on the Berlin platform. Nick moved with the others onto the commuter ramp, passing a signboard of indecipherable Czech names. It was more crowded than he’d expected, but no one else was carrying luggage either, so no one seemed to find him unusual, except for one woman who stared at his shoes. He walked to the end of the train, about two thirds the length of the Berlin train, and got on the next-to-last car. Open seats, not compartments, a few people reading newspapers and eating rolls.

He didn’t turn into the seating area but crossed to the opposite door, pulled down the window, and looked out, just getting some air. The Berlin train was a few yards away across the empty platform, its passengers visible through the windows. So simple, if they didn’t see. He stuck his head carefully out the window. No Zimmerman, just the lone watchdog, looking toward the station hall. Now. There was a rustling behind him, someone getting on, a woman with a heavy shopping bag. He pulled his head back until she passed into the car, then looked again. Still clear. He turned the door handle slowly and pushed. Nothing. He looked down at the handle, amazed. He had only a minute. He jiggled the handle and pushed hard, trying not to feel frantic. He saw himself trapped, carried away to some unknown Czech town, his chance gone. He slammed the handle. Was it stuck? No, locked, sealed from the international platform. He felt around it, afraid to bend down and really look. If it needed a conductor’s master key–but there it was, the oblong deadbolt. He turned it, his hand slippery with sweat, heard the loud click, and swung open the door, free.

He glanced toward the station as he closed the door behind him, alone on the platform, vulnerable. Three of them now, but only Zimmerman facing in his direction. He caught Zimmerman’s quick look, then saw him draw the others into a small circle, holding one on the shoulder to keep their attention. Seconds. Nick stepped across the platform. When he heard the shrill whistle, his heart stopped. Then, instead of shouts, the yells of pursuit, he heard the
thunk
of a closing door and saw one of the attendants walking down the platform, bored and poky, slamming shut the open doors, getting ready to leave.

Nick jumped into the car, out of breath, as if he’d been racing to make the train. The same open seating arrangement, like an American train, no class compartments. He turned left into the car and started down the aisle, looking for Molly. But what if she were in front–could he risk backtracking? Pretending to look for a seat when there were so many available? A small family, looking harried, with piles of suitcases. Russian Jews? Businessmen. No tourists. Everyone looked up as he walked by, frankly curious. Where was she? She’d never leave without him, despite the promises. If he didn’t appear, she’d get off the train, then get stuck with the mess his leaving would cause. Why had she gone to the front?

But there she was, staring out the window, anxious. When she saw him she smiled and began to remove her jacket from the seat, but he lowered his eyes, shaking his head as he passed her. He went into the next car, to put distance between them, and found the WC at the end. Almost there. He turned the handle. Another lock, a woman’s voice behind the door. He saw the
Besetzt
notice above the handle: occupied. Why now? But maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe Zimmerman had taken them away for a beer. He peeked out the still-open door onto the platform. They were getting on the train, all three of them, as the conductor methodically shut the doors. He wanted to bang on the WC door, tell the woman to hurry up. He couldn’t wait here. They’d spot him down the long connecting corridor. He knew because he could see them, far off, beginning to move through the cars, coming toward him.

He slipped across the car to the opposite door. The same kind of bolt. He turned it with a heavy click and swung the door open. On this side there was no platform. Just tracks, two sets of them, no train waiting at the next platform. He looked down. Too far. He could jump down, wait it out, but then he wouldn’t be able to reach the handle to get back in. He looked at the side of the train. Smooth, only a narrow runner of metal trim. But maybe just wide enough, if you were desperate. He put on the raincoat, wedging the bulky urn into the deep inside pocket. What if the runner didn’t hold his weight? But it was a German train, solid workmanship. He was about to risk his life on a national cliché.

He reached along the car to grab the windowsill, then swung one of his feet onto the trim and found a toehold. With his free hand he closed the door behind him then, crouching, moved his other foot onto the runner. His feet slipped a little, but he held the windowsill tightly, his whole weight supported now by his fingers. Then his shoe caught, and he flattened himself against the car like a barnacle, hanging on with fingers and toes. How long could he keep it up? Already his fingers felt the pressure. It occurred to him that everything he had done up until this moment could be explained away somehow. Now he’d run out of answers. Hanging on to the railway car where anyone outside might see him, he had become visibly, absurdly, a fugitive.

Only sounds again, like the men’s room. The conductor slamming the platform side door. Another door closing – with any luck, the woman leaving the WC. But too late now. A loudspeaker in the station, scratchy. The engine humming. If the train started moving, he’d never make it; the jolt would throw him from the car. Then voices, indistinct. Finally Zimmerman’s, loud, as if he were announcing their presence as they moved through the cars. Nick felt sweat running down the side of his face. Worse, his fingers were getting numb. Come on. Then the voices were nearer, a door opened. “No,” he heard Zimmerman say–the check on the WC?–and they were moving into the next car.

Now. He couldn’t wait any longer. His breathing was ragged, as if his fingers were gasping for help. Gripping even tighter with his right hand, he slid his left toward the handle, straining, terrified he’d slip. It turned smoothly, without a sound, and then he had the door open and was moving his foot inch by inch until finally it was there, and shifting his weight to the supporting handle, he dragged himself back inside. He was panting. How much farther along were they? He glanced toward the WC door.
Frei
. He had to risk it. He couldn’t stand in the open back of the car, waiting for conductors and attendants to look at him in surprise. Don’t slouch, act normal. He took a breath, straightened, and quickly crossed over to the door. He jerked it open and went in, waiting for a cry of discovery. Instead there was another whistle on the platform, a louder throb of the impatient engine. He clicked the lock behind him.
Besetzt
.

Another few minutes and the train had still not moved. How much longer would they be? A cursory second check, just to make sure? He took a rough paper towel and wiped his face. His shirt, he saw, had begun to soak through; his fingertips were red. Then he heard them doubling back through the car, presumably on their way out. Zimmerman’s voice was disgruntled, fed up, his time wasted. Steps in front of the WC, a burst of Czech. “
Ano, ano
,” Zimmerman said, bored. A knock on the door. He had to open it; a refusal would be the end. But what if they were all standing there, looking in? He turned the lock and opened the door a crack. Zimmerman stuck his head in, meeting Nick’s eyes, his colleagues inches away. I don’t take risks. A worm. Nick closed his eyes, waiting.

“
Ne
,” Zimmerman shouted to them and then, to Nick, apologetically, “
Trominte, pani
.” He bowed his head and closed the door.

When the train started with a jolt, Nick was pitched to the side of the narrow cabin. The window, painted over for privacy, had no view. He could hear the slow moving of the wheels, then the clicks as they passed over the points in the yard, switching left, gathering speed, until the car was rocking steadily, on its way. They would be passing through the dormitory towns now, drab concrete towers with washing hanging from the balconies. He opened the door and started toward Molly, balancing himself in the center of the swaying car.

“You all right?” she said when he took his seat next to her, still breathing heavily. “You’re sweating.”

Through the window, the country was racing by in a blur. He took her hand and held it, then, an uncontrollable nervous reaction, broke into a grin, almost laughing out loud. “How did you get past them?”

But all he said was, “We made it,” still grinning, in a private haze of well-being.

“We’re not out yet,” she said, but she smiled back, catching his mood. “I thought I was going to throw up.”

“You?”

She nodded. “We just learn to put a good face on it. Girls. In case you haven’t noticed.”

He looked at her, then down at her legs. “They did.”

“I told you I could help,” she said, then looked at him seriously. “I did, didn’t I? Telling Zimmerman. I didn’t know what to do. I thought, what if I’ve given you away? But he seemed so worried.”

“You were right.”

“Then, on the train, he never said a word. Didn’t even look at me. I didn’t know what was happening, except that they hadn’t got you yet.”