The Prodigal Spy (50 page)

“She wasn’t fooling anybody. She seems more sad than anything else.”

“You keep saying that. You’ve got sad on the brain. You need cheering up.” She reached up and put her hand on the back of his neck, tossing the letter on the bed. “Let’s forget about them. Kathleen asked me if I was in New York with a man.” She giggled. “So I told her I’d seen Richie. I thought she’d die.”

“So would I, if I were your mother.”

“But you’re not, are you?”

“No.”

“And you’re not married.”

“No.”

“So there’s nothing to worry about. Just my soul.” She stretched her neck and kissed him. “Here’s an idea. Let’s smoke a joint and make love. All night.” She nodded to the ceiling. “No microphones.”

“I liked the microphones,” he said, smiling. “Where’d you get the stuff?”

“Well, I did see Richie. There’s no end to his talents.”

He kissed her. “Was he a good kisser?”

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t get past the Clearasil. Anyway, I don’t kiss just anybody.”

“No?”

“No. Consider yourself lucky.”

“I do,” he said into her ear, a murmur. “But let’s skip the joint. We have to get up early.”

“We do? Why?”

“Our friends down there left after I got in,” he said, still whispering, back at the Alcron. “So they’re probably on a shift, not working all night. I figure they won’t get here before seven, so if we leave early, they won’t even know we’re gone.”

She pulled back, surprised, as if someone had turned on the news. “You’re good at this, aren’t you?”

“I have help. You’re the one who got the letter.”

“Maybe you should take it up. What are you going to do when this is all over?”

“Go work for Jeff,” he said.

“I work for Jeff,” she said, kissing him.

THEY TOOK A taxi at dawn and waited, groggy, at the Eastern terminal for the first shuttle. New Jersey was a nap, and then they were circling Washington, Nick at the window feeling he’d entered a time machine, twenty years compressed into minutes. The monuments lined up as they always had along the Mall, changeless. His house somewhere to the left of the Capitol. But on the ground everything was different, whole streets of boxy new office buildings beyond the White House, bland and faceless, a discount Bauhaus, like a rebuilt city in Germany. They checked in at the Madison, its ornate ballroom still littered with last night’s wedding, then went for a walk. A few of the trees were still in flower. Everyone carried briefcases.

“Where are we going?” Molly said.

“The Mayflower. I want to see it.”

And of course it looked smaller, the awning he remembered near the car in the picture just an awning, the public spaces inside a little tired, no longer waiting for Truman’s car. He stood in the lobby for a few minutes, creating lines of sight between the reception desk and the elevators and the big room where the United Charities ball must have been, then gave it up. He’d imagined it a hundred times, the forbidden place of his childhood, but it was just a hotel.

They rented a car, a plain Buick, and started going down the list, driving out toward the grand houses on Embassy Row, only to discover that the first address was the Russian embassy itself.

“Well, it would be, wouldn’t it?” Molly said. “Maybe it’s like the Americans in Prague. They have to live in the compound.”

“No, there wouldn’t be room. They have too many people. Besides, I’ll bet they like to live out. It’s probably one of the attachés. They’d be in residence. It would help if we had the real names.” He put the car back in gear. “Anyway, I don’t want the Russians.”

“Somebody will.” She looked down at the paper in her hand. “Valuable little list, isn’t it?”

“Yes, they killed him for it.”

“Did they know he had it?”

“I don’t know,” he said wearily. “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

She looked up.

“This isn’t going to be easy. I thought once we had it—” He remembered that feeling, a jolt of triumph, when his hand had felt it under the woodpile.

“Five names,” Molly said calmly. “They can’t all be Russian.”

The next address was a quiet row house north of Dupont Circle, on a leafy block not far from the Phillips Collection.

“God, you’d never think,” Molly said. “So what do we do, just sit here?”

“Let’s see what happens. Maybe he’ll come out.”

When the door opened half an hour later, it wasn’t a man but a white-haired woman, who bent over to water one of the potted plants on the stoop, then idly looked up and down the street–an old woman with all the time in the world.

“This can’t be right,” he said impatiently. There was no one in the street but a mailman making his way down the row. The woman put the watering can inside, then came back on the stoop to wait; evidently the mail was one of the events of her day. She talked to the mailman for a few minutes, her mouth moving rapidly with words inaudible across the street, even with the car window rolled down.

“Look,” Molly said. “She’s getting a lot of mail, I mean a
lot
. Maybe it’s not just her in the house. You know, maybe she rents out.”

“She acts like it’s hers,” Nick said, watching her flip through the envelopes, absorbed.

“She’s just nosy.”

“Okay, I’ll find out,” Nick said, opening the door.

“What are you going to say?”

“I’m not sure.”

But it was remarkably easy, an unsuspicious world away from Prague. He had only to identify himself as someone from the Government–the Washington password –checking on her boarders, and she leaped at the diversion.

“You mean the Russian girl. There isn’t any trouble, is there? They told me there wouldn’t be any trouble. I mean, I never had a
Russian
, but she seems all right. Quiet. Of course, she plays these
records
, but I don’t mind that really. You have to expect things like that when you rent. Has she done something?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” Nick said. “We just like to keep tabs, see if she’s giving
you
any trouble. They’re guests here, you know. Sometimes they forget that. We do get complaints.”

“Really?” she said, interested, settling in. “Well, no, she’s good as gold. No men coming around. Of course, I don’t know what she does on her own time, but she’s been no trouble to me. I won’t rent to men, just girls. That’s what Mr Baylor said before he passed away. When he was fixing up the apartments. They’ll make a nice income, but you don’t want men in the house, it’s not worth it. Me being alone. Of course, these days girls are just the same as men, aren’t they? But Irina’s all right. It’s just those language records. But I suppose she’s learning. The other girl doesn’t complain.”

“She doesn’t live alone?”

“Oh yes, the flats are self-contained. They don’t even have to share a bath. Mr Baylor put another one in, said I could charge more if people had their own place.
And
they’ll keep to themselves. But of course you can hear the records, the way she plays them. Still, Barbara never complains, so I just leave well enough alone. As long as they pay on time, that’s what Mr Baylor used to say.”

“Mr Baylor.”

“My husband.” She looked at him. “Where did you say you were from?”

“Immigration,” Nick said, on firm ground now. “We just like to check. Thank you. I’m glad there’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all. Shall I tell her you were here?”

“You can,” Nick said carefully, “but sometimes it upsets them. You know what it’s like where they come from.”

Mrs Baylor nodded. “I
do
.”

“We don’t want them to think it’s like that here. Not with a routine check.” He had taken out a notepad and was pretending to write. “These last names,” he said, shaking his head.

“Aren’t they something? I can never remember either. Oh, well, here,” she said, flipping through the mail until she found a store catalogue. “
K
at the end. Kova.”

He glanced at it. “Thanks.”

“Any time. You couldn’t do better, letting people like her in. Better than some we’ve already
got
.”

Nick got in the car and waved to Mrs Baylor as he drove off.

“Irina Herlikova,” he said to Molly. “Quiet as a mouse.”

“I wonder what she does.”

“She’s learning the language.”

“No. For them.”

The third address, surprisingly, was on D Street, in a black neighborhood southeast of Capitol Hill. Not a slum, but tattered, the respectable brick fronts frayed around the edges, needing paint.

“Well, at least this one’s not a Russian,” Nick said.

“We can’t stay here. Two white people sitting in a car.”

“No, let’s just get a look at the house. We’ll swing back.”

“As if no one will notice.”

But they were lucky. The house was in better repair than its neighbors, trim, a neat front yard, and on their third pass a man in uniform came out, moved a tricycle to the end of the porch, and, taking out his keys, walked toward a new car parked in front. Nick turned at the corner and waited.

“Let’s see where he goes.”

“Have you ever followed anybody?” she said, her voice eager, enjoying it.

“I’m learning on the job.”

It turned out to be harder than he expected. He waited a few minutes after the car passed, then rounded the corner to find it idling at a red light.

“Don’t slow down. He’ll notice,” Molly said.

Green. Their luck held. Another block and a car came out of a driveway and put itself between them. Nick relaxed. More blocks. The new car moved smoothly, never running lights, as orderly and correct as its owner.

“But where’s he going?” Nick said. “There’s nothing this way. Why doesn’t he go into town?”

They followed for ten more minutes, unhurried, and then Nick saw the wires and gates, the sentry checking passes. The black man held out an ID badge and was waved through. The sentry looked up at Nick, who turned away, pretending to be lost.

“What is it?” Molly said.

“Anacostia. The naval base. I forgot it was down here. Well, that fits, doesn’t it? A little Red dot on the sonar screen.”

They drove up around the Jefferson Monument, then out through the park along the river and over the bridge. The fourth address was in Alexandria, not the Old Town of cobbled streets and ice cream shops but the maze of streets behind, lined with two-family houses. Anywhere.

“They’re certainly not doing it for the money,” Molly said, scanning the street.

“No. A better world.”

“1017. Next to the one on the end.”

They found a space two houses down and parked, then sat and had a cigarette. Another quiet street, a few children coming home from school.

Molly looked at her watch. “I’ll bet there’s no one home. Not at this hour. They must all do something, work somewhere. Otherwise, what good would they be?”

“I forgot to ask where the Russian girl worked.”

“We’ll find out. It’s only the beginning, you know. It’s not going to happen overnight.”

“It’s not going to happen here at all,” Nick said, putting the key in. “You’re right. We’ll come back in the morning.”

“Wait. Let’s find out who he is, anyway. Be right back.”

She got out, walked over to the house, and rang the doorbell. What would she say if someone answered? She rang again, then looked around once and put her hand into the mailbox, pulling out a few pieces and shuffling through them. It took a second.

“Ruth Silberstein. Miss,” she said in the car.

“Silverstein?”

“Ber.”

He drove past the house. “We’ll come back.”

“She gets the
New Republic
, if that means anything. Where’s the last one?”

He looked at the list. “Chevy Chase.”

“God, they’re all over the place. Creepy, isn’t it? No one has the faintest idea. You can walk right up and look at their mail. They could be anywhere.”

“Undermining our way of life,” he said, using a newsreel voice.

“Well, they are, aren’t they?”

“We don’t know what they’re doing, Molly. Maybe they’re just passing on the wheat crop estimates so somebody can make a good deal. Do you think Rosemary was undermining our way of life?”

Molly looked out the window, quiet. “Just her own, I guess.”

“Maybe they’re just small fry.”

“Your father didn’t think so.”

“No.” Names he was willing to sell, worth a life.

“What are you going to do after? With the list.”

“I don’t know,” he said, a curve, unexpected. “I’m only interested in one.”

“I mean, they’re agents.”

“So was my father.”

“But they might be—”

“I don’t know, Molly. What do you want me to do, turn them in to the committee? I can’t. It would be like turning my father in. Besides, there isn’t any committee anymore. It’s over. Just cops. Let Jeff catch them. I don’t take sides.”

“Yes, you do.”

“Not anymore. Not with this.”

“So Ruth Silberstein just keeps getting her
New Republics
and doing whatever she’s doing.”

“I guess that depends on what she’s doing.”

“So you’ll decide,” she said quietly. “You’ll be the committee.”

A pinprick, sharp. “Yes, I’ll be the committee,” he said, the sound of the words strange, as if even his voice had turned upside down. “What’s the address?”

The house in Chevy Chase was a snug Cape Cod with shutters and a fussy herbaceous border running along the front. In December there would be a wreath on the door and candles in the window, a Christmas card house. The wide glossy lawn was set off on either end by tall hedges to separate it from the neighbors, modern ranch houses, one with a
For Sale
shingle stuck in the grass. There was no car in the driveway or other sign of life.

“You going to read his mail too?” Nick said.

“No, it’s a slot,” Molly said, having already looked. “They’re showing the house next door.”

“How do you know?”

“See, they’re huddling, and he keeps looking at the roof. The one in the suit’s the real estate lady. You can always tell. She’s wearing flats. With a suit. They all do that. I guess it’s hard on the feet.”

Nick grinned at her. “Are you kidding me, or do you really know all this?”