Текст книги "The Prodigal Spy"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

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For a moment, no one spoke. “How do you know it was a pillow?” Nick said quietly.

“There were no signs of strangulation. Were there marks on your father’s neck?” Zimmerman said, no longer pretending to be in the past.

“No.”

“But he soiled himself. That’s very rare in someone who jumps.”

“If he was frightened—” Nick began.

“So rare as to be almost nonexistent. It is, however, a common occurrence in cases of suffocation. It happens most frequently when people are hanged–that’s why we have connected losing control of the bowels to fear. But jumpers don’t do that. They are not afraid. But it would happen if he were smothered. During the struggle.”

Clearly, as if in slow motion, Nick saw his father on the bed, gasping, his feet moving, then giving in. His papers ready. Nick touched the envelope. Nothing else, no list.

“Who?” Nick said finally.

“Who. Mr Warren, do you blame the gun for going off? These men are tools. They are nobody. I’m not going to know who entered the Czernin Palace. I’m not going to know who went to your father’s flat on Holečkova. I accept that.”

“Then why are you telling me this?”

“So you will accept it too. So you are not tempted. To play the detective.”

“My father wasn’t Masaryk. He wasn’t going to set up a government in exile.”

“Then why was he killed? You see, I accept the limitations. How far we can take a criminal investigation–we’ve had to learn that. But it’s still important to know, to protect ourselves. One day, you know, the Russians will leave –yes, I believe that. We can be policemen again, solve real cases. But meanwhile we have to know what they’re doing. To hide, to play the fool if it’s better. To survive them. This is what we do.”

“Soldier Schweik.”

“If you like. A man is killed. If I know why, then I know how far I can go. Contain the situation.”

“By pretending it didn’t happen.”

“If that’s necessary.”

“Why do you want to protect them?”

“Mr Warren, I want to protect you.”

“Me?”

“Has it occurred to you how dangerous this might be for you? I came here to talk to you as a friend. I think you did not, at the station, understand how things are.”

“And how are they?”

“They must protect the lie. They’ll do anything to do that. Look at Masaryk–a crime twenty years old, yet still the lie. It’s a curious thing, to care so much what people think when you have all the power anyway. Maybe they need to believe it themselves. So they stage a simple case of suicide. Who would doubt it? But you are there, something unexpected. Now there are questions, accusations, the Americans calling. If they feel the lie is threatened, they will have to protect it. So now a crime. But the most obvious person to have done it, Mr Warren, is you.”

“You know I didn’t. The evidence—”

“Can be made to fit. It’s not a criminal case, Mr Warren. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. A political crime. All that matters is what they want people to believe. You were there, you had the motive.” He paused. “And you cannot explain yourself.”

“But you know—”

“If you are charged, there’s nothing I can do. You must see that. Of course, it’s a complication to arrest you. It becomes an incident. So many people involved. But they will do it, if they have to protect themselves. And you will be convicted. All proper and legal.” He lowered his voice. “You will be your father’s murderer.” Nick raised his head.

“Yes. They can do it. The question is, is it worth it to them? That’s what I don’t know yet. And I can’t know that until I know why he was planning to leave. Why he was stopped. I can’t help you if I don’t know that. If you don’t tell me.”

Nick, shaken, said nothing.

“Will they accuse you? Is it that important to them?”

“I don’t know.”

Zimmerman sighed and reached for another cigarette, taking his time. “Of course, there is another possibility. The easiest way to avoid everything–no incident, no trial. What do you know, Mr Warren? They were willing to kill him. Why stop? They killed people in the Masaryk case–oh yes, even years later. If they thought you knew the reason. It would be easy, to make a new lie. A family tragedy. You found the body. Who can say how people react to such a terrible thing? Sometimes they blame themselves. It would be easy. If they thought you knew.”

Nick stared at the precise, glowing ash of Zimmerman’s cigarette. “Maybe they sent you to find out.”

Zimmerman looked at him for a second, then nodded slowly. “Yes, maybe. In that case, I seem to have failed. You decide.” He stood up, scraping the chair. “But I see I have accomplished one thing–to make you suspicious. Even of me. Good. You need to be careful.”

“Like you.”

“Yes, like everyone here. But we’re still alive.”

Nick didn’t move. All of it true. But did they know about him? Had his father told them? Before the pillows made him quiet?

“Do you really think they’d—”

“I have no way of knowing, Mr Warren. Perhaps it’s my imagination. Only you would know that. If what you know is dangerous. But I would be careful. In fact, I would leave Prague.”

“You’re the one who ordered me to stay.”

He nodded. “Yes, it’s a difficulty. You understand, that was an official request, not mine.”

“Then what—”

“Under the circumstances? Go with the suicide. Make a statement. About his despair. Be innocent.” Zimmerman stared at him, serious.

Nick looked away. An end to it. What everybody wanted. He thought of Anna’s arm moving, on the other side of the cubicle wall.

“Then I can leave?” he asked finally.

“I’ll see. I don’t know how far this has gone. Incidentally, has anyone talked yet to Miss Chisholm?”

“No.”

“Then perhaps you would advise her.” He paused. “My concern for you–if you know what you say you don’t–would extend to anyone. It’s one thing to put yourself at risk—”

“She doesn’t know anything.”

Zimmerman smiled. “But then, neither do you. Be careful, Mr Warren.”

“Thank you. For the story.”

“A reconstruction. What might have happened.”

“You said ‘must.”’

Zimmerman shrugged. “It suggests itself. It’s not the first time.” He looked down at Nick. “But you have to be satisfied with that, with what must have happened. You understand that. You can stop playing detective.”

“And that’s why you told me? So I’d stop? Go away?”

“So you would not live with a mystery. It can be a poison.”

“Yes,” Nick said quietly, his eyes fixed on the ashtray.

“You were thinking of another?”

Nick looked up at him. “How he got here.”

Zimmerman opened his mouth to say something, then gave it up, turning away. “You will not solve that in Prague.”

“No.” Nick stood. “Do I have to sign something?”

“At your convenience. I will call you.” He gave Nick a wry glance. “If your embassy permits.”

“They don’t care. They want me to go too.”

Nick picked up the passport and held it out to him.

“No. That would only confuse Chief Novotný.” He turned to Anna. “Sometimes things are not found. It’s a pity.”

Anna nodded and took the passport.

“Not even by good Czechs who might need them,” he said to her. “You understand? Not this one.”

She nodded again. “You haven’t eaten anything,” she said.

“Another time, Anička. Thank you. Mr Warren?”

They said goodbye to her, shaking hands, leaving her to her full table and wonderful view. On the stairs, there were no sounds but their shoes against the worn stone.

“I’ll leave first,” Zimmerman said when they reached the ground floor. “Wait a few minutes here, please. Go left, to the corner, so they can see you.”

“Aren’t they your own men?”

He smiled weakly. “But I’m careful. Like you.” He took Nick’s hand, peering closely at him. “I wonder what you know, Mr Warren.”

“I don’t know anything.”

“Then that is what I’ll say.”

“Will they believe you?”

“Oh, I think so. I was a good interrogator, when we were just police.”

Nick waited in the dark stairwell, listening to the drips in the pail. Then he went out, turning toward the Old Town Square, the streets, like everything else, a maze.

Chapter 14

MOLLY WAS SITTING by the window, waiting for him. “What happened?”

“A condolence call,” he said, crossing the room, avoiding her.

She waited, then looked down, disappointed. “Anna called. She wants to see you, at your father’s.”

“She say why?”

“No. Just that she has something for you.”

He stopped, attentive now. Not in the desk. Anna had found it somewhere else.

“Okay. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“I’ll come,” she said, getting up.

“You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do. I’m going crazy here. I keep thinking they’re picking you up again.”

“They won’t. I called Zimmerman. I told him I’d sign a statement saying my father was depressed. I was worried about him. That’s why I went to see him that morning.”

“But I thought—”

“That’s how you remember it too, isn’t it?” he said, partly to the walls. “He left the concert early, after that little fight we had. If they ask.”

She stopped in front of him. “Nick, what’s going on?”

“Just say it.”

“If that’s what you want,” she said, trying to read his face.

“That’s what I want.” He turned away. “I’ll go see him after Anna and get it over with. I won’t be long.” He went over to the window and drew back the edge of the curtain. “Our friends are still here.”

“Where?” She came over and looked out. “Not very subtle, are they?”

“Not the ones we know about.”

She shivered. “Stop.” She picked up her shoulder bag from the chair. “I’m not staying here. I’m just not.”

They walked down Wenceslas, past the parky stalls and half-empty shops, heading inevitably toward the Národní Street bridge. Where had Anna found it? Did she know what it meant? Molly, wary, said nothing, glancing over her shoulder. One of the men followed on foot, the Skoda lagging behind. They passed the corner where she had caught the tram and started across the bridge. He waited until they were halfway across before he stopped, looking over at the tree where he’d stood.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t want them to lose us. I like having a bodyguard.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“My father was killed, Molly. Not depressed, killed. I don’t want to end up the same way.”

“You?”

“The guy from the embassy said I should watch my back.”

“Did he?” she said, her face blank. “Why would he say that?”

“Maybe he’s paranoid. They get like that over here. Maybe he knows.”

“Knows what?”

But instead of answering, he said, “Molly, I want you to do something. Get out of Prague, today. The ticket’s still good. Take the car if you want.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I’m paranoid too. But do it. There’s nothing you can do here. At least you’ll be safe.”

She shook her head. “Knows what?” she said again. “Tell me.”

He turned to her, angry now. “You tell me.”

“What?”

He grabbed her arm. “Who’s Foster, Molly? Tell me.”

“Why are you acting like this?” she said, pulling away.

“I’m watching my back. He didn’t have to tell me, we learned that in the war. You get like that when people shoot at you. You start seeing things. You, for instance. Standing right here, having a little talk. Not shopping. Definitely not alone. I was over there.” He indicated the tree. “But maybe I was seeing things. Was I? Tell me.”

She took her arm away, subdued. “What did he tell you?”

“Him? Nothing. Not a word. A real gentleman, if you like the type. Which I guess you do. So why don’t you tell me?”

She looked down. “He’s a friend. Was.”

“A bed friend?”

“What difference does it make?”

“A bed friend?”

“All right, yes. We had a thing. So what? In Paris. He used to work there.”

“But not anymore.”

“No.”

“So you came here. A Czech filmmaker–Christ, was that his idea or yours?”

“Mine.”

“What else did you make up? Why?”

“I didn’t think you’d come if you knew.”

“And it was important to get me here. That was the idea.”

“It was important for him. He wanted it, not me.”

“But you made it happen. You arranged everything. A little family reunion, with the CIA sitting right there beside me.”

“He’s not with the CIA.”

“So he said. What about you? Who do you work for?”

“Nobody. I did it for him.”

“Why, if it was over?”

“I thought it would get him back.”

“Did it?”

“Things–changed.” She looked up at him. “You know that.”

“I don’t know anything, Molly, remember? I’m not supposed to. Is that why we went to bed? Was that part of the plan too? So I wouldn’t suspect anything?”

“No.”

“No, you just couldn’t help yourself. Christ, and I was worrying about the Czechs bugging us, not our side.”

“Stop it. It wasn’t like that.”

“You tell him about it? Was that part of the report?”

She shook her head. “That wasn’t supposed to happen. It just did.”

“What was supposed to happen?”

“You don’t want to hear this.”

“Yes, I do. I’m dying to hear it. How stupid I was, fucking an agent.”

She flinched and turned away from him, facing the water. “I’m not an agent. I told you, he’s not CIA. He hates the CIA, as a matter of fact. It’s like a sports thing. They’re these big rivals.”

“Who?”

She bit her lip. “The Bureau. There, so you know, okay? You got it out of me. Happy? He works for the FBI.”

Nick stared at her. His father’s voice. I know where.

“In Paris,” he said sarcastically.

“At the embassy. They’re not supposed to operate overseas. It’s against the law. Like they care. Anyway, they get around it by putting people in the embassies. Legats–that’s what they call them. Legal attachés. The CIA knows, but there’s nothing they can do about it, so they make each other crazy.” She stopped. “He’s not an agent.”

“And that’s supposed to make it all right.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“Some difference. So you get together in Paris. I’m amazed. An old rock groupie like yourself. I didn’t think he’d be your type. How was it?”

“Don’t do this,” she said quietly.

“How was it?”

She glared at him. “Fine, if you want to know. It was fine. Look, I’m not proud of this. What do you want me to say? What about you? Are you proud of everyone you’ve been to bed with?” She turned to face the river. “We had a thing, okay? I was attracted to him–I don’t know why. Kind of like sleeping with the enemy. It’s so wrong it’s–interesting. You know, what’s that like? I mean, God, the Bureau. The last thing I would have imagined. I thought they were like Nazis. But he wasn’t. He was nice–at least, he was then.

“So I was wrong. I thought it would just be that one time, but it wasn’t. It went on. And then, when he left I didn’t know what to do. Maybe I wanted him to miss me. But I didn’t want it to be over.”

“So you followed him here.”

She nodded. “But things were different. I thought it was the place–everything’s different here. But what was really happening was that it wasn’t important to him anymore. Just his stupid job. Who wants to admit that? So I didn’t. Then I met your father and he got interested again. I had him back for a while.”

“Why was he interested?”

“He knew the Bureau would be. Your father was the one who got away. They never closed the file. Because of Hoover. It’s never over for him. Jeff says he lives in the past. I guess when he isn’t spying on the Panthers and whatever else they do. But that period, your father’s time–that was it for him. So he’d be interested if anything turned up. Jeff just wanted to do himself some good, get out of Prague and back home. Prague’s a dead end. But if he could get the director’s attention—” She paused. “I don’t know, maybe he thought he could get something out of him. That your father might tell you things he could use. He’s like that. Ambitious. So he used me and I used you. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“Every detail.”

“I already told you. I was at a party with Jin. There was a Jiří, somebody I met here. I didn’t make him up, just what happened. Your father was there and I was amazed. I thought he was in Moscow or dead or something. It was like meeting a ghost. So I told Jeff I’d met him, what he’d said, and he got interested. I don’t think they even knew he was in Prague. So what was he up to?”

“And you told him my father wanted to see me.”

“Why not? As far as I was concerned, he was—”

“I know, a murderer. So you decided to catch him.”

“No. I never thought I’d see him again. I went back to Paris. Then Jeff came and said he’d been thinking about it and why did your father want to see you and maybe I should do it, do what he asked, and it might be important and wouldn’t I do it for him?”

“But not tell me.”

“Would you have come?”

“No.”

“So I thought, why not? I didn’t even know you. Jeff really wanted it. And it was interesting. I wanted to know Národní I figured I owed it to her. To find out once and for all. And then when it started, I thought, I can’t do this. It’s like working for the FBI, not Jeff. That’s when I realized what he was, really one of them. And by that time I knew you. I was going to call it off in Vienna–I was supposed to check in with him there, before we crossed the border. But you changed the plan, remember? You didn’t want to wait and I – I went with it. I couldn’t tell you. I thought, what if nothing happens? Just a visit. Nobody had to know. Your father never suspected.”

“No, he had you checked out,” Nick said. “He believed you.” A love affair, his father had said, young people always had love affairs. Some plausible young man at the embassy, not CIA, nobody to worry about. “Everybody believed you.”

“Yes.”

“So you wanted to call it off, but you saw Foster here anyway.”

“I had to. I couldn’t just leave. I had to put an end to it, tell him to stop. I was afraid if I didn’t—”

“What?”

“That he’d talk to you. That you’d find out from him.”

“Oh. Instead of from you. Just when were you planning to tell me?”

She turned to look at him. “Never.”

“Never. Not even after we were home. Why not?”

“Because I knew you’d look at me the way you’re looking now.” Her eyes were moist, filling.

“So no one would be the wiser,” he said, angry at the tears, not wanting to be disarmed. “Especially me. But it didn’t work out that way.”

“No.”

“What did you tell Foster?”

“There was nothing to tell. We went to the country. No dark secrets from the past. Nothing that would interest anybody at home. Just a visit. End of story.” She hesitated. “I told him I didn’t want you to know about me. That it would ruin things. I made him promise.”

“Don’t worry, he kept it. Your secret’s safe with him.” He took out a handkerchief and held it out to her. “But that wasn’t exactly the end. You told Foster he was planning to leave. Didn’t you?”

She blew her nose, nodding at the same time.

“Why?”

“I never thought he was serious. It was just some crazy idea. And Jeff kept hounding me. What did they talk about? What did they talk about? He wanted to know who his contacts were, who he saw in Prague. As if I’d know. So I said it wasn’t like that. He was out of it, retired. He even had this idea about going back and he wanted you to help. That’s how out of it he was–in some dream world.” She looked up at him, her face still covered by the handkerchief. “I didn’t want Jeff to think it was real, get all excited. Maybe try to contact him. I didn’t think it was real. I didn’t.” A thin wail.

Nick turned away, not wanting to face her, waiting as she caught her breath. “Tell me something else you were never going to tell me,” he said quietly. “He wasn’t going to leave it alone, was he? Not after that. He wanted you to find out more. From me. Stay close to me. Let him know. He made you promise to keep going, didn’t he? Then he’d keep his.”

He waited, hoping he’d overshot, his stomach turning when he saw her nod again into the handkerchief.

“But I wasn’t going to,” she said. “I just said it to make him stop. I wasn’t going to.”

“God, Molly.” He leaned back against the bridge, feeling hemmed in. His Czech watchdog down the road was staring at the river. The American was closer, stifling a sniffle. “Tell me something. What did that feel like? In bed. Spying on me.”

“I wasn’t spying on you.”

“What do you call it?”

“I thought we were making love,” she said quietly. “That’s what it felt like to me.”

“Spare me.”

She raised her head, stung, then shrugged and gave him the handkerchief. “It’s true, for what it’s worth. Anyway, how would you know? Did you even know I was there?”

“Not both of you.”

“Maybe you can’t,” she said, ignoring him. “You don’t care about anything unless it happened twenty years ago. I hate what he did to you. Making you think you could get it back. Who could compete with that? You don’t have room for anybody else. Just him.”

He stood, saying nothing, only vaguely aware of the traffic sounds, as if someone had sliced him with a knife and he had to hold his insides close so they wouldn’t slip out.

Then it worked, he’d held himself in and was able to breathe again.

“Well, now he’s dead. Somebody else didn’t want him around either.”

“That’s unfair. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

“Then why say it? To make me feel worse? You don’t have to. I can do that myself.” She shook her head. “Oh, what’s the use? You’re too hurt to see anything. But what happened with Jeff–it didn’t matter to me, Nick. It didn’t matter.”

“But it did matter. My father’s dead, because someone knew.”

“Because I told Jeff? But how could it? Do you think I’ve thought about anything else for two days? What if I did it? Me. Killed him just by– But how? Jeff didn’t kill him. He may be a shit, but he didn’t do that.”

“But who else knew? Me. You. Foster. Unless he told somebody. Did he?”

“I don’t know.”

He hesitated. “But you could find out.”

“How?”

“Use your wiles. They worked on me.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s not much to ask, considering.”

“Nick—”

“Not for me. Do it for my father. He’s entitled to one favor.”

She looked down. For a moment there was nothing, just the sound of a truck going by. “Do what?”

“Go see Foster. Tell him I still don’t suspect anything. And you’d like to keep it that way. Just between you and old Jeff. Has he talked to anyone else? In the embassy. Or even back home. Find out if he signaled the Bureau about this, if anyone in Washington has any idea.”

“Why Washington?”

“And when. If he said anything before.”

“Nick, what’s the point? What does this have to do with anything? The Bureau didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe my father wasn’t as careful as he thought. Maybe his friends already knew. But maybe he was careful. Maybe he got tripped up because somebody wanted a new job and thought he was the ticket. I just want to find out who knew. It’s important. Maybe it stops with Foster. At least we eliminate possibilities.”

Molly stared up at him. “If it stops with him,” she said slowly, “that leaves me. Do you think I did it?”

“No.”

“Really. Why not me? Why not Anna? It’s usually the wife, isn’t it? Why not the Bureau, who didn’t even know where he was. Except in some old file nobody cares about anymore. Who else? Do you see what this is doing to you? It’s crazy.”

Nick nodded. “But he’s dead. And whoever killed him knew he was going to leave. It’s the only way it makes sense.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense to me. Why not just lock him up? They lock up everyone else. What made him so special?”

“I don’t know.”

She raised her head, scanning his face. “You do, though. That’s it. That’s why you’re so sure he was killed. Why you’re worried. Signing things. I thought it was just an idea he had, but you didn’t. You knew he could do it. You even bought him a ticket. There’s something else. That’s why you want to know who Jeff told.” She glanced up, her eyes narrowing. “In Washington. That’s what you want to know. Who in Washington.” Nick said nothing, still not looking at her. “Leaving was only part of it. There’s always been something else. That you wouldn’t tell me.”

He turned back to her. “Well, that makes two of us.”

He saw the flush rise in her face, a kind of blood wince. She lowered her eyes. “Not anymore. Now there’s just you.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you don’t trust me.”

“I mean I can’t. It’s not safe.”

She shook her head. “You think I’m going to tell Jeff. You still think that.”

“They killed him, Molly. It doesn’t matter whether I trust you or not. It’s not safe.”

“But why?”

He hesitated, then said, “Just ask him who knew.”

“I’m surprised you trust me to do that. What is it, a kind of test?”

“It’s important.”

“Then ask him yourself. I’m tired of playing Mata Hari. First him, now you. If I don’t know what you’re doing, I don’t want any part of it.”

“You are a part of it. That’s the other thing. Find out if he told them about you, if anyone in Washington knows about you.”

“Me?”

“Let’s hope he took all the credit. He looks the type. Old matchmaker Jeff.”

“What would he tell them?”

“That you arranged it. That you’ve been sleeping with me.”

“So what?”

“Somebody might get the idea that I confided in you. That you know why too.” He stopped, letting it sink in. “Ask him. And tell him we both think it’s suicide. Can you make him believe that?”

She nodded slowly, her eyes wide. Then she reached out and touched his arm lightly, tentative. “We have to talk about things.”

“There isn’t time now.” An echo, somewhere in the back of his head. There isn’t time.

“I never meant—” She looked up, a new thought. “Nick, whatever it is–what he told you. Do they know?”

“Not yet. Nobody does. Not even you. Do you understand?”

“But it’s true? You’re sure?”

“It has to be. He’s dead.”

He left Molly at the corner and turned left toward the tank square, his mind buzzing. What if Foster hadn’t told anyone after all? What if Anna didn’t have the list? He’d have to leave Prague with nothing but a history lesson from Zimmerman, a half-answer eating away at everything. Silver safe and sound, still sending his useful reports. The woman is the key, his father had said, but that trail had ended in the Mayflower Hotel, as cold now as the snow on the car where she’d fallen. Now there was only the list, with the name that could lead him to Silver.

When he got to Holečkova, he looked back to see if one of the shadows had split off to follow Molly, but they were both there. Only interested in him.

The same hill, steep. Then the gate, the concrete steps leading up to the apartment building. He stopped when he reached the lawn, his eyes drawn to the spot in helpless fascination, like a car accident. No bloodstains, everything cleared away. Just grass. Surprised at how much it had hurt.

You don’t have room for anybody else. But it wasn’t true. That elation, opening out to her, and then the ice pick stabbing at him on the bridge, betrayed, the way he had felt that night, looking at footprints. He had thought no one could make him feel that again, and here it was, the same surprised bleeding. Now there were two who had done it, touched that part of him. And oddly, some twisted joke, they were the only two he still trusted. He knew it now, looking at the lawn, his anger gone. You could trust a touch, despite everything. It came back again and again, a heartbeat, making room.

He took the lift, avoiding the stairs where the killers had crept past the brick glass. Or had they clunked their way up, heedless, not caring if the neighbors heard? Just following orders. Anna opened the door at the first touch of the buzzer.

“Nicholas, come in. You got the message.”

He nodded. “You have something for me?” He looked around at the bland Scandinavian furniture. Everything was clean, almost antiseptic, as if it had been scrubbed down.

“Come,” she said, leading him to the bedroom.

“Where did you find it?”

She looked at him, confused, then continued into the room. He stopped at the door. Everything the same–bed, desk–but tidy now, no signs of disturbance. He looked at the neat pillows, feeling queasy. Did she sleep on them? She went over to the desk and brought back a small urn shaped like a squat loving cup.

“The ashes,” she said simply. “Here, I want you to have them.”

He took the urn, stupefied. It was cool to the touch. “Anna, I—”

“No, it’s better.” She looked down at the urn. “You have them.”

The urn was surprisingly heavy. He stared at it, not knowing what to say. His eyes wandered over to the desk. Not the list. Nothing hidden here.

“I can’t.”

“Yes. Take him home. That’s what he wanted.”

“Did he say that? Did he tell you?”

She shook her head. “I knew. I was his wife. He was never happy here. Only a little. Take him home.”

So small. The tall body reduced to a bowl of ash. He could hold it in his hands.

“Perhaps you would bury it somewhere he liked. At the country house.”

“It was sold,” Nick said numbly.

But no list. In a minute he would have to go, turn his back on the flat for good, leaving the list behind. But was it here? What had his father said? The echo again. There isn’t time now. But why wouldn’t there be time if it had been here in the flat with him? He was careful. The passport had been safe with Anna Masaryk. Not at the flat.

“Nicholas, do you hear me?”

“Yes, I’m sorry. I was thinking.”

“If it’s not possible in the country, then wherever you think best.” She handed him a slip of paper. “This is the document. You’ll need it for customs, so they won’t open it. It’s sealed.”

Why tell him that? Was she afraid they’d violate the remains, spilling ashes in a clumsy search through the luggage?

“I can’t take this.”

“You must.” Her eyes on him, an order. She nodded. “For him.”

Unless it wasn’t just ashes. He stared at her. His father had sent her away that night. Visiting relatives, or a last errand? Now that she had it, she’d be careful too, speaking in code for the listening walls. He looked down at the urn again, his hands clammy on the cool metal. Sealed. Was it possible? His father would carry it out after all. “Thank you,” Nick said finally.

“Be careful with it. The seal is easy to break.”

“I understand.” Another glance. “So he told you.” She looked hard at him, her face as closed as it had been at the police station. “Nothing,” she said.

She led him out of the room. At the door, when he leaned to embrace her, she stepped back awkwardly, extending her hand instead. “Na shledanou,” she said, using Czech to move away, no longer connected to him.

He carried the urn all the way back to the hotel, covering it with his raincoat, not risking a tram. The room was empty, and he locked the door before he sat down at the writing desk. He looked at the urn for an edge of wax or plastic, but there was nothing but the lid. Maybe the seal was only a tightly fitted groove, like the top of a jam jar. He took the urn and tried to twist the cover, his hand slipping on the smooth metal. A handkerchief. He gripped it and tried to unscrew the top. What did you do with jars? Run the top under hot water. Tap it with a knife. He squeezed again, straining, putting his weight into it. Then a tiny jerk, a loosening, and the lid began to turn slowly. He followed it around, then turned again. Easier now, coming off. He lifted the cover and looked in. Not the black-and-white ash of a fireplace, different. An unexpected brown mixed with gray.