Текст книги "The Prodigal Spy"

Автор книги: Joseph Kanon

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

The kettle whistle startled him and he hurried to make the tea. Why now? He sat back down in front of the electric fire, counted the orange bars, and sipped from the mug. He could will himself to be calm. Read something. As long as he didn’t think. Then he glanced out the window and saw the top branches of the leafless tree and 2nd Street came flooding back, racing through his body until he actually felt memory, a tingle in his fingers on the cup. Everything he’d pushed away at Jules. Scene after scene. Had she thought he was indifferent? That it wasn’t still there, just waiting? Welles and his stupid gavel, rattling ashtrays for the cameras. The swarm of hats outside the window, drinking coffee. His mother all dressed up for the charities benefit. The pearls flung backward on the dented car roof.

He stopped. That was the other thing. She’d left her apartment, checked into the Mayflower, and jumped. That was all. A girl at Garfinkel’s. But before that, what? Discussion groups about capitalism? Saving the world from fascism? What had made her come forward, unraveling her lethal thread? What did the committee know, anyway? His father’s judges. One of them, it turned out, had been a member of the Klan, convinced the Communists were organizing Negroes. It was there in the index cards. He glanced over at the desk. Indifferent? Then why the stacks of cards for Wiseman, the trail back? Larry had known instinctively that the research was a pose. He was studying the mechanics of history to find out something else. Had his father gone there that night, a last stop at the hotel? And now the one person who could tell him had sent a message and he sat with a mug of tea, too afraid to ask.

The room was warm enough for him to change now, and he went over to the closet to put his jacket away. He could read something until he fell asleep. Trollope, maybe, who’d probably seen houses like this going up and thought they were handsome. But his hand fell on an omnibus Stevenson, and there was memory again, Kidnapped in the club chair. He took it out anyway, a gesture of refusing to be intimidated, and threw it on the bed. He’d never read Dr. Jekyll and Mr Hyde, just seen the movie, and that seemed safe enough. Then he realized, with a sighing irony, that he wasn’t going to escape it. Who was that, after all, but his father, one person, then another? Except that Dr. Jekyll couldn’t help himself, once he’d taken the medicine.

He folded his pants and put them on a hanger and started unbuttoning his shirt, staring down at the pile of laundry on the closet floor. He’d have to go to the Chinese tomorrow. When it hit him, he held on to the open front of his shirt, literally dizzy.

The shirt. His father hadn’t been able to help himself then; Nick had helped him. It was something only they knew, that Nick had tried to help. In his child’s mind, he had even been willing to break the law, anything. He was asking for help. That was the code.

Nick stood for a minute, arguing with himself, but he knew beyond reason that he was right. There had never been any point in making the message cryptic–why not just ‘Come see me’? “He’ll know.” And he did know. I need your help again. Don’t tell anybody. Between us, like before. It couldn’t mean anything else. His father might have used a hundred references from Nick’s childhood, but he used the shirt, their secret. Molly could have thought it was an old family joke, nothing more. Was that what his life was like now, so cautious he didn’t even trust his own messenger?

But he trusted Nick. Nobody else had ever tried to help him. And now there was another shirt.

Nick walked over to the desk, pulled by strings that stretched so far back he was afraid mere movement would make them snap. What if he were wrong, standing there in his socks and underwear in the middle of the night, reading things into an innocuous hello? Or maybe just telling himself a story that would make him do what he wanted to do anyway. What if?

He picked up the phone and started to dial, surprised at the clunking sound in the quiet room. Flaxman nine. A Fulham number. Maybe he was still stoned. But he had never felt more alert in his life.

“Hullo?” The phone was picked up on the first ring, as if she didn’t want anyone else to hear.

“It’s Nick.”

“Do you know what time it is?”

Why hadn’t he waited until morning? But it had already been a month. “I know. I’m sorry. It couldn’t wait.”

“What?”

“I’ve changed my mind. You still willing to make the trip?”

“Maybe we’d better talk about this in the morning.”

“Are you?”

She paused. “What made you change your mind?”

“It doesn’t matter. You were right. I have to go. Can you leave right away? Tomorrow?”

“Are you crazy? We have to get visas. It takes a few days. You can’t just walk—”

“Okay, where do we go for the visas?”

“Czech consulate,” she said, suddenly practical. “It’s in Notting Hill Gate.”

“Will you meet me there? First thing in the morning?”

“Try noon. They don’t open till late. And you just have to wait in line anyway. But go early if you want.”

“No. We have to go together. You’re my fiancée, remember?”

She laughed. “Do I get a ring?”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“I was kidding, for God’s sake. Are you all right?”

“Okay, noon. Where in Notting Hill?”

“Meet me at the tube stop. It’s about a block. Nick?”

“What?”

“Are you sure? I mean, you seemed so -I have his phone number, you know. I can just give it to you, if you want.”

“No. The way he says. You’ll be the contact.”

There was a silence. “I thought you didn’t want to see him.”

“Now I do.”

Chapter 6

IN THE MORNING he saw Larry’s lawyer, who droned on for half an hour about financial responsibility before he finally let Nick sign the papers.

“When can I draw on this?”

“This week, if you like. I’ll arrange a wire transfer. Are you planning to buy something?”

“A car.”

The lawyer smiled. “That’s usually the first thing, isn’t it? I’ve seen it time and again. A young man will have his car.”

At Cook’s, overflowing with brochures, they were happy to arrange anything, the whole world for a price. Bratislava was only fifty kilometers from Vienna, a tram ride in the old days. There was a Danube cruise, highly recommended, though of course it was early in the season. Prague was a bargain, since tourists were still a bit skittish about the Russians, but Budapest might surprise him. They had several groups going to Budapest.

By the time Nick got to Notting Hill Gate, he had a plan and the beginnings of an itinerary. He found Molly waiting on the street, looking at a Czech phrasebook, and she had changed herself again–plaid skirt, knee socks, sweater, and hair pulled back into a pony tail, a conventional American girl. Passport officials would know the type in a second.

“I thought I’d better start boning up,” she said, holding out the book.

“Perfect,” Nick said, implying that it was a prop.

“No, we’ll need it. Unless you speak German. They hate it, but they speak it.”

“Come on, let’s go. We need to hit the Hungarian consulate later.”

“We’re going to Hungary?”

“Vienna and Budapest. The old empire. I thought it would be better if Prague was a side trip. You know, as long as we’re in Vienna, so close, you couldn’t resist showing it to me. In case anyone checks.”

“When did you think all this up?”

“Last night. It has to be casual–a quick look-see and we’re on our way, before anyone notices. With an itinerary to prove it.”

“Why should we have to prove it?”

“I don’t know. Why did my father send you?”

“Are you trying to scare me? He just wants to see you.”

“Secretly.” He looked at her. “Do you want to back out?”

“You’re overreacting.”

“Maybe. I’ve never done this before.” He looked up at the modern building with the plaque of the Czech lion rampant bolted into the brick, as official as a jail. “It’s still a police state. We have to be careful.”

She shrugged. “Tell you what, then. You do all the talking. I’ll just think about my engagement trip. Budapest, for God’s sake.”

Nick smiled. “It’s nice. Lots of thermal baths. They told me so at Cook’s.”

“You went to Cook’s?”

“I want it all on paper. Tickets. Reservations.”

“Like an alibi.”

“Yes,” he said, looking at her. “Like an alibi.”

But in fact the process was no more sinister than getting a driver’s license. There were guards and applications to fill out and pamphlets about currency restrictions. On the walls, a portrait of a jowly man Nick assumed to be Husak. A few old people in line arguing in a language as remote as Chinese. Then forms were stamped and routed to out boxes, an iron curtain of paper. The visas would be good for three weeks, and they were required to exchange dollars for the whole period.

“But we’ll only be there a few days,” Nick said.

“Those are the currency regulations,” the woman said tonelessly. “You will perhaps find many things to buy.” An explanation from Oz, utterly without irony.

“When will they be ready?”

“Come back in three days. It’s possible.”

“We’re anxious to start.”

“Yes,” the woman said, shuffling papers. “All the world wants to go to Prague.”

Nick wondered if this was an office joke, but her face was impassive, already looking at the next person in line.

They paid the extra five pounds for the car and took the early hovercraft, skimming across the Channel to Ostend. They made good time through the flat, sprouting landscape, but by afternoon the mountains slowed them, and it was late when they finally reached Bern, as neat and atmospheric as a stage set. They found a pension on one of the arcaded streets not far from the bear pit, and after some soup and Alsatian wine in the empty dining room, went up to bed. Molly had said little during the drive but now began to unwind, turning playful from the wine.

“So how do we do this?” she said, pointing to the bed. “I’ve never been to bed with a man before. To sleep, I mean.”

“Pick a side.”

“Like brother and sister.” She threw a flannel nightgown on the bed and went into the bathroom to brush her teeth. When she came back, toothbrush still in her mouth, Nick had already stripped to his shorts.

“Briefs. I knew it. We used to take bets–you know, in school. Briefs or boxers, I knew you’d be briefs.” She watched as he turned back the covers. “Do you sleep in them?”

“Tonight I do.”

“Don’t worry. I’m too tired to look.”

“Is that really what girls talk about?” he said, getting into bed.

“Of course. What do boys talk about?”

“Other things.”

“I’ll bet.”

She went into the bathroom to rinse, then came back and put on the nightgown, slipping the clothes off underneath. Nick sat in the bed, blanket pulled up to his chest, watching her.

“How do you do that?”

“Hooks. Trick of the trade,” she said, pulling in her arms and struggling with her shirt. “Ta-da.” The shirt fell to the floor, then, after a few minutes of wriggling, the bra. She held it up for him, dancing a little. “See?”

“If you want to put on a show, take my advice and don’t wear flannel.”

“Serves you right,” she said, sinking into the chair, propping her feet on the bed.

“Aren’t you coming to bed?”

“In a minute.”

“Well,” he said, snapping off his light but still sitting up, looking at her.

“This would be my mother’s idea of a perfect honeymoon.”

He watched her for a minute, then said, “Let’s not complicate things.”

She moved to the bed. “No.”

“Turn off the light and go to sleep.”

“Just like that.”

“Try it,” he said, rolling away from her on his side.

She got into bed quickly, pulling the covers up. “Want to hear something funny? I feel–I don’t know. Embarrassed. It’s like we’re married or something. Do you snore?”

“No,” he said, still on his side.

“How do you know?”

“Will you go to sleep, please? We want to make Vienna tomorrow.”

“It’s farther than you think.”

“Then we’ll have to start early. Go to sleep.”

She turned out the light and was quiet for a minute. Then she said, “Another day or two won’t make any difference, you know. I mean, he’s waited this long.”

Nick turned over, but there was no light to catch her face, so that his words seemed spoken to the darkness. “So have I.”

He turned away from her again, convinced they would spend hours pretending to sleep, but after a while he drifted off, no longer aware of her. It was the army’s one gift: you learned to sleep anywhere. When the rain started he was back at the cabin, listening to the steady drip on the roof, safe in his room. It got louder and he thought about the gutters, his father cleaning out the clumps of leaves so the water would run down the drainpipe at the corner, making a puddle near the porch.

A rattling noise woke him, and, disoriented, he was startled by the figure at the open window until he realized it was her. She was looking out, smoking, her head in profile against the dim light.

“What’s the matter?”

She jumped, as if he had tapped her on the shoulder. “Nothing,” she said quietly. “I couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

“Would it be better if we had separate rooms?”

“It’s not that. Go back to sleep,” she said, her voice gentle again.

“You all right?”

“Just nerves. Middle-of-the-night stuff. That ever happen to you?”

He nodded in the dark. “What is it?”

“There’s no ‘it’.” It’s just that feeling you get when you know you’re going to make a mess of things. I do that a lot–make a mess of things.“ The rain blew in and she stepped back, brushing the front of her nightgown. ”And now I’m wet. My mother always said I didn’t have enough sense to come in out of the rain.“

“Do you want to go back?”

“Not now.” She stopped, talking into the dark as if she could see him. “That’s the thing about making a mess–you can’t help it, even when you see it coming.”

“What are you worried about?”

“You, I guess. I mean, I got you into this. And now you’re so–I don’t know, up for it.” She paused. “You never know how things will turn out.”

He sighed. “Then let me worry about it. I want to go, Molly. You just–came along for the ride, okay? Come on, get into bed. It’s late.”

She stood still for a minute, then started lifting the nightgown over her head. “I have to take this off. It’s wet.” He heard the rustle of cloth, then saw the pale white of her skin, indistinct in the dark. She slipped naked into bed, curling up on her side in a protective ball. “Nick?” she said. “Don’t expect too much, okay?”

“I know.”

“I mean, things never go the way you expect.”

“I know,” he said, but lightly this time, edging further away. “Look at us.”

The next day was bright and clear and she began to enjoy herself, as if the rain had washed away the nighttime jitters with the clouds. They drove past steep meadows dotted with cows and wide farmhouses with window boxes, a calendar landscape without a smudge. The road swung through the mountains in perfectly engineered switchbacks and tunnels, encouraging speed, and they seemed to fly through the high, thin air, not even pausing at the rest stops, where tourists photographed each other against patches of glacier and the miles of valley just over the rail. It all looked, in fact, the way Nick had imagined it, Heidi meadows and bright wildflowers, but more painted than lived in, and by midmorning, feeling guilty because it was beautiful, he began to be bored. He knew he was meant to admire it–think of America, raging in its streets–but after a while all he wanted to do was turn the radio on, to disturb the peace. “What kind of people stay neutral?” Molly said, somehow reading his mind. She was in jeans, down in the seat with her feet up, content to let him drive. “When you’re traveling, you never meet anyone who says he’s Swiss. Germans, yes, everywhere you go, but never Swiss. Imagine liking a place so much you never go anywhere.” She pulled out a cigarette, lighting it away from the draft at the window. “It must be nice, not taking sides.”

“Everybody takes sides.”

She looked at him for a second, then waved her hand toward the landscape. “They didn’t. They just let everybody go to hell. And they’re doing okay.”

“Up here in cloud-cuckoo-land. You wouldn’t last a day.”

“No? Maybe not. Anyway, it’s probably just the air. Not enough oxygen to decide anything one way or the other.”

“How much more of this?” he said, nodding toward the road.

“Miles. Austria’s pretty much the same. This part, anyway. You can hardly tell the difference.” She took a long pull on the cigarette, blowing the smoke out in a steady stream, suddenly moody. “Of course, they weren’t neutral there. They were Nazis.”

“So much for your theory,” he said. “About the air.”

“Maybe they got talked into it,” she said quietly, still looking ahead.

“That’s not the way I heard it.”

She glanced at him, surprised, as if he’d interrupted another thought, then shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe the air’s heavier over there.”

Oddly enough, it was. As they crossed the border the sky grew dark with clouds, so that the morning seemed more than ever like some bright Alpine mirage floating above the gray. The middle of Europe was overcast, too far from the sea for the winds to lift its gloomy cover. Even the buildings began to take on a leaden weight, dreary with concrete and slate. They had lunch on a terrace built for sun with a small cluster of middle-aged ladies wearing overcoats and hats.

“What’s it mean, anyway, briefs or boxers?” Nick said, to break her mood.

She smiled. “Well, boxers are a little country club, maybe.” She paused. “Can I ask you something? Why did you change your mind?”

He looked at her face, open and curious. “I didn’t change it,” he hedged. “You just took me by surprise. Of course I want to see him. Wouldn’t you?”

“I don’t know. If I felt the way you did—”

“How do I feel? I don’t know from one day to the next. I won’t know until I see him, I guess.”

“Okay,” she said, backing off.

He leaned over, putting his hand on hers. “Look, I think I owe him this much, that’s all.”

Her eyes widened. “Owe him?”

“Remember before when I said people always take sides? What if it’s the wrong one? That ever happen to you?” He felt her hand start under his, trapped, and he realized he’d been pressing down, so he released it. “It happened to me. I went to Vietnam. People change. Maybe he needs to tell somebody, get it out.”

She moved her hand away, drawing it down into her lap. “He’s been there a long time, Nick,” she said softly.

“Don’t expect too much–I know. So maybe he hasn’t changed. Maybe he just wants to tell me his war stories.”

“Are you nervous?”

He glanced up, feeling her eyes on him, then covered the moment by pulling out some notes to put on the bill. “Well. This isn’t getting us there.”

She watched him put the money on the plate. “Would you do something for me?” she said. “Let’s pretend we’re not going there. Until we do. Let’s just be tourists.”

“All the world wants to go to Prague,” he said.

She smiled. “But not today. Prague can wait a little.” They stayed the night in Salzburg and the next day left the main highway for the old road through the valley, storybook Europe with monasteries perched on bluffs over the river. The farther east they drove, the more remote the landscape felt. Nick saw the chemically sprayed vineyards and mechanized farms, but what he imagined were ox carts and peasant houses with superstitious chains of garlic at the window. Churches swirled in Baroque curves and flared out on top in bulbs. The German signs, funny and indecipherable at the same time, made the roads themselves seem unreal, as if they were traveling away from their own time.

They decided to stop at Durnstein, where the ruined castle, almost theatrically gloomy now at dusk, was likely to guarantee a few tourist hotels, and were amazed to find the town full. They went from one inn to another in a light drizzle, achy from the long day’s drive, until finally the desk clerk at the Golden Hind sent them to Frau Berenblum’s, a block away. She had been slicing bread when they rang the bell and, alarmingly, answered the door with the knife still in her hand, but she had rooms.

“Zwei Zimmer,” she said to Molly.

Nick, who understood this much, said, “Tell her we only need one.”

“Zwei Zimmer,” she repeated, glowering at him and pointing at Molly’s ringless finger.

“Two rooms,” Molly said. “She’s worried about my virtue. If she only knew. Cheer up, though, we get to share a bath, and you never know where that’s going to lead. Want to get the bags? She already thinks you’re a pig, so try to be polite.”

Frau Berenblum nodded through this, evidently because she thought Molly was asserting herself. Then, knife still in hand, she guided Molly up the stairs, leaving Nick to play porter.

The rooms were spotless and plain, down quilts rising high on the beds like powder puffs, but the bathroom was wonderful, with an old Edwardian box tub with rows of colored bath salts along its shelf, and after dinner Molly claimed it, soaking for what seemed hours. When she finally appeared at his door, her head wrapped in a towel turban, Nick was half asleep, nodding over the map. Then it was his turn to sit in the tub, listening to the sounds below -the slap of dough on the wooden table as Frau Berenblum kneaded tomorrow’s bread, the faint background of radio music. He wondered if she were listening too, cocking her ear for the telltale creak of springs. It was absurd. They weren’t tourists. They were wasting time.

He could smell the dope as he passed Molly’s door, and paused, not believing it. He tapped lightly, more aware than ever of the lights downstairs, and opened the door, still hoping it was his imagination.

She was sitting on the bed painting her toenails, small wads of cotton wedged between her toes, and she looked toward the door in surprise. The flannel had been replaced by silk, held at the back by two thin straps and cut low in front, and as she leaned over to apply the polish her breasts seemed on the verge of tipping out of the fabric. She had hiked the skirt up to mid-thigh to keep it out of the way, so that her entire leg was exposed in an arch of flesh.

He stopped for a moment, taking her in. It was the first time, in all the flirting and awkward sleeping arrangements, that he had really wanted her, wondered what it would be like to run his hand along her inner thigh, where she would be warm, quick to the touch. Then he saw the ashtray on the bed, the bulky home-rolled joint, a thin stream of sweet smoke still rising from the tip.

“Are you crazy?” he whispered.

She angled her head toward the open window. “It’s okay.”

“She’ll smell it. I smelled it.”

She grinned. “You think she’s with the DEA?”

“It’s not funny. Christ. You brought it? Over the border?”

She nodded, a little surprised at his anger. “Tampax. They never look. Never. It’s okay.” She swung around on the bed, dropping her leg so that she faced him in the low-cut nightgown, her skin white. He looked at her, an involuntary glance, then moved over to the ashtray.

“It’s not okay,” he said, putting out the joint. “Where’s the rest of it?”

“Why?”

“Because I want to get rid of it, that’s why. When were you planning to dump it? Just before we hit the iron curtain?”

“Iron curtain,” she said. “It’s just a border.”

“I don’t believe this,” he said, his voice rising. “If you want to spend some time in a Communist jail, save it for your next trip. Did you ever think what might happen if you got caught? To both of us?”

“All right, stop yelling at me.” She went over to the cosmetic bag, took out a tampon, and tossed it on the bed. “There.”

“Is that all of it?”

“Would you like to search me?” she said, spreading her arms.

“Christ, that’s all we need, to get nailed for drugs. Then what?”

She walked over to the bedtable and lit a cigarette, annoyed now. “I don’t know. You’ve got connections. Maybe your father would get us off.”

“That’s not funny.”

“All right,” she said. “I’m sorry. What do you want? I thought it wouldn’t matter. It’s not legal in the States either, you know.”

“We’re not in the States. We’re in fucking Austria, with Lisa Koch downstairs and a trip to Husak’s workers’ paradise just down the road. They put people in jail for reading Playboy, for Christ’s sake.”

“No, they don’t.”

“You know what I mean. You want to test them? ”Welcome to Czechoslovakia –you’re busted.“ Christ, Molly, what were you thinking?”

“All right. You made your point. Go flush it down the toilet.” She walked over to the open window. “Boy Scout.”

As she stood by the window, he could see the length of her, the filmy material of her nightgown outlining the lean body, and he bounced between being aroused and irritated, his senses made alert by contradiction, as if the air around him were scratchy. It always seemed to work this way with her, feeling taunted and protective at the same time, then becoming impatient with himself for being distracted. He saw, looking at her, that it wasn’t going to go away, the static, and that most of it was coming from somewhere outside them, the larger interference of the trip and what he would find. Meanwhile, they rubbed against each other, not sure why they were nervous in the first place.

“Sorry,” he said, quietly now. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”

He picked up the tampon and walked toward the door.

“Nick?” She came over to him, a peace gesture, and held out her palm. “I’ll do it. What if Frau Berenblum’s out there?” She smiled. “How would you explain this?”

He handed it to her. “I was looking at the map before. If we backtrack to Freistadt, we can head straight up to Dolní Dvoŕístě tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” she said quickly. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” he said, puzzled at her reaction.

“We’re supposed to be in Vienna. I thought we had to keep to a schedule. You know. Anyway, don’t we have reservations?”

“We’ll cancel. Change of plan.” He turned away from her. “I want to get this over with. We can see Vienna later.”

“But—” She paused. “Are you angry? About the dope? Is that what it is?”

He shook his head. “Forget it. I just want to get there, Molly. Don’t you? What’s so important about Vienna?”

She looked down, at a loss. “Nothing, I guess. It was the plan, that’s all. A little more time.”

“We can be in Prague tomorrow. We’re so close. A drive away. I used to think it was impossible–to go there–and it’s just a drive away.”

“Only from this direction,” she said.

They had their last salad in Freistadt and drove to the border through gently sloping, wooded country, still and empty during the long rural lunch time. He had expected the road to the border to be grim, but the land was placid and rich, neat farms and stretches of old forest promising mushrooms. Then the road curved and the woods fell away and they were looking across a long cleared tract to the checkpoint. Beyond it another empty stretch rose uphill to the Czech crossing. In these open fields it would be impossible to hide.

Without thinking, Nick slowed down, already intimidated. He looked at the guardhouse, the tall watchtower, fences of barbed wire, all the props. But real to them. If you ran out across the field, you would be shot. The Austrian farms ran right up to the border like some jaunty declaration of freedom, but on the Czech side the land was empty. Just the fence. There would be searchlights at night. The guards, playing by the rules, wouldn’t hesitate for a minute. So you kept away, behind the other side of the forest. Maybe nobody ever came this close, to see the elaborate watchtower. If you don’t see the bars, you can pretend you’re not in a cage.

The Austrian border police were bored and perfunctory, stamping their passports and waving them through. Nick wondered how useful they’d be to any escapees. He put the car in gear and moved slowly up the broad hill, aware that they had now left Austria and whatever protection it offered. It was crazy–he had not expected to be frightened, but the years of pictures and warnings flooded through him. They had crossed, just a plain field, into enemy territory.

The Czech guard waved them over to the side of the road. A machine gun hung from his shoulder.

“Dobre odpoledne,” he said, which Nick understood as good afternoon, and then a line of incomprehensible Czech. When they didn’t respond, he pointed the gun toward the guardhouse.

“He wants us to go in,” Molly said.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. It’s like this. Relax.”

She got out of the car, smiling, but the guard ignored her, looking at the back of the car, peeking in through the window.

Inside they managed the essentials with Molly’s smattering of German, but the uniformed officials seemed to be moving underwater, drugged by their heavy lunch. Finally they were led into a plain room–nothing but Husak on the wall–that reminded Nick of interrogation rooms in movies. But there were no questions, just nods and papers being taken to another room, visas being examined, then passed on to someone else, even the offer of tea from the gas ring in the corner. Then they were left alone.

Nick stared out the window at the two guards going over the car. They had placed their guns on the ground and seemed to be examining everything, one of them lying underneath, the other bent over to catch what seemed to be a running commentary. Earlier they had asked for the keys, and now they opened doors and explored the trunk. Inexplicably, they didn’t touch the suitcases, just poked their heads in for a look, then continued to walk around the car. For a second Nick thought they might actually kick the tires, like customers in a showroom.

“There’s something wrong. I can feel it,” Nick said, jittery.

“Maybe,” Molly said. “I don’t know. I flew in before. It’s different at the airport.”

One of the officials came in, handed them their passports, and spoke to Molly in rapid German. Nick watched the exchange, a verbal badminton, waiting to be told.

“It’s the currency form,” Molly said, her voice amused. “It says we changed sterling, but we’ve got American passports, so it’s a confusion.”

“What does he want?”

“He wants you to change money again. Got any dollars? Amazing what a dollar buys here. I hope his wife comes in for a piece.”

“But—”

“Do it, would be my advice.”

Nick shrugged and pulled out a traveler’s check. “This any good?”