The Prodigal Spy

A narrow street in the Old Town, near the river. The downstairs bell in fact was broken, the panel taped over, and the lobby itself, heavy stone cool as a monastery, was in disrepair. A pail sat in one corner to catch drips, and the broad stairs were worn down by the years, crumbling near the edges. When he began to climb, he could hear the echo of his steps in the stairwell.

She opened the door immediately, as if she had been listening for him, and motioned him in.

“Good, good, I was afraid you would miss it. The door, it’s confusing. Come in. Some coffee? Maybe a brandy.”

Nick shook his head, looking around. The room followed the curve of the eaves, vaulting near the windows, dipping lower toward the back. There were books everywhere, stacked to the ceiling on their sides, too many for shelves. Yellowing cream French spines, shinier English jackets. What wall space had escaped the stacks was crammed with picture frames, next to each other, a collage of old photographs and prints. The dining table near the window, already laid with open-faced sandwiches and pickles, was set for three. A pack of Marlboros had been placed in the center like an extra course.

He looked at the third plate, but she misinterpreted, following his eyes farther, to the window.

“Yes, come and see. It’s why I stay. My little nest. It’s too small, but the view makes up for that.”

A romantic view, the Charles Bridge and the hill rising behind it to Hradčany Castle, spires everywhere.

“I saw the tanks from here. A friend telephoned, so early. Who calls at such an hour? Go to your window, he said, the Russians are here. And there they were, coming over the bridge. I was standing right here all morning, watching them. The bridge was shaking. I thought, if one of the statues comes down. Bastards.” She waved her hand dismissively.

“Is someone else coming?” Nick asked.

“Yes.” He heard a kettle whistle. “Sit, sit. I’ll make the coffee.” Fluttering, not wanting to talk.

“How did you know my father?”

“Through A

Nick stood waiting as she opened the door. Zimmerman, still in his mourning suit. They exchanged greetings in Czech, a social kiss.

“Mr Warren, you don’t mind? A

“I’ve told you everything I know.”

He held up his hand. “You misunderstand. It’s not the interrogation. I want to talk to you in a different way. No questions. Well, perhaps one.”

“Sit, sit,” A

Nick sat down slowly, feeling ambushed. There was an awkward silence while A

“What question?” Nick said.

Zimmerman nodded to A

“Your father asked A

“I’m always up early,” A

“I took the liberty of opening it. Under the circumstances. Miss Masaryk, of course, had no idea what it was.”

“Then why did she tell you about it?” Nick said, looking at her.

“She was concerned when she heard the news of his death. She thought it might be important. You understand, we are very old friends.”

“It’s Karl who started the investigation into Uncle Jan’s death,” she explained. “It’s he who was helping František’s brother with the manuscript. You can trust him.”

Nick opened the envelope and drew out a Russian passport: his father’s picture, Cyrillic type.

“Your father was not Jewish.” Zimmerman pointed to the Cyrillic letters. “Not called Pechorvsky, either. But that is his picture, yes? Can you think why he would need such a thing? A Russian Jew’s passport?”

“No.” But Nick’s heart was racing. All of it was true. His father’s papers for the train–not at the flat, but ready. Everything just as he had said.

“That page is an exit visa,” Zimmerman said.

“But it’s not his.”

“No. Pechorvsky’s. Who died of kidney failure.” He picked up the passport, ru

“I don’t understand.”

“I think you do.”

“Well, I don’t. Was that your question?”

“No.” He slipped the passport back into the envelope. “Mr Warren, a man with someone else’s exit visa can only mean one thing. He was pla

“Why? Everybody wants to leave.”

“Not everybody. A man with the Order of Lenin, who betrayed his country–would such a man be welcome in the West? What made him think they would want him back?”

“I don’t know,” Nick said, hammering each word in.

“No? But it’s a question, don’t you agree?”

“He’s dead. The question is who killed him. Why don’t you ask that?”

“Because I know who killed him, Mr Warren.”

Nick stared at him, almost afraid to go on. “Who?” he said quietly.

“That is, I know who must have killed him. It’s not difficult. What interests me is why.”

“Who?” Nick said again.

“So direct, Mr Warren. Sometimes an answer is indirect. Please listen. More coffee, A

Nick sat silently.

“Of course, every case is different,” Zimmerman said. “It’s the similarities that intrigue.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Please. I said I had only one question. But I also have a story. That is why I wanted to see you. Will you listen to it? It will interest you, I promise. You are familiar with our history, I saw that at the station. ”The housemaid’s solution.“ How much do you know about the Masaryk case?”

“Hardly anything. Look—”

“Then listen carefully. I know a great deal about it, almost everything. It’s as A

“Everybody knows the Russians did it.”

“But to know, Mr Warren, to prove it. It’s not easy. So many people have died–the night watchman, the doctor who signed the death certificate. Some natural, some not so natural. Just last year, a bodyguard who talked to me was shot on the highway. By thieves?”

“Karl himself was in danger,” A

“But we learn things. So, the case. Nineteen forty-eight. The Communists are in. Masaryk is still in the cabinet, but not one of them. To the whole world he represents the old republic, his father’s country. And every day in the cabinet, a new compromise. The death–how do you say it?–the death of a thousand bites. The Russians are taking over. So perhaps he feels despair. A way to end it all, the housemaid’s solution. But there is also the possibility that he was pla

He looked at Nick. “An embarrassment for the Communists. Maybe even a government in exile, like during the war. His mistress had already gone–an American. So for them the jump was a convenient death. A public funeral. The end of the republic. But was he murdered? From the begi