Chapter 15
He watched the ceiling turn milky gray and realized it wasn’t going to get any lighter. Another Prague morning. It was time. He’d been up half the night, dozing fitfully, then wide awake, listening to her breathe beside him, making plans. It had become a simple question of mathematics: how long? If Jeff’s message had spread through the embassy, it was just a matter of time before the talk in the corridors leaked out into Prague itself. He wouldn’t have to wait for Silver to act again. But how much time? Did they have people inside? And once the Czech security police knew, they would have to act. Real interrogations, the embassy powerless to help him. If they found the film, he would be guilty of espionage, kept, like his father, a prisoner here forever. All that protected him now was a little time and a discredited policeman. Unless, of course, Zimmerman wasn’t discredited, the bad cop after all, one of them, quietly tightening a noose. Nick moved his body carefully toward the edge of the bed. If he waited, he would lose, his time finally run out. Except now there were two of them. He looked over at Molly, sleeping, hair tangled, her face smooth and unaware. In his hands.
He shaved and showered, knowing the sound of water would wake her. In the mirror his face seemed drawn and apprehensive and he took a breath, pushing his cheeks back to wipe away any trace of fear. It had to work.
She was lying on her elbow, the sheet drawn up modestly over her breasts, smiling drowsily.
“Where do you get the energy?” she said, her voice lazy, unconcerned. “I don’t think I can move.”
“I told Zimmerman I’d see him in the morning. To sign the statement,” he said, dressing, not looking at her.
“Hmm. Wake me when you’re back.”
“It might take awhile.” He looked at the canvas bag. No, no things. Not even the Order of Lenin, still lying on the desk.
“Then I’ll order room service. Have breakfast in bed like a capitalist. Maybe I’ll spend the day in bed. What do you think?”
“No, you’d better get dressed.”
“Where are we going?” she said, sitting up, pulling the sheet around her.
Nick walked over to the bed and sat next to her, lowering his voice. “Do you really want to help me?”
She nodded, no longer playing.
“Then listen. I want you to go see Foster, as soon as you’re dressed.”
She looked away, disappointed. “You don’t waste any time.”
“Listen to me, Molly, please. Tell him to get you out of Prague in one of the embassy cars. They can make a lettuce run. Tell him you’re scared. Whatever you think would work. But get him to do it right away, this morning. He owes you that much.”
“But-”
“Stay at the embassy until you leave. You’ll be safe there. Technically, you’re on American soil. They probably won’t even know you’re there-they’re not following you.”
“What about you?”
“Just you. I’ll come later.”
“He won’t want me to go.”
“Tell him to talk to me himself. You’ve had it.”
“I’ll wait for you.”
“No, this morning. As soon as you can.” He reached up, putting his hand against her head. “Don’t worry, I’ll come. I think I can make this work with Zimmerman. They won’t have any reason to hold me. Maybe even today. Tomorrow at the latest. Wait for me in Waldsassen, at the hotel. I’ll find you.”
“Don’t leave me,” she said softly.
“I’m not leaving you.” He took her face in both hands. “Help me. I’ve got to settle this. I don’t want to have to worry about you.”
“They don’t want me.”
“They will. It’s dangerous, if they find out about you and Foster.” He stopped her lips with his finger. “It’s dangerous for me.” A beat. “You’d be a liability.”
She stared at him, then turned away. “Are you telling me the truth?”
“Promise me,” he said, bringing her eyes back.
“What if it doesn’t work? With Zimmerman.”
“Then I’ll call Foster for help. I promise.” He leaned over and kissed her. “I’ll be there. It’ll be all right. But you have to leave now. Do you understand?” She nodded slowly. “Good.”
She leaned over and took a cigarette from the night table. “I don’t want to be a liability,” she said, an edge in her voice.
“You’re not,” he said, knowing he should say more. But there wasn’t time. He got up and put on his jacket.
“But it was because of me,” she said, brooding, “that he was-you know.”
“No, not because of you. Don’t think that.”
“But Jeff called Washington. It’s the same thing, isn’t it? Your father knew.”
Nick stopped. “No. I don’t see how he could have.”
“Then why did he change his plans?”
A wrinkle, something that didn’t fit. “I don’t know,” Nick said slowly, standing still.
Molly looked up, watching him. “You’d better go if you’re going.” A small smile. “You’ve mussed your hair.”
He picked up the raincoat and went into the bathroom, slipped the urn into the folds of the coat, and ran a comb through his hair. No time.
When he came back, she was still sitting there, looking at nothing. He leaned over and kissed her forehead, the coat awkward under his arm.
“Promise me?” he said, and when she nodded again, he whispered, “Okay. I’ll see you in Germany.”
At the door he turned, and for a moment he wondered if this was how his father had felt leaving, the small lie, sure he could make things right later.
She looked back at him, smiling ironically. “ Auf wiedersehen,” she said.
He went down the back stairs, passing a chambermaid on her way up. The lobby was impossible- Zimmerman’s men would stick to him now-but there seemed to be no back door, just a long corridor leading to the kitchen, breakfast trolleys lined up outside, waiting to be delivered. A white-jacketed boy with a tray came out, looking at him curiously, so he went into the WC, locking the door behind him. The window was high, but large enough. If he climbed onto the sink he could reach it, then slither out to the back street. He stopped. He saw himself, feet dangling, dropping onto the pavement, amazing everyone in the street, a comic scene from a silent movie. Keep calm. The easiest way to be invisible was to be ordinary.
He went into the kitchen, all steam and banging pots, pretending to be lost. “ Vychod?” he said to a girl folding napkins on a tray, a word he’d seen on exit signs, hoping he was pronouncing it properly. She giggled, either at his Czech or his hapless sense of direction, and cocked her head toward the end of the steam table. A fire door, half open to let in some air. Then he was on the street behind the hotel, just another morning walker, not even worth a glance.
He walked up the hill toward the university, not bothering to switch back on side streets, invisible because he had nothing to hide. At the station there was the same rush of commuters pouring out of the art nouveau arch, the same uniformed policemen standing guard, part of the scene, no more threatening than mailboxes. He bought a copy of Rude Pravo and went into the station cafe. When he handed over the Czech crowns for coffee, he wondered if there was a currency form for leaving the country, a mirror of the exchange document coming in, some small thing to trip him up. But crowns were worthless in the West; why would they care? Still, a detail he hadn’t considered. How many others? Czechs walked literally through a minefield to the wire. Why did he think he could ride out with a ticket and a visa and a Western face, as if it were another stroll through the Alcron’s kitchen? He took a table near the far end of the cafe window and tried to imagine everything that might happen, his face bent to the newspaper.
From his angle at the window he could see part of the big hall and the long row of platforms. The same
