dining room light was switched off. More waiting. Then they saw the blue-white light of a television in one of the upstairs windows.
“Let’s go,” Molly said. “They’re here for the night.”
“Give it an hour. Let’s see if anyone comes. The front light’s still on.”
But it was Brown who stepped into it, a middle-aged man with glasses, disappointingly nondescript, more clerk than G-man. He crossed to the driveway quickly and got into the car. A few seconds later, the glowing red taillights backed out into the street.
“Look alive,” Nick said, waiting until Brown’s car had turned the corner before he started his own.
They drove through quiet suburban streets, then finally into the busy broad sweep of Wisconsin Avenue.
“He’s going back to town,” Molly said. “Meeting somebody?”
“Maybe he’s just going back to work, now that Mom’s tucked in.”
They stayed several lengths behind, almost losing him once in the confusion of a traffic circle, but he swung onto Massachusetts and they found him again and followed, unhurried, all the way into town.
The left turn came out of nowhere, without a turn signal, and Nick missed it. He doubled back, making a u- turn in front of an annoyed taxi. Brown’s taillights were at the end of the block, turning right. At the next corner he took a right again, heading back to the avenue.
“He knows,” Molly said. “Why would he do that?”
“I don’t think so. He’s not trying to lose us.”
“No, to catch us, see if we’re here. Look, there he goes again.”
Another diversion, then back into the light traffic.
“Maybe it’s standard procedure. To make sure nobody’s following.”
“Before a meeting? I always thought they met on park benches.”
They drove past the White House, where Nixon was plotting the peace, then down around the Willard and back up 13th Street. The old downtown was deserted now, abandoned to drunks. Brown stopped at an intersection just down from New York Avenue and pulled over.
“He’s parking,” Molly said. “Well, it’s not a bench.”
The storefront was outlined with a marquee of flashing light bulbs, its papered-over windows shouting XXX- RATED. MAGAZINES. NOVELTIES. PEEPS 25c. Brown walked over, looking around furtively, and went in. A few minutes passed.
“The one place nobody looks at you,” Nick said.
“They don’t?”
“Stay here. I want to see who he meets.” Nick crossed over to the store but turned to the window, startled, when the door opened again. Brown. He glanced toward Nick, then, unconcerned, walked back to his car, a bag under his arm.
Keeping his head down, Nick pushed into the store, dazzled by the harsh fluorescent glare. Racks and racks of magazines, a riot of breasts and pink skin, but no one looking at them. In the back, a dimly lit room of cubicles for the film loops. The place was deserted. At the cash register, enormous plastic dildoes hanging behind, a kid in a T- shirt with shoulder-length hair pulled into a ponytail looked bored, or stoned.
“That guy who was just in here,” Nick said. “He talk to anybody?”
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Back there,” Nick said, nodding at the cubicles. “He go back there?”
“Fuck you.”
Nick glared at him, a cop’s look. “You want me to close you down?”
“Hey, man, I just work here. You see anybody back there? It’s slow, you know what I mean? He bought a magazine, that’s all. You want to buy one?” The kid reached under the register and picked up a baseball bat. “Then get the fuck out. You’re not fuzz. I know fuzz.”
“You sure?” He saw the kid hesitate, but let it go and turned to the door. His hand on the knob. “What’d he buy?”
“A lez mag. So he likes lez. What the fuck.”
“Thanks,” Nick said, leaving.
“Yeah, peace. Hey, close the fucking door.” Brown’s car was still there as Nick crossed the street. “He’s just sitting there,” Molly said. “What do you think he’s doing?”
“I don’t know,” Nick said, disappointed. “Beating off. He likes lesbians.”
“What’s wrong with you?”
“We’re wasting our time. He wasn’t shaking a tail, he just wanted to be sure no one saw him buying dirty magazines.”
“There he goes. Let’s make sure.”
But the trip back to Chevy Chase was uneventful, no diversions, and when he went back into his house the carriage lamp went off.
“Now they can both settle in for the night,” Nick said. “I wonder if he locks his door.” He turned to Molly. This isn’t working.“
“Yes, it is. It just takes time. They’re spies. We know that. Sooner or later-”
“But how much later?”
“Let’s get another car. That way at least we can cover two of them at once.” She glanced at him. “Unless you don’t think I can do it.”
He smiled. “I think you can do anything. All right, I’ll start with Ruth. You take the Russian girl.”
“I thought you said he wouldn’t use a Russian.”
“Not at the embassy. Let’s see where she works.”
He was in Alexandria at dawn, but not up before Ruth Silberstein. A small light on upstairs, presumably the bathroom. He sipped coffee from a Styrofoam cup, prepared this time for a stakeout.
Twenty minutes later she was out of the house. Nick leaned forward and looked closely. Probably in her forties, carefully made up, dark hair teased into a kind of beehive helmet, like the Johnson daughters‘, a belted raincoat even though the morning was already warm. High heels and a black purse, the car keys ready in her hand, everything in its place. Even her walk was efficient, like the professional secretary she probably was. She got into a Volkswagen and ran the motor a few minutes before she pulled away. Ruth Silberstein, who are you? What do you do?
She took the direct route to the parkway, driving fast, breaking lanes. The river, shiny with sun, flew past the window. Nick got into the lane for the bridge, anticipating her, but she turned over to the Virginia side and he was forced to dodge cars to get back. Toward the cemetery. He stared at the little car, keeping her in sight, ignoring signs.
When she pulled off into a side road he had no idea where he was until he saw the vast parking lot, acres of it ringing the five-sided building. Well, the Pentagon, yes. Early, to get a space near the building, to minimize the distance in high heels. Or maybe her boss liked to start early, whoever he was, who probably thought the world of Miss Silberstein, because she knew where everything was. Nick watched her walk into the building, ready for whatever paperwork came her way, running two copies, to be on the safe side.
It was still early, so he decided to make another pass at Chevy Chase. The black Navy man seemed unlikely somehow-would Silver pass on sub designs? — and Brown, whatever his taste in magazines, was somebody at Justice. The street still seemed asleep, only a garbage truck clanking its way down the row of cans, but after two cigarettes Nick saw the door open and Brown come out, his mother on the stoop waving to him after a kiss goodbye. He was carrying a suitcase. He got in the car without even looking at the street.
This time he didn’t leave Wisconsin but headed toward the river, past the Georgetown cliffs and then over the bridge Nick had expected Ruth Silberstein to take, so that Nick found himself back on the parkway, going in the opposite direction. Not toward the Justice Department.
The car turned off for National Airport and inched its way through the crowded, winding access roads to the terminal’s long-term parking lot. Nick circled around, to see if Brown actually went into the terminal, then pulled into a space and sat, not sure what to do. The Eastern entrance. New York. Or maybe New York to somewhere else. For an instant Nick was tempted to go after him, hide behind a newspaper a few rows behind, follow his taxi. But what if it turned out to be as pointless as the adult store?
