“Nicholas?” He heard a voice at his side. Anna. How long had she been there? “Everything is all right?”
He nodded. She glanced at Foster, then handed Nick a piece of paper.
“It’s the address. For the funeral.”
“The funeral?” Already arranged.
“Yes, tomorrow. If you would come.”
He looked down at the paper. A meaningless street name. “Tomorrow? Aren’t they going to do an autopsy?”
She shook her head. “No one said. There’s no need.”
He grabbed her arms. “Anna, he didn’t kill himself. They should-”
But she shrank from him, looking around to see if anyone was watching. “Please.” She turned her back to Foster, who felt awkward enough to step toward the car. “You don’t understand,” she said to Nick, almost a whisper. “How it is here. It’s better not to wait.”
“Better? For whom, the police? I won’t let them do this.”
“You won’t?”
“I’m his family.”
“I’m his family here, Nicholas. Me.” She glared at him, then lowered her head. “It’s not for you to decide.”
“But don’t you want to know?”
“What? I know he’s dead. It’s enough.” She moved back. “What I said before-I know you meant well. But now, leave Prague. There’s nothing more for you to do here.” She nodded at the paper in his hand. “Ten o’clock,” she said, and walked away.
Nick got into the back seat with Foster, behind the driver, who had a Marine’s shaved head.
“What was that all about? I thought you said he killed himself.”
“She’s his wife. What would you say?” He looked away, feeling in his pocket for a cigarette. “Let her think it was an accident.”
“An accident. With an autopsy.” Foster leaned forward to the driver. “The Alcron, over on Wenceslas.” The car swung into the street. “You don’t want to get involved in anything,” he said to Nick. “Not here. There’s only so much we can do, you know. We can make a little noise if they haul you in for no reason, but if there’s anything wrong-”
“I’m on my own, I know.” He lit the cigarette. “Don’t worry. Nothing’s wrong, not that way. They think he killed himself. Everybody does.”
“But not you.”
Nick looked at him. “He must have.”
“I’m sorry. They said you found him. That’s rough.”
“Yes.”
“After all these years.”
“You know who he was?”
“Well, after I heard the name. He’s the one that got away.” Foster paused. “Must be a hell of a thing to live with.”
The car was quiet with the tension of someone not rising to the bait.
“You guys keep tabs on him? Keep the files up to date?”
“We don’t have the manpower for that,” Foster said flatly. “By the way, before you get any other ideas, I don’t work for the Agency.”
“You just work at the embassy.”
“That’s right.”
“Doing what?”
“Trade relations, mostly.”
What had Kemper been in? Agricultural development.
“Really. What do we import?”
“Glass.”
Nick took another pull on the cigarette. “I’d like to know. Did you keep tabs on him? Tail him, that kind of thing? Yesterday, for instance?”
“Why yesterday?”
Nick shrugged. “I just wondered. Something was bothering him. I thought maybe you-”
“I wouldn’t know. I was in meetings all day.” He turned to Nick. “Nobody was tailing him. I told you, we don’t have the people for that. I don’t think the intelligence guys-” He looked at Nick. “We have some. I never heard they were interested. Is there any reason why they should have been?”
“No good reason, no.”
“Anyway, it would fit, wouldn’t it? Something bothering him.”
“Perfectly.”
“Yeah, well.” Foster turned away, embarrassed. “Hell of a thing, to live with that. I’m sorry. Here we go.” The hotel doorman came to meet them. Foster put his hand on Nick’s shoulder, a coach’s gesture. “Do us a favor, okay? Keep your nose clean. We don’t want to run interference with the police. The Czechs don’t like it. They have to watch themselves too, since the Russians came in. You don’t want to start anything.”
Nick took in the friendly hand, the open face, an American kind of menace. What had he said on the bridge?
“No. I just want to get out of here.”
“You and me both. I used to be in Paris. Now that’s a place. Here you have to watch your back all the time.”
Nick nodded. “I’ll remember.”
He got out and saw the Skoda two car lengths behind. In the hotel lobby he could feel the change immediately. The desk clerk’s eyes followed him across the room, a disturbance, someone the police had asked about. When Molly opened the door and hugged him-the same smell, the same smooth skin-he felt they were onstage, with one part of him out front, watching. It was easy to do, being someone else. His father’s son.
She sat on a chair a few feet away, curled into herself, while he told her about the morning at Holeckova, the body on the grass, feeding her only what he wanted her to hear, watching, measuring the distress in her face. They ate in the hotel dining room, old starched napkins and pork with sludgy gravy, sleepwalking through the meal. She took his distance for grief, picking at her food, waiting for him to speak. Then they sat drinking wine, almost alone in the faded room.
“You haven’t told me about the train.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I mean why. I don’t understand.”
