The Prodigal Spy (51 page)

“Everybody knows that,” she said, pleased with herself. “You just never notice things.” She turned back to the window and watched the scene on the lawn, another pantomime of gestures and nodding heads. “How’d you like to live in the suburbs?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” she said, still looking out, “but when you see the right house.” She opened the door, then closed it behind her and stuck her head through the window. “Maybe you’d better stay here. You look like somebody from Immigration.”

He watched her dart across the street and up to the group on the lawn, disengaging the woman wearing flats, a nod toward the hedge, heads together, the couple left to the side, unmoored. A shake of hands, the woman rummaging in her purse for a card, a smile and a wave, every step light and sure. When she crossed the street she seemed to move like liquid, and he thought of her coming toward him at the Bruces’ party, walking into his life, like the songs. Now she was grinning.

“What did I tell you? They’re the CIA of the suburbs.
Everything
. His name’s Brown, John Brown. Like an alias, but then who’d use that? The house isn’t for sale–she’s tried. They won’t list it. But there are a few others I might like to see, just like it. He’s not married, by the way–he lives with his mother. Which is odd, considering.”

“Considering what?”

“Where he works.”

He raised his eyes, waiting.

“How much do you love me?”

“Where?”

She grinned. “The Justice Department.”

“Bingo.”

They couldn’t sit there and wait, however, under the watchful realtor’s eye, so they drove into the next street, then the
next
, driving finally because they couldn’t stop, just being in motion a substitute for something real to do. Brown wouldn’t leave his office until five, later if he was the diligent type, so they had the rest of the afternoon to kill. Like a homing pigeon, Nick found himself drawn back to Washington, trying to make the streets familiar again.

“We still don’t know who the Russian is,” Molly said as they passed Embassy Row again.

“It doesn’t matter. He’d never use a contact from the embassy. They’re probably watched as a matter of routine. He’d never risk that.”

“So then there were four.”

“Unless Brown makes one.”

It was when they were passing the bland new buildings on K Street, glass boxes of lawyers and lobbyists, that he saw the sign and pulled up.

“United Charities Building,” Molly said. “It’s just an idea.” He pointed to the NO PARKING sign. “Move the car if someone comes. Five minutes.”

He was directed to the Events Office and a pretty blond girl who looked too young to have been alive the night of the ball. A Southern voice and perfect teeth. The office seemed a mystery to her, and Nick wondered whether she was paid or just a nice girl taking a semester off from Sweet Briar, doing good works for credit. She treated him like a prospective date from VMI, all smiles and helplessness.

“A social history? Do they know about it?”

“Not of United Charities, of Washington. Washington society.”

“Oh,” she said, interested now. “You want to know about the
ball
.”

“I thought you might keep the guest lists. To update them every year. Is there a file like that?”

“Well, I don’t
know
. I tell you what, you wait right here. I’ll ask Connie. She’ll know.” Another smile. “Nineteen-fifty? Just nineteen-fifty?” Unaware that anything had happened then; a date from the archives.

When she returned, holding a few pieces of paper, she seemed surprised that they existed at all. Nick glanced at the long row of typed names.“That’s it,” he said, nodding.

“Would you like a copy? I can use the machine,” she said, walking over to the copier.

Nick looked at the names as the sheets came out of the machine. On page two, Mr and Mrs Walter Kotlar. He saw his mother dressing, her off-the-shoulder gown.

“I don’t suppose they keep a list of who actually attended. You know, who showed and who didn’t show. One with check marks or something.”

“Check marks? No, this is all there was. You know, most everybody does show. It’s our big event. I was there this year–you know, to help out?”

“I hope they let you dance. They should.”

“Well, aren’t you nice?”

Back in the car, he flipped through the list again. “I wonder how many are dead,” he said.

“I still don’t see what you’re going to do with it,” Molly said.

“Did you see at the Mayflower how easy it would have been? You could go from the ballroom to the elevators without even passing the desk. Two exits, in fact. No one would know.”

“You could also just walk through the front door. Who’d notice, unless you were a bum?”

He glanced down. “The Honorable Kenneth B. Welles,” he said.

She looked at him. “Come on. John Brown’s body lies amolderin‘.”

There was traffic, and Brown’s car was already in the driveway by the time they got there. They sat for an hour, watching the house lights come on in the late spring dusk, occasional shadows moving back and forth behind the sheer curtains. The carriage lamp by the front door was on, as if they were expecting visitors. A dark corner, suddenly visible through the window, curtains open.

“The dining room,” Molly said, watching. “Look, a cozy dinner with Mom.” Brown sat at the table, his back to them.

Afterward the woman cleared, then passed out of sight. A light came on at the other side of the house; the 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?

He drove back to Washington. Anacostia was down to his right, the Pentagon behind him, Chevy Chase beyond, a little necklace of spies–what did they actually do? –ringing the unsuspecting city. Or half of it, the only part he’d seen. He looked up at the Capitol in the distance. If he kept going straight on Constitution, he’d be there. The house on 2nd Street. He turned a sharp left. Never.

“I think he spotted us,” he said to Molly when he got back to the hotel room, slumping on the bed. “Going away the next day.”

“It might not be the next day to him. Maybe he’s on vacation.” She smiled slyly. “That’s why he got a magazine for the plane.”

She took out the telephone book and flipped some pages.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m finding out. If you want to know something, the easiest way is to ask.” She started dialing.

“What about Irina?”

“She works at the embassy,” she said over her shoulder.