“I wasn’t spying on you.”

“What do you call it?”

“I thought we were making love,” she said quietly. “That’s what it felt like to me.”

“Spare me.”

She raised her head, stung, then shrugged and gave him the handkerchief. “It’s true, for what it’s worth. Anyway, how would you know? Did you even know I was there?”

“Not both of you.”

“Maybe you can’t,” she said, ignoring him. “You don’t care about anything unless it happened twenty years ago. I hate what he did to you. Making you think you could get it back. Who could compete with that? You don’t have room for anybody else. Just him.”

He stood, saying nothing, only vaguely aware of the traffic sounds, as if someone had sliced him with a knife and he had to hold his insides close so they wouldn’t slip out.

Then it worked, he’d held himself in and was able to breathe again.

“Well, now he’s dead. Somebody else didn’t want him around either.”

“That’s unfair. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

“Then why say it? To make me feel worse? You don’t have to. I can do that myself.” She shook her head. “Oh, what’s the use? You’re too hurt to see anything. But what happened with Jeff–it didn’t matter to me, Nick. It didn’t matter.”

“But it did matter. My father’s dead, because someone knew.”

“Because I told Jeff? But how could it? Do you think I’ve thought about anything else for two days? What if I did it? Me. Killed him just by— But how? Jeff didn’t kill him. He may be a shit, but he didn’t do that.”

“But who else knew? Me. You. Foster. Unless he told somebody. Did he?”

“I don’t know.”

He hesitated. “But you could find out.”

“How?”

“Use your wiles. They worked on me.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s not much to ask, considering.”

“Nick—”

“Not for me. Do it for my father. He’s entitled to one favor.”

She looked down. For a moment there was nothing, just the sound of a truck going by. “Do what?”

“Go see Foster. Tell him I still don’t suspect anything. And you’d like to keep it that way. Just between you and old Jeff. Has he talked to anyone else? In the embassy. Or even back home. Find out if he signaled the Bureau about this, if anyone in Washington has any idea.”

“Why Washington?”

“And when. If he said anything before.”

“Nick, what’s the point? What does this have to do with anything? The Bureau didn’t kill him.”

“Maybe my father wasn’t as careful as he thought. Maybe his friends already knew. But maybe he was careful. Maybe he got tripped up because somebody wanted a new job and thought he was the ticket. I just want to find out who knew. It’s important. Maybe it stops with Foster. At least we eliminate possibilities.”

Molly stared up at him. “If it stops with him,” she said slowly, “that leaves me. Do you think I did it?”

“No.”

“Really. Why not me? Why not Anna? It’s usually the wife, isn’t it? Why not the Bureau, who didn’t even know where he was. Except in some old file nobody cares about anymore. Who else? Do you see what this is doing to you? It’s crazy.”

Nick nodded. “But he’s dead. And whoever killed him knew he was going to leave. It’s the only way it makes sense.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense to me. Why not just lock him up? They lock up everyone else. What made him so special?”

“I don’t know.”

She raised her head, scanning his face. “You do, though. That’s it. That’s why you’re so sure he was killed. Why you’re worried. Signing things. I thought it was just an idea he had, but you didn’t. You knew he could do it. You even bought him a ticket. There’s something else. That’s why you want to know who Jeff told.” She glanced up, her eyes narrowing. “In Washington. That’s what you want to know. Who in Washington.” Nick said nothing, still not looking at her. “Leaving was only part of it. There’s always been something else. That you wouldn’t tell me.”

He turned back to her. “Well, that makes two of us.”

He saw the flush rise in her face, a kind of blood wince. She lowered her eyes. “Not anymore. Now there’s just you.”

“I can’t.”

“You mean you don’t trust me.”

“I mean I can’t. It’s not safe.”

She shook her head. “You think I’m going to tell Jeff. You still think that.”

“They killed him, Molly. It doesn’t matter whether I trust you or not. It’s not safe.”

“But why?”

He hesitated, then said, “Just ask him who knew.”

“I’m surprised you trust me to do that. What is it, a kind of test?”

“It’s important.”

“Then ask him yourself. I’m tired of playing Mata Hari. First him, now you. If I don’t know what you’re doing, I don’t want any part of it.”

“You are a part of it. That’s the other thing. Find out if he told them about you, if anyone in Washington knows about you.”

“Me?”

“Let’s hope he took all the credit. He looks the type. Old matchmaker Jeff.”

“What would he tell them?”

“That you arranged it. That you’ve been sleeping with me.”

“So what?”

“Somebody might get the idea that I confided in you. That you know why too.” He stopped, letting it sink in. “Ask him. And tell him we both think it’s suicide. Can you make him believe that?”

She nodded slowly, her eyes wide. Then she reached out and touched his arm lightly, tentative. “We have to talk about things.”

“There isn’t time now.” An echo, somewhere in the back of his head. There isn’t time.

“I never meant—” She looked up, a new thought. “Nick, whatever it is–what he told you. Do they know?”

“Not yet. Nobody does. Not even you. Do you understand?”

“But it’s true? You’re sure?”

“It has to be. He’s dead.”

He left Molly at the corner and turned left toward the tank square, his mind buzzing. What if Foster hadn’t told anyone after all? What if Anna didn’t have the list? He’d have to leave Prague with nothing but a history lesson from Zimmerman, a half-answer eating away at everything. Silver safe and sound, still sending his useful reports. The woman is the key, his father had said, but that trail had ended in the Mayflower Hotel, as cold now as the snow on the car where she’d fallen. Now there was only the list, with the name that could lead him to Silver.

When he got to Holečkova, he looked back to see if one of the shadows had split off to follow Molly, but they were both there. Only interested in him.

The same hill, steep. Then the gate, the concrete steps leading up to the apartment building. He stopped when he reached the lawn, his eyes drawn to the spot in helpless fascination, like a car accident. No bloodstains, everything cleared away. Just grass. Surprised at how much it had hurt.

You don’t have room for anybody else. But it wasn’t true. That elation, opening out to her, and then the ice pick stabbing at him on the bridge, betrayed, the way he had felt that night, looking at footprints. He had thought no one could make him feel that again, and here it was, the same surprised bleeding. Now there were two who had done it, touched that part of him. And oddly, some twisted joke, they were the only two he still trusted. He knew it now, looking at the lawn, his anger gone. You could trust a touch, despite everything. It came back again and again, a heartbeat, making room.

He took the lift, avoiding the stairs where the killers had crept past the brick glass. Or had they clunked their way up, heedless, not caring if the neighbors heard? Just following orders. Anna opened the door at the first touch of the buzzer.

“Nicholas, come in. You got the message.”

He nodded. “You have something for me?” He looked around at the bland Scandinavian furniture. Everything was clean, almost antiseptic, as if it had been scrubbed down.

“Come,” she said, leading him to the bedroom.

“Where did you find it?”

She looked at him, confused, then continued into the room. He stopped at the door. Everything the same–bed, desk–but tidy now, no signs of disturbance. He looked at the neat pillows, feeling queasy. Did she sleep on them? She went over to the desk and brought back a small urn shaped like a squat loving cup.