The Infant of Prague

The Ministry of Secrets believed in them. The walls of the building that contained the Ministry had few notices and even fewer names on doors. The names were not important in any case; the doors were more important because they led to the rooms that were the real symbols of authority. The bureaucrats came and went but the rooms remained and were unchanged: Men became identified with the room they occupied.

Snow fell on the narrow valley of the river Vltava where Prague is built on the steep hills. The snow muted the clamor of the city and even the streetcars ran more silently along their tracks. It was the first snow of the long Slavic winter and Cernan felt both a child’s sense of delight and an adult’s sense of dread in watching the first snow.

He was summoned to the fifth floor at ten in the morning and he waited now in the anteroom for the director to see him. He stood at the window and watched the snow gild good King Wenceslas astride his horse. The pigeons huddled in the eaves of all the buildings. Cernan wondered if they dreaded the winter coming or if they only accepted each phenomenon of nature as an isolated event.

The secretary — a tall, thin man in the uniform of an Army officer — opened the director’s door and nodded. Cernan sighed, turned, crossed the room, and entered.

The Ministry was composed of several sections, including the divisions for internal secret police, liaison with military intelligence, and foreign security. Cernan was part of the apparatus of foreign security and the director was his ultimate supervisor. He had met with the director every morning since the defection of Anna Jelinak in America.

The office was large but bare of mementos. There was a single antique desk of the Empire period and two straight chairs and a single, beautiful lamp with a polished brass base. On the left-hand wall was a modest fireplace where a little hardwood was smoldering. The director was named Gorkeho and he had been a soldier once, before he lost his leg. Everyone knew he had a wooden leg and no one knew how he had lost his real one.

Gorkeho was thin, all parchment and bones. His eyes studied Cernan’s broad, frowning face as Cernan gave a little bow and crossed the room and sat down in the chair opposite.

“There is a little progress,” Cernan said, grunting as he sat down on the delicate straight chair. Despite its bareness, the room was not oppressive. If there was a little edge of sadness to it, it was warmed by the fire and by the sheer presence of the man behind the desk.

“Anton Huss reports that Anna’s mother was a… little tired… after the flight to America and that she is meeting with the lawyers today. In fact, the meetings should begin in about six hours Prague time. A court hearing is scheduled for Monday, and in the meantime the child has not been heard from, though the lawyers assure Huss she is perfectly all right. She will meet with her mother today as well.”

“A little progress, as you said,” Gorkeho said. He tented his fingers and looked at the tips. “I have been in communication as well. On a related matter.”

Cernan stared at the older man. Gorkeho seemed absorbed by the pattern of his fingers.

“Henkin. He is in the Ministry for Tourism and Films and he is very well connected, I understand.” Gorkeho had been a soldier and learned the soldier’s trick of delivering reports with a neutral diffidence in voice and manner. But Cernan knew from the way Gorkeho framed his words that he did not like pan Henkin.

“He has his own agents, of course, and they report to him and not to the Ministry. He said that Miki has been located. It was, as we suspected, an American trick, to take him out of Brussels. He was either a willing or unwilling defector at the time.”

“He is alive.”

“He is apparently alive,” Gorkeho said. He opened the tent and put his strong, thin hands flat on the beautiful desk. “Henkin said that a private contractor can locate him for us and return him for seventy-five ounces of gold. He wants one of us to arrange… the matter.”

“When did all of this happen?”

“Overnight, pan Cernan. While winter crept in and snow began to fall on the dear city,” Gorkeho said. His voice was smooth and quiet and he was amusing himself, Cernan thought. “Henkin is to be absolutely relied upon in this, of course, and we have to do nothing but transport gold to Belgium, wait for our contact, and pick up Miki and return him to Prague. Such a simple little errand.” Gorkeho glanced at Cernan. “It should only take you a day or two. Or three.”

Cernan flushed. He glared across the desk at his superior. “Why me? I am already consumed with the matter of Anna Jelinak. I—”