Now that he was here, he felt a quiet panic at the ordinariness of it all, that the demon swirling through years of his imaginative life would be reduced to a man making jokes in an office, harmless, like a funhouse ride after the doors open. Welles belonged in the newsreel, gavel banging, cowing them into silence, always oversize, his malevolence so large it needed an expanse of screen or it would become invisible, too large to be seen in a small room with posters and crank mail. His father had said that when you shook hands with Stalin, the act itself was a violation of scale, allowing you to believe he was just a man.

The inner door swung open. No longer screen-size but still large, grown fat, his bulk filling the door frame. Everything the same, the straight nose and square face softened by the years of extra flesh. He was wearing a bow tie and red-white-and-blue suspenders, sweating a little in the cool room. His arms were draped around a middle-aged couple whose faces had the pleased look of pilgrims granted an audience. When he saw Nick, his smile froze for a second, then spread back across his face.

“Well, there he is. Looks like Betty’s got them back-to-back this morning. I swear, they don’t give me time to pee sometimes.” Genial, for the benefit of the couple, who smiled. “Now, bless your heart, you tell the club I wouldn’t miss it. Wouldn’t miss it. You just make sure Betty here has that date.” He turned to one of the secretaries. “Darlin‘, you circle this one now, hear?” Then, to Nick, “Well, come on in if you’re coming.” And then a flurry of goodbyes and Nick suddenly felt himself being led into the room by a hand on his shoulder, everything smaller after all.

“Well, I was surprised. Your call. But you know, your dad–Larry and I go back a ways, both sides of the aisle, so I guess I owe him a favor or two. Hell, I owe everybody favors. Now, what’s so important he couldn’t call himself? They got phones in Paris last time I heard.” Before Nick could reply, he held up his hand. “Let me tell you up front, if it’s this peace talk business he’s got himself into, I can’t do it. No help at all. The people don’t want it–they’d have themselves a lynching party with me in the rope. And I don’t blame them. Peace with honor,” he said, last year’s slogan for war. “That’s what we’re looking for here. Now, Larry knows that. Hell, that was the whole campaign. Can’t have him giving everything away over there. We’ve been there before. All our fine boys getting shot up and we’re just going to hand it to the Commies? Another Yalta? No, sir.” His cheeks puffed now, like bellows. Everything the same.

“He didn’t send me. I wanted to see you myself.”

Welles stopped, surprised. “You did,” he said, marking time, not sure what was happening. “Well, what can I do for you?”

“Larry’s my stepfather. You know my real father was Walter Kotlar.”

A tic of recognition, not alarm, a reflex to a surprise question. “That’s right. Larry married the wife. I never did understand that. There was a kid.” Just a detail, lost over the years. “That’s you?”

Nick nodded.

“Walter Kotlar,” Welles said, sitting against the edge of the desk. “A lot of water over that dam.”

“He died last week.”

“Died? Well, that’s something,” he said slowly. “Dead. I’m sorry to hear that.” He caught Nick’s expression. “Oh, he was no friend of mine. Matter of fact, he was anything but for a while there. No end of trouble. Whole thing just folded up on me. But dead—” He shook his head. “You know, it’s not just your friends. Makes you feel old when the other ones go too. Maybe more. Nobody left who knows the war stories. Kids don’t want to hear it.”

“I do.”

Welles lifted his head. “No, you don’t. There’s no percentage in that. Scratching sores, that’s all that is–you’re better off letting them alone. It don’t pay, staying mad. Your dad, he almost put me out of business. Terrible, him and that woman. But what are you going to do? You pick yourself up and roll with it. You don’t want to look back. That’s what’s great about this country–you just go on to the next thing.”

Nick looked at him, amazed. Just something that had happened to him. Was it possible it had never really mattered, the whole thing no more important than a hitch in the campaign, patched over with a booster’s platitude? Or was this just another way of telling Betty to circle the date, a hand on your shoulder on your way out the door.

“My parents never talked about it.”

“Well, that’s right. They wouldn’t.” He peered at Nick. “So you came to see me, is that it? It’s all there, you know. Matter of record.”

“Not all of it.”

Welles gave him a serious look, on guard.

“Look,” Nick said, “my father’s dead. It can’t hurt anybody anymore. It’s history. I’d just like to know, to fill in the gaps.”

Improbably, this made him smile. “History. Well, I guess it is now. We did make some history there, didn’t we? He did, anyways. What do you want to know?”

“Did Rosemary Cochrane really have new testimony, the way you announced? Did she tell you anything?”

This was clearly unexpected. “She would have,” he said, with a sly glance back.

“But she didn’t.”

Welles frowned. “Now look, I’m not raking this up again. They all said I drove her to it, but that’s b.s. I didn’t drive her to nothing. You had to know how to handle her–you needed a little pressure if you were going to get anything out of her. In the beginning, you know, when she told me about your father, I have to say I scared her into it–had to, wouldn’t have got anywhere otherwise. She knew she had to give me something. Then she just clammed up again. My opinion? Her friends got to her. God knows with what–probably scared her worse. But she still knew plenty. Thing was, how do you get her to open up? You had to turn the heat on somehow. Hell, that’s just politics. You’re from a political family, you ought to know that. You tell the papers she’s already confessed, she’s not going to have her friends to fall back on. Can’t trust her. They’re running for cover. She’s out there all alone. Maybe facing perjury, if you play it right. And she didn’t want to go to prison in the worst way.”

“She was pregnant.”

Welles looked at him, stunned. “How do you—” A sputter, like a candle.

Nick didn’t wait but slipped in under the confusion. “Look, I never said you drove her to it. I just want to know what she said. After Hoover told you to talk to her, did she mention my father right away?”

Welles missed it. “I told you, with her it was always pressure. She knew she had to give me a name.”

“Or you’d go after her.”

“Of course. What else?”

“By the way, how did Hoover know?” Nick said, trying to sound casual.

“How does he know anything? You don’t ask.”

“But she didn’t mention anyone else,” Nick said, moving away from it. Hoover.

“No, just Kotlar.”

“And she thought that was the end of it.”

“I don’t know what she thought. How could it be the end?”

“But you offered immunity.”

“From espionage charges,” he said carefully.

“Which you couldn’t prove anyway. Without bringing the Bureau into it.”

Another sly look, nodding. “That was the tricky part. But she bit. She thought we could. You know, she was guilty. There’s no doubt about that.”

“No.”

“And after she gave me a name, well, then I had her.” He smiled, then looked down, troubled. “How do you know she was pregnant?”

“She told her family. It never came out.”

“I didn’t know that. It explains a lot. Why she’d be so upset. To take her own life.” Welles shook his head.

“If she did.”

He peered at Nick, alert. “What’s all this about?”

“I always wondered,” Nick said flatly. “If he killed her.”

“Killed her?” Welles said, surprised. “Now, don’t you start thinking that way.” He raised a finger. “He was your father,” he said, as sanctimonious as his peace platform.