The Double Game (25 page)

We stepped into the street, where I was momentarily blinded by sunlight.

“What’s our next stop?” Litzi asked. “Are you still planning to go on the offensive?”

I blinked, still emerging from the fog of disbelief.

“What? Oh, yes. Right. Later, if it’s possible.”

Deep memories, once they’ve been pulled from the muck, sometimes churn up enough old sediment to reveal other buried recollections, as long as you’re patient. And by reliving that old phone call I had now remembered something else, an item that had probably been working its way to the surface ever since I’d seen my old address, 22 Divadelni, typed on a sheet of my stationery the night before. That, in turn, had just given me an idea for a possible preemptive action, a means of indeed taking the offensive.

“Where to, then?” Litzi sounded impatient, but now I had an answer for her.

“An old monument called Kranner’s Fountain,” I said. “I’m going to do a little illegal climbing, and you’re going to be my spotter.”

23

Kranner’s Fountain with its grim medieval figures peered out at the Vltava River from a small park just across Divadelni Street from my old apartment building. Sixteen of the statues looked as if they’d walked straight out of
The Canterbury Tales
—an archer, a carpenter, a miller, a baker, and so on.

As a boy I had a prime view of them from our third-floor balcony, and they often featured in my dreams, climbing down from their perches after midnight to roam the square and beckoning me to join them.

My awestruck regard was probably what led me to boast to Karel one night that the creases and folds of their stone garments would offer the perfect hiding place for something small and valuable. At the time, the topic of spare keys was much on our minds. The Russians were poised to invade, and we took the threat personally. What if they seized our homes for billets? How would we retrieve all our stuff?

Dad had a spare, but he kept it in one of those obvious spots, beneath a flowerpot. Surely the wily Red Army would figure that out in no time. So I swiped it one day and had an extra copy made. Karel did the same at his house. Then, with conspiratorial excitement, we each came up with a hiding place, and mine was Kranner’s Fountain—specifically, beneath the lower hem of the tunic of the horn-blowing hunter, whose face I could see in profile from our front window.

We cached our treasure by night. I crossed the dewy grass of the silent park and climbed ten feet up the marble barriers to the hunter’s pedestal. Taking the key from my pocket, I groped above his right knee and glued it into place in the recess beneath the hemline with a U.S. commissary wad of Dubble Bubble, precious stuff in those benighted days of bad soap and scratchy toilet paper.

Was the key still there? Would it still fit the lock? Long shots. But if that failed I had the whole afternoon to come up with a Plan B.

First I had to figure out how to climb Kranner’s Fountain in the middle of the day without attracting attention. As Litzi and I approached, several older women were walking their dogs on the gravel paths below. A policeman patrolled a nearby corner. But the most alarming sight was the statue itself. It was scrubbed clean of all the soot and grime that had blackened it when I was a boy, and if the cleaners had been thorough, then the gum and key were surely gone. Also, the fountain I’d climbed as a boy was dry, pumps broken. Now it was working. I’d have to get wet.

Another notable change, if inconsequential to my efforts, was that the city had recently restored the equestrian figure of Emperor Franz Josef I to the chamber atop the monument. He’d been missing in action for more than ninety years, ever since an inflamed citizenry removed him after declaring independence from the Hapsburgs. For those of you interested in portents and omens, this was the same Franz Josef I whose statue stood guard over the dead drop in Vienna’s Burggarten. As Litzi put it, “By the time this is over he’ll have seen more of what’s going on than that stupid webcam.”

Litzi put our plan into action by asking the policeman for directions, keeping him occupied while I climbed over the low wall at the bottom, then soaked my shoes as I scaled the next one. I was stronger now than at thirteen, but not nearly as agile, so I moved slowly in pulling myself up toward the base of the hunter, who looked younger than ever.

A woman walking a ratty dog came into view just below me. The dog began yapping and tugging its leash. She shook her head as I reached beneath the hem of the tunic.

Nothing.

She yelled in a snarl of Czech as I kept groping, feeling only the cold stone. Then my fingers brushed against something smooth and hard. I pried up a brittle corner with a fingernail and worked at it some more. By now the woman was lecturing me, and the dog was unrelenting. The rest of the gum came free so suddenly that that I nearly lost my balance. It looked slick and dark, blackened by soot, but the tip of the key poked from the end where I’d broken off the first piece. I stared down in triumph at the nattering woman, who turned away in a huff toward the policeman.

Hopping into the shallow water below, I looked up long enough to see that the woman with the dog had nearly reached the cop, who was still talking to Litzi. I was about to hurdle the final barrier when I spotted a man perhaps twenty feet to their right, lurking at the far end of the park and staring unabashedly at my efforts.

It was the Russian, the one from the train station and the gimmicky bar, still carrying his Moscow newspaper like an identity badge. He grinned, then nodded slightly before heading off in the opposite direction.

“You! Out from there!”

It was the cop, fast approaching and addressing me in English. Close on his heels was the woman and her yapping dog. She beamed as triumphantly as if she’d just pulled Franz Josef back off his perch. A worried-looking Litzi brought up the rear. I scrambled over the barrier, shoes squishing on the gravel. The key was in my right hand.

“What is the meaning of this!”

“My friend,” I said, gesturing toward Litzi, “dropped her key in the fountain.”

Litzi immediately began thanking me with flirtatious gratitude.

“Stupid me,” she said. “I wanted to throw in a coin for good luck, but grabbed my key instead!”

The old crone, probably not understanding a word of the exchange, was now gesturing up at the hunter, no doubt describing what she’d seen me doing. But the cop, about our age, was paying more attention to Litzi. He looked back and forth between us as if deciding what to do. Then, perhaps to save face in front of the disapproving local, he told Litzi, “You must not throw coins into the fountain!”

“Yes, officer, of course.”

“Sorry,” I added. “It won’t happen again.”

He nodded sternly, then strolled away with his hands clasped behind his back while the dog continued to yap, complaining on behalf of its mistress. We scrambled away before he changed his mind.

“Do you think it still fits?”

“We’ll find out at six o’clock.”

My plan was to try the lock about an hour before the appointment. I figured it was too much of a coincidence that my handler would actually have had a contact living in my old house, meaning he would have made some sort of temporary arrangement. If so, whoever lived there would probably be gone by six, well before our contact showed up. Assuming there was a contact. Maybe there would simply be a message posted on the door.

“My worry now,” I told Litzi, “is that we won’t be showing up alone. While you were talking to the cop I saw the Russian, the one from the bar, watching me from the end of the park.”

She glanced over her shoulder.

“He’s gone now,” I said. “But let’s get a cab, take a ride to lose him.”

“Unless he already knows where to find us at seven.”

By late afternoon the wind was rising, blowing angry clouds across the rooftops of the Old Town and spawning zephyrs of litter and grit, as if determined to sweep every last tourist from the city. Tartan Army stragglers had to hold down their kilts, and each northerly gust carried the smell of rain. My feet, soaked from the fountain, were freezing.

I hadn’t been inside 22 Divadelni since I was fourteen, and didn’t know what to expect. The ambassador had never been thrilled by Dad’s decision to live outside the diplomatic cocoon. To accommodate Cold War security concerns we endured monthly visits from sweeper teams that scanned every wall, floor, and ceiling with wands and beeping black boxes. They never found a thing. Dad nonetheless switched on the radio whenever we had company or made a phone call. Now, I was about to make the very sort of intrusion the embassy had always feared the most. If the key fit.

We arrived at the front steps right at six, watching our backs but seeing no sign of surveillance. A few raindrops were falling, the fat kind that precede huge storms, and the trees in the park were waving wildly. We took shelter in the vestibule. The floor tiles were scrubbed, and all the mailboxes seemed to be in working order, although my handler’s minions had once again been playing with the name tags. A spotless new label printed with “CAGE” appeared in our old slot for the third floor.

We had no key for the downstairs door. We were hoping to get in by using the old trick of buzzing every apartment until someone let us in. But first we buzzed my old place, to see if the coast was clear. I tensed for a response, but the only sound was that of the rising wind.

“Good,” I said. “Now let’s get in.”

On our third try there was an answering buzz from a second-floor apartment. We shoved open the door and climbed the stairs. A door on the second floor opened as we passed, and an elderly woman peeped through the slit.

“Sorry,” I said breezily. “Forgot our key.”

I couldn’t tell if she understood, but she rammed home the security chain. We slowed down as we approached the third floor, and went the rest of the way practically on our tiptoes. I took out the key, then thought better of it and put my ear to the door, like a doctor listening through a stethoscope. I heard a faint buzz, like a refrigerator, but nothing else apart from a television downstairs. The lock looked encouragingly old.

“Here goes,” I whispered.

Litzi bit her lower lip. I pushed the key into the slot.

It was a tight fit, stopping halfway in. I gave it a wiggle and slid it to the hilt. Then it wouldn’t budge. Another wiggle, still no progress. Even as I fretted, a memory returned of a balky lock that often needed coaxing and just the right touch, but was I thinking of this house or the one in Budapest? I paused, took a deep breath to relax, but had no better luck on the next try. On the fourth attempt something gave way. The key twisted with a solid metallic smack as the deadbolt slid free.

I turned the knob. We were in.

The place smelled musty, and a little bit like garlic. No sign of anyone, but we moved carefully, Litzi following me through the door without a sound. I shut it gently behind us, then manually reset the lock. Only then did I exhale.

“I think we made it,” I whispered.

“We better check the rooms first.”

We did it together, Litzi lagging just behind me in case someone jumped out of hiding.

With all gathering gloom outside, it was very dim inside, but we didn’t dare switch on a light that could be seen from the street. Nothing looked familiar except the chandelier in the dining room. The décor wasn’t at all to my father’s taste. The furniture was modern, the artwork abstract. There was a state-of-the-art audio system and a big-screen TV with DVDs galore, but not a single book, nor even a newspaper or magazine.

On the coffee table, someone had left a set of keys atop some folded paperwork. One of the keys matched mine, and one of the papers was a pink carbon copy of a short-term rental agreement between someone named Jan Svoboda and one of those vacation lodging services that matches up tourists with willing local residents. The agreement was good for two days, until ten tomorrow morning.

“Svoboda,” I said. “Definitely a Czech name.”

The second page was a printout of a recent email exchange. My excitement built as I realized the meaning of its contents:

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Sent: Tuesday, October 12, 2010 10:23 PM

Subject: Arrangements

Proceed as planned. I’ll handle extra party. Bank code and payment procedure in attachment. Funds available upon confirmation of completion.

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Sent: Tuesday, October 12, 2010 09:47 PM

Subject: Arrangements

Appointment set, site secured, but worried about interest from new party. Please advise. When will payment be forwarded?

Finally, progress. I felt I had at last nudged back the curtain on my handler’s identity.

“Svoboda must be our contact,” I said, “which would make K-Fresh 62 my handler. Trace his email address and maybe we can come up with a name.”

“Do you really think our contact is this sloppy?”

She was right. Leaving all this stuff out in plain view, even with the door locked, was hardly the mark of a professional.

“Wonder who the ‘interested new party’ is?”

“Surveillance?” Litzi offered. “Someone making sure he’s doing his job?”

“Maybe. K-Fresh obviously didn’t feel a need to tell him. We better memorize these addresses in case Svoboda makes us give his stuff back.”

“I’ll log them into my phone.”

We searched the apartment again, this time checking under beds and in closets and cabinets. But it was soon apparent that everything else belonged to the residents. Whoever was meeting us must have come here only once to familiarize himself with the lay of the land. Presumably he had his own set of keys.

I looked in the fridge.

“Want a beer?”

“Stop,” Litzi said. “We should get ready. He might be early.”