The Double Game (36 page)

“You were undercover?”

She nodded. “I was supposed to infiltrate them. Some ultra-left group at my university.”

“How did it go?”

“Fine, for a while. But it ended badly.”

“Meaning what?”

“Meaning, badly enough that they let me quit, then helped me find a job. They kept my involvement a secret. Even my husband never knew. To him I was just Litzi the sensible librarian.”

“I understand his point of view.”

She was quiet for a while as we negotiated the crowds on the bridge. I wondered what she meant by “ending badly.” In disgrace? Betrayal? Death? But by the time we’d crossed the Danube another question had occurred to me.

“Was this job—the one involving me—just another ‘little favor’ they asked you to do?”

She didn’t answer right away.

“As far as I know.”

“So that story you told me about the fat man in the seersucker, the character right out of Ambler, it never happened?”

“They told me to tell you that. I had no idea why until you showed me the description in the book.”

“Did you know it was going to be me at the Braunerhof?”

She shook her head emphatically.

“They had me tail you from your appointment earlier that morning at Kurzmann’s, the bookstore. A man with a brown paper parcel—that’s the only description they gave me. I was supposed to keep my distance until the rendezvous, and I wasn’t close enough to recognize you until you came out of the phone booth. Obviously they had good reason to pick me, but I’m sure they wanted my surprise to be genuine.”

“It definitely fooled me.”

“I wasn’t trying to fool you. Not about that. I was thrilled to see you, but I hated the idea of deceiving you. Hated it. That night after you left my apartment I sent word that I wanted out.”

Before we slept together, in other words. For some reason that mattered.

“They refused?”

“They said I could quit, but only if I stopped seeing you. I was supposed to be there to protect you, to watch your flanks.”

“And to report my movements.”

She shut her eyes, then nodded.

“Yes. That, too. And when I saw that the work was becoming dangerous, too dangerous for me to control, then I quit, in the hope that you would quit as well. But when you didn’t, well …”

“You continued following me?”

“Yes.”

“Under whose orders?”

“No one’s. I went AWOL. Threw away my phone, stopped checking in. I took certain measures in Prague to ensure I wouldn’t be followed, then came here on a bus. I guessed that you’d stop at Antikvariat Szondi, and that’s where I picked up your trail.”

“Where’d you get the gun?”

“An old contact. It’s like any other kind of business. Half of it is connections and calling in old favors. Even after people get out they always keep a hand in, whether they want to or not.”

“Like Breece Preston?”

“Yes, like him. The Hammerhead, too.”

“Why would the Verfassungsschutz be running this show?”

“I doubt they are. I’m just a resource they’re lending out. Like I said, connections and favors. I have no idea who your handler is, or who he works for, but obviously he has friends over here who still owe him.”

“So do you.”

“What do you mean?”

“The Vienna police, for one. It wasn’t my father’s connections that got us released, was it?”

“I made a call. Or asked them to make one. They did it because they recognized the number right away, and knew they would be in trouble if they ignored it.”

“Is that the same number you gave to those Czech cops, the other night in the rain?”

“Yes.”

“Handy.”

“You do what you have to. But today I was working for you only. And now I want you to quit. You’ve seen where it leads. Two people are dead and you would’ve been the third. We can change hotels, then leave on a bus in the morning. We’ll switch routes in some market town, then cross the border where they won’t expect us.”

“You really think the Szondis will try something?”

“They’re the least of your worries. Two other people, minimum, were following us in Prague, including the big American with, what did you call it?”

“A mullet. And I know they were. Lothar told me.”

“Lothar.” She rolled her eyes.

“I wouldn’t take him lightly. He’s had some of the same training you had.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“How can I trust him when I don’t know who he’s working for?”

“You could say the same about yourself.”

That stopped her.

“You’re right. You could. Another good reason to quit. But fortunately you don’t have to. I took the liberty this morning of giving notice for you. By now your handler will have received word that we are off the case.”

“
Took the liberty
? That’s an understatement!” I stopped on the sidewalk, furious. We must have looked like an old married couple, quarreling in public. “I really
do
thank you for saving my ass, but I’d like to make my own decisions if you don’t mind.”

“Someday you’ll thank me. So will your son, and your father.”

“And Edwin Lemaster.”

“What of it? Do you even know him? Much less know what he really did or didn’t do for his country?”

“Or some other country.”

“Some other country that no longer exists. If anyone knows the emptiness of actions carried out in the name of country, it’s me. Everything I ever did for a nation, or an agency, or for some bureaucratic overlord is ashes to me now.”

“You said it ended badly.”

“I also said this is not the time to discuss it. There are bigger questions. Like, did you ever stop to think that your handler—
our
handler—might be ex-KGB?”

“Lothar says otherwise. He worked for him, too.”

“Then maybe Lothar was also duped.”

It was a crazy idea, and probably a scare tactic. But the scariest thing was that it was possible. Another layer of that Greek pastry Lothar had talked about crumbled before my eyes. For all I knew, Lemaster might even be the one who was running me in circles, finally getting his revenge on the reporter whose ambush had brought on his decline. He certainly would have known that curiosity was my fatal weakness.

Maybe Litzi was right about quitting. At the very least, it was an opportune time to leave Budapest. We could return to Vienna, where her connections—and Dad’s—would offer the greatest protection. Then, with the Oppenheim book in hand, I could decide in relative tranquillity whether to continue.

“All right, then.”

“You’ll quit?”

“For now.”

“Let’s get your things. I’m registered at a more secure location. By this time tomorrow we’ll be back at your father’s.”

“And then?”

The question covered more ground than this spy chase of ours, and we both knew it.

“I don’t know,” she answered. “We’ll talk about it later. In complete honesty.”

“Did they train you on that as well?”

She didn’t care for the question. I hadn’t expected her to.

32

We settled into our new digs, a tiny inn that Litzi chose for its front and rear entrances and the desk clerk’s striking lack of curiosity. He requested neither passports nor true identities.

Her checklist apparently didn’t include cleanliness. The bedsheets smelled like the stairwell, and the bathroom looked like an art installation celebrating a century of rust. But after locking the rickety door I finally felt secure enough to get out Szondi’s copy of
The Great Impersonation.

Author E. Phillips Oppenheim had never been a spy, although he worked for Britain’s Ministry of Information. Hardly anybody today has heard of him, even though in the 1920s he was famous on both side of the Atlantic. He made the cover of
Time
magazine, and wrote more than a hundred novels. Yes, a hundred.

The Great Impersonation
was probably the most popular, but by the time I tried to read it in the early seventies it was badly dated. I didn’t make it past the first chapter, mostly because the characters kept saying things like “By Jove!” and “Ripping of you, old chap!”

Now, as I flipped through the pages in search of a message, those “By Joves!” kept winking up at me. I found nothing in the text. Then I slid my fingers along the clothbound cover and peered down the spine for any sign of an inserted note. No success there, either. Maybe the courier network had used a book code and sent the key by separate channels. That would explain why Lemaster took it in stride when Szondi kept the book.

Litzi, watching me, shook her head in disapproval.

“You’re out of that now, remember?”

“There’s nothing in here anyway.”

“Give it to your father, then.”

“He’s already got a copy.”

“Sell it on eBay.”

“Maybe we could trade it for dinner. I’m hungry.”

“Stay here. There’s a takeout place down the block.”

After she left I realized I was also craving a beer, but Litzi no longer had a cell phone, so I went in search of refreshment, hoping to make it back before her. I did, but on arrival I was greeted by yet another sealed envelope that someone had shoved beneath the door. So much for the idea that we’d covered our tracks.

Feeling vulnerable again, I set aside the beer and ran downstairs to the desk, where I discovered to my irritation that the clerk’s no-questions policy extended to visitors and would-be thieves.

“No see anyone,” he insisted in broken English, hands in the air like a suspect. When I continued to harangue him for information he went into his small office and shut the door. I hustled back upstairs, hoping to take care of business before the newly bossy Litzi returned. I took the envelope into the bathroom, shut the door for privacy, and slit it open.

The format was familiar enough—single sheet, typewritten, with a torn-out book page pasted below—except the paper wasn’t my stationery, and the typing hadn’t been done on my Royal. The deviations from the pattern made it feel like a rush job. Or maybe somebody new was issuing orders.

“I sense that your interest is waning,” the message began. “This will get you back on track. Think Belgrade 1992.”

Below was a street address in Pest near the Keleti train station, followed by the words, “Visit anytime. You’re expected.”

The reference to Belgrade ‘92 naturally piqued my interest, since that was the point at which my journalistic career ran off the rails, thanks to the denied visa. I expected the book passage to be something about dashed dreams or pouting young men.

It was far more cryptic. The page was from Le Carré’s
A Perfect Spy,
my favorite of his non-Smiley books. It was the tale of Magnus Pym, a Philby-style mole whose father was a charming con artist. Le Carré supposedly wrote it as a sort of personal exorcism, unloading his emotional baggage over his own dad. In that sense, at least, Magnus was the author’s alter ego. But in another way he was more like me—an only child raised by a single parent, the product of an insular upbringing in which father and son were almost always on the move. The marked excerpt was a mere sixteen words.

Love is whatever you can still betray, he thought. Betrayal can only happen if you love.

I was still trying to figure out what that could possibly have to do with Belgrade ’92 when I heard Litzi come back into the room.

“Bill?” She sounded worried.

“In the toilet. Be right out.”

“You went out for beer?” She’d found the six-pack on the bed.

“Sorry, I was thirsty. Tried to catch you on your way out.”

I folded the message into my pocket, then flushed the toilet and ran water from the tap. When I opened the door I saw that she, too, had picked up some beer.

“You shouldn’t have left. I doubt the desk clerk is very vigilant.”

“You’re probably right about that.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Your face doesn’t look like ‘nothing.’ Did something happen?”

“Everything’s fine.”

She watched me a few seconds more. I considered telling her about the message. But it was more personal than the others, and it troubled me for reasons I couldn’t yet explain. The part about love and betrayal might even be referring to her, so for the moment I kept it to myself. If she was still hiding details of her career with the Verfassungsschutz, why couldn’t I hide this? But the main reason was that I didn’t want to have to explain what had happened back in ’92, or, rather, the aftermath, which I’d handled so poorly.

The food was Chinese, and tasty, and the atmosphere grew more relaxed as we stuffed ourselves with dumplings and garlic chicken. By the time we finished, the room smelled of grease and soy sauce, and we’d downed four of the beers.

We watched some Hungarian television on a wavering black-and-white tube, then packed for an early getaway, brushed our teeth, and climbed into bed. There was no question of sex. Each of us was exhausted, worried, and, more to the point, too wary to make a move. Still, when she rolled up against me later in the sag of the narrow bed, I placed a hand on her waist and snuggled closer. It was a start. But toward what?

I awakened hours later, when it was still dark. The words of the message were still tumbling around in my head. I slipped out of bed and stood barefoot by the window, listening to the night for any sound of movement. I took the note from my trousers, unfolded it as quietly as possible, and reread the quote by the light over the bathroom sink.

Whose betrayal, I wondered? And whose love? And how was any of it relevant to the task at hand, or even to Belgrade ’92? If the note had made any sort of demand upon me, ordering me to appear at a certain time, say, or by a certain deadline, I probably would have defiantly ignored it. But by leaving things open-ended—”Visit anytime. You’re expected”—my handler had turned the request into an enticement, a lure, and as I pulled on my trousers I surrendered to its power.

I shut the door behind me with a tiny click. The innkeeper was gone from his darkened post. When I reached the street I took out my map of the city. Trams and subways weren’t running at this hour, but my destination was only about a mile away, so I set out on foot. Every step echoed in the empty streets, and for blocks I stared cautiously into the depths of every shadow. As I eased into a rhythm, my nervousness abated. Clearly I was alone.