Dan Fesperman - The Double Game

“Or the whole thing could be a legend. You know how it goes with characters like Lothar. You tell a story about him and ten years later it’s repeated back to you, twice as good as before. I will say this. If he is following you, then I’m worried for him. I’d heard he gave up that kind of thing once he got clean. I hope he’s not back on the needle.”

“Are you going to tell me who ‘Dewey’ really was?”

“Like I said, a code name. Never met him and never knew his true identity, much less his mission. If I was ever caught while making a delivery I was supposed to say I was passing along a gift for a friend of the bookseller.”

“Who gave you the cover story?”

“The same person who asked me to make the delivery. Ed Lemaster.”

“Why?”

“Why me? Or why did I do it?”

“Both.”

“You’d have to ask him the first question. As for the second, he wasn’t just a friend. He was an employee of the United States government, and so was I. So when he requested that I become involved in what seemed to be a very minor role, I agreed without hesitation. It was my duty.” He paused, staring off into space. “And frankly…”

“What?”

He smiled.

“I enjoyed it. It was pretty obvious it was part of some spy transaction, and considering everything I was reading at the time-he knew my tastes, of course-I was the perfect choice. Does that surprise you?”

“Not at all. Look at me.”

“Except you’re hunting Ed, not helping him.”

“If that’s what this is really about.”

“I’d still strongly advise you to get out of this while you can, but I can’t run your life, and if you’re determined to stay in, then I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Thanks.”

He nodded, but he wasn’t pleased. I stood from the table.

“And thanks for breakfast. For everything. I should pack. I’m moving on this afternoon.”

“The sooner the better.” He held up the photo of Trefimov. “It’s probably a good idea for you to leave Vienna for a while.”

“I’m planning to stop by Antikvariat Drebitko,” I said. “One of their bookmarks was inside the parcel I picked up at Kurzmann’s.”

“Ask for Vaclav Bruzek, if he’s still alive. That’s who I always dealt with. And if you happen to wind up in Budapest, try Antikvariat Szondi.”

“Budapest?”

“Just a hunch. Some of my Dewey errands took me there as well.”

“How many years did you do them?”

“Six or seven. It ended when we moved to Berlin.”

“Why then?”

“Well, Ed got out of the business not long after that. That was the main reason. But I was a little surprised he never had me do anything in Berlin before he quit. I always wondered if it might have had something to do with you.”

“ Me? How so?”

“You said Litzi’s going with you to Prague?”

“Yes, but what does that have to do with-?”

“Be careful. I’d hate to see her dragged into all that sort of nastiness again.”

“It’s the EU, Dad. I doubt they’re detaining people at the border anymore.”

“I was thinking more about the aftermath. I’m sure it must have been difficult for her family or she never would’ve spied on me.”

“What?”

The room seemed to tilt and blur, like when a lens comes loose in a camera.

“She spied on you?”

“Only once. Quite harmless, although I’m a little surprised she still hasn’t told you. Maybe she never realized I’d figured it out.”

“And this happened after our trip?”

“Right before you and I moved to Berlin.”

“What did she do?”

I sat back down, legs wobbly. Packing could wait. Maybe the whole trip could wait.

“Oh, rummaged around a few of my things. Met a contact once or twice, probably to report what she’d found, which couldn’t have been much because there was nothing to find. That was as far as it went, really. Like I said. Harmless.”

“But why?”

“Her father was Czech. Strauss wasn’t his real name, you know.”

“That much she told me.”

“I gather they must have threatened her in some way. It wasn’t like they could have done much, but she wouldn’t have known that, poor girl. The repatriations and kidnappings had ended by then, but that brand of insecurity dies hard, especially if you’ve ever been hauled in for interrogation. And they had other ways of getting back at emigres. Planting embarrassing stories in the press, making it hard for them to travel. They must have ordered her to do them a favor before you and I moved away.”

“How do you know?”

“She wasn’t exactly a pro, and there were clear signs she’d been poking around. I’ve sometimes wondered if she wanted me to find out. So I reported it. Had to, I’m afraid. The fellow at the embassy who followed it up told me the rest. His people never took it seriously.”

I didn’t need to ask who “his people” were.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Dad placed his hands on the table, fingers interlocked-the “wise counselor” pose that he had always employed when I’d done something foolish like blowing off an algebra exam, or failing to stand up for a friend.

“You were young and in love, and we were moving soon. And you never liked it when I intruded on that side of your life, which I quite understood. Everyone needs his privacy.”

With the uttering of those words, the spirit of my mother was conjured into the space between us. I was sure Dad sensed it as well. But we let the moment pass, as always.

“Does this mean her name is still in some embassy file, or even at the Agency?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” He was uncomfortable now. “Maybe as a footnote.”

It made me sorry for Litzi, but also for myself, unflattering as that sounds. This was the woman I had entrusted with everything, yet she hadn’t leveled with me. And if she was willing to withhold that secret-well, you get the idea.

I stood to pack, although in some ways the trip was already ruined. Right or wrong, I could no longer trust Litzi.

“Don’t take it so hard, son. Those were very different times, especially for families like hers.”

“I’ll try to keep that in mind.”

Litzi stood at the far end of the train platform, striking a cinematic pose in an overcoat and a wide-brimmed hat, a suitcase at her feet. Her face lit up when she saw me coming, a lover’s glow. Mine had flickered out at breakfast.

I greeted her with a dry peck on the cheek. Nothing felt right or comfortable, and she sensed it immediately.

“What’s wrong? Has something happened?”

“Just a hectic morning. Took longer to pack than I thought, a few other things.”

The words rang false and she eyed my small suitcase. Thankfully she didn’t press the point. Our seats were reserved, and we had a compartment to ourselves. The first thing I wanted was a drink, but the cart wouldn’t be coming by until we were under way. I’d been wondering for the past hour how to bring up the subject of her duplicity, and I was still pondering the question when I realized she was chattering away about something from the past. I only caught the end of it.

“… that old wine bar just off the square, what do you think?”

“I’m sorry. I zoned out for a minute.”

“I was just wondering if that old wine bar was still there that we went to before, the one right off the Old Town square.”

I remembered it, a cozy little wine restaurant in a cellar with vaulted stone ceilings. At the time I’d been convinced it was the very spot where Sarah Gainham had set a key scene in her 1959 Prague novel, The Stone Roses. In the book, one of the waiters turned out to be not only a murderous Soviet spy, but also a woman.