Dan Fesperman - The Double Game

“Yes. It’s by Yulian Semyonov.”

“So you know this book?”

“I read it. Years ago.”

“Tell me what you know of it.”

I shrugged, still wary, but relieved that they seemed to have eased the pressure just when they’d backed me into a corner.

“Semyonov was a Russian who wrote Soviet spy novels during the Cold War, although Petrovka 38 was more of a cop novel, a murder mystery.”

The word “murder” nearly lodged in my throat, which I’m sure they didn’t miss. The taller detective reached into his file folder.

“Do you recognize this copy of Petrovka 38?”

I blanched in disbelief, not just from seeing the black silhouette of a stabbed body on the cover, with blood spilling onto the white background, but also because the upper right corner of the jacket was torn. It was my own copy, stolen from my townhouse in Georgetown, presumably along with the rest of my spy books.

“No.”

“You don’t sound very convincing. You don’t look it, either. Your face betrays you, Mr. Cage. Are you quite sure of your answer?”

I looked down at the table and drew a deep breath.

“It resembles a copy I’m familiar with. But it can’t be the same one, because that book is supposed to be at my house in Washington.”

“Can’t be? You mean the airlines no longer allow their passengers to carry books with them on transatlantic flights? And by the way, Mr. Cage, let us please dispense with this ‘Vladimir’ silliness, shall we? I am sure you are quite aware that the man’s real name was Boris Trefimov, just as I am quite sure you were surprised to see this book only because you were expecting someone other than the police to find it at the scene.”

“The scene?”

“It was at Trefimov’s apartment, as you well know.” He moved closer, thrusting the book under my chin. “It was found with his body, as you also well know, since you were the one who must have placed it there in his lap. And it was open to this very page!”

He flipped to page 13, and I saw the black ink right away, marked boldly around a paragraph near the top.

“I didn’t take this book to his apartment, and I didn’t see it while I was there.”

Another snort from the sidekick. The taller detective put the book on the table and drummed the passage with a forefinger.

“Boris Trefimov could not read English very well, Mr. Cage, and this is an English translation, meaning this book would only have been left in his apartment as some sort of message for his superiors to find. But unfortunately for you, Mr. Cage, the police found the body first.”

“I told you, I didn’t-”

“Read the passage aloud for me, Mr. Cage.”

“What?”

“I said read the passage! Aloud. For both of us. And for the tape machine.”

“You’re taping this?”

“It’s procedure, Mr. Cage. Just think of it as a performance. Do it well and maybe you will receive a commission check from one of those audio book services.”

He backed away to give me room. I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice from shaking. I decided on a monotone to convey my emotional detachment, but after scanning the first few words I knew that would be difficult. The moment was surreal. Was I truly about to read aloud from one of my own stolen books to a Vienna detective trying to frame me for the murder of an ex-KGB agent?

“We are waiting, Mr. Cage. Your audience is on the edge of its seats.”

“Right. Okay.”

Before I could start, the page flipped of its own accord. I was about to turn it back to page 13, then stopped myself just in time.

“What’s wrong now?” the taller one asked.

“It’s a trick. You’re trying to get me to put a fresh set of fingerprints on the copy. I won’t do it.”

“Oh, for God’s sake!”

He briskly stepped forward, flipped the page back, then pinned it down with a pencil. I cleared my throat again. Out came Semyonov’s words in my quavering voice:

“The bright beam of the searchlight cut easily through the night like a sharp knife through a slice of black bread. The night was split apart and they all saw the dead Kopytov. He was lying in a crumpled ball, a puny old man with big, peasant hands, which still looked as if they were alive.”

The tall detective snatched up the book and shut it in one neat motion. Then he leaned down, breathing into my face. I was pretty sure he’d eaten a sausage for lunch. Maybe the shorter detective had sold it to him.

“A murdered puny old man with big peasant hands,” he said. “Pretty fair description of Boris Trefimov, wouldn’t you say?”

I shrugged.

“I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t know.”

“Of course you were. You’ve already admitted as much.”

“Not when he was dead.”

He shook his head slowly and eased away from me. Then he held the book aloft like a backwoods preacher with a Bible, preparing to deliver some fire and brimstone. As he opened his mouth there was a knock at the door.

The tall man paused, book held high. Then another knock sounded, louder and more insistent, followed by a voice.

“Manfred?”

The door opened. Another stubby fellow who might have been the wurst vendor’s cousin motioned the detectives out into the corridor.

“Both of you. Now.”

“But-”

“Orders from the top.”

Manfred shut the book with a snap, then left in disgust. The wurst vendor shambled out in his wake. They locked the door behind them. All was quiet, but my heart was leaping against my chest. I wondered if the tape was still rolling, or if there was anything more to see inside the book. Another marked passage, or a scribbled message. I listened for footsteps. Nothing. I pulled a handkerchief from my trousers and was on the verge of pulling the book toward me when I stopped abruptly, remembering the two-way mirror.

I looked at it, wondering who might be watching from the other side, and what they were thinking. In a half-hearted attempt to cover my blunder, I pretended to blow my nose, then stuffed the handkerchief back in my pocket.

A few minutes later the door burst open. It was Manfred, alone now.

“Get out of here!” he snapped.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Leave now! Leave this station house before I change my mind.”

I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it.

“I’m free to go?”

“I won’t say it again!”

He was furious. I scrambled out of the chair and sidled past him. Out in the hallway I saw that Litzi had just emerged as well. She looked uneasy and pale, a flashback to Bad Schandau. Maybe Dad was right. Why hold her accountable for the desperate actions of a seventeen-year-old girl? We exchanged inquiring glances. Then a uniformed policeman approached with our suitcases and wordlessly escorted us to the main entrance.

As we stepped into the sunlight I saw Dad approaching from across the street. His face was a mask of abiding patience.

“The cavalry’s arrived,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

She nodded, still too shaken to do anything but agree.

“So how did you manage it?” I asked.

We were walking fast, eager to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the police. Dad and Litzi had barely acknowledged each other, so I was feeling a little awkward.

“Manage what?”

“Getting us out of there.”

“I didn’t even know you were in there until the embassy phoned saying you were about to be released. I take it this was all about the dead Russian?”

“They thought I did it. They found one of my damn books in his apartment.”

They turned toward me as if I’d jerked their heads on a string, faces incredulous.

“Petrovka 38,” I added for Dad’s benefit.