Dan Fesperman - The Double Game

“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 decor 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: kffresh62@dmail. com

To: jsvoboda@cz1mail. cz. net

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: jsvoboda@cz1mail. cz. net

To: kfresh62@dmail. com

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.”

No sooner had we moved back into the living room than we heard the downstairs door bang shut, followed by footsteps on the stairs, which rose in volume until they reached the third-floor landing. It was six-thirty.

“Quick, back in the kitchen.”

I pulled the kitchen door nearly shut, watching through the crack. It was even darker there than in the living room. A key rattled in the lock, and I heard him wiggle it several times before he slid back the deadbolt. I moved out of sight as the door swung open, and we listened to his footsteps crossing the room. There was a rustle of clothing, then a beeping sound as he punched in a number on a cell phone. He coughed as he waited, sounding a little nervous. I heard the chirp of an answering voice, then our contact spoke in English with a slight Czech accent.

“Jan here. I am in place. Good. Yes, as soon as it is completed. Okay.”

The phone beeped as he disconnected. I pushed open the door and stepped into the room as quietly as I could. Jan had his back to me. I spoke to get his attention, poised to move quickly if he reacted badly.

“Hello, Jan. We decided to arrive early.”

He started at the sound of my voice, then turned abruptly. We both reacted in surprise-he for obvious reasons, me because the man facing me was the so-called Russian whom I’d last seen watching us from across the park. Litzi gasped from her perch in the kitchen.

He recovered his composure first. When he spoke it was again in English, although this time the accent was Russian.

“I will not ask how you managed to arrive before me, but I am sure it must have involved illegal activity. The important thing is that you have come. Both of you, I see now.”

Litzi came through the door.

“How come you speak like a Russian but have a Czech name, Jan?”

“It is a cover name, of course.”

“I might have believed that if I hadn’t just heard you on the phone, sounding completely different.”

His face reddened, but he forged on after a slight pause.

“I speak that way on the phone also for cover, in case there is eavesdropping.”

“Nice try.”

“I have instructions for you.” He stuck to his accent, brazening it out.

“You need to answer some questions first. Who is K-Fresh 62, and how did you end up working for him?”

Now he looked despondent, and a little panicky. His eyes darted around the room until his gaze settled on the coffee table, where he seemingly noticed for the first time that his things were missing.

“I pocketed your extra keys for safekeeping,” I said. “Wouldn’t want you to have to forfeit your deposit.”

His cheeks turned a deeper red.

“So now if you could please answer those questions.”

He set his jaw and stood a little straighter. Then he shoved a hand into his jacket pocket.

“Maybe first I would rather blow off your head.”

I flinched involuntarily, which made him smile, but he kept his hand in his pocket, and I decided he was bluffing.

“You don’t have a gun, Jan.”

“Do you really want to find that out?”

“Yes, Jan. I do.”

“Stop saying my name!”

“I will if you take your hand out of your pocket.”

The fight went out of his eyes and he slowly withdrew his hand. Empty.

“I am supposed to tell you where to go next,” he said, this time in his normal Czech accent.

“I’m fine with that. But not until you’ve answered my question.”

“Look,” he said, “and I am telling the truth when I say this. I don’t know who this K-Fresh person is. I only know him through email. He’s paying me, and he assured me this would be harmless. For everyone.”