Dan Fesperman - The Double Game

“Thanks,” I said.

Even Dad, far more discerning than I, would have appreciated the vintage, which tasted dusky and complex enough to have some years behind it.

“How did you end up living here?” Litzi asked.

Urban Europeans were always curious about Americans who chose to maroon themselves in the Continent’s outback.

“I married a Czech emigre who worked for the Agency. He always wanted to come back, and after the Velvet Revolution he bought property here. We came over after retiring. I suppose he thought he would become some sort of gentleman farmer. Two years ago he had a heart attack while riding his tractor. It kept rolling, clear across the farm and onto the highway, where it came to rest against an old poplar on the far side of the road. Blocked traffic all afternoon, or I might not have found out for days.”

She spoke of it rather clinically, as if she’d just been reviewing his file, then she polished off her summation with a sip of Burgundy before turning to Litzi.

“I don’t mean to be inhospitable, but when you’ve finished your wine you’ll have to leave the house. I’m only prepared to discuss certain matters with people who I know have been cleared for the information, and I won’t have you eavesdropping on me from some other room.”

Litzi was incredulous. First she looked at me, as if this might be my doing, then looked toward the window, where the rain was still pelting down in the dark.

“You may use my rain slicker and hat,” Humphries said. “They’re in the closet by the door. You can borrow my Wellington boots as well.” Litzi’s expression changed from surprise to indignation. “If it makes any difference, there are horses in the barn, and you’re welcome to visit them. I say that not just because the barn is warm and dry, but because you look as if you’ve ridden before.”

Litzi tilted her head, reassessing this straightforward woman.

“You’re right. I rode quite a lot as a girl.” That was certainly news to me. “I’ll be happy to visit your horses. They’re probably friendlier.”

“No doubt, my dear.”

Litzi set down her wine and headed for the exit. Humphries waited while we listened to the creak of a closet door, the shuffle of a rain jacket, the squeak of boots. Finally we heard the front door opening to the sound of the storm. Then it shut with a rattle.

“Part of your cover, I suppose, but I can’t say I approve.”

“Excuse me?”

“The girl. And those ridiculous names you’re using. Did they actually think I’d enjoy the joke?”

“The joke?”

“Oh, don’t play stupid. Litzi was Philby’s first wife. Furse was his second wife’s maiden name.” That was news to me. Lemaster’s idea of a prank, perhaps. “But the less I know about you, the better. Besides, he sent you, didn’t he?”

Was this a trick question?

“Who’s ‘he’?”

She smiled appreciatively.

“Good. Exactly how you should answer. And I certainly won’t mention his name, either.”

For the first time since I’d set out on this quest, I experienced the excitement of having at last brushed up against the source of it all. Not just an email address, but a direct and personal link. Humphries was apparently an old colleague of my handler’s-at least that’s what she seemed to think. She also seemed convinced that I was a CIA man. A professional, not a freelance. Meaning I had better start acting like I knew what I was doing, lest she get suspicious and clam up.

The rain came harder as a gust of wind shook the windows. I felt a pang of sympathy for Litzi, but it was time to get down to business.

“She’s jealous, by the way, that girl you’re calling Litzi.”

It was an odd way for Humphries to begin, but I could hardly let it pass without comment.

“Jealous of you?”

She shook her head, frowning at the absurdity.

“Of you, and of what you know. But she must know things, too. You have to know at least part of the picture to be jealous of those who know the rest. And that’s where your colleague is now. Her face was broadcasting it from the moment you walked in the door.”

“And you know this how?”

“From more than forty years of observing other people just like her, in a business where what you knew defined your status. Reading files teaches you to read people, believe it or not.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

I’d brought the folder from the Mercedes, which turned out to be a mistake. She reached over and nimbly snatched it from beside me on the chair. Opening it, she flicked through the pages and sighed when she saw the Le Carre passage.

“Spare me the goddamned Connie Sachs crap, if you don’t mind.”

“But I didn’t-”

“No sense in denying it. I can see it in your stupid mooning face, the star-struck look of the devoted reader who thinks he’s finally found the real thing. Well, get it out of your head. The real Connie was some MI5 gal, Millicent Bagot. She died four years ago. Look it up, if that’s what you’re into. But I don’t come from a book, and no one ever wrote me into one. Letting Newsweek write that load of PR rubbish about the Hargraves case was a mistake, but no one asked me, of course. None of the old Agency spooks who wrote novels even knew who I was, and that’s the way I preferred it.”

“And what did you know about them?”

“Most of the time I only knew them by their cover names. It helped me stay objective when it came time to evaluate their reports. I briefed a few of them, of course, on paper anyway. Supplied them with all kinds of useful items, which they promptly forgot the moment they were in the field, in favor of their so-called instinct. It’s like when a crop scientist tests the soil to come up with the perfect formula for what to plant and how to tend it, only to have a bunch of stupid plowboys in heavy boots trample everything to mush, thinking they know better. Of course later, when they’re growing apples where they should have planted peaches, they bitch and moan when everything fails and ask why no one ever warned them. That’s what it was like being in research.”

She sipped her wine and smoothed her skirt, glaring at me as if I were another blinkered fool who would ignore her advice.

“So what have you been able to learn?” she asked. “What have you discovered?”

Whoa, now. Who was supposed to be getting information from this session, my handler or me? Was this going to turn into a face-to-face version of a dead drop, with Humphries reporting my latest findings?

“I’m the one who’s here for information.”

“Of course. But I need a reference point. For a researcher, context is everything. I’m not asking you to divulge operational detail, just fill me in on the big picture. And let me warn you now that I plan to be very tight when it comes to divulging actual names. Happy to give them when relevant, but there’s no sense in being fast and loose unless it’s warranted. The rules exist for a reason. Now, where do you stand?”

“Okay. Well…” I paused, collecting my thoughts. “I seem to be tracking an informational trail for some sort of courier network set up by Ed Lemaster back in the sixties, when he was an operative, on behalf of a source code-named Dewey, who may or may not have been known to, or even used by, the KGB. Its transit points were in Vienna, Prague, maybe also Budapest.”

She nodded, seeming to approve.

“What’s important is that you’re familiar with the name Dewey. That’s the key to the whole thing.”

“And what, exactly, do you mean by ‘the whole thing’?”

“Lemaster’s betrayal, of course. His spying for the other side. Not that anyone who counted ever believed in it. I practically drew them a map at one point, X marks the spot, but no one ever picked up a shovel to dig for treasure. Maybe they were afraid of what they’d find. And for a change it wasn’t just the field men who were playing the fool.”