Dan Fesperman - The Double Game

“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.

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.