Dan Fesperman - The Double Game

“As I said, sir. That book is not for sale. So, if you please.”

“Are those Lothar’s standing orders?”

His mouth opened. His eyes narrowed.

“Who are you?”

“Bill Cage, Warfield’s son. I’m a friend of Lothar’s.”

“So you say.”

“Call him. He’ll vouch for me.”

Ziegler seemed uncertain of what to do next, so I got out Lothar’s business card, the one with nothing on it but a number.

“Here’s his mobile number, in case you don’t have it.”

“Of course I have it! It’s Lothar Heinemann, for God’s sake!”

“Then call him. Tell him Bill Cage is in your shop, and that I’ve found the book.”

Ziegler eyed me again, then morosely picked up the phone. He was not accustomed to following orders, and he was grim as he punched in the numbers.

“Heinz, please… Ziegler at Der Flugel… Yes, Lothar. There is a man here, Bill Cage. He has, well…” Ziegler cringed like a boy with a bad report card. “He has found your book.”

Lothar’s laughter was audible across the room. An expression of immense relief spread across Ziegler’s face. He propped his elbows on his paperwork and puffed his cheeks as he exhaled. He gestured for me to come forward, then put his hand over the mouthpiece.

“He wishes to speak to you. If you will just hand me the book first.”

I grabbed the receiver but held on to the book. Ziegler grimaced but didn’t fight back.

“Is that really you, Cage?”

“You owe me a name.”

“Of course. I’ll pay in full.”

“Where are you? When can we meet?”

“Berlin. Regretfully, we’ll have to do this by telephone. But you must read the book first.”

“You’d better tell Ziegler. He seems inclined to keep it.”

“He will keep it. You’re going to read it there, in his office. That book is not for sale, not even to you. How long have you been in the shop?”

“No more than fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“When an hour has passed, they’re going to come looking for you, to see why it’s taking so long.”

“Curtin?”

“Him or the Russian. Perhaps both. They’ll have guessed why you’re there.”

“How do you know I haven’t lost them?”

His laughter this time was more of a wheeze.

“Listen, Cage. You’re in for a very long day. There is still a fifty-fifty chance that no harm will come to you, but only if you follow my instructions.”

Did I believe him, or was he just trying to scare me?

“I want you to put Ziegler back on the line so I can make the necessary arrangements. He will piss and moan, but he’ll get the job done, and when he hangs up he’s going to tell you what to do next. But I don’t want you doing anything further- nothing, do you hear me? not even take a piss-until you’ve finished reading it. Then I want you to call me. From the phone at Der Flugel, not from your own. That’s when I’ll give you the name. Understood?”

“That could take hours.”

“My prose isn’t that bad, Cage. It’s the only way this will work. If you leave the store before then, with or without the book, then I promise you’ll never get a chance to even read page one. You must trust me on that.”

“Okay.”

“Good. Give the phone to Ziegler. Is that fool of a clerk Klaus there?”

“Yes.”

“Then pray to God he doesn’t handle the arrangements. Good luck, Cage. And happy reading. I hope I’ll be speaking to you again.”

I handed the phone to Ziegler, who by now was very grave in manner. He said little as Lothar talked to him other than the occasional “Yes,” nodding all the while. A few minutes later he hung up. The first thing he did was order Klaus home.

“On your way out, put the ‘Closed’ sign in the window. I’ll write a note explaining to our customers that there has been a family emergency.”

It reminded me of the note in the window at Antikvariat Drebitko, which didn’t seem like a good omen, but of course neither Klaus nor Ziegler knew about that. So Klaus merely nodded, seeming relieved to be escaping a situation that had suddenly turned tense and serious. Ziegler waited for the office door to close before addressing me. He took a set of keys from a drawer and put them on the desk.

“This is my spare set. You’ll need to lock up when you’re done. Then I want you to put them into this envelope and drop them back through the mail slot. Do you understand?”

“I’ll be locking up?”

“ Pay attention, will you?”

“I understand. I’ll lock up, then put the keys back through the mail slot, inside the envelope. Where will you be?”

He shook his head, as if that wasn’t relevant.

“This is the most important part, so listen closely. You are not to take any notes. None. When you are finished reading, you must move the filing cabinet away from the wall. This one here.” He tapped it. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Behind it you’ll find an opening to an old coal chute that used to come into the building from the alley in the back. Drop the book into the chute. Don’t worry about its condition, just drop it there and then slide the filing cabinet back into place, do you understand?”

“I understand.”

“After you’ve done that, you will let yourself out of the store as previously instructed.”

“Okay. And then?”

He threw his hands in the air and shook his head, as if to say that was none of his business and never would be, no matter what happened to me. It wasn’t exactly reassuring, but by then I was eager to begin reading.

“If you are quite clear on all these matters of procedure, then I will leave you to your work. Good-bye.”

He departed in a rush. Moments later I heard the lock smack home on the outer door. All was silent. It was just me and the book. I sat down at the desk and turned to page one. The book was in German, of course, but here’s the rough translation of Lothar’s opening sentence:

On this particular Wednesday in Budapest, the spy known as Headlight had decided to employ a different sort of courier. A boy, no more than ten years old, and an American at that. He was one of the privileged specimens from the embassy, although you never would’ve guessed it from his loose and ungainly brown shorts, which were just like those worn by all the grimy locals that numbered among his playmates.

He was an intelligent boy, the American, and carefree in the way that only an outsider could be in this capital of closely held secrets. Yet there was something inherently wary in his gaze and demeanor, as if life itself up to now had been one long covert action. In other words, he was the perfect choice for the task at hand.

Well, Lothar certainly knew how to start things off. Not only was I hooked, I was already oblivious to any thought of the forces that would soon begin gathering outside the walls of Der Flugel, waiting impatiently for me to emerge.

Even if I’d been aware, I’m not sure it would have slowed me down. This was the first spy novel I’d read since the Wall had come down, and for all I knew it might be my last. So I sure as hell was going to make the most it. I turned the page, eager for more.

Lothar was a fine storyteller, and if not for my urge to wring the significance from every detail, I would gladly have surrendered to his narrative powers. His tale briskly wound its way through all the cities I’d once called home. The names of his characters were easy enough to decipher: Earl LeGrange for Ed Lemaster. Jeff Anderson for Jim Angleton. Bartlett Pierce for Breece Preston. Warren Cave for my father. And me, of course, appearing simply as the Boy.

But Lothar’s most daring stunt was that all the code names were as real as the locations in which they operated: Headlight, Blinker, Taillight, Nijinsky, Dewey, Oleg, Leo, Thresher, and quite a few more. Somehow, through all his footwork, the indefatigable Lothar had tracked down everyone, Russians as well as Americans.