The Double Game

by Dan Fesperman

  The best lesson the course taught me was that our most potent weapon is not a star knife or a Glock 19. It’s our mind, our alertness, our ability to reason out and act upon clues of danger as they assemble in our midst. The same as it always was for Folly or Smiley, in other words. And in the mental department, at least, I have stored up all sorts of lore from my years of reading.

  Eric Ambler taught me that the best way to sneak up a stairway is to stay to the sides, where the treads won’t squeak. Lawrence Durrell let me know in White Eagles over Serbia that when you think you’re being followed you should check the reflection in a shop window now and then to see who’s behind you. Then there were le Carré’s numerous descriptions of tradecraft, and Lemaster’s many references to lessons learned at the Farm, the CIA’s training facility in Virginia.

  How ironic, then, that my first idea for decisive action came not from my favorite old spy friends, but as a result of my Capitol Hill work for Ealing Wharton. It popped into my head as Litzi and I bustled grimly toward the Burggarten, only a block from our destination.

  “Time for a detour,” I announced.

  “But I thought—?”

  “This way. Quickly. I’ll explain later.”

  I led the way toward a computer store I’d seen the other day. There, in rapid succession, I purchased a cheap but fairly powerful laptop, a wireless battery-powered webcam, and a roll of black electrical tape. Duct tape would have been better, but this wasn’t a hardware store, and we were pressed for time.

  “Can you tell me what this is all about?” Litzi asked in the checkout line.

  “Not here,” I said, scanning the other shoppers. “Now all we need is a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and two glasses. And chalk to mark the mail drop.”

  The drinking supplies were easily procured at a nearby Weinladen. Litzi slipped into an art supply store for the chalk.

  “Now?” she asked, when we were within a block of the Burggarten.

  “The gist of it,” I said, “is that the best defense is a good offense.”

  “Translation, please.”

  “It’s a cliché in American football. I’m adopting it as our strategy, if only to make me feel better. If we keep letting someone else call all the shots, we’ll be setting ourselves up as easy targets for whoever killed Vladimir. So before I pick up another single literary bread crumb, I want to find out who’s scattering them.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?”

  “Better technology, for one thing. My handler’s all about dead drops, book codes, and Moscow Rules, everything manual and on paper. That tells me he stopped learning new tricks around the time the Wall came down.”

  “That explains the laptop and webcam. But do you actually know how to use them?”

  I did, only because of a dog-and-pony show I’d arranged for a congressional committee on behalf of a banker client last year. The committee was up in arms over ATM fees, so I proposed deflecting their anger by demonstrating one of the many fraud schemes that contributed to—but hardly accounted for—ATM operating costs.

  The client sent me an ex-con who, in a riveting bit of C-SPAN theater, demonstrated a cheap rig that he’d once used to scam cardholders (and their banks) by stealing magnetic card codes and numeric passwords. A key piece of equipment was a wireless webcam, which he taped into place within view of the ATM’s numeric pad. Another gizmo stole the info from the card’s magnetic strip. He recorded everything on his laptop from a nearby parked car. Having watched him set it up, I knew every step. The only difference was that my surveillance target would be the dead drop. Litzi was impressed.

  “There’s the statue,” she said. “How should we do this?”

  “First we make sure no one’s tailing us. Go to that bench, the closest one. I’ll make a circuit of the park. If you see anyone watching me, call my cell phone and ID them.”

  “And then?”

  “Maybe I’ll follow him.”

  “Don’t be stupid.”

  “Well, let’s at least check.”

  The park wasn’t exactly empty. A young woman was pushing a stroller past the emperor’s statue, and two kids were on a bench maybe twenty feet away. A little farther along, an older man was feeding pigeons in the gathering darkness. My circuit of the premises, however, stirred no reaction from any of them. I returned to the bench.

  “Let’s wait for some of them to leave,” I suggested. “Where are the negatives?”

  “In my purse. ‘Dead drop.’ Not a promising name.”

  “We’ll be fine.”

  The woman with the stroller left the park. The man feeding pigeons shook the last crumbs from his bag and walked away. The teens were still chatting. I had already spotted the rock with the chalk mark.

  “Do you think someone has already been here to check?” Litzi asked.

  “Maybe they stopped by on their way to Vladimir’s.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  She was right. I was giddy. A little cocky, even. Thinking that you’re about to take charge of a situation can have that effect.

  “Look,” she said. “They’re going.” The teens were on the move.

  “Okay,” I said. “Zero hour.”

  I checked our flanks. A few people were still up at the far end, but in the evening gloom they wouldn’t see what we were up to. I knelt by the bench and got out my gear.

  “What’s the wine for?”

  “I’ve got the bottle and corkscrew. You hold the glasses. Anyone who sees us will think you’re waiting for me to open it. Instead I’ll be taping the webcam beneath the bench. Then we put the negatives under the rock, mark the stone, and leave.”

  I completed my work undisturbed. We crossed the park back toward Litzi’s office.

  “Now what?” she asked.

  “Can we still get into your building at this hour?”

  “At any hour, with my ID.”

  “Which side is your office on?”

  “The opposite side.”

  “Too bad. Know anybody whose window faces the park? With a clear line of sight, it should be well within range for the camera signal.”

  “Lutz’s office is on that side, and he never locks it.”

  “Perfect.”

  We entered the empty lobby and climbed the stairs. Everyone on her hall had gone home. Lutz had indeed left his door ajar. We settled behind his desk. I downloaded the necessary software, then clicked a few commands and watched the image come up on the laptop screen. Perfect. I switched off the image to preserve the camera battery, then turned on the motion-sensor function to activate the cam the moment anyone showed up.

  “Now we wait.”

  “And if no one shows?”

  “We go have dinner, then check the laptop in the morning. Any video will be recorded on the hard drive. We just have to make it back before Lutz does.”

  “No problem. He’s a late riser.”

  “You sound like you know firsthand.”

  “Do you really want me to answer that?”

  “No.”

  We waited an hour just in case, making small talk and avoiding the subject of Vladimir while I tried to assess Lutz from the stuff in his office. A photo showed him with a pair of teens, probably his kids, with no wife in sight. He was one of those ruggedly handsome Prussians with blue eyes and close-cropped hair. Probably younger than me. Far too early to feel this jealous, but there you go.

  The camera switched on twice during the first half hour, triggered by passersby. It was getting almost too dark to see. After ten more minutes an image flashed onto the screen. Someone had stopped at the statue.

  His back was to the camera, but he wore a dark overcoat and one of those loden alpine walking hats with the feather in the brim. The video was a little stuttery, and the lighting was terrible, but now the fellow was bending over, which meant he was probably lifting up the rock. Surely he would turn around at some point to check his flanks? But no, he only rose and continued on his way, leaving the picture
without once turning his head.

  “Shit!”

  I scrambled down the hallway toward the back stairs, footsteps echoing in the empty building, then tripped an alarm as I shoved through a fire door at ground level. With 50 meters to go before I reached the Burggarten, and another 250 to cross the park, I peered into the gloom for any sign of movement, just in time to see someone in a long coat climbing into an idling sedan on Goethegasse, on the far side of the park. The door slammed, and the car accelerated smoothly toward the Opernring, where it turned left and disappeared.

  “Shit! Shit! Shit!”

  The only noise now apart from the traffic was the clanging of the alarm.

  “Well, that was professionally done!”

  It was Litzi, hustling up in my wake. She glanced back over her shoulder toward the National Library.

  “Did you at least get a good look at him?”

  “Didn’t even get the make of the car, much less the tags.”

  “So much for your handler being too low-tech for his own good!”

  “I better get the cam from the bench.”

  “Scheise!” Litzi exclaimed.

  “What?”

  “The laptop. We have to get it. Security will be all over the place by now.”

  “Should I come with you, take the blame?”

  She shook her head.

  “That would only make it more complicated. Fortunately I know the night supervisor. I’ll think of something. Wait here.”

  I walked sheepishly back to the statue, untaped the cam, and stuffed it into my coat pocket, feeling like a chump. My pulse rate was finally beginning to slow down about the time the alarm shut off. I hoped Litzi wasn’t in trouble, and I again questioned the wisdom of getting her involved. She approached a few minutes later, carrying the laptop. There was a puzzled look on her face.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Everything went fine. I made up something about hearing someone in the stairwell and trying to follow them outside. Let’s just hope you don’t show up on their cameras. But there’s something new on the laptop.”

  “Probably me, from when I took down the camera.”

  “No. Before then. The prompt said two more videos had been saved.”

  We sat on a bench and I powered up. The most recent video showed my ghostly face looming right up into the camera, then the screen went blank. I clicked on the other video, which had been shot a few minutes earlier. A man moved into faint view from the right. He stopped in front of the statue and bent down by the rock with his back to the camera. Then he suddenly looked up, as if startled by a noise—probably either my running footsteps or the slamming door of the getaway car. His face came into profile. The poor lighting blurred his features, but the slouching wool hat was unmistakable, and when he stood I saw the cane in his right hand.

  “I don’t believe it. Lothar Heinemann.”

  He turned and went back in the direction he’d come from, vanishing from the screen.

  The video stopped.

  “You said he’s a book scout?”

  “That’s what Dad called him. But from the look of things he knows more about my handler’s movements than I do.”

  “This hunt is getting crowded. Maybe we should all meet for drinks at Gasthaus Brinkmann.”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering if everyone was after the same thing.

  “This only makes you want to find out more, doesn’t it?”

  I nodded. And it wasn’t just the thrill of the chase, or even the frisson of danger. Danger is overrated, and I could do without it completely. The deeper appeal, I think, was that I felt as if I had fallen through a trapdoor and landed four decades in the past, and was now moving among the very figures that had once populated my Cold War dreams. Manning Coles was right. Spying was addictive.

  Then I looked at Litzi, and sensed without saying a word that she was reading my every emotion. She shook her head.

  “I’d like that drink now,” she said.

  16

  Neither of us had the energy or inclination to deal with a maître d’, a waiter, or even a menu, nor were we thrilled by the idea of sitting among strangers in a crowded restaurant, exposed and vulnerable.

  “Why don’t I make us an omelet?” Litzi said. “We’ve got wine, thanks to you.”

  “I thought you needed something stronger?”

  “Wine’s enough as long as we’re under my roof, with all the doors locked.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell her how useless a lock was with this crowd, but I did see the value of being somewhere without a camera watching our every move. And that thought in turn gave me a new idea.

  “Lead the way,” I said. “But I need to make a detour.”

  “Nothing to do with ‘the best defense is a good offense,’ I hope.”

  “Shouldn’t we use this webcam for something? It will only take a second.”

  She shook her head but didn’t resist until a few blocks later, when she realized we were heading for the Gasthaus Brinkmann.

  “The old KGB man? He’s the one you want to spy on?”

  “I need to see what he looks like, so we’ll be able to spot him if he’s following us.”

  “Oh, smart idea. Baiting the bear on his doorstep.”

  “Not his doorstep. The inn’s. I’ll mount the cam outside the gasthaus, then check the videos in the morning.”

  “Where will you put the laptop?”

  I pointed up the block.

  “There’s a hotel across the street. I’ll rent a room with a clear line of sight. Then I’ll come by in the morning to see what turned up.”

  She again shook her head, but kept going. It was a quiet street, and there was a trash bin next to a sign for a bus stop only a few feet from the gasthaus entrance, which provided a perfect vantage point. I taped the camera into place within seconds without anyone observing us, and there was a front room available on the third floor of the hotel across the street, which I paid for with the Ealing Wharton Amex. Thanks, Marty.

  “What happens when the trash man collects the webcam, or the chambermaid takes the laptop?”

  “Maybe I’ll beat them back here. Either way, nothing ventured, nothing gained. C’mon, I’m hungry.”

  Litzi’s apartment looked pretty much how I’d imagined it. Tasteful, comfortable furniture with clean lines and vibrant colors. And books, of course. Loads of them—on shelves, in cabinets, stacked on end tables. The walls were hung with photos rather than paintings—not iconic scenes of Vienna, but out-of-the-way places I couldn’t easily identify. In one, a much-younger Litzi posed among friends at a political demonstration.

  “Where was this demo?” I asked, while she whisked eggs in a glass bowl. “Do I know any of these people?”

  “Oh, that old thing.” She looked back toward the skillet. “Just some election rally.”

  Maybe her former husband was in it, because she was quiet for the next few minutes. It made me a little gloomy for us. We’d come through the years psychologically intact, yet we were still fending for ourselves. It made me think of my father, another sole survivor.

  “I’d better text Dad, tell him I’ll be late.”

  Pulling out my phone, I paused and watched the movement of Litzi’s hips as she swirled the eggs in the pan.

  “How late will I be, do you think?”

  She picked up right away on the significance of the question, and looked at me over her shoulder. Her eyes were no longer weary. The pan remained still above the flame, and she smiled, the same way she had when the innkeeper in Prague had first handed us our keys.

  “The omelet’s burning.” I nodded toward the pan.

  “Yes. Everything is.”

  I crossed the room and wrapped her up from behind. She slid the pan to the cool side of the stove and arched her back against me as I pulled back her hair to kiss her neck. I moved my lips to the skin beneath her ear, the nape of her neck. When she spoke her voice was husky.

  “Tell him you’ll be
home for breakfast. I’m too lazy to cook for you twice.”

  She turned into my arms. Then she unbuttoned my shirt and pressed her lips to my chest.

  “Those eggs will be cold by the time we eat,” I said.

  “Cold and burned. My new favorite way to eat an omelet.”

  We made our way to the bedroom, discarding items of clothing along the way, as if leaving a trail to find our way back. We finished undressing each other slowly, comfortably, eager but not in a hurry.

  When you are single at a later age and are sometimes sexually inactive for long stretches of time, each reentry to the arena isn’t always smooth, particularly when the women are several years younger. In my recent past there have been occasions when I’ve felt fumbling and unsure, like when I’m assembling one of those bookcases from IKEA, with their strange little parts that roll across the floor and the baffling instructions telling me to press male dowel A into female opening B, then twist until snug.

  With Litzi, there was immediate comfort and familiarity, even though our bodies obviously weren’t the same as they’d been at seventeen. We navigated our new topographies with confidence, with passion, and with the joy of our former selves. I remembered the taste of her skin.

  Afterward she lit a candle and fetched the wine, along with the cold omelet, which was glorious, even the burned part. I was enchanted, content.

  “So, which one of your book spies was the best lover?” she asked.

  “Not counting James Bond?”

  “He wasn’t a lover, he was a cad.”

  “You sound like Dad. Oh, I don’t know. Bernie Samson, maybe, from Deighton’s books? He was pretty virile, or at least his wife thought so.”

  “His wife? So he was monogamous, too? Sounds too good to be true. Maybe Bernie could be your code name.”

  “Maybe not. His wife was working for the Russians. Although not really. It was very complicated.”

  She frowned, not caring for that, so I tried another one.

  “There’s Paul Christopher, from McCarry’s books. Also monogamous. A poet, even. Top-notch lover.”