“What’s happening?” she said.
She was gazing out the window, back toward the terminal. I turned and saw a column of policemen at a trot along the platform, six in all. Whistles blew. A porter hustled by our compartment, keys jangling. Litzi gripped my hand. It was an eerie replay of Bad Schandau, and once again the authorities seemed to be heading straight for us.
Footsteps thundered in the corridor. A policeman stopped at our compartment.
“Litzi Strauss and William Cage?”
“Yes?” I answered.
“Your passports, please.”
A second policeman joined him, resting a hand on a holstered gun.
“It’s them,” the first one said. “You will both come with me, please.”
This time I didn’t have to ask what it was all about, but I did anyway for the sake of appearances. The answer was almost the same as it had been thirty-seven years earlier.
“No questions. Just come.”
The big difference this time was the reaction of the passengers. In East Germany almost everyone had averted their faces, lest they be summoned next. Today’s audience was raptly attentive. A small boy waved from a window until his mother yanked back his hand. An older man squinted at us above his reading glasses, then shook his head in disapproval. And in the last passenger car, at the second window from the rear, Lothar Heinemann sat watching me, eyes alight. As I was moving out of sight, he nodded slightly, as if to say, “See you in Prague—if you ever make it.”
Then the train hissed and groaned and, with a massive lurch, began sliding away toward Prague without us. Litzi reached for me, but a policeman slapped away her hand.
“Two cars,” one said. “They are to be interrogated separately.”
Just like old times.
They sent a tag team to question me, two cops in civilian clothes in a room with all the expected trimmings—hard chair, bare table, harsh lighting, and a two-way mirror.
One cop was blond and short, a little pudgy, with the ruddiness of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors. He would have fit right in as a wurst vendor at the Hoher Markt. Heightening the effect was a mustard stain near the bottom of his tie.
The other one, who seemed to be in charge, was taller with brown hair and a downturned mouth, a sleepy cast to his eyes. He took his time getting started, sifting through a file folder as if it contained the world’s most interesting material, while the shorter cop slouched in a chair with his hands behind his head. Other than the sound of pages turning, there was only the hum of the tube lighting. Two other plainclothesmen, one of them female, had taken Litzi to a room down the hall.
Finally the taller cop stood.
“Tell us what you were doing yesterday at number 11 Köllnerhofgasse at approximately four p.m.”
“Visiting someone for an interview. I’m a freelance journalist doing a story for Vanity Fair.”
I referred them to the letter of introduction, which they’d already found while searching my bag. They weren’t impressed.
“Who were you visiting? Name and apartment number, please.”
“I don’t remember the number, but it was the fourth floor. The door was to the right as you came up the landing. The name was Vladimir Miller.”
“Miller? No one by that name resides in that building.”
“It was the name on the mailbox.”
He looked at his partner. I couldn’t tell what passed between them, but then the shorter one stood and produced a photo. It was the same one that had run in the newspaper.
“Is this the man you knew as Vladimir Miller?”
“Yes.”
“So you did see him?”
“Yes.”
He seemed surprised I’d admitted it so easily. The taller one spoke again.
“What was the purpose of your visit?”
“I told you. It was for a magazine story.”
“Yes, but let’s talk about the real reason. What kind of information were you there to collect?”
Now I had a problem. My answer had to be generic enough to match whatever Litzi said, but I certainly wasn’t going to tell them everything and make this a bigger deal than it already was. For all I knew they might even charge me with espionage. But I didn’t know how much Litzi would say. She would be living in Vienna long after I’d moved on (provided I was allowed to), and spilling my secrets might be the easiest way out for her. My only hope was to keep my answers as vague as possible for as long as possible.
“I had no idea what he was going to tell me. He invited us. Or invited me, anyway. Litzi was just along for the ride.”
“He was a friend of yours?”
“I’d never even heard of him before yesterday.”
“Of course. I’m sure you make a practice of dropping in on strangers.”
“I told you, I’m a journalist, and he contacted me. I responded.”
“Why did he contact you?”
“He didn’t say why. He just indicated he had information for me, so he invited me over.”
“For this so-called story of yours.”
“Yes.”
The pudgy cop spoke up.
“Invited you how? Personally? By telephone. By email? Be specific.”
“He sent a message. A note. He said his name was Vladimir and that he wanted to speak with me.”
“So this man who you don’t know and have never seen before sends you a written invitation to come and see him, and just like that you oblige him?”
“That’s how it works when you’re a reporter.”
They looked at each other. I got the idea they hadn’t counted on these kinds of answers, and they were recalibrating on the fly.
“In addition to your duties as a reporter, and also as a Washington PR man for various wealthy interests—and we’ll get to some of those in a moment—are you also in the same line of business as this man Vladimir, as you call him?”
“That’s what he called himself to me. I didn’t come up with the name.”
“But you trade in the same commodities?”
“I don’t know what he trades in.”
“What was the topic of your discussion? Running arms to Afghanistan, or prostitutes to the Balkans?”
“Neither. We didn’t discuss his business.”
The shorter one snorted.
“This Vladimir, as you call him, was expecting a large wire transfer to arrive in his account very soon from the United States. I suppose you didn’t discuss this with him, either?”
Now I had to lie.
“No.”
For whatever reason—my gestures? tone of voice?—they seemed to sense they’d discovered a weak spot, so the pudgy one kept at it, leaning into my face and raising his voice.
“He said nothing of this pending transaction? You’re willing to repeat that as fact to both of us?”
I had to brazen it out. What was it they said about interrogation techniques? That people look up and to the right when they’re lying? Or was it down and to the left? I looked at the table, then thought better of it and looked straight into the detective’s face.
“No. He said nothing about anything like that.”
He smirked. The taller one shook his head, then slapped his hands on his knees and stood.
“This is useless,” the short one said. “He’s lying.”
It seemed obvious what the next question would be. One of them would ask me what Vladimir did say. And how would I answer that?
“Have you ever heard of a book called Petrovka 38?” the taller one asked.
It caught me by surprise.
“Yes. It’s by Yulian Semyonov.”
“So you know this book?”
“I read it. Years ago.”
“Tell me what you know of it.”
I shrugged, still wary, but relieved that they seemed to have eased the pressure just when they’d backed me into a corner.
“Semyonov was a Russian who wrote Soviet spy novels during the Cold War, although Petr
ovka 38 was more of a cop novel, a murder mystery.”
The word “murder” nearly lodged in my throat, which I’m sure they didn’t miss. The taller detective reached into his file folder.
“Do you recognize this copy of Petrovka 38?”
I blanched in disbelief, not just from seeing the black silhouette of a stabbed body on the cover, with blood spilling onto the white background, but also because the upper right corner of the jacket was torn. It was my own copy, stolen from my town house in Georgetown, presumably along with the rest of my spy books.
“No.”
“You don’t sound very convincing. You don’t look it, either. Your face betrays you, Mr. Cage. Are you quite sure of your answer?”
I looked down at the table and drew a deep breath.
“It resembles a copy I’m familiar with. But it can’t be the same one, because that book is supposed to be at my house in Washington.”
“Can’t be? You mean the airlines no longer allow their passengers to carry books with them on transatlantic flights? And by the way, Mr. Cage, let us please dispense with this ‘Vladimir’ silliness, shall we? I am sure you are quite aware that the man’s real name was Boris Trefimov, just as I am quite sure you were surprised to see this book only because you were expecting someone other than the police to find it at the scene.”
“The scene?”
“It was at Trefimov’s apartment, as you well know.” He moved closer, thrusting the book under my chin. “It was found with his body, as you also well know, since you were the one who must have placed it there in his lap. And it was open to this very page!”
He flipped to page 13, and I saw the black ink right away, marked boldly around a paragraph near the top.
“I didn’t take this book to his apartment, and I didn’t see it while I was there.”
Another snort from the sidekick. The taller detective put the book on the table and drummed the passage with a forefinger.
“Boris Trefimov could not read English very well, Mr. Cage, and this is an English translation, meaning this book would only have been left in his apartment as some sort of message for his superiors to find. But unfortunately for you, Mr. Cage, the police found the body first.”
“I told you, I didn’t—”
“Read the passage aloud for me, Mr. Cage.”
“What?”
“I said read the passage! Aloud. For both of us. And for the tape machine.”
“You’re taping this?”
“It’s procedure, Mr. Cage. Just think of it as a performance. Do it well and maybe you will receive a commission check from one of those audio book services.”
He backed away to give me room. I cleared my throat and tried to keep my voice from shaking. I decided on a monotone to convey my emotional detachment, but after scanning the first few words I knew that would be difficult. The moment was surreal. Was I truly about to read aloud from one of my own stolen books to a Vienna detective trying to frame me for the murder of an ex-KGB agent?
“We are waiting, Mr. Cage. Your audience is on the edge of its seats.”
“Right. Okay.”
Before I could start, the page flipped of its own accord. I was about to turn it back to page 13, then stopped myself just in time.
“What’s wrong now?” the taller one asked.
“It’s a trick. You’re trying to get me to put a fresh set of fingerprints on the copy. I won’t do it.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!”
He briskly stepped forward, flipped the page back, then pinned it down with a pencil. I cleared my throat again. Out came Semyonov’s words in my quavering voice:
“The bright beam of the searchlight cut easily through the night like a sharp knife through a slice of black bread. The night was split apart and they all saw the dead Kopytov. He was lying in a crumpled ball, a puny old man with big, peasant hands, which still looked as if they were alive.”
The tall detective snatched up the book and shut it in one neat motion. Then he leaned down, breathing into my face. I was pretty sure he’d eaten a sausage for lunch. Maybe the shorter detective had sold it to him.
“A murdered puny old man with big peasant hands,” he said. “Pretty fair description of Boris Trefimov, wouldn’t you say?”
I shrugged.
“I wasn’t there. I wouldn’t know.”
“Of course you were. You’ve already admitted as much.”
“Not when he was dead.”
He shook his head slowly and eased away from me. Then he held the book aloft like a backwoods preacher with a Bible, preparing to deliver some fire and brimstone. As he opened his mouth there was a knock at the door.
The tall man paused, book held high. Then another knock sounded, louder and more insistent, followed by a voice.
“Manfred?”
The door opened. Another stubby fellow who might have been the wurst vendor’s cousin motioned the detectives out into the corridor.
“Both of you. Now.”
“But—”
“Orders from the top.”
Manfred shut the book with a snap, then left in disgust. The wurst vendor shambled out in his wake. They locked the door behind them. All was quiet, but my heart was leaping against my chest. I wondered if the tape was still rolling, or if there was anything more to see inside the book. Another marked passage, or a scribbled message. I listened for footsteps. Nothing. I pulled a handkerchief from my trousers and was on the verge of pulling the book toward me when I stopped abruptly, remembering the two-way mirror.
I looked at it, wondering who might be watching from the other side, and what they were thinking. In a halfhearted attempt to cover my blunder, I pretended to blow my nose, then stuffed the handkerchief back in my pocket.
A few minutes later the door burst open. It was Manfred, alone now.
“Get out of here!” he snapped.
“Where are you taking me?”
“Leave now! Leave this station house before I change my mind.”
I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t believe it.
“I’m free to go?”
“I won’t say it again!”
He was furious. I scrambled out of the chair and sidled past him. Out in the hallway I saw that Litzi had just emerged as well. She looked uneasy and pale, a flashback to Bad Schandau. Maybe Dad was right. Why hold her accountable for the desperate actions of a seventeen-year-old girl? We exchanged inquiring glances. Then a uniformed policeman approached with our suitcases and wordlessly escorted us to the main entrance.
As we stepped into the sunlight, I saw Dad approaching from across the street. His face was a mask of abiding patience.
“The cavalry’s arrived,” I said. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
She nodded, still too shaken to do anything but agree.
20
“So how did you manage it?” I asked.
We were walking fast, eager to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the police. Dad and Litzi had barely acknowledged each other, so I was feeling a little awkward.
“Manage what?”
“Getting us out of there.”
“I didn’t even know you were in there until the embassy phoned saying you were about to be released. I take it this was all about the dead Russian?”
“They thought I did it. They found one of my damn books in his apartment.”
They turned toward me as if I’d jerked their heads on a string, faces incredulous.
“Petrovka 38,” I added for Dad’s benefit.
He shook his head but said nothing. A few feet later he stopped abruptly in front of a café and gestured toward the door. “In there,” he said, as if it were a pharmacy with just the cure for what ailed us. “Now.”
We followed without a word and took a table toward the rear. He ordered for everyone, reverting to full Dad mode as he dispensed the prescribed medicine—three shots of brandy on a tray. I have to admit, they were therapeutic. The first swallow eased our breathi
ng. The second restored color to our cheeks, although Litzi still hadn’t said a word.
“I suggest you take the next available train,” Dad said. “Reprieves like this don’t always last. While you’re gone I’ll do what I can to sort things out. And, by the way, hello, Litzi. Even under the circumstances, it’s quite a pleasure to see you.”
She smiled thinly, but some of the tension went out of her shoulders.
“A pleasure for me as well.”
“She told me she sees you around town now and then,” I said. “Out and about with your friends. I told her she ought to say hi sometime.”
They looked at me as if I’d said something inappropriate, which made me too uncomfortable to continue.
“I would imagine she does,” Dad said. “Vienna can be a pretty small place that way.”
“Yes,” she agreed instantly. “You are so right.”
He’d slipped into German for Litzi, even though she was fluent in English. It doubled my eerie sense that somehow they were operating on a different wavelength from me. I noticed a quick exchange of glances, but couldn’t decipher it.
“I, uh, saw Lothar Heinemann on our train,” I said. “He was watching out the window as the police led us away.”
This remark also turned their heads. In unison, of course. They were acting like brother and sister.
“I’m beginning to wonder,” Litzi said, “if he was the same man who spoke to me in a bookstore a week ago.”
Now it was Dad and me whose heads were yanked on a string.
“Lothar?” we said.
“Which bookstore?” I asked.
“Kuhnhofer, an antiquarian store just off the Graben. I was looking through a pile of old manuscripts and he asked if I needed help finding anything. I thought he worked there, then later I saw him leave with a bag of books in one hand and a cane in the other. He even recommended a title to me.”
“Which one?” Dad asked.
She paused, trying to remember. We awaited her answer as if she were the Oracle at Delphi.
“I don’t remember.” She looked down at the last of her brandy. “But the word ‘secret’ was part of it.”
“Genre title,” Dad said. I nodded in agreement.
He swirled the last of his brandy, still deep in thought. Litzi and I swallowed ours, fully medicated now.
The Double Game Page 16
