two of the phone books arranged alongside the bank of pay telephones in the Vienna Central Post Office.
Kyle fished a pen from his pocket and drew a line through the numerals. The emergency meeting would be on the third day of the week, Wednesday. At four, the next digit, in the afternoon. The safe house was at Frankgasse 7, the third number.
“So now you’re supposed to go look at some phone book at the Post Office?” Litzi asked.
“Does the Central Post Office even have pay phones anymore?”
“I don’t know. But the doors are unlocked till ten. If we leave now we’ll just make it.”
I’d once known the old post office well, and remembered it fondly. Christmas packages had arrived there every December from my grandparents. Dad always took me on the twenty-third to pick everything up, then we’d stop for a wurst and fries on the way home, dripping grease and sweet mustard onto the packages.
Litzi and I got there eight minutes before closing time. Only three other people were inside-a woman mailing a letter, a sweeper half in the bag, and a security man preparing to lock up. Lo and behold, there were still pay phones, with a handy supply of Vienna directories. When I flipped to page 222 of the second volume, three numbers were scrawled across the top in the same block handwriting that had been used in the message.
2-4-11
“Well, there you go,” I said, feeling the same satisfaction I did whenever I completed the New York Times Saturday crossword. “Two, the second day of the week, means Tuesday, tomorrow. The four means four p.m., at number eleven, presumably on Kollnerhofgasse. Once I get there, all I have to do is look for the safety signal to make sure the coast is clear.”
“That’s the same time as the rendezvous in Spy Wednesday, ” Litzi pointed out. “How did that one go?”
“The agent never showed. He’d been kidnapped to Moscow to be executed.”
“Well, that’s promising. What about the contact in Smiley’s People?”
“An Estonian named Vladimir. The KGB shot him in the face.”
Litzi shook her head but couldn’t help laughing.
“Moscow Rules don’t sound very reliable.”
“I’m sure the third time’s the charm.”
“Maybe someone should come with you.”
She said it with a smile, but also an unmistakable note of caution. That, plus Lothar’s earlier warning, reminded me that to some people this sort of information never lost its potency.
“I’ll be all right,” I said. “Vladimir was old and arthritic and walked with a cane.” Fleetingly, unavoidably, I thought again of Lothar, who also walked with a cane. “I can still outrun most people as long as they’re over forty.”
“Don’t joke about it.” Her smile was gone. “Those other messages sounded kind of fun. Not this one.”
True enough. Yet I found myself almost enjoying the aura of incipient danger, especially if it provided a handy pretext for seeing Litzi again.
“You’re as curious about this as I am, aren’t you?”
A shrug, an enigmatic smile.
“I suppose I wouldn’t mind getting to the bottom of things.”
I suppressed a laugh.
“What?” she asked.
“‘Getting to the bottom of things.’ Those are the words Holly Martins said to Major Callaway in The Third Man. Do you remember what Major Callaway said?”
I quoted it to her in English, trying for my best impersonation of Trevor Howard in the role of Callaway.
“Death’s at the bottom of this, Martins. Leave death to the professionals.”
This time she didn’t smile. With good reason, as it turned out. Major Callaway was right.
10
I’d texted my father to tell him I’d be late, but I hadn’t told him why. I felt guilty about that because I knew he was eager to find out what had happened at Kurzmann’s, and by the time I kissed Litzi goodnight it was nearly eleven. True to her word, she didn’t invite me upstairs, but we were meeting again tomorrow.
Dad and I had muddled through the balance of the previous evening with the help of food and lager. Figlmuller lived up to its end of the bargain by serving schnitzels the size of catcher’s mitts, but even that old comfort hadn’t eased things between us. I still had lots of questions, and I’m sure he had a few.
As I approached his apartment I saw that the lights were on. I was counting on the news of Litzi to serve as an icebreaker. He had always been fond of her, although I couldn’t help but remember his strange reaction the first time I’d mentioned her.
“What’s that name again, son?”
“Litzi Strauss.”
“Litzi. How unusual. Is she a Jew?”
“ What? Does that matter?”
“Certainly not. It’s just that Kim Philby’s first wife was a Litzi from Vienna. Litzi Friedmann, a Jew. That’s why I asked. But your Litzi’s a Strauss. Doesn’t sound Jewish.”
“She’s not my Litzi.”
“Well, not yet, anyway.”
My blush told him all he needed to know about my ambitions on that front, and he nodded in approval.
“I’m happy for you, son. Love keeps us on our toes.”
“I never said I was in love.” Redder still.
Another knowing nod, then he said smugly, “No, I suppose you didn’t.”
Stung, I struck back below the belt.
“Being in love with Mom didn’t seem to keep you on your toes.”
The light went out in his eyes, and his subsequent surrender made me miserable.
“You’re right about that, son. Good luck with her all the same.”
He never asked about her in any meaningful way again. Small talk only where Litzi was concerned, and I was the poorer for it.
I found him waiting up for me in the living room with only Johnnie Walker Black for company. Judging by the level in the bottle, they’d gotten comfortable. I was tipsy from the wine, putting us on an equal footing.
“Long day?” he asked from his easy chair, a hint of concern in his tone. “Hope it wasn’t Christoph keeping you out so late, filling your head full of nonsense?”
“Christoph couldn’t get me out of Kurzmann’s fast enough. I ran into an old friend. Litzi Strauss.”
He brightened instantly.
“Wonderful! How is she?”
“Currently unmarried, looking well, and I’m seeing her again tomorrow. Those are the three things you really wanted to know, right?”
“I suppose so.” He smiled at my peace offering. “But tell me about Kurzmann’s. I’ve been wondering all day.”
“It was pretty strange. He hardly told me anything, except that he hadn’t taken a special order like that since the year we moved to Berlin. He did mention the whole routine you used to have. The Sunday phone calls at two on the dot. The plain brown wrappers tied in string.”
“Your delivery was wrapped that way?”
“Same price, too, except in euros. Or so he claimed.” Dad shook his head in amazement. “But he wouldn’t say what the transactions meant, or who they were for.”
“Probably because he didn’t know, and he never would’ve jeopardized the arrangement by asking. That price looked even higher back in the seventies. Christoph made a pretty penny off those little visits, but I suppose they were his fee as middleman.”
“Middleman for what? And what was your role?”
“I was a courier, plain and simple. It was my job to make the pickup, then drop off the item later in the day
