“I’m not even sure those stories are true. They might just be part of his legend. Lothar used to shoot enough smack to stay awake for five days running, and supposedly if he thought a competitor had a hot lead he’d pursue the fellow halfway across the continent. Then he’d crash and burn, and disappear for weeks.”
“Could he have found something besides a book?”
“These antiquarian shops carry all kinds of stuff, especially the ones that were behind the Iron Curtain. Unless…”
“What?”
Dad bit his lip and looked down at the table.
“For a while, maybe twenty, thirty years ago, there was talk that Lothar was writing something. A spy novel, which was a nice irony. When I first hired him he had no use for genre fiction. Thought it was all Bond and booze, a bunch of lightweights. Then he read a few of the good ones and something clicked. Fine by me, because it made him a better hunter. By the time he’d moved beyond my price range he was keeping some of the better finds for himself. The word among collectors was that he had started writing his own magnum opus. Well, that certainly raised a few eyebrows. Remember, this was a fellow who knew Agency people firsthand. They’d hired him for his absolute discretion and his zeal for results-he was a lot like them, in those ways-but the idea that he might have started scribbling down some of his memories, even in fictional form, well, supposedly it spooked them.”
“They asked him to stop?”
“I don’t know. This was all second- and thirdhand. But he never published. For all I know there was never even a manuscript.”
“Then what would ‘his work’ be, some kind of outline?”
“Or the whole thing could be a legend. You know how it goes with characters like Lothar. You tell a story about him and ten years later it’s repeated back to you, twice as good as before. I will say this. If he is following you, then I’m worried for him. I’d heard he gave up that kind of thing once he got clean. I hope he’s not back on the needle.”
“Are you going to tell me who ‘Dewey’ really was?”
“Like I said, a code name. Never met him and never knew his true identity, much less his mission. If I was ever caught while making a delivery I was supposed to say I was passing along a gift for a friend of the bookseller.”
“Who gave you the cover story?”
“The same person who asked me to make the delivery. Ed Lemaster.”
“Why?”
“Why me? Or why did I do it?”
“Both.”
“You’d have to ask him the first question. As for the second, he wasn’t just a friend. He was an employee of the United States government, and so was I. So when he requested that I become involved in what seemed to be a very minor role, I agreed without hesitation. It was my duty.” He paused, staring off into space. “And frankly…”
“What?”
He smiled.
“I enjoyed it. It was pretty obvious it was part of some spy transaction, and considering everything I was reading at the time-he knew my tastes, of course-I was the perfect choice. Does that surprise you?”
“Not at all. Look at me.”
“Except you’re hunting Ed, not helping him.”
“If that’s what this is really about.”
“I’d still strongly advise you to get out of this while you can, but I can’t run your life, and if you’re determined to stay in, then I’ll do what I can to help.”
“Thanks.”
He nodded, but he wasn’t pleased. I stood from the table.
“And thanks for breakfast. For everything. I should pack. I’m moving on this afternoon.”
“The sooner the better.” He held up the photo of Trefimov. “It’s probably a good idea for you to leave Vienna for a while.”
“I’m planning to stop by Antikvariat Drebitko,” I said. “One of their bookmarks was inside the parcel I picked up at Kurzmann’s.”
“Ask for Vaclav Bruzek, if he’s still alive. That’s who I always dealt with. And if you happen to wind up in Budapest, try Antikvariat Szondi.”
“Budapest?”
“Just a hunch. Some of my Dewey errands took me there as well.”
“How many years did you do them?”
“Six or seven. It ended when we moved to Berlin.”
“Why then?”
“Well, Ed got out of the business not long after that. That was the main reason. But I was a little surprised he never had me do anything in Berlin before he quit. I always wondered if it might have had something to do with you.”
“ Me? How so?”
“You said Litzi’s going with you to Prague?”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with-?”
“Be careful. I’d hate to see her dragged into all that sort of nastiness again.”
“It’s the EU, Dad. I doubt they’re detaining people at the border anymore.”
“I was thinking more about the aftermath. I’m sure it must have been difficult for her family or she never would’ve spied on me.”
“What?”
The room seemed to tilt and blur, like when a lens comes loose in a camera.
“She spied on you?”
“Only once. Quite harmless, although I’m a little surprised she still hasn’t told you. Maybe she never realized I’d figured it out.”
“And this happened after our trip?”
“Right before you and I moved to Berlin.”
“What did she do?”
I sat back down, legs wobbly. Packing could wait. Maybe the whole trip could wait.
“Oh, rummaged around a few of my things. Met a contact once or twice, probably to report what she’d found, which couldn’t have been much because there was nothing to find. That was as far as it went, really. Like I said. Harmless.”
“But why?”
“Her father was Czech. Strauss wasn’t his real name, you know.”
“That much she told me.”
“I gather they must have threatened her in some way. It wasn’t like they could have done much, but she wouldn’t have known that, poor girl. The repatriations and kidnappings had ended by then, but that brand of insecurity dies hard, especially if you’ve ever been hauled in for interrogation. And they had other ways of getting back at emigres. Planting embarrassing stories in the press, making it hard for them to travel. They must have ordered her to do them a favor before you and I moved away.”
“How do you know?”
“She wasn’t exactly a pro, and there were clear signs she’d been poking around. I’ve sometimes wondered if she wanted me to find out. So I reported it. Had to, I’m afraid. The fellow at the embassy who followed it up told me the rest. His people never took it seriously.”
I didn’t need to ask who “his people” were.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Dad placed his hands on the table, fingers interlocked-the “wise counselor” pose that he had always employed when I’d done something foolish like blowing off an algebra exam, or failing to stand up for a friend.
“You were young and in love, and we were moving soon. And you never liked it when I intruded on that side
