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 Petrovka 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 townhouse 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!”
