one point Ed’s network got so busy that I even asked poor old Bruzek to begin keeping a ledger of related transactions. Not directly, of course, that would’ve blown my cover. So I chose a cutout, who in turn paid a certain young boy whom I had selected in advance to make the phone call, repeating my message word for word.”
Lothar smiled as he watched that sink in.
“So you used me, too.”
“How could I resist? You were an absolute star of a courier. Reliable, punctual, rain or shine. And tireless on the cobbles, like Zatopek. Over in Buda once you scampered up that steep hill by the tramway so fast that it damn near killed me. But of course I had vices then. And I was smoking, a pack a day.”
“I’m so relieved you gave up your vices. What made the Agency desperate enough to hire a drugged-out book scout?”
“They were less desperate than you think. I’d trained for the game once, which I’m sure they knew. I just never made it through finishing school.”
“The Farm?”
Lothar shook his head.
“MI6. They needed Germans in those days, especially Berliners. So they took me up to Hamburg and taught me all kinds of tricks, plus a lot of hocus-pocus. As someone smarter than me once said, they crammed two weeks of intense training into three months of crashing boredom.
“And, let’s face it, landing a top-notch book scout was a plus for them. They were already pretty sure this courier network was being run through a string of antiquarian shops and sellers, which meant I was equipped with the perfect contacts and the perfect cover. On both sides of the Iron Curtain. And I was already acquainted with Ed and his literary shopping habits.”
“Then why does our handler have me retracing your steps?”
“Because I never filed my report. Not the final one, anyway, the one with the best stuff. I was deep into smack by then, and not the most reliable fellow about dead drops and deadlines. So, at some point after I’d been AWOL for a week or two, he’d had enough. Traveled clear across the Atlantic to fire me, then demanded to see all my work. I told him to fuck off and vowed he’d never get a single line out of me unless I was paid in full, plus a bonus-my habit was quite expensive by then-and, well, he answered in kind. He must have thought I was bluffing.”
“But you weren’t?”
“Not in the least. But by the time he realized that, his grand inquisitor, Jim Angleton, had been sacked and Lemaster was a bestselling author on his way out the door. So everything sort of faded into the background. Until now, for whatever reason, when our dear handler seems to be giving it one last go and has anointed you as the new Lothar. From what I’ve seen of your work, I can’t imagine why.”
“Join the club. Neither can I.”
“You’re cheap. That’s one thing. That fake Russian he had following you ought to tell you something about his limited resources. I suppose he also appreciates that you know the books inside out. Otherwise you’re completely unqualified, meaning he’s desperate.”
“Well, if you really want to improve my job performance, just brief me on what you found out.”
“Why? So you can give him everything, free of charge? Besides”-and here he smiled coyly-“all that information is readily available in painstaking detail. You need only read it.”
He let me consider that for a second. After another swallow of beer, I had it.
“Your novel. You put everything into your novel.”
“It seemed like the best way to bring it to life. If he wouldn’t pay me, then I’d give it to the world, which could reimburse me copy by copy. I found a small press in Frankfurt that was very eager to publish. A shitty advance, but hopes were high.”
“What happened?”
“What do you think? Some asshole in Langley got wind of it before the ink was dry on the galleys. Even in the early seventies it wasn’t all that hard for the Occupation Powers to quash something like that if they deemed it sufficiently dangerous. They even broke into my apartment. Took every copy of my manuscript, and of course back then there were no CD-ROMs or memory sticks.”
“But you said there were galleys.”
“Very good. You do pay attention.”
“How many?”
“Twenty-five. As I said, it was a small press. They only printed enough for a select cadre of German dailies and magazines, but the copies had all been mailed out the day before the order came down, so my publisher sent out a recall notice.”
“Were they all returned?”
“Twenty-four were. But in Heidelberg some enterprising subeditor with a habit worse than mine had already sold it to a secondhand dealer, along with a boxful of other publisher freebies. He was so pharmaceutically addled that he couldn’t remember who’d paid him. And by then, of course, the Agency’s single best source on how to track down obscure book titles- the one person who might have found it-was persona non grata.”
“You.”
“Of course.”
“So you still have it?”
“Absolutely not. I knew my apartment would be the first place they’d look, and the one place they’d keep looking, year after year, or until they got tired of rifling through my shelves and pulling up floorboards. I decided it would be far safer in its original location. Or, rather, the location where it ended up, a few harmless transactions later.”
“You bought it back, then resold it to some more obscure vendor.”
“I made special arrangements, let’s put it that way. Sometimes it’s safest to hide in plain sight.”
“Well, that’s a big help.”
He shrugged, unmoved.
“It’s not somewhere you’ve never been, I will say that.”
“Seeing as how my dad must have dragged me into a zillion bookstores all over Europe, I’m not sure that’s a big help.”
“Then you’ll have to think like a book scout, that is, like a spy. Or, at least, like the only kind of spy that seems to appeal to you and me-the old-fashioned kind. Low-tech and low to the ground, surviving on his wits. And I promise you this. If you do find it, come to me first, and I’ll tell you his name.”
“My handler’s?”
“ Our handler’s. Then you’ll know why you should never hand him the information.”
“So, two people are dead, and you’re making a game out of it, too?”
“You’ve read the books. When has it not been a game? And when have the stakes ever been anything other than life or death?”
“Tell that to Bruzek’s nephew, Anton.”
“Poor old Bruzek. A greedy bastard, but he didn’t deserve that. Got a little careless in his old age, I suppose.”
“Then why haven’t they killed me? God knows I’ve been careless at times.”
“At times? Don’t flatter yourself. They don’t want to kill you. Not yet. Because they want you to succeed. They’re after the same thing you are, and they’re hoping you’ll lead them to it. Finding it is what will put you in mortal danger. Unless of course you lead them to something in the meantime that will allow them to figure it out for themselves. Then you’ll be equally disposable.”
“How will I know what that is?”
“You won’t. Which reminds me, you still haven’t removed the battery from your phone.”
I pulled the phone from my pocket and grudgingly popped out the battery.
“Here’s something else I don’t understand,” I said. “Why does this all have to be so damn complicated? The clues, the step-by-step instructions. Why can’t my handler-our handler-just tell me what he knows and what he wants me to find out?”
“Oh, c’mon. That’s the nature of the business. To hoard information and only dole it out on a need-to-know basis. To keep your operatives in the dark for as long as possible, if only to limit your own vulnerability. I always
