“The Vienna police, for one. It wasn’t my father’s connections that got us released, was it?”
“I made a call. Or asked them to make one. They did it because they recognized the number right away, and knew they would be in trouble if they ignored it.”
“Is that the same number you gave to those Czech cops, the other night in the rain?”
“Yes.”
“Handy.”
“You do what you have to. But today I was working for you only. And now I want you to quit. You’ve seen where it leads. Two people are dead and you would’ve been the third. We can change hotels, then leave on a bus in the morning. We’ll switch routes in some market town, then cross the border where they won’t expect us.”
“You really think the Szondis will try something?”
“They’re the least of your worries. Two other people, minimum, were following us in Prague, including the big American with, what did you call it?”
“A mullet. And I know they were. Lothar told me.”
“Lothar.” She rolled her eyes.
“I wouldn’t take him lightly. He’s had some of the same training you had.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“You don’t trust him?”
“How can I trust him when I don’t know who he’s working for?”
“You could say the same about yourself.”
That stopped her.
“You’re right. You could. Another good reason to quit. But fortunately you don’t have to. I took the liberty this morning of giving notice for you. By now your handler will have received word that we are off the case.”
“ Took the liberty? That’s an understatement!” I stopped on the sidewalk, furious. We must have looked like an old married couple, quarreling in public. “I really do thank you for saving my ass, but I’d like to make my own decisions if you don’t mind.”
“Someday you’ll thank me. So will your son, and your father.”
“And Edwin Lemaster.”
“What of it? Do you even know him? Much less know what he really did or didn’t do for his country?”
“Or some other country.”
“Some other country that no longer exists. If anyone knows the emptiness of actions carried out in the name of country, it’s me. Everything I ever did for a nation, or an agency, or for some bureaucratic overlord is ashes to me now.”
“You said it ended badly.”
“I also said this is not the time to discuss it. There are bigger questions. Like, did you ever stop to think that your handler- our handler-might be ex-KGB?”
“Lothar says otherwise. He worked for him, too.”
“Then maybe Lothar was also duped.”
It was a crazy idea, and probably a scare tactic. But the scariest thing was that it was possible. Another layer of that Greek pastry Lothar had talked about crumbled before my eyes. For all I knew, Lemaster might even be the one who was running me in circles, finally getting his revenge on the reporter whose ambush had brought on his decline. He certainly would have known that curiosity was my fatal weakness.
Maybe Litzi was right about quitting. At the very least, it was an opportune time to leave Budapest. We could return to Vienna, where her connections-and Dad’s-would offer the greatest protection. Then, with the Oppenheim book in hand, I could decide in relative tranquillity whether to continue.
“All right, then.”
“You’ll quit?”
“For now.”
“Let’s get your things. I’m registered at a more secure location. By this time tomorrow we’ll be back at your father’s.”
“And then?”
The question covered more ground than this spy chase of ours, and we both knew it.
“I don’t know,” she answered. “We’ll talk about it later. In complete honesty.”
“Did they train you on that as well?”
She didn’t care for the question. I hadn’t expected her to.
32
We settled into our new digs, a tiny inn that Litzi chose for its front and rear entrances and the desk clerk’s striking lack of curiosity. He requested neither passports nor true identities.
Her checklist apparently didn’t include cleanliness. The bedsheets smelled like the stairwell, and the bathroom looked like an art installation celebrating a century of rust. But after locking the rickety door I finally felt secure enough to get out Szondi’s copy of The Great Impersonation.
Author E. Phillips Oppenheim had never been a spy, although he worked for Britain’s Ministry of Information. Hardly anybody today has heard of him, even though in the 1920s he was famous on both side of the Atlantic. He made the cover of Time magazine, and wrote more than a hundred novels. Yes, a hundred.
The Great Impersonation was probably the most popular, but by the time I tried to read it in the early seventies it was badly dated. I didn’t make it past the first chapter, mostly because the characters kept saying things like “By Jove!” and “Ripping of you, old chap!”
Now, as I flipped through the pages in search of a message, those “By Joves!” kept winking up at me. I found nothing in the text. Then I slid my fingers along the clothbound cover and peered down the spine for any sign of an inserted note. No success there, either. Maybe the courier network had used a book code and sent the key by separate channels. That would explain why Lemaster took it in stride when Szondi kept the book.
Litzi, watching me, shook her head in disapproval.
“You’re out of that now, remember?”
“There’s nothing in here anyway.”
“Give it to your father, then.”
“He’s already got a copy.”
“Sell it on eBay.”
“Maybe we could trade it for dinner. I’m hungry.”
“Stay here. There’s a takeout place down the block.”
After she left I realized I was also craving a beer, but Litzi no longer had a cell phone, so I went in search of refreshment, hoping to make it back before her. I did, but on arrival I was greeted by yet another sealed envelope that someone had shoved beneath the door. So much for the idea that we’d covered our tracks.
Feeling vulnerable again, I set aside the beer and ran downstairs to the desk, where I discovered to my irritation that the clerk’s no-questions policy extended to visitors and would-be thieves.
“No see anyone,” he insisted in broken English, hands in the air like a suspect. When I continued to harangue him for information he went into his small office and shut the door. I hustled back upstairs, hoping to take care of business before the newly bossy Litzi returned. I took the envelope into the bathroom, shut the door for privacy, and slit it open.
The format was familiar enough-single sheet, typewritten, with a torn-out book page pasted below-except the paper wasn’t my stationery, and the typing hadn’t been done on my Royal. The deviations from the pattern made it feel like a rush job. Or maybe somebody new was issuing orders.
“I sense that your interest is waning,” the message began. “This will get you back on track. Think Belgrade 1992.”
Below was a street address in Pest near the Keleti train station, followed by the words, “Visit anytime. You’re expected.”
The reference to Belgrade ‘92 naturally piqued my interest, since that was the point at which my journalistic
