33
Walking back to the inn it occurred to me that, like it or not, my handler had achieved the desired result. I was now determined to see this through, no matter how dangerous. If vengeance was his goal, then he had chosen the perfect vessel for delivery.
The quest had begun for me as a means of renewal, perhaps even redemption. It had turned into something far uglier-a means of retribution-and I felt powerless to stop it. It was still dark when I returned, but Litzi was awake and dressed, and fretful with worry.
“Where were you? I thought they must have taken you.”
“I was finding out the truth about my father.”
That caught her short.
“It doesn’t seem to have made you happy.”
So I showed her the documents and told her the two Belgrade stories, beginning with my downfall in the early nineties, then working my way back toward the so-called “flap” involving the cover-up of a failed polygraph.
To my annoyance, Litzi was not particularly sympathetic. She listened with an air of growing impatience, and by the end she was rolling her eyes. Just as I was finishing, she could no longer contain herself.
“No, no, no! You see it, but you don’t see it. Or maybe you’ve known all along but refuse to see it. Or maybe I just think that because I know more than you.”
“What do you mean?”
She shook her head.
“I shouldn’t be the one to tell you. This is between you and your father.”
“I’ll manage that all right, the moment we’re back. With everything I’ve learned he’ll have to come clean. At least now I know why he didn’t want me to pursue this.”
“You have it backwards. Yes, he was behind the letter. That’s clear enough. But the only person he was really betraying was himself. Don’t you see?”
“No. I don’t.” She watched me closely, as if deciding whether my bewilderment was genuine. Then she took my hand, more in the manner of mother to child than woman to lover, and she spoke very gently.
“That time that I spied on him, when we were seventeen. Remember that I told you I went into his bedroom, but didn’t find anything worth reporting?”
“Yes.”
Her tone was grave.
“Well, I did find something. I never reported it, because it had nothing to do with his work. But I am almost sure your father knew I’d seen it.”
“Go on.”
“It was an address book. A little black book, people call them, with names and numbers. It was sort of a diary, too, with notes about the people. It was very personal, very intimate. All of the names were men. It was his life, his secret life, but it had nothing to do with spies or spying or even your precious Ed Lemaster. Do you understand me now?”
I nodded, floored. Then I thought some more. Everything I’d been seeing was now standing on its head.
“The polygraph,” I said. “Bobik said they weren’t sure which one of them failed it. Do you think it was Dad?”
“Of course. It was the question they always asked in those days, whether you were going into intelligence or sensitive diplomacy. They even asked me when I was vetted for the Verfassungsschutz: ‘Have you ever had a homosexual experience?’ Heaven help you if you got it wrong.”
“Unless you had a young friend in the CIA who could help you clean it up.”
“I suspect he also coached your father on how to beat it on the second try.”
“That also fits with what Humphries told me.”
“She mentioned the polygraph?”
“Sorry. I didn’t want to tell you. I was too ashamed. I thought my father was protecting a mole.”
“He was protecting himself. And Lemaster helped him.”
For a fleeting moment I felt I’d been set adrift. A sigh welled up in my chest, and I exhaled slowly. My face felt hot, the heat of shame-not for Dad, but for me, and for everyone else who had never really known him. We were the reason he’d kept living a lie, year after year, in city after city.
The letter in ’92? Yes, it was an outrage, a dagger in my back. But by then the stakes must have seemed higher than ever. He was a ranking official, and Lemaster was an esteemed novelist. Why risk both their reputations, especially when he probably figured his son was strong enough, smart enough, talented enough to handle such a setback?
Other things began to fall into place.
“Those men we used to meet when I was younger. I always thought they were spies.”
“I think I’ve probably seen him with some of those men.”
“When you’ve seen him out on the town?”
“He always gives me a certain look, a look of understanding, and of thanks.”
“For keeping his secret.”
“Because he always kept mine. He never told you about my years with the Verfassungsschutz, and I’m sure he must have heard.”
No wonder he’d been reluctant to tell me about his friendship with Lemaster. I remembered the excuse he’d first used, right after the story came out in the Post: “There were security issues.” Yes, there certainly were. Some very sensitive and personal ones.
It also explained why he’d always preferred to live outside the embassy community.
“We should leave soon if we want to catch the early train,” Litzi said. She glanced out the window, and I saw that the first light of dawn was up, coating the rooftops in gold.
A new day was here. A new age entirely.
34
As we boarded the train I thought of all the men before me who’d been dispatched on grim missions to confront double agents with evidence of their duplicity. There was Nicholas Elliott, sent all the way to Beirut to try and wring a confession out of old pal Kim Philby. Le Carre’s Smiley, hiding in a dreary London safe house, listening through the walls as colleague Bill Haydon implicated himself to a Russian. Deighton’s Bernie Samson, meeting up behind the Iron Curtain with his wife, of all people, as she confirmed her defection to the Soviets. And poor old Folly, seated stiffly in a Vienna cafe, watching from behind a newspaper as his lifelong friend Don Tolleson came a cropper.
Now there was Bill Cage, pseudo-spy and snooping son, the man who hadn’t known when to quit, on his way to at last seek the truth from his dad, who had fooled him for a lifetime. I realized then that each of us, in his own way, had been on a mission of love. Folly even emerged from behind his newspaper long enough to shake Tolleson’s hand, for God’s sake, a gesture I’d never understood until now. The words of Magnus Pym told me all I needed to know.
Love is whatever you can still betray, he thought. Betrayal can only happen if you love.
The biggest difference between those other fellows and me was that the rivalries of the Cold War had eventually amounted to nothing-a tired whimper of resignation beneath a fallen Wall and a few toppled statues. But how would the long stalemate of secrecy between Dad and me end? In anger and division? Hope and reconciliation? I wanted the latter, of course, but it would be a few more hours until I found out.
As always, he was standing in his open doorway as I stepped off the elevator. I’d phoned ahead from the bahnhof saying we needed to talk, and I could tell from his somber expression and folded arms that he knew this was important. I put down my bag as soon as he shut the door. Then I cut straight to the heart of the matter.
“I know about Belgrade. Both times, yours and mine. And I know why you felt you had to do it.”
