He paused to absorb the news, but he didn’t look surprised.
“I suppose Litzi was able to fill in some of the blanks. She’s certainly seen me around with my friends enough.”
“She mentioned that.”
“And there was that black book, once upon a time. I’ve always been grateful for her discretion.”
“Is that why you returned the favor? You must have heard later when she was recruited.”
“How much did she tell you about that?”
“She said it ended badly, but she didn’t say how badly.”
He nodded, but offered no more. I wasn’t sure whether to be touched or infuriated by their continuing delicacy with each other’s secrets.
“So what about you?” he asked. “Where do I stand with you?”
His expression was stoic, but his posture suggested he was bracing for a blow. Maybe that’s why he seemed surprised when I gripped his shoulders and embraced him. I felt him sag in relief. Then he gave me a fatherly squeeze, the kind he’d always had in reserve whenever I’d needed one most. For all of the subjects we had avoided over the years, he had never once ducked me in a time of need. I certainly couldn’t make that claim with regard to my own son. He sobbed only once, more a gasp than a cry, and when we broke apart his eyes were dry.
“I ruined things for you,” he said. “For your mother, too. As good as killed her.”
“That’s why she left?”
“How could she stay, once she knew what I was really like? She was planning to come back and get you. We even discussed the possibility of some sort of marriage of convenience, which was pretty much what we already had. We eventually agreed that she would travel for a few weeks to think about it, to sort things out. Then she would take you off to Boston, where her parents lived. You’d go to school there, and spend summers with me. So off she went. She’d always wanted to see Greece. Then she got on that damn bus.”
He went to a desk, where he unlocked a narrow drawer and pulled out a yellowed clipping from an English- language newspaper in Athens. Seventy-nine people in all, including four other Americans. The driver had been drinking.
“I cost you your mother. I’ve never forgiven myself for that.”
“You weren’t driving.”
“Might as well have been.”
“And you didn’t ruin me in ninety-two. You just gave me a handy excuse for me to do it myself.”
“I think we could both use a drink.”
I smiled, because that had always been his generation’s answer for everything. Angleton’s martinis, Folly’s Manhattans, and Dad’s bourbon, although for the moment alcohol seemed as good an elixir as any.
“Then we’ll have a long, long talk. Let’s sit in the living room.”
He poured two bourbons, neat, and we pulled up our chairs like a pair of old soldiers at a regimental reunion, knee to knee beneath his bookshelves. We covered all sorts of ground, awkwardly at first, then with a growing sense of ease.
Yes, he had failed a polygraph in Belgrade in ‘59, derailed by the obvious question. Yes, a young Ed Lemaster had helped him smooth it over, first by calling on his Agency connections who administered the program, then by coaching Dad to handle the questioning better the second time around.
“Here’s how naive I was then,” he said. “I didn’t even know he was CIA until this came up. Of course, afterward I was indebted for life. Maybe that’s what he was counting on. So when he came to me years later to ask for a few little favors, who was I to say no?”
Dad did seem surprised-alarmed, even-when I told him how extensive Lemaster’s courier network eventually became, with far more code names and far more couriers, me included.
“You?” he said. “Those errands I had you doing for those booksellers? My God, what a fool I was.”
His face darkened when I told him of the network’s apparent Moscow connections.
“Did you ever suspect he might be working for the other side?” I asked.
He thought about it for a second between swallows of bourbon.
“Let me put it this way,” he said. “Did you ever suspect me? Of being the way I am, I mean?”
“Maybe at some level. Especially when I was older, after college. I guess I did wonder why you always wanted a few days’ notice whenever I visited. I looked in your closets once, thinking I might find a whole row of dresses for some paramour.”
He smiled.
“Looking in closets. That alone should have told you something. It’s one reason all those books always appealed to me. Spying, duplicity, cover. Intelligent men leading two lives at once. It was everything I was doing, except in their versions it was more glamorous and exciting, even noble. Although not so much in the Folly and Smiley books. They were more like me. Nobility itself was the fiction.”
“Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“It was like any secret, I suppose. The longer you keep it, the bigger it grows. Before long, coming clean is no longer an option.”
“I would have understood.”
“Really? I’m not so sure.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Oh, you’re quite enlightened about it now, of course. Anyone with half a brain is now. But you should’ve heard the things you used to say with your friends growing up. Fags, queers, and all that.”
I blushed. “I was awful.”
“Son, you were a boy, with all of a boy’s stupid biases and insecurities.”
“Still, you should’ve told me to shut the hell up.”
“I did give you the occasional lecture on tolerance. But I never wanted to get too specific-might’ve blown my cover. Besides, it wasn’t like you were in danger of becoming a skinhead.” He turned somber, looking off into space. “I should’ve told your mother from the beginning. Our marriage was a career move, a camouflage. Although then we would never have had you. And with no you, there’s no David.”
He seemed the most uncomfortable when talking about the letter he wrote in ’92.
“When I heard you were going abroad I was thrilled. You were perfect for the job. Then Markovik sent me a letter. He said it would be a shame after everything that happened in fifty-nine if my son were to create further problems for him and his country. He wanted me to assure him that you would write favorable stories. He had no idea of how a free press functioned, of course. I believe he was convinced that I really could influence what you wrote, not just because I was your father, but because of my position at State. I knew that was insane, so I sent the letter. I told myself it was to protect your integrity, to protect you from embarrassment, but it was really just to protect me. Then, when things fell apart so badly in your life, well…”
His words trailed off.
“I was nearly thirty-six years old, Dad. Old enough to fend for myself.”
He shrugged, and for a while we were silent.
“What will you do now?” he finally asked. “Are you finished with this business?”
“I don’t know. I need to think about it. Unless Lothar’s willing to help, I’m not sure there’s much more I can find out anyway. But one thing’s still bothering me. Why is Breece Preston so interested? I didn’t want to scare you, but his man Curtin has been following me across Europe.”
Dad was ashen. He poured himself a refill and shook his head.
“Well,” he finally said. “He and Ed did work together in Belgrade.”
“I was wondering if you knew that. Bobik mentioned it as well.”
“One thing people say about Preston is that he’s always a pro about covering his ass whenever he fucks up. Maybe this is an example. A few hundred million in government contracts would certainly seem to make it worth his while to stop you, if he thinks you might find something damaging. Quit while you’re ahead, son. Better still, quit while you’re alive.”
“Like I said. I’ll think about it.”
Litzi joined us for dinner that night, a subdued affair of cold cuts and beer. The three of us seemed listless and spent. But after coffee the conversation gained momentum, and I detected an odd chemistry of collusion still at work between Litzi and Dad. Every time I looked up from my cup it seemed they had just shared a glance, a nod, a
