“The book scout?” He looked flabbergasted. “ For him, you mean?”
“No, by him. A novel in galley form. I don’t know the title.”
“I wasn’t aware he had written a novel.”
“It was never published.”
“Ah! That explains it, then. We do not deal in manuscripts. Oh, begging your pardon, we do not deal in unpublished manuscripts. We do, however, have a very limited collection of manuscripts, three or four by some German authors. But those are kept under lock and key in our special collection. Although I’m certain none were written by Lothar Heinemann. But if you would like to check for yourself, I can obtain the key.”
“Sure,” I answered halfheartedly. “Where’s the special collection?”
“In the office. But we must proceed quietly. Herr Ziegler has not yet had his coffee.”
I thought he was joking until I noticed his look of trepidation. He fairly tiptoed toward the office in the back, where he put his ear to the door, then knocked lightly.
“Herr Ziegler?”
“Yes! What is it?” A snarl from within.
“A customer wishes to browse the special collection.”
A loud sigh. Then the creak of an office chair. The door swung free. Herr Ziegler glared at us as if we’d interrupted the world’s most indispensable work. Balance sheets and order forms were fanned across his desk, but so were the football pages of the Wiener Zeitung, next to a steaming mug of coffee and a half-eaten slice of strudel. He was tall, thin, and imperious, a weathered strip of jerky with watery blue eyes.
He gestured for us to enter, then barely moved out of our way. The clerk walked crabwise to keep from bumping him but I brushed on past, heading eagerly toward a glass-fronted book case along the far wall. The clerk fumbled with a set of keys, then unlocked the bookcase and pointed toward the bottom.
“The manuscripts are down there, as you see.”
But I was already looking at the fiction titles. As with the books in the rest of the store, they were in alphabetical order. Novels filled the two top shelves. I quickly scanned the H ’s, but saw no Heinemanns. I checked again to make sure. Nothing.
Any remaining optimism from the night before was now gone, and I was about to turn away when I spotted a blank powder-blue spine-the very sort of cheap cardboard jacket often used for prepublication galleys. It was in the wrong part of the alphabet, but I pulled it out anyway. Title and author were printed in block letters on the plain blue front.
Der Kuriers
Heinz Klarmann
Of course. Now it seemed obvious. A pen name stolen from his alter ego. Just enough of a tweak to throw off any searchers who inquired by telephone, which was probably how my handler would’ve worked to save time, proceeding store by store across Europe.
“Do you have any titles by Lothar Heinemann?”
“No, sorry.”
Even if someone had checked in person, they would’ve had to breach Ziegler’s inner sanctum, and even then they would’ve been greeted by a blank spine shelved with the K ’s.
“Sir, don’t you want to see the manuscripts?”
The poor clerk was down on his knees with a small pile.
“I’d rather have a look at this,” I said. “Can you tell me what the price is?”
Ziegler, having returned to the sports pages, wasn’t paying us a bit of attention. The clerk stood awkwardly. He took the galley and flipped open the cover to the inside page where the price should have been, scribbled in pencil.
“I’ve never understood why we keep this old thing,” he said. There was no marked price, so he flipped to the back.
“Well, I’d definitely like to buy it.”
Or, short of that, maybe I’d snatch it straight from his hands. That’s how eager I was to begin reading. If it even came close to living up to Lothar’s billing, then I had just discovered the key to everything. At the very least, Lothar would now have to reveal the name of our handler.
“Herr Ziegler,” the clerk said in a begging tone, “our customer would like to buy this volume, but, well, I can’t seem to find the price.”
Ziegler sighed and looked up from his paper, peering above his reading glasses.
“Which volume, Klaus? You’ll have to actually show it to me.”
Klaus raised the pale blue cover into view. Ziegler’s expression instantly changed to one of alarm.
“That’s not for sale! It’s not even supposed to be available for inspection. Put it away at once!”
I snatched it out of Klaus’s hands as they both gasped. Ziegler seemed to take notice of me for the first time. He smiled tightly and extended a long, thin arm.
“As I said, sir. That book is not for sale. So, if you please.”
“Are those Lothar’s standing orders?”
His mouth opened. His eyes narrowed.
“Who are you?”
“Bill Cage, Warfield’s son. I’m a friend of Lothar’s.”
“So you say.”
“Call him. He’ll vouch for me.”
Ziegler seemed uncertain of what to do next, so I got out Lothar’s business card, the one with nothing on it but a number.
“Here’s his mobile number, in case you don’t have it.”
“Of course I have it! It’s Lothar Heinemann, for God’s sake!”
“Then call him. Tell him Bill Cage is in your shop, and that I’ve found the book.”
Ziegler eyed me again, then morosely picked up the phone. He was not accustomed to following orders, and he was grim as he punched in the numbers.
“Heinz, please… Ziegler at Der Flugel… Yes, Lothar. There is a man here, Bill Cage. He has, well…” Ziegler cringed like a boy with a bad report card. “He has found your book.”
Lothar’s laughter was audible across the room. An expression of immense relief spread across Ziegler’s face. He propped his elbows on his paperwork and puffed his cheeks as he exhaled. He gestured for me to come forward, then put his hand over the mouthpiece.
“He wishes to speak to you. If you will just hand me the book first.”
I grabbed the receiver but held on to the book. Ziegler grimaced but didn’t fight back.
“Is that really you, Cage?”
“You owe me a name.”
“Of course. I’ll pay in full.”
“Where are you? When can we meet?”
“Berlin. Regretfully, we’ll have to do this by telephone. But you must read the book first.”
“You’d better tell Ziegler. He seems inclined to keep it.”
“He will keep it. You’re going to read it there, in his office. That book is not for sale, not even to you. How long have you been in the shop?”
“No more than fifteen, twenty minutes.”
“When an hour has passed, they’re going to come looking for you, to see why it’s taking so long.”
“Curtin?”
“Him or the Russian. Perhaps both. They’ll have guessed why you’re there.”
“How do you know I haven’t lost them?”
His laughter this time was more of a wheeze.
“Listen, Cage. You’re in for a very long day. There is still a fifty-fifty chance that no harm will come to you, but only if you follow my instructions.”
Did I believe him, or was he just trying to scare me?
“I want you to put Ziegler back on the line so I can make the necessary arrangements. He will piss and moan, but he’ll get the job done, and when he hangs up he’s going to tell you what to do next. But I don’t want you
