The Double Game

16

Neither of us had the energy or inclination to deal with a maitre d’, a waiter, or even a menu, nor were we thrilled by the idea of sitting among strangers in a crowded restaurant, exposed and vulnerable.

“Why don’t I make us an omelet?” Litzi said. “We’ve got wine, thanks to you.”

“I thought you needed something stronger?”

“Wine’s enough as long as we’re under my roof, with all the doors locked.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell her how useless a lock was with this crowd, but I did see the value of being somewhere without a camera watching our every move. And that thought in turn gave me a new idea.

“Lead the way,” I said. “But I need to make a detour.”

“Nothing to do with ‘the best defense is a good offense,’ I hope.”

“Shouldn’t we use this webcam for something? It will only take a second.”

She shook her head but didn’t resist until a few blocks later, when she realized we were heading for the Gasthaus Brinkmann.

“The old KGB man? He’s the one you want to spy on?”

“I need to see what he looks like, so we’ll be able to spot him if he’s following us.”

“Oh, smart idea. Baiting the bear on his doorstep.”

“Not his doorstep. The inn’s. I’ll mount the cam outside the Gasthaus, then check the videos in the morning.”

“Where will you put the laptop?”

I pointed up the block.

“There’s a hotel across the street. I’ll rent a room with a clear line of sight. Then I’ll come by in the morning to see what turned up.”

She again shook her head, but kept going. It was a quiet street, and there was a trash bin next to a sign for a bus stop only a few feet from the gasthaus entrance, which provided a perfect vantage point. I taped the camera into place within seconds without anyone observing us, and there was a front room available on the third floor of the hotel across the street, which I paid for with the Ealing Wharton Amex. Thanks, Marty.

“What happens when the trash man collects the webcam, or the chambermaid takes the laptop?”

“Maybe I’ll beat them back here. Either way, nothing ventured, nothing gained. C’mon, I’m hungry.”

Litzi’s apartment looked pretty much how I’d imagined it. Tasteful, comfortable furniture with clean lines and vibrant colors. And books, of course. Loads of them-on shelves, in cabinets, stacked on end tables. The walls were hung with photos rather than paintings-not iconic scenes of Vienna, but out-of-the-way places I couldn’t easily identify. In one, a much younger Litzi posed among friends at a political demonstration.

“Where was this demo?” I asked, while she whisked eggs in a glass bowl. “Do I know any of these people?”

“Oh, that old thing.” She looked back toward the skillet. “Just some election rally.”

Maybe her former husband was in it, because she was quiet for the next few minutes. It made me a little gloomy for us. We’d come through the years psychologically intact, yet we were still fending for ourselves. It made me think of my father, another sole survivor.

“I’d better text Dad, tell him I’ll be late.”

Pulling out my phone, I paused and watched the movement of Litzi’s hips as she swirled the eggs in the pan.

“How late will I be, do you think?”

She picked up right away on the significance of the question, and looked at me over her shoulder. Her eyes were no longer weary. The pan remained still above the flame, and she smiled, the same way she had when the innkeeper in Prague had first handed us our keys.

“The omelet’s burning.” I nodded toward the pan.

“Yes. Everything is.”

I crossed the room and wrapped her up from behind. She slid the pan to the cool side of the stove and arched her back against me as I pulled back her hair to kiss her neck. I moved my lips to the skin beneath her ear, the nape of her neck. When she spoke her voice was husky.

“Tell him you’ll be home for breakfast. I’m too lazy to cook for you twice.”

She turned into my arms. Then she unbuttoned my shirt and pressed her lips to my chest.

“Those eggs will be cold by the time we eat,” I said.

“Cold and burned. My new favorite way to eat an omelet.”

We made our way to the bedroom, discarding items of clothing along the way, as if leaving a trail to find our way back. We finished undressing each other slowly, comfortably, eager but not in a hurry.

When you are single at a later age and are sometimes sexually inactive for long stretches of time, each reentry to the arena isn’t always smooth, particularly when the women are several years younger. In my recent past there have been occasions when I’ve felt fumbling and unsure, like when I’m assembling one of those bookcases from IKEA, with their strange little parts that roll across the floor and the baffling instructions telling me to press male dowel A into female opening B, then twist until snug.

With Litzi, there was immediate comfort and familiarity, even though our bodies obviously weren’t the same as they’d been at seventeen. We navigated our new topographies with confidence, with passion, and with the joy of our former selves. I remembered the taste of her skin.

Afterward she lit a candle and fetched the wine, along with the cold omelet, which was glorious, even the burned part. I was enchanted, content.

“So, which one of your book spies was the best lover?” she asked.

“Not counting James Bond?”

“He wasn’t a lover, he was a cad.”

“You sound like Dad. Oh, I don’t know. Bernie Samson, maybe, from Deighton’s books? He was pretty virile, or at least his wife thought so.”

“His wife? So he was monogamous, too? Sounds too good to be true. Maybe Bernie could be your code name.”

“Maybe not. His wife was working for the Russians. Although not really. It was very complicated.”

She frowned, not caring for that, so I tried another one.

“There’s Paul Christopher, from McCarry’s books. Also monogamous. A poet, even. Top notch lover.”

“And what happened to his wife?”

“Run over in the streets of Paris by the KGB.”

“Let’s talk about something else.”

“All right.”

“How’s your father?”

“Good question. I’ve upset him with all this snooping around. I have no idea how I’ll explain what happened today, or if I’ll even try. He’s worried enough already, and he’s pissed I’ve dragged you into it. I think he went to the embassy this morning to do some checking around of his own.”

“I see him out on the town now and then. Always in very nice places. He’s a man of genuine style. I’ve thought about going over to say hello, but I didn’t want to embarrass him.”

“You should definitely say hi. He’s always liked you. And I wouldn’t worry about embarrassing him. He’s probably just out with one of his mystery women, the ones he never dared bring back to the house when I was growing up. I guess he thought I’d think he was being disloyal to Mom.”

She shrugged.

“I wouldn’t know. It never seems to be any one person.”

“He’s shy about all that, even now. It’s probably why I always have to give him a few days’ notice before a visit, although I doubt he’d admit it.”

Litzi nodded, but didn’t reply.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“You looked like you were about to say something.”

She smiled uncomfortably.

“I know better than to get into the middle of something between a father and his son.”

I let it go. We had more enjoyable things to do than discuss Dad.

We must’ve stayed up for another hour or so, and I woke up later nestled against Litzi’s back. The room was dark and still. I was immediately alert, but this time jet lag wasn’t to blame. I’d been startled by a noise from outside, a loud tapping from the street below. Now all was quiet.

Then there was a voice. A shout, or more of a hoot, followed by a peal of laughter. Young voices, not Lothar’s or the Hammerhead’s, so I relaxed. Just kids. Although, at my age, “kids” now seems to cover almost anyone up through their early twenties. Because how could any contemporary of my son’s be anything but a kid?

There was another hoot, more laughter. They’d obviously been drinking, but they sounded harmless, and were soon well down the block. Yet something about them had unsettled me. What?

I realized they’d reminded me of the kids outside Burger King, the ones on skateboards who’d supposedly put the envelope into Litzi’s purse as they bumped past us. I saw them again, a mental snapshot that now had the clarity that is only possible at such an isolated hour. And in my mind’s eye I now saw clearly that they hadn’t passed within five feet of us.

Then why had Litzi said they’d bumped into her? Was my memory faulty, or had she made it up? And if the latter was true, why? Unless she had been knowingly hired by my handler and had been in on this from the beginning. If that were true, she could’ve had the note with her all along, another item on her checklist of duties for the day.

I tossed in bed, angry at my doubt. It was that time of night when your thoughts can stray into all sorts of troublesome corners, and I wanted nothing further to do with it. But at least an hour passed before I could get back to sleep. In the morning I wondered whether to say something about it, but Litzi beat me to the punch.

“I’ve been thinking about those boys,” she said. “The ones outside the Burger King.”

“What about them?”

“Maybe that’s not how the envelope got there. I’m not even sure they bumped into me. It might have happened sooner, or maybe later. I don’t know what to think.”

I was hugely relieved, although of course I couldn’t say so.

“I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Obviously someone found a way.”

“Do you want coffee?”

“I’d better get to my father’s before he leaves the house. And I want to check the laptop on the way.”

“Oh, yes, I almost forgot. Back on the offensive!”

I laughed along with her. In the full light of morning the idea of catching the Hammerhead on video now seemed preposterous.

“What will you tell your father?”

“I don’t know. As little as possible. The sooner I leave for Prague, the better.”

“Should I start packing?”

“You’re sure?”

“Only if you want me to. We said we’d sleep on it, and I slept on it very well. What about you?”

She caressed my cheek. I was happy she was coming, but the doubts of the night before hadn’t completely dissipated.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. You really sure you want to do this?”

“Only if you are.”

“Of course.”

I said it brightly, but she tilted her head to scrutinize me for a moment, then leaned over to kiss me.

“It’s all right if you change your mind, you know.”

“No. Start packing. I’ll check the train schedule and call from my dad’s. We’ll do it right this time. No men in brown coats.”

And with that her face fleetingly darkened, a cloud that passed and was gone.

Out in the streets it was a gorgeous morning, leaves fluttering from the maples against a brilliant blue. Paperboys filled their news racks, and bakeries perfumed the air with the smell of warm bread and brewing coffee. Street sweepers tidied the last corners for the crowds yet to come, and the more ambitious cafe proprietors were already rolling down their awnings. My suspicions felt foolish. Maybe all of that “trust no one” gospel was getting to me, along with the residue of cynicism from my years at Ealing Wharton.

The thunderhead on this sunny horizon, of course, was Vladimir. The thought of his bleeding body on the gurney made me check again over my shoulder before I entered the hotel across from Gasthaus Brinkmann.

Seventeen video clips awaited me on the laptop. I was a little surprised there weren’t more, given how many people were already out in the streets. In the first sixteen, men and women of all shapes and sizes flashed by, none matching Gelev’s description of the Hammerhead.

As soon as the last one began with a large man emerging from the gasthaus doorway, I knew it was him. The iron jaw, the large head, the meat-red slab of a face, the windswept pompadour of thick gray hair. Gelev hadn’t prepared me for his eyes. Brown, yes, but with an almost alarming intensity, probing and alert. When his gaze locked onto the webcam I involuntarily flinched. He stopped and stared, tilting his head. Then he smiled sloppily, mouth agape, and he nodded slightly as if saying hello. He stepped forward, filling the screen, and reached toward me with a massive hand, its image distorted by its closeness to the lens just before the screen went dark. It was easy enough to imagine the rest, right up to the point when the camera’s fragile orb must have collapsed in his powerful fist like an eyeball beneath a sledgehammer.

I checked the time signature on the video. Fifty minutes ago. If he’d been on his way to breakfast or a rendezvous, then he might be on his way back even now. I closed the laptop, a fluttery feeling in my chest like the one I used to get before big races against tough opponents.

Then I shook myself into action, briskly walking downstairs to drop the key at the front desk. I turned the knob on the front door before thinking better of it and heading for the back. I exited into an alley that took me to the end of the block, where I turned in the opposite direction from the Gasthaus Brinkmann, glancing over my shoulder every few feet all the way to Dad’s.

Gelev was right. The Hammerhead didn’t look like the sort of fellow you’d want to cross, and I told myself several times that he was almost certainly here on some other business than me.

Try as I might, I remained unconvinced.