The Double Game by Dan Fesperman Page A

the Soviet desk saw it. Angleton called them his ‘flying squad.’ Apparently only a few of his assistants knew about it.”
    “Where’d you hear all this, the funeral?” He smiled cagily. “No wonder I couldn’t get anything out of you at dinner.”
    “Of course, by the time Lemaster let the cat out of the bag in that interview, Angleton had been in retirement eleven years. But there was still hell to pay. You saw what those people were like. They still argue about crap that happened in 1948, so you can imagine what kind of a row they’d have over—”
    He was interrupted by a ringing telephone, a land line jangling down the hall in his bedroom. It startled us both, but him even more. He looked over at the clock on an end table, then back at me, then again at the clock, which seemed strange, but I said nothing. It was exactly two o’clock.
    The phone continued to ring.
    “Excuse me,” he said, sounding shaken. He headed off toward his bedroom. I took up a position at the end of the hall to listen.
    “Cage,” he said, answering in the Austrian style. There was a pause. Then, sternly and in German: “No. This is Warfield, but William is here. Are you sure that’s who you wish to speak to? Very well.”
    Then, louder and in English: “Bill, it’s for you.”
    His brow was creased as he handed me the receiver. He hovered in the doorway as I answered, rude by his standards.
    “This is William Cage.”
    I turned my back for privacy, but sensed his lingering presence. I’d been back for half an hour and we were already spying on each other. The answering voice was neither tense nor urgent. It was an older man, Viennese accent. The line was clear, so the call was probably local.
    “This is Christoph, at Kurzmann Buchladen.” A bookstore. “I have your special order, delivered today in the name of Dewey.”
    There it was, the promised message, although I hadn’t expected it so soon.
    “A delivery? Now?”
    “We are closed Sunday. We open tomorrow at eight o’clock. On Johannesgasse.”
    “Where did you—?”
    He’d hung up. When I turned around my father was staring from the doorway.
    “Was that Kurzmann’s?”
    “How’d you know?”
    “I’m an old customer, although not for years. Did you special-order something?”
    “No.”
    I toyed with trying the name “Dewey” on him, but if I told him that, then I would have to explain more than I was ready to. His reaction to the phone call had already aroused my suspicion, and, judging from what he said next, my reaction had aroused his.
    “Do they have something for you?”
    “So he said.”
    “And you’re sure you didn’t order anything? You’re positive that that call came from completely out of the blue?”
    “Yes.”
    He eyed me dubiously, probably because of the guilty look on my face. But he was hiding something, too. We moved back to the living room and, like boxers returning to the ring, took up our previous positions. Then, for whatever reason—the strange call, the jet lag, or even the sight of all those spy novels, these words spilled from my mouth:
    “This is almost like something out of a Lemaster novel, don’t you think?”
    He reacted as if I’d slapped him.
    “Why do you say that?”
    “I don’t know. Maybe because it is? Do you remember any scenes like this? Or could I be thinking of another author?”
    “All right, Bill. Enough.” His tone was stern, as if I was in high school again and he’d just found a roach clip in the bathroom. “Who told you to ask me these questions?”
    “Nobody.”
    “Likely story, but I suppose after that wacky funeral nothing should surprise me. I did wonder what sort of repercussions would come out of that unholy mix of people, but I never imagined you’d be part of them. So, who did you speak to before flying over here? Someone at State? Or maybe even the Agency?”
    “The CIA?” I didn’t have to fake sounding incredulous because I really was.
    “So the Agency, then. Is that the