Lemaster’s arrival at the end of the sixties led an American charge joined by Charles McCarry, Robert Littell, and even the political pundit William F. Buckley Jr. (I refused to read his Blackford Oakes spy novels after coming across two pedantic groaners in the first three paragraphs: “Johnny got orotund when he was tight” and “At Yale, mere registrars don’t summon students thus peremptorily.”)
The early seventies ushered in a golden age of Lemaster and le Carré, plus Deighton and Adam Hall with his knotty string of Quiller novels. By the eighties, even some of the genre’s older hands had returned—Graham Greene, Ted Allbeury, Helen MacInnes, and E. Howard Hunt, the ex-CIA man notorious for his role in the Watergate scandal. Dad has seven Hunt novels dating back to 1942, and they’re not bad. Richard Helms used to give copies to friends back when he ran the Agency.
At the height of the Cold War, publishers were churning out so many spy novels that it was hard for collectors to keep pace. There was a spin-off from a comic strip (Modesty Blaise, by Peter O’Donnell), a quasi-spoof by an established literary author (Tremor of Intent, by Anthony Burgess, of A Clockwork Orange fame), and even a few Russian titles with KGB heroes by the Soviet writer Yulian Semyonov. Finally, William Hood, the aforementioned Angleton deputy, joined the fray with the novel that Litzi and I had just seen a page of, Spy Wednesday. His second novel, Cry Spy, published a few months after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, was the last non-Lemaster title my dad collected. The following year I gave him a signed copy of le Carré’s The Secret Pilgrim, but he handed it right back and told me he was off the stuff for good. Soon afterward I did the same.
“Bill?” My dad called out through the haze. “Are you drifting away from me?”
“Sorry. Must be the wine. And the jet lag, of course.” But now I had a question for him. “Why did Lemaster never use Lothar?”
“For him half the fun was hunting down the titles. Of course that only piqued Lothar’s curiosity. Whenever I’d bump into him in some far-flung bookstall he’d always ask if I knew what Ed was up to.”
I noted the use of Lemaster’s nickname, the first time Dad had showed such familiarity.
“How well did you know Lemaster?”
“Mostly as a fellow book hound. And not as well as I thought, apparently.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the kind of person you warm up to right away. Witty, engaging. Seems to open up in a hurry. Makes you feel like part of his inner circle. But after a while, you realize that’s as close as you’re going to get. Sort of like those old book clubs that used to lure you in with those great offers—any four for a dollar!—then, boom, no more freebies. Full price only.”
“Was it for professional reasons?”
“Not completely. But I’ve never known for sure. He was an enigma that way, and I’ve never heard differently from anyone else.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“He was doing secret work, son. His movements, his whereabouts, his contacts. All that, even the little things, had to be kept under wraps, even after he’d quit. He made that very clear to me.”
“But you knew. Why do you think he trusted you? You weren’t even in the Agency. Whatever happened to ‘Trust No One’?”
“Life. Life is what always happens to ‘Trust No One.’ ”
A curious comment, and there was probably more behind it than Dad wanted to tell me. I could live with that. He had already been far more generous than I’d expected.
Now it was my turn to give. Not everything, of course. If he could hold some items in reserve, so could I, especially since what I had to say wasn’t going to be easy for either of us. I poured a shot of Johnnie Walker, swallowed, and waited for the little explosion of heat to reach the bottom of my throat.
Then I delivered the news.
11
“There was a name on the parcel I picked up today,” I said. “Dewey.”
For a moment I thought Dad was going to choke. His knuckles whitened on the glass.
“Why are you ambushing me with this so late in the day, and when I’m half in the bag? What’s your game, son?”
“Easy, Dad. Christoph said it was the name on your parcels, too. So I’m curious.”
“Christoph never should have told you that. I suppose I deserve it for telling you to ask that damn fool question about the Agency.”
“So who was he?”
“Dewey was a name without a face, presumably a code name for the next link in the chain. As soon as I dropped off the parcel I’d go to a phone booth—a different one every time—and dial a number that was on the sales receipt. Someone would pick up but would never say a word. I’d announce that Dewey’s package had arrived, and hang up. Were those your instructions?”
“No.” I hedged my answer, or maybe “lied” would be the better word. “I’m awaiting further instructions, which I’ll receive tomorrow.”
Dad frowned skeptically. He swallowed more whisky.
“You need to give up this ridiculous assignment, son. The sooner the better. Obviously someone means to do Ed harm, and by picking you as the agent of destruction they’re using you against me as well, and probably putting us both in harm’s way.”
“Against you? How so? Toward what end?”
“Whoever is behind this knows things that it would be in your best interest not to find out.”
“Meaning there’s still something you’re not telling me.”
“It’s for your protection. Always has been. Here you go stirring up old coals, trying to start a fire when you have no idea who’d get burned, just like you stirred things up back in eighty-four with that story on Ed, and look where that led. Do you think he was the only one whose career was damaged?”
“Did something happen to you?”
“I’m talking about you! Do you really believe you’d be slaving for those bootlicks at Ealing Wharton if you hadn’t set certain forces in motion?”
Never before had he spoken so harshly about my job. It stung, even though I shared his opinion. I must have reacted as if I’d taken a punch, because he quickly moved to make amends.
“I’m sorry. That was uncalled for. I know you’re not there by choice. Alimony, child support, it couldn’t have been easy.” He looked at his glass, as if the whisky might be to blame. “These are things I shouldn’t be saying.”
“What are you saying? You know why my career ran off the rails. It had nothing to do with the Lemaster story.”
Belgrade, that was why. The city where I lost my mom in ’59 became the city where I lost my profession in ’92. It was the year I finally landed a posting as a foreign correspondent, only to be denied a work visa by the Yugoslav government, which prompted the Post to recall me. Temporarily, they said, but things never worked out, and for me it was the beginning of the end. There was more to it than that, of course—newsroom politics, declining budgets, a marriage already strained by conflicting agendas. But in the “for want of a nail” category of small events leading to major consequences, Belgrade ’92 was the most apt summation for why I wound up divorced and working in PR. Beware the thwarted man. He will almost always make an unbearable ass of himself.
“You’re absolutely right,” Dad said. “I had no business going there. I apologize.”
“Well, you’re not going to stop me.”
“Of course I’m not. Because you still seem to think this is some sort of crossword puzzle you can solve at your leisure and then toddle on home to write about it.”
“And why can’t I?”
“Well, the Russians, for one thing.”
“The Russians?” First Christoph had mentioned them, and now my dad. “Why the Russians?”
“Don’t you read the papers anymore? Look at who’s in charge. An ex-KGB man who generates half his power by telling outdated ghost stories about NATO and the United States. Those freewheeling days when Gorbachev and that drunk Yeltsin were opening all the old files are gone. No more fresh start.”
“So you’re saying the Cold War is back in vogue?” I was joking, but Dad didn’t crack a smile.
“I’m saying that for this crowd and all its henchmen, it never ended. And considering the ultrasensitive nature of the work Lemaster once did—”
“Mole hunting, you mean.”
“Yes. That sort of material retains its shelf life for as long as the principles survive.”
“Dad, you’re talking about things that happened thirty, forty years ago. And some of it probably wasn’t even that important then.”
“I once felt that way, too, just after the Wall came down. All those little chores I’d done suddenly seemed quaint and harmless, fun stories to tell my grandchildren.”
“Well, there you go.”
He shook his head.
“Somebody set me straight.”
“Who? When?”
“It was early ninety-one, during my final overseas posting. A rather pushy fellow with a crew cut visited me at the embassy office in Berlin. Bit of a knuckle dragger, but he had top clearance, and he took me back into a part of the building that was normally off-limits, even to the liaison chaps like me. He sat me down, and with no preamble whatsoever told me that in no way, shape, or form, was I ever to breathe a word about my ‘Dewey’ errands.”
“Why?”
“People like that don’t give you a reason. I told him I had no intention of telling anyone, and that I’d always been very good at keeping secrets. Then he lectured me. ‘When I say you’re not to discuss these matters,’ he said, ‘I mean with anyone, up to and including congressional investigators, Agency security officers, and the president of the United States.’ ”
“Interesting choices.”
“I thought so. Of course, I couldn’t let that go without telling him that his brand of reticence might not conform to my sworn oath as a Foreign Service officer.”
“What did he say to that?”
“ ‘Honor is a wonderful thing, Mr. Cage. But do you really think an oath is worth destroying an entire career?’ ”
“Jesus.”
“Yes. Although later I wondered if I’d been unduly impressed. Apparently some of my colleagues concluded he was a bit of a joke.”
“There were others?”
“At least one that I know of. Ted Barr, a liaison like me, with lots of European postings. Turned out he’d done a few Dewey errands as well, same general time period. Of course, I didn’t know this until years later. It was the mid-nineties when I ran into Ted at some Foreign Service gathering for old Iron Curtain hands. Ted had figured out I was involved because he’d eventually gotten curious enough to look into it further. He’d even managed to dig up the guy’s name, Ron Curtin, plus a code name for his boss, Thresher. Said he was preparing to file an official complaint, up through channels, and asked if I wanted to sign on.”
“Did you?”
Dad shook his head.
“Chickened out. Ted Barr was still in the field, practically a free agent. But I was working for the assistant secretary. He wouldn’t have appreciated his deputy getting into a scrap with the Agency. I politely declined but asked him to keep me posted.”
“And?”
“Two weeks later Ted Barr was dead. Car accident in Tuscany, one of those narrow roads with hairpin turns. He drove a little roadster. The police said his brakes failed.”
I swallowed hard and sipped more bourbon.
“Had someone cut the line?”
“No one ever said that. The report only said ‘failed.’ I checked. Quietly, of course.”
“So you don’t know it was related.”
“How can you ever know with something like that? But I’ve always wondered.”
I couldn’t help but notice the similarity to how my mother had died, although in her case there was never any mention of brake failure, and she was riding a bus in Greece, not a sports car in Italy.
“If you stay with this,” Dad said, “that’s what you’ll be up against. At some point, anyway.”
“But that was, what, fifteen years ago? This Ron Curtin guy probably isn’t even working anymore.”
“That’s what I thought until Nethercutt’s funeral. His hair is longer now—a mullet, isn’t that what you called it?—but I recognized his face right away. Same build, too.”
“Breece Preston’s bodyguard?”
He nodded.
“No wonder you suddenly needed some fresh air. So is Breece Preston ‘Thresher’?”
“I don’t know. Nineteen years ago Ron Curtin could’ve been working for anyone. For obvious reasons I haven’t felt inclined to check.”
“Why would Preston care about any of this?”
“Good question. From all I ever heard, he and Lemaster were only fleetingly connected, but apparently that contact goes way back, to Ed’s first years as a field man.”
“Sounds tenuous.”
“Maybe. But Preston always did have a mania for protecting ‘sources and methods,’ as the Agency calls them. And whoever Thresher is, or was, he seems hell-bent on keeping past matters under wraps. So you see?”
“Point taken. I’ll be extra careful.”
“Careful isn’t good enough, son.”
“I’m working for a magazine, Dad. Even if it is Breece Preston, he and Curtin aren’t with the Agency anymore. They won’t know what I’m up to until the story’s out.”
Dad shook his head, seemingly exasperated.
“You don’t understand how it works with these people. They stay connected forever. It’s the nature of their business. If you keep stirring things up, he’ll get wind of it. And when he does, he’ll set something in motion, God knows what. And by then it will be too late to get out. For all you know, it already is.”
“Then I might as well follow it to the end.”
“And I thought I was drunk. At the very least, give it some thought. Maybe in the morning you’ll feel differently. You’ll do that much, won’t you?”
“Sure, Dad. I can do that.”
He nodded, but looked spent, at least ten years older than when I’d come through the door. He scanned the bookshelves, and in following his gaze my eyes alighted on the long line of Lemasters. At the far left was Knee Knockers, the author’s debut, and I remembered Lemaster telling me how he’d first sketched out Richard Folly while riding a tram across the Danube. It must have happened around the time he and Dad became friends, which made me want to read it again, if only to search for traces of my father.
I stepped across the room and pulled down the copy in a rustle of plastic.
“Do you mind if—?”
“Not at all,” he said wearily. “Take it to bed if you want.”
I turned to the title page and saw the author’s signature. Considering what I knew now, I wondered why Lemaster hadn’t personalized it with a short note. But like most collectors, Dad was a purist about these things. I flipped through the opening chapter, and my mouth fell open. Page eleven was gone. When I went back to the front I saw that a square had been neatly sliced from the copyright page. This was the volume my handler had defaced for the message in Georgetown. Whoever had been in my house had been here as well, prowling among these shelves.
“What is it?” Dad asked. “What’s wrong, son?”
I laid the book open on the end table next to him and showed him the damage. He withdrew a pair of reading glasses, then gasped and coughed. He put a hand to his chest.
“Just what in the hell is happening?” Then, turning toward me: “Did you do this?”
“Dad, no. Jesus. But I’ve seen the pages, the torn parts anyway. They were part of a message someone sent me in Georgetown, but I had no idea they’d come from your copy. None. It was part of the anonymous tip. It’s the whole reason I’m here.”
He shook his head, dumbstruck. I’m sure he saw this as a deeply personal attack. I did, too. He shut the book and gently set it down.
“You should go to bed, son. We both should. We’ve done quite enough damag
e for one day. Just keep your options open, will you? If that’s even still possible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“To bed, then.”
But he stayed up. Even as I tried to fall asleep, I heard Dad prowling the shelves down the hall, methodically ransacking his collection as he looked for further victims—the whisper of riffled pages, the thunks of books being stacked, the slide and shuffle of more volumes being pulled for inspection. At first it was nerve-racking. Eventually it lulled me to sleep.
I awoke around four, fully alert, which always happens on my first nights abroad. The apartment was silent, but somewhere a light was on. I grabbed the old bathrobe I’d worn as a boy and padded down the hall.
Dad was asleep in his easy chair in a solitary pool of light, head back, mouth open. A novel was splayed against his chest, and piles of other books covered every level space. Some forty volumes in all were out, and there was no telling how many he had already returned to the shelves. Lines of dust marked the empty spaces, which shocked me a little with its evidence of decline. The air was musty from the disturbed pages.
Apparently what had finally halted his labors was the same thing that always stopped us whenever we went foraging—one book had beckoned more than the others, and he’d been drawn to revisit a favorite scene. When I saw the title, The Spy Who Came In from the Cold, I knew it would be open to the final page, where Alec Leamas and his lover are shot dead at the Berlin Wall. Dad had always cited it as a sublime encapsulation of the Cold War—small people crushed by the machinery of competing empires.
It was the UK first edition from Gollancz, with an orange cover illustrated by a boxed quote of praise from J. B. Priestley. Dad would hate to see the binding treated this way, so I carefully picked it up from his chest. It was indeed open to the last page.
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