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 significant gesture of solidarity, even sympathy.

"What is it between you two?" I finally asked. "You're like a pair of identical twins, passing thoughts back and forth right over my head. It's rude and it's pissing me off. And I hope I made that sound like a joke."

"You didn't," Litzi said, "but I understand. Our conspiracy of silence was completely unfair to you, but it was never about fairness, or even about you. I was loyal to your father's privacy because he was loyal to mine."

"About your work for the Verfassungsschutz?"

"Not just the work. The consequences." She turned toward Dad. "You've always known, haven't you? There must have been some kind of report afterward."

He nodded gravely.

"You don't have to tell him," Dad said. "It's got nothing to do with him or me."

"That's why I want him to know. Because it concerns only me. I hid it from my husband for eleven years of our marriage, and it's one of the reason he left. He always knew something terrible was getting in our way, but he never figured out what it was, and then he stopped trying. If Bill and I are to continue as friends, he should know." She turned to me. "Will we continue to be friends?"

The old Litzi Strauss bluntness was on full display, as endearing and unnerving as ever. I couldn't possibly say no.

"Something more than friends, I hope."

Then she told me her story, one last painful disclosure to cap a tumultuous day.

Making friends with the so-called radicals among her fellow university students had been easy enough. She liked them, even though she found their politics uncomfortably strident. They like her, too, and quickly came to trust her. As time passed, her reports to the Verfassungsschutz grew shorter and less detailed. Her handler complained, and so did her handler's bosses. She asked to be released from the arrangement. Not without results, they said. They threatened to expose her.

Then she came up with something big-urgent word that a young German woman on the run, an actual member of the Red Army Faction, would soon be passing through Vienna, and needed safe harbor for one night only. Litzi found out the date and location, and passed them along. The result: a botched raid in which the German fugitive opened fire on the police. She was captured, as were two young women living at the house. But a third woman, new to the group and a friend of Litzi's, was killed in the cross fire.

The campus group scattered in the wake of the tragedy, which provided Litzi with the perfect out. The government found her a job, and for the most part left her alone. But the image of her bright young friend followed her wherever she went.

"When I couldn't conceive a child, I knew it was part of my punishment," she said. "We tried clinics, fertility drugs, in vitro. Nothing worked. We even discussed finding a surrogate, but I knew I'd never be able to use another young woman for my own benefit, not again. And when my husband sensed my heart was no longer in it, well ..."

She shrugged, as if trying to slough off the intervening years in a single gesture of surrender.

35.

I walked Litzi home well after midnight, but didn't stay. Both of us felt that my proper place that night was under my father's roof. Too restless to go straight home, I detoured into twisting lanes and alleys through the heart of the city. Even there, Vienna was never completely at peace. The troubled and the restless were forever on the prowl, shoulders hunched. Car wheels hummed out along the Ring, and the legions of surveillance cameras gazed eternally from on high.

I ended up on a narrow street I remembered from my teens-playing soccer with friends, the ball bouncing wildly off walls and door fronts, skipping crazily on the cobbles. At the end of the block was an old bookstore that had once been a favorite of my father's, smaller than Kurzmann's but in far better shape. I recalled the fussy old proprietor, who'd had little patience for fidgety boys, although the shop itself had been a wonder, with a richer concentration of treasure than most of Dad's haunts. By necessity, probably, since its holdings were crammed into a single square room with only a tiny office in the back.

I peered through the picture window into the gloom of its high shelves. A streetlamp lit the view. A tapping noise made me whirl around, but it was only water dripping from a downspout. I read the familiar name painted on the plate glass: Der Flugel, German for "The Wing." Then I noticed something that had never registered before. Beneath the name was a tiny drawing of a piano. Flugel was also slang for a grand piano, because of its winglike shape when viewed from above.

In the middle of a busy day, with people and cars hurtling by, I doubt my mind would have been focused enough to make the connection that occurred next. But in the calm darkness of two a.m. the tiny piano stirred up an old name from deep in the readings of my past: Max Flugel, nickname Das Klavier, or the Piano.

He was a minor but remarkable character who first appeared in Lemaster's A Lesson in Tradecraft-Flugel, the can-do fixer who ran a safe house in Hamburg. He also had another distinction, if my memory was correct. He once had an encounter with Heinz Klarmann, the freelance operative modeled after Lothar Heinemann.

Now the store had my full attention, especially as I recalled Lothar's cryptic words about where he'd stashed the last remaining copy of his unpublished novel. It was "hiding in plain sight," he'd said, and if I wanted to find it I had to "think like a book scout, think like a spy."

I checked the store hours posted on the door. They opened at 10:00 a.m.

When I got back to Dad's I pulled down his copy of A Lesson in Tradecraft and found the following exchange, set at Flugel's safe house in Hamburg. It comes just after Heinz Klarmann's narrow escape from a would-be assassin: Klarmann stood a few feet inside the entrance, dripping November raindrops on the tatty carpet. He'd already tracked mud onto the floor, and Flugel watched from the end of the hallway in obvious disapproval, shaking his head and clicking his tongue.

"Shoes off, if you please!"

Klarmann grumpily complied.

"That jacket as well. Use the hook by the door. The filthy hat, too."

"So is this to be the dockage fee for safe harbor? Perpetual attack by an anal-retentive key holder? Perhaps I should take my chances with the Russians."

"Your life, your call. My house, my rules."

For a moment Klarmann hesitated, as if actually weighing the option. Then he frowned and shrugged off his jacket, grumbling all the while. But he left the hat in place, and Flugel held his tongue even as Klarmann walked defiantly toward the stairs, the soggy hat dripping as regularly as the ticking of a clock.

And there you had it. A fussy proprietor named Flugel offering "safe harbor" for Lothar Heinemann's alter ego. One didn't even have to think like a spy to make this connection. Certain that I was on the threshold of discovery, I slept soundly.

In the light of morning I was more uncertain about my epiphany. It felt like a stretch, mere coincidence. But it was still intriguing enough to check out. I took precautions to keep from being followed, by boarding a series of trams and buses, then doubling back until I strolled up to Der Flugel shortly before 10:15. The door rattled open. No need for a bell in a shop this small.

An older man with wisps of hair plastered across a shiny scalp nodded to me from a stepladder. He was shelving books in the Mozart section, which took up half a wall.

"Guten Tag."

I replied in kind and went straight for the fiction. The books were neatly alphabetized by author. Several nice finds leaped out at me, but when I reached the H's there was nothing by Lothar Heinemann; the volumes jumped directly from Heinrich Heine to Hermann Hesse.

I checked a few other categories-Local Interest, European History. No luck. So much for my moment of inspiration. I cleared my throat. The fellow on the ladder responded immediately.

"Are you looking for something special?"

"Do you have anything by Lothar Heinemann?"

"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.