Below, a passage of the novel was marked off: Folly unfolded his reading glasses, which were smudged and scratched, an old pair that had been bent, dropped, sat upon, and left for dead in a dozen different cafes. He wondered why he didn't just buy a new pair. Something to do with loyalty, he supposed, the comfort of the familiar. They maintained their wobbly perch on the bridge of his nose as he studied the map, the streets of Berlin coming alive to him like old friends after a long absence. Just by tracing his finger along the routes he could see the rendezvous point as clearly as if it were right there in front of him-a yellow phone booth in Zehlendorf, next to the bakery on Teltowerdamm. He knew the routine, too. Arrive on time, shut yourself inside, dial a number-any number-and then wait for the contact to appear at the door, checking his watch, acting like some impatient asshole that needed the phone right away. Hang up, open the door, and receive a parcel in passing as the stranger slid past you into the booth. Then keep on walking as if nothing out of the ordinary had just occurred. Anyone could do it. Even a spy past his prime with an old pair of specs and an outdated map.

Well, that seemed clear enough. A brush pass, as they said in the trade, and it was to occur in less than an hour. Obviously my handler was picking up the pace, an urgency that made me wary. But the location made me smile. The Cafe Braunerhof was a place of importance in my life, a wellspring of pleasant memories, and unless it had turned into some sort of chic WiFi hotspot, I was quite happy to make it my next stop.

8.

A Vienna cafe is a perfect place for a secret rendezvous, because it doesn't matter if either side shows up on time. The beauty of these establishments, from the grandest to the plainest, is that you can spend hours doing absolutely nothing without arousing the slightest suspicion. Even in our age of twittering impatience, a Vienna cafe is all about the art of refined indolence, reasonably priced. You go there to unplug, not to connect, and the entire staff is trained to assist you.

The transaction is blessedly simple: Purchase one cup of coffee-pricey, but only if you intend to gulp it down and leave-and in exchange you may linger as long as you like. Your waiter, dressed in a dinner jacket, won't even give you a dirty look, but he will attend to your every need without complaint. Tip him generously and he probably won't even remember you were there to begin with, in case the authorities ask later.

So there I was at the Braunerhof on a fine Monday morning with thirty-six minutes to spare, surveying the scenery from my former favorite table, along the side wall farthest from the entrance. To my amazement, everything looked exactly as it had in 1973, the last time I'd been there. The big windows up front spilled pale sunlight onto a row of wooden booths beneath twelve-foot ceilings. Beige walls, stained by nicotine, were hung with mirrors shaped like lozenges. There were coat racks between the tables up front, and I remembered that on rainy days they always reeked of wet wool. Plush benches ran down either side of the cafe to accommodate customers at smaller tables for two. In the middle of the room a pastry cart was backed against a cabinet table piled with newspapers on bamboo rods. Stationed in the back was the key location for my upcoming appointment-a phone booth built of varnished wood, with a small window in the door. In the old days it would have been a risky choice for a rendezvous. Customers occupied it at all hours. Now it was a charming anachronism, seldom used.

My nostalgia for the Braunerhof was easy to explain. At the age of sixteen I'd been sitting at this very table, playing hooky from school, when Litzi Strauss walked into my life. I'd come here to hide out, and to eat one of the cafe's sublime omelets along with a warm strudel. To wash it down I ordered coffee Obers-with cream-my dad having taught me at an early age to caffeinate in order to cope with those European mornings when the sun didn't rise until nine.

I remember the moment perfectly. My bill was paid, and I was contemplating where to go next, when Litzi strolled in with a toss of blond hair and a flicker of the most expressive brown eyes I'd ever wanted to dive into. She was a little tall for my taste, but judging by her furtive movements, she was a fellow renegade, also gone AWOL. I caught her eye as she paused by the newspaper table. She smiled fleetingly, then chose a copy of the same paper I was reading. I took it as a positive development-call and response, sign and countersign, as if we were already in secret communication.

In those days I was often awkward around girls, and I'd already guessed she was slightly older than I. Yet, for some reason-her welcoming smile? the lingering high from the toke I'd just shared with my friend Brenner in the Stadtpark?-she seemed within reach of my romantic capabilities. This rare burst of confidence made all the difference in my eventual approach. For once I was not like the fumbling Richard Folly or the morose George Smiley. I was instead, however briefly, more like one of those dashing fellows who were forever cuckolding my heroes.

She took a seat along the same wall, at the second table down, a mere six feet to my left. The electric effect of her presence seemed to make the wool stand up on my sweater. The waiter took her order, then she opened her paper with another glance my way. Sensing that the opening might be my last, I spoke up with uncharacteristic nerve.

"Meeting someone?"

"No. You?"

I improvised. "Harry Lime."

"From that silly movie, you mean?"

"Silly? The Third Man is only one of the greatest films ever made. Written by an even greater novelist."

"Graham Greene's too Catholic for me. The book's not even a proper novel, you know. He wrote it originally as a screenplay. Did you know that?"

Of course I did, thanks to my father, who had nonetheless indulged me with a paperback of the book Greene eventually published. It wasn't really an espionage tale, but it was rife with spylike duplicity, and prescient in its late-forties depiction of Cold War tensions. So yes, I certainly did know it. But mostly I was thrilled that she knew. It wasn't the sort of arcana girls usually came up with. She was preaching to the converted, and we both knew it. In my excitement I blurted a non sequitur.

"He lived around the corner, you know."

"Graham Greene?"

"Harry Lime, the Orson Welles character. In the movie they say his address is Stiftgasse 15, but they shot all his apartment scenes at Josefstadt 5. It's the building with those Venus sculptures out front. Or whatever they are."

"Maybe you can show me, after I've finished my coffee."

"I'd be glad to."

"As long as no one from my school sees me first."

"Same here." We laughed, the kinship of fugitives.

As we went out the door a few minutes later she actually took my arm, a gesture that felt exciting and old-fashioned at the same time, and at that moment I knew I was on to something more profound and special than any previous flirtation. We were together until the day I moved to Berlin, roughly a year later. The relationship changed us both, mostly for the better.

All this reminiscing broke my concentration, and when I checked my watch it was only a few minutes before 10:30. Wondering if my contact had also arrived early, I scanned the room for likely suspects.

To my left, in the corner booth up front, were a middle-aged man and woman, both wearing scarves. A small "Reserviert" placard indicated they were regulars, entitled to a Stammtisch, or customary table. They were discussing the German satirist Kurt Tucholsky. To their right sat a quiet elderly woman wearing a double strand of pearls. Along the opposite wall, facing me from across the room, was a young couple too absorbed in each other to notice anyone but themselves. Out in the middle was a table of three women, late forties, very proper in manner. To my right, a young male professional type in suit and tie who had come in on crutches.

Figuring I had better clear the decks by settling the bill, I nodded to the waiter, who arrived promptly and stated the total. He uttered a polite "Danke" as I named an amount that would allow for a hefty tip. While he was making change, the door opened, and I couldn't see around him until the new arrival had passed and was on the way to the back. I was mildly surprised to see it was a woman, but she disappeared down the corridor toward the rest rooms before I could see her face. It had to be my contact. It was time to enter the phone booth.

I did as the script demanded, turning my back to the window as I deposited coins and punched in a number. I mumbled a few words of nonsense into the mouthpiece, and when I'd judged that a minute had passed, I turned to see if my contact was waiting, so that the exchange could take place.

The newly arrived woman stood just outside the door, staring back at me through the glass. We both gasped. Even after more than thirty years, I recognized Litzi Strauss right away, and she clearly recognized me as well. We stood motionless with our mouths open for a few seconds, then I opened the door. Next I was supposed to take whatever she handed me and keep on walking.

No way.

Instead, I fell back on a much older script, one that I had rehearsed only once.

"Meeting someone?"

"No. You?"

"Harry Lime."

She laughed and fell into my arms. Then, remembering what had reunited us, we disengaged somewhat awkwardly, and she withdrew a sealed manila envelope from beneath her coat.

"I believe I'm supposed to give this to you."

"It's called a brush pass."

She rolled her eyes, just as she had years ago when I mentioned The Third Man.

"I think now I'm supposed to be on my way, never to see you again."

"Terrible idea. Let's go for a walk."

She smiled and nodded, and as we reached the door she put her arm through mine. I actually blushed. Not in embarrassment, but in a flood of memory. It was so powerful that I had to take a deep breath once we were out in the sunlight.

"Did you know it would be me?" she asked. She was flushed, too.

"No. How 'bout you?"

"Are you kidding?"

We were speaking German, right back to our old ways.

"Then whoever is pulling the strings knows me even better than I thought."

"You're not the one who arranged this?" There was a note of concern in her voice.

"No. So you don't know who's behind this, either?"

"I thought I did. An old friend from university asked me for a favor. I was supposed to be passing material to a corporate headhunter for a friend in Salzburg, things he was too nervous to send by email. What about you?"

"It's a long story," I said. "Got time to hear it?"

She smiled.

"Of course. But aren't you going to open that?" She nodded at the envelope.

"And ruin our reunion? It can wait. How many years has it been?"

"Do we really want to count?"

"Where to, then? Harry Lime's?"

"Certainly, but I'm afraid you won't like it very much." There was a gleam of mischief in her eyes as she towed me toward Josefstadt with her hand warm on my arm. What a strange sensation it was, to leap so suddenly across a chasm of decades only to alight on the same sidewalk you'd left from.

As we rounded the corner I saw what she meant. The marble facade of Harry's grand old building was now covered by scaffolding and a huge sheet of plastic, with a full-color ad for a Burger King Whopper. Marty Ealing would have loved it.

"The death of art," I said.

"Seeing as how there are ten museums within a block of here, I doubt one hamburger will topple the empire. But it is annoying to see it every time I look out my office window."

"Where do you work?"

She pointed back across the square, toward the grandiose expanse of the Austrian National Library.

"You're a librarian?"

"An archivist. Old letters and manuscripts, mostly."

"I suppose now you're going to tell me you're married with eleven children."

"One husband, an ex. No children, I'm sorry to say."

"I have an ex as well. But a son, he's eighteen."

"Lucky you."

"I am lucky, even though he grew up mostly with his mother."

I thought of my parting conversation with David, and wondered what he would think of this little scene, and of Litzi.

"Let's have lunch," she said. "Buy a baguette and eat in the park. It's too nice a day to go back indoors."

I immediately agreed.

I suppose I should have wondered right then how my handler had managed to bring about this reunion, and how he knew so much about my past. But for the moment, on a beautiful morning with Litzi's arm through mine, my mind was on anything but spying.

So off we went to lunch, heedless of anyone but ourselves.

9.

Had you asked me to predict how Litzi would look after all this time, I would have erred on the side of frumpy. As a girl she had her mother's fair complexion and blond hair, but her mother was also a standard-issue hausfrau, stout and sturdy, with a face as puffy as bread dough. Her father, from Bohemia, was thinner, with hollow eyes and prominent cheekbones, the face of a refugee. It was clear now that Litzi had borrowed the best from both sides. Fair complexion, but with features winnowed to their essentials. A few worry lines, but not enough to shake her air of earnest calm, although there did seem to be a hint of past disappointment in the depths of her eyes. Her blond hair was touched by gray, but she still had the posture of a dancer, lithe and graceful. It made me wonder how I was measuring up, then I told myself to stop, that we were far beyond that now.

We bought sandwiches at a bakery and walked to a park on the far side of the National Library, where ravens stalked the green and cawed for handouts. We sat at the base of a fountain and talked for a while about our lives and our jobs and what had become of the years while the water gurgled behind us. Then she nodded toward the sealed envelope, which lay at my feet in the grass.

"Well, are you going to tell me what this is all about?"

In all those spy novels, of course, the oldest and best advice was to trust no one. The same was true when I'd been a journalist, and more so at Ealing Wharton, where your level of mistrust was roughly proportionate to your annual bonus. But I had long ago noticed something about people who followed this advice. All of them seemed to wind up alone. I knew because I was one of them.

Today, I decided, I would act sixteen again, if only for the afternoon, if only for Litzi, and if only because for the moment I no longer wanted to be alone. Besides, she and I had lived through a lot together, some of it anything but child's play. If anyone had been battle-tested to protect my secrets, it was Litzi Strauss.

"How much time do you have?"

"As much as we need. While you were buying lunch I texted my office. They believe I'm at an urgent appointment that will keep me away for most of the afternoon."

"Do you remember all those Edwin Lemaster books my father had?"

She rolled her eyes and smiled, a wary but willing audience. I continued talking, and told her everything. She didn't interrupt once, and was silent for a while when I finished.

"Amazing," she finally said. "In my work I sometimes spend hours going through old letters, or some diary from centuries ago, and I'm always struck by how much those people come to life for me. But these are made-up characters you're talking about, yet it's like they've stepped right off the page. It makes me wish I'd been there to meet the fellow who delivered the envelope to me. He looked so strange."

"You saw him?"

"I wasn't supposed to. Karl, my friend in Salzburg, told me someone would drop it at the library's reception desk with my name on it."

I turned over the envelope. "Litzi Strauss" was written in the same blocky handwriting that had been on the parcel from Kurzmann's.

"I figured it would probably be delivered by a courier service, but the other arrangements were so strange that I wanted to check, just in case, so I asked our man at the reception desk to note the exact time when the envelope was delivered. Later I checked the day's footage from the security cameras, and there he was."

"You're a natural, Litzi."

She smiled shyly. "Maybe I am. And it was no courier service, let me tell you! You should have seen him. A chilly morning on the first of October and he's wearing an undersized summer-weight suit of that crinkly blue and white material you only seem to see in America."

"Seersucker?"