Free The Double Game by Dan Fesperman

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 cafés. 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 Even a spy past his prime with an old pair of specs and an outdated map.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 Café 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 café 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 café 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 café 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 café’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