Free The Double Game by Dan Fesperman Page B

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 façade 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