A Gathering of Spies by John Altman Page A

to meet a friend of mine. Fritz Meissner, Harry Winterbotham.”
    Meissner brought his cigarette to his mouth and took a laconic drag.
    â€œPleased to meet you,” he said.
    â€œThe pleasure’s mine,” Winterbotham said stiffly.
    â€œI’ve brought you some things,” Taylor said, and handed Meissner a package he had carried from the car.
    Meissner immediately dug through it, lining up his treasures on the bed: a carton of cigarettes, matches, chocolates, a bottle of vodka, and a copy of Esquire magazine. He held the last up and examined the cover, where a leggy, hippy Varga girl was posed seductively. He looked pained.
    â€œAndrew,” he moaned, “what are you trying to do to me?”
    â€œAll the way from America, Fritz. Take good care of it—soon enough the American censors will put a stop to it.”
    â€œYou’ll make me crazy,” Meissner said. But he took the magazine and added it carefully to the pile on the bed.
    There was one chair in the room; Winterbotham took it while Taylor remained standing. For several moments they went through the rituals of lighting their various tobaccos. Meissner ignited a new cigarette from the butt of his last. Winterbotham puffed out a cloud of orange-flavored smoke.
    Taylor said, “Perhaps it is a bit cruel of me. But you must admit, she is attractive.”
    â€œHm?”
    â€œThe girl,” Taylor said, nodding at the magazine on the bed.
    â€œAh,” Fritz said. He looked at the Varga girl again, then nodded. “She’s not bad.”
    â€œJust not bad?”
    â€œI’ve seen better.”
    â€œLike Anna Wagner?” Taylor said.
    Something flickered in Meissner’s eyes. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “yes. Anna Wagner, among others.”
    â€œTell me about Anna.”
    â€œI’ve told you before, Andrew. Are things that lonely at home?”
    Taylor smiled. “Tell me again, Fritz, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œAnna,” Meissner said. “Anna, Anna. So long ago, but I think I remember. A true beauty, Anna was. She worked in her husband’s shop in Berlin—”
    â€œWhat kind of shop?”
    â€œA pastry shop.”
    â€œGo on.”
    â€œAnd she took a liking to me,” Meissner said, “and I to her. We were friends, for a time. Then she and her husband moved to America. And that was the end of it.”
    â€œAnd suddenly, after ten years, she wrote to you.”
    â€œMm,” Meissner said.
    â€œWhy do you think she waited ten years, Fritz?”
    Meissner shrugged. “Perhaps that’s how long it takes for a wife to become bored enough of her husband to start thinking of old love affairs.”
    â€œShe wrote to you three times in two months. Then she stopped again.”
    â€œYes,” Meissner said.
    â€œWhy is that, do you think?”
    â€œAndrew, you ask too much of me. Who could understand the mysteries of women?” He looked at Winterbotham and grinned a sly grin that spoke of male camaraderie.
    â€œI suppose so,” Taylor said. “But I should warn you, Fritz, that we are in the process of reexamining the letters you received from Anna Wagner. I sincerely hope that we will not find anything, of course. Because if we were to find something, that would mean that you’ve been lying to me. And we’ve known each other far too long to be lying to each other.”
    Meissner exhaled a cloud of smoke, seemingly unperturbed. “You won’t find anything,” he said, “except the sad words of a sad woman who wishes she had never let me go.”
    â€œVery good. That’s all I wanted to know. Harry, do you have anything to add?”
    Winterbotham shook his head.
    â€œThen I suppose we’ll be off.”
    Winterbotham stood, pipe clamped between his teeth, and followed Taylor to the door.
    â€œAh! One more thing,” Taylor said, turning back with his hand on the knob.