his role in the Watergate scandal. Dad has seven Hunt novels dating back to 1942, and they’re not bad. Richard Helms used to give copies to friends back when he ran the Agency.
At the height of the Cold War, publishers were churning out so many spy novels that it was hard for collectors to keep pace. There was a spin-off from a comic strip ( Modesty Blaise, by Peter O’Donnell), a quasi-spoof by an established literary author ( Tremor of Intent, by Anthony Burgess, of A Clockwork Orange fame), and even a few Russian titles with KGB heroes by the Soviet writer Yulian Semyonov. Finally, William Hood, the aforementioned Angleton deputy, joined the fray with the novel that Litzi and I had just seen a page of, Spy Wednesday. His second novel, Cry Spy, published a few months after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, was the last non-Lemaster title my dad collected. The following year I gave him a signed copy of Le Carré’s The Secret Pilgrim, but he handed it right back and told me he was off the stuff for good. Soon afterward I did the same.
“Bill?” My dad called out through the haze. “Are you drifting away from me?”
“Sorry. Must be the wine. And the jet lag, of course.” But now I had a question for him. “Why did Lemaster never use Lothar?”
“For him half the fun was hunting down the titles. Of course that only piqued Lothar’s curiosity. Whenever I’d bump into him in some far-flung bookstall he’d always ask if I knew what Ed was up to.”
I noted the use of Lemaster’s nickname, the first time Dad had showed such familiarity.
“How well did you know Lemaster?”
“Mostly as a fellow book hound. And not as well as I thought, apparently.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the kind of person you warm up to right away. Witty, engaging. Seems to open up in a hurry. Makes you feel like part of his inner circle. But after a while, you realize that’s as close as you’re going to get. Sort of like those old book clubs that used to lure you in with those great offers—any four for a dollar!—then, boom, no more freebies. Full price only.”
“Was it for professional reasons?”
“Not completely. But I’ve never known for sure. He was an enigma that way, and I’ve never heard differently from anyone else.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“He was doing secret work, son. His movements, his whereabouts, his contacts. All that, even the little things, had to be kept under wraps, even after he’d quit. He made that very clear to me.”
“But you knew. Why do you think he trusted you? You weren’t even in the Agency. Whatever happened to ‘Trust No One’?”
“Life. Life is what always happens to ‘Trust No One.’ “
A curious comment, and there was probably more behind it than Dad wanted to tell me. I could live with that. He had already been far more generous than I’d expected.
Now it was my turn to give. Not everything, of course. If he could hold some items in reserve, so could I, especially since what I had to say wasn’t going to be easy for either of us. I poured a shot of Johnnie Walker, swallowed, and waited for the little explosion of heat to reach the bottom of my throat.
Then I delivered the news.
11
“There was a name on the parcel I picked up today,” I said. “Dewey.”
For a moment I thought Dad was going to choke. His knuckles whitened on the glass.
“Why are you ambushing me with this so late in the day, and when I’m half in the bag? What’s your game, son?”
“Easy, Dad. Christoph said it was the name on your parcels, too. So I’m curious.”
“Christoph never should have told you that. I suppose I deserve it for telling you to ask that damn fool question about the Agency.”
“So who was he?”
“Dewey was a name without a face, presumably a code name for the next link in the chain. As soon as I dropped off the parcel I’d go to a phone booth—a different one every time—and dial a number that was on the sales receipt.
At the height of the Cold War, publishers were churning out so many spy novels that it was hard for collectors to keep pace. There was a spin-off from a comic strip ( Modesty Blaise, by Peter O’Donnell), a quasi-spoof by an established literary author ( Tremor of Intent, by Anthony Burgess, of A Clockwork Orange fame), and even a few Russian titles with KGB heroes by the Soviet writer Yulian Semyonov. Finally, William Hood, the aforementioned Angleton deputy, joined the fray with the novel that Litzi and I had just seen a page of, Spy Wednesday. His second novel, Cry Spy, published a few months after the collapse of the Berlin Wall, was the last non-Lemaster title my dad collected. The following year I gave him a signed copy of Le Carré’s The Secret Pilgrim, but he handed it right back and told me he was off the stuff for good. Soon afterward I did the same.
“Bill?” My dad called out through the haze. “Are you drifting away from me?”
“Sorry. Must be the wine. And the jet lag, of course.” But now I had a question for him. “Why did Lemaster never use Lothar?”
“For him half the fun was hunting down the titles. Of course that only piqued Lothar’s curiosity. Whenever I’d bump into him in some far-flung bookstall he’d always ask if I knew what Ed was up to.”
I noted the use of Lemaster’s nickname, the first time Dad had showed such familiarity.
“How well did you know Lemaster?”
“Mostly as a fellow book hound. And not as well as I thought, apparently.”
“What do you mean?”
“He’s the kind of person you warm up to right away. Witty, engaging. Seems to open up in a hurry. Makes you feel like part of his inner circle. But after a while, you realize that’s as close as you’re going to get. Sort of like those old book clubs that used to lure you in with those great offers—any four for a dollar!—then, boom, no more freebies. Full price only.”
“Was it for professional reasons?”
“Not completely. But I’ve never known for sure. He was an enigma that way, and I’ve never heard differently from anyone else.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“He was doing secret work, son. His movements, his whereabouts, his contacts. All that, even the little things, had to be kept under wraps, even after he’d quit. He made that very clear to me.”
“But you knew. Why do you think he trusted you? You weren’t even in the Agency. Whatever happened to ‘Trust No One’?”
“Life. Life is what always happens to ‘Trust No One.’ “
A curious comment, and there was probably more behind it than Dad wanted to tell me. I could live with that. He had already been far more generous than I’d expected.
Now it was my turn to give. Not everything, of course. If he could hold some items in reserve, so could I, especially since what I had to say wasn’t going to be easy for either of us. I poured a shot of Johnnie Walker, swallowed, and waited for the little explosion of heat to reach the bottom of my throat.
Then I delivered the news.
11
“There was a name on the parcel I picked up today,” I said. “Dewey.”
For a moment I thought Dad was going to choke. His knuckles whitened on the glass.
“Why are you ambushing me with this so late in the day, and when I’m half in the bag? What’s your game, son?”
“Easy, Dad. Christoph said it was the name on your parcels, too. So I’m curious.”
“Christoph never should have told you that. I suppose I deserve it for telling you to ask that damn fool question about the Agency.”
“So who was he?”
“Dewey was a name without a face, presumably a code name for the next link in the chain. As soon as I dropped off the parcel I’d go to a phone booth—a different one every time—and dial a number that was on the sales receipt.
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