Read Online A Game of Spies by John Altman - Free Book Online

top rung and turned to the small crate that he had been using as a desk. He lit the paraffin lamp atop the crate and then picked up the envelope sitting beside it. He held the envelope for a moment, fighting the temptation to open it, to make certain he had gotten the words right. He had already been over the letter countless times; the words were as right as he could make them.
    He replaced the envelope on the crate, then turned to his small collection of supplies and began to organize them for his departure.
    The supplies, for the most part, had come from the Gehls. Hobbs fastened the leather holster to his ankle and then slipped the silenced 9mm Beretta inside. He checked his papers—identity card, ration card, work permit—and found them satisfactory. He located the keys to the Talta—the Gehls’ car, which they had offered for his use. They must have been desperate to get rid of him indeed, he thought, to give up a car in such difficult times. But what else was new? Everywhere he had ever gone in his life, he had brought unpleasantness along with him. Everywhere he had ever been, they had been anxious for him to leave.
    After pocketing the keys, he shrugged on his trench coat. He put the letter in one pocket and then reached into the other, his fingers brushing past his last pack of cigarettes, to the mustache. He had made the mustache himself, from cotton balls in the Gehls’ medicine cabinet. He removed it, licked the back—the adhesive had come from an envelope—and then patted it onto his upper lip, over his own slim mustache.
    He stood for a moment, in the flickering light of the paraffin lamp, feeling faintly ridiculous.
    Too many disguises, he thought. Too many years of playing roles. The lines blurred when one played a role for too many years.
    Perhaps, beneath all the various disguises, the real William Hobbs no longer existed. Or perhaps the real William Hobbs had never truly existed at all. Before becoming a patriot, after all, he had played a variety of roles: pacifist, nonconformist, socialist, Fascist; anything that would give him access to a warm meeting hall, a sense of community and purpose. For all his life he had been trying on different masks, one after another. Who was to say if there was any face at all, below the masquerades?
    Then he thought of Eva.
    When he had been with Eva, he had not been playing a role. When he had been with Eva, he had only been himself.
    And he had let her slip through his fingers, like so many grains of sand.
    After thinking for a moment, he began to move again. His hands took inventory, checking the letter, the keys, the papers, the gun. They were all in order. He was ready. He had discovered during his excursions that most nights after dinner, Eva went for a walk. He planned to orchestrate a meeting during her evening stroll. He would press the letter into her hands and hope that the men watching her didn’t catch on. It was not the most brilliant plan in the world, but then, he was not the most brilliant man in the world. Besides, simplicity was effective.
    He paused, cocking his head. Simplicity is effective.
    Had that been Oldfield’s?
    Or had it come from further back? From childhood? Perhaps from his father?
    He couldn’t remember.
    From Oldfield, he thought. His father had never taught him anything worth remembering. He had been too busy drinking himself to death.
    His hat was resting on the bare mattress. He picked it up, put it on his head, and took a moment to say farewell to his temporary home. Then he found the cane leaning against one wall, doused the lamp, and went downstairs again.
    He parked the Talta three blocks from Eva’s flat.
    As he walked, he felt the gun pressing against his ankle. It was a reassuring pressure, giving him a feeling of security. He had not forgotten the sensation of slitting Borg’s throat. It was not a sensation he was eager to repeat. The gun, however, was impersonal. He could use it,