scribbled with names poked from every copy, although the amount of dust suggested that most of the customers had either died or forgotten their orders. But my parcel looked clean as a whistle when he pulled it free. It was wrapped in brown butcher paper and tied with a crisscross of white string. Something about this presentation stirred a distant memory which I couldn’t quite place. The name “Dewey” was written on the butcher paper in black ink. Christoph handed it over, still glaring.
“Fifty euros, Mr.…?”
“Cage.”
“Yes. Mr. Cage.”
“Fifty? That’s practically seventy dollars.”
“The price is marked. You can take it or leave it.”
I got out my wallet.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“No. I have a question.” He winced and glanced behind me. There was no sound at all from the harvester. Feeling his eyes on my back, and remembering my father’s warning to be discreet, I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“My father told me to ask you why he might suspect this was some sort of job for the Agency.” I felt like an idiot. “You know, the CIA?”
“Please, Mr. Cage.”
He, too, was whispering, and if his tone had been icy before, it was now tremulous with anger. Then he switched to English and spoke loudly.
“If there are other special orders you wish to discuss, perhaps it would be easier to do so in my office, where I have full access to the records of my inventory.”
“Okay. Fine.”
He led the way, footsteps loud and choppy. The harvester returned to his labors, but Christoph still hadn’t shown the slightest interest in him, even though the fellow could have walked out with his books at any moment without paying. He certainly looked the type.
We negotiated a switchback hallway, then climbed a winding staircase to an even gloomier corridor lined with more books. Many were leather-bound and ancient, others relatively new, the titles flashing by like signs on the Autobahn. Portnoy’s Complaint in German, an old Atlas of the New World in Spanish, an anthology of Charles Addams cartoons. When we reached the end of the passage he withdrew a set of keys, fiddled with one or two, then unlocked the door to an office as clean and modern as you’d find in any bank, although it, too, was filled with books—his choicest copies, to judge from the bindings and titles.
The decor was Formica and chrome, with everything in perfect order—papers in stacks, pencils in cups. An iMac with a 21-inch screen held pride of place. Christoph sagged into a massive chair upholstered in black leather. He didn’t motion for me to sit down, but I did anyway, in a smaller seat of matching leather. There was an electric kettle on a window ledge next to packets of tea and filter coffee, but he made no offer of hospitality. From the rigid set of his jaw it was obvious he was still furious.
“I only brought you up here out of respect for your father,” he began, switching back to German. “Otherwise, I would have kicked you out of the store.”
I repeated my question.
“All I want to know—and my father told me to ask, so it’s not like this was my idea—is what made him think this might be a job for the Agency?”
“ He told you to ask me this? Warfield Cage?”
I nodded. Christoph shook his head in disbelief.
“How do I even know you’re his son? Do you have any identification?”
I felt foolish justifying myself to this old gnome, but I dug out my passport and showed him. He again shook his head.
“Your father was once such a careful man. If this is his idea of a joke, tell him I didn’t laugh. Have you perhaps done something to anger him?”
“Not unless we count your phone call. He thought that was my idea of a joke.”
“Please believe me when I say that I don’t normally ask about these transactions, but how did you happen to become the new representative for Dewey?”
“Who is Dewey, anyway?”
“Just answer me.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I certainly wasn’t going to
“Fifty euros, Mr.…?”
“Cage.”
“Yes. Mr. Cage.”
“Fifty? That’s practically seventy dollars.”
“The price is marked. You can take it or leave it.”
I got out my wallet.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“No. I have a question.” He winced and glanced behind me. There was no sound at all from the harvester. Feeling his eyes on my back, and remembering my father’s warning to be discreet, I lowered my voice to a whisper.
“My father told me to ask you why he might suspect this was some sort of job for the Agency.” I felt like an idiot. “You know, the CIA?”
“Please, Mr. Cage.”
He, too, was whispering, and if his tone had been icy before, it was now tremulous with anger. Then he switched to English and spoke loudly.
“If there are other special orders you wish to discuss, perhaps it would be easier to do so in my office, where I have full access to the records of my inventory.”
“Okay. Fine.”
He led the way, footsteps loud and choppy. The harvester returned to his labors, but Christoph still hadn’t shown the slightest interest in him, even though the fellow could have walked out with his books at any moment without paying. He certainly looked the type.
We negotiated a switchback hallway, then climbed a winding staircase to an even gloomier corridor lined with more books. Many were leather-bound and ancient, others relatively new, the titles flashing by like signs on the Autobahn. Portnoy’s Complaint in German, an old Atlas of the New World in Spanish, an anthology of Charles Addams cartoons. When we reached the end of the passage he withdrew a set of keys, fiddled with one or two, then unlocked the door to an office as clean and modern as you’d find in any bank, although it, too, was filled with books—his choicest copies, to judge from the bindings and titles.
The decor was Formica and chrome, with everything in perfect order—papers in stacks, pencils in cups. An iMac with a 21-inch screen held pride of place. Christoph sagged into a massive chair upholstered in black leather. He didn’t motion for me to sit down, but I did anyway, in a smaller seat of matching leather. There was an electric kettle on a window ledge next to packets of tea and filter coffee, but he made no offer of hospitality. From the rigid set of his jaw it was obvious he was still furious.
“I only brought you up here out of respect for your father,” he began, switching back to German. “Otherwise, I would have kicked you out of the store.”
I repeated my question.
“All I want to know—and my father told me to ask, so it’s not like this was my idea—is what made him think this might be a job for the Agency?”
“ He told you to ask me this? Warfield Cage?”
I nodded. Christoph shook his head in disbelief.
“How do I even know you’re his son? Do you have any identification?”
I felt foolish justifying myself to this old gnome, but I dug out my passport and showed him. He again shook his head.
“Your father was once such a careful man. If this is his idea of a joke, tell him I didn’t laugh. Have you perhaps done something to anger him?”
“Not unless we count your phone call. He thought that was my idea of a joke.”
“Please believe me when I say that I don’t normally ask about these transactions, but how did you happen to become the new representative for Dewey?”
“Who is Dewey, anyway?”
“Just answer me.”
I wasn’t sure what to say. I certainly wasn’t going to
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