A Death in Vienna (26 page)

U
ZI
N
AVOT KNEW
a thing or two about body searches. Klaus Halder was very good at his job. He started with Navot’s shirt collar and ended with the cuffs of his Armani trousers. Next he turned his attention to the attaché case. He worked slowly, like a man with all the time in the world, and with a monkish attention to detail. When the search was finally over, he straightened the contents carefully and snapped the latches back into place. “Herr Vogel will see you now,” he said. “Follow me, please.”

They walked the length of the central corridor, then passed through a pair of double doors and entered a drawing room. Erich Radek, in a herringbone jacket and rust-colored tie, was seated near the fireplace. He acknowledged his guests with a single nod of his narrow head but made no attempt to rise. Radek, Navot gathered, was a man used to receiving visitors seated.

The bodyguard slipped quietly from the room and closed the doors behind him. Becker, smiling, stepped forward and shook Radek’s hand. Navot did not wish to touch the murderer, but given the circumstances he had no choice. The proffered hand was cool and dry, the grip firm and without a tremor. It was a testing handshake. Navot sensed that he had passed.

Radek flicked his fingers toward the empty chairs, then his hand returned to the drink resting on the arm of his chair. He began twisting it back and forth, two twists to the right, two to the left. Something about the movement made acid pour into Navot’s stomach.

“I hear very good things about your work, Herr Lange,” Radek said suddenly. “You have a fine reputation among your colleagues in Zurich.”

“All lies, I assure you, Herr Vogel.”

“You’re too modest.” He twisted his drink. “You did some work for a friend of mine a few years back, a gentleman named Helmut Schneider.”

And you’re trying to lead me into a trap,
thought Navot. He had prepared himself for a ploy like this. The real Oskar Lange had provided a list of his clients for the last ten years for Navot to memorize. The name Helmut Schneider had not appeared on it.

“I’ve handled a good many clients over the last few years, but I’m afraid the name Schneider was not among them. Perhaps your friend has me confused with someone else.”

Navot looked down, opened the latches of his attaché case, and lifted the lid. When he looked up again, Radek’s blue eyes were boring into his, and his drink was rotating on the arm of the chair. There was a frightening stillness about his eyes. It was like being studied by a portrait.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Radek’s conciliatory tone did not match his expression. “Konrad said you required my signature on some documents concerning the liquidation of the assets in the account.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

Navot removed a file from his attaché and placed the attaché on the floor at his feet. Radek followed the progress of the briefcase downward, then returned his gaze to Navot’s face. Navot lifted the lid of the file folder and looked up. He opened his mouth to speak but was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone. Sharp and electronic, it sounded to Navot’s sensitive ears like a scream in a cemetery.

Radek made no movement. Navot glanced toward the Biedermeier desk, and the telephone rang a second time. It started to ring a third time, then went suddenly silent, as though it had been muzzled midscream. Navot could hear Halder, the bodyguard, speaking on an extension in the corridor.

“Good evening…. No, I’m sorry, but Herr Vogel is in a meeting at the moment.”

Navot removed the first document from the file. Radek was now visibly distracted, his gaze distant. He was listening to the sound of his bodyguard’s voice. Navot inched forward in his chair and held the paper at an angle so Radek could see it.

“This is the first document that requires—”

Radek lifted his hand, demanding silence. Navot heard footfalls in the corridor, followed by the sound of the doors opening. The bodyguard stepped into the room and walked to Radek’s side.

“It’s Manfred Kruz,” he said in a chapel murmur. “He’d like a word. He says it’s urgent and can’t wait.”

E
RICH
R
ADEK ROSE
slowly from his chair and walked to the telephone.

“What is it, Manfred?”

“The Israelis.”

“What about them?”

“I have intelligence to suggest that during the past few days a large team of operatives has assembled in Vienna in order to kidnap you.”

“How certain are you of your intelligence?”

“Certain enough to conclude it’s no longer safe for you to remain in your home. I’ve dispatched a Staatspolizei unit to collect you and take you to a safe location.”

“No one can get inside here, Manfred. Just put an armed guard outside the house.”

“We’re dealing with the
Israelis,
Herr Vogel. I want you out of the house.”

“All right, if you insist, but tell your unit to stand down. Klaus can handle it.”

“One bodyguard isn’t enough. I’m responsible for your security, and I want you under police protection. I’m afraid I have to insist. The intelligence I have is very specific.”

“When will your officers be here?”

“Any minute. Get ready to move.”

He hung up the telephone and looked at the two men seated next to the fire. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but I’m afraid I have something of an emergency. We’ll have to finish this another time.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Open the gates, Klaus, and get me a coat.
Now.
”

T
HE MOTORS OF
the front gates engaged. Mordecai, seated behind the wheel of the Mercedes, looked into his rearview mirror and saw a car turning into the drive from the street, a blue light whirling on the dash. It pulled up behind him and braked hard. Two men piled out and bounded up the front steps. Mordecai reached down and slowly turned the ignition.

E
RICH
R
ADEK WENT
into the corridor. Navot packed his attaché case and stood. Becker remained frozen in place. Navot hooked his fingers beneath the banker’s armpit and lifted him to his feet.

They followed Radek into the corridor. Blue emergency lights flashed across the walls and ceilings. Radek was next to his bodyguard, speaking quietly into his ear. The bodyguard was holding an overcoat and looked tense. As he helped Radek into the coat, his eyes were on Navot.

There was a knock at the door, two sharp reports that echoed from the high ceiling and marble floor of the corridor. The bodyguard released Radek’s overcoat and turned the latch. Two men in plainclothes pushed past and entered the house.

“Are you ready, Herr Vogel?”

Radek nodded, then turned and looked once more at Navot and Becker. “Again, please accept my apologies, gentlemen. I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience.”

Radek turned toward the door, Klaus at his shoulder. One of the officers blocked his path and put a hand on the bodyguard’s chest. The bodyguard swatted it away.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Herr Kruz gave us very specific instructions. We were to take only Herr Vogel into protective custody.”

“Kruz would have never given an order like that. He knows that I go wherever
he
goes. That’s the way it’s always been.”

“I’m sorry, but those were our orders.”

“Let me see your badge and identification.”

“There isn’t time. Please, Herr Vogel. Come with us.”

The bodyguard took a step back and reached inside his jacket. As the gun came into view, Navot lunged forward. With his left hand, he seized the bodyguard’s wrist and pinned the gun against his abdomen. With his right, he delivered two vicious open-handed blows to the back of the neck. The first blow staggered Halder; the second caused his knees to buckle. His hand relaxed, and the Glock clattered to the marble floor.

Radek looked at the gun and for an instant thought about trying to pick it up. Instead, he turned and lunged toward the open door of his study and slammed it shut.

Navot tried the latch. Locked.

He took a few steps back and drove his shoulder into the door. The wood splintered and he tumbled into the darkened room. He scrambled to his feet and saw that Radek had already moved away the false front of a bookcase and was standing inside a small, phone booth–sized lift.

Navot sprang forward as the elevator door started to close. He managed to get both his arms inside and grab Radek by the lapels of his overcoat. As the door slammed against Navot’s left shoulder, Radek seized his wrists and tried to break free. Navot held firm.

Oded and Zalman came to his aid. Zalman, the taller of the two, reached over Navot’s head and pulled against the door. Oded slithered between Navot’s legs and applied pressure from below. Under the onslaught, the door finally slid open again.

Navot dragged Radek out of the elevator. There was no time for subterfuge or deception now. Navot clamped a hand over the old man’s mouth, Zalman took hold of his legs and lifted him off the floor. Oded found the light switch and doused the chandelier.

Navot glanced at Becker. “Get in the car. Move, you idiot.”

They bundled Radek down the steps toward the Audi. Radek was pulling at Navot’s hand, trying to break the vise grip over his mouth, and kicking hard with his legs. Navot could hear Zalman swearing under his breath. Somehow, even in the heat of battle, he managed to swear in German.

Oded threw open the rear door before running around the back of the car and climbing behind the wheel. Navot pushed Radek headfirst into the back and pinned him to the seat. Zalman forced his way inside and closed the door. Becker climbed into the back of the Mercedes. Mordecai accelerated hard, and the car lurched into the street, the Audi following closely.

R
ADEK’S BODY WENT
suddenly still. Navot removed his hand from Radek’s mouth, and the Austrian gulped greedily of the air.

“You’re hurting me,” he said. “I can’t breathe.”

“I’ll let you up, but you have to promise to behave yourself. No more escape attempts. Do you promise?”

“Just let me up. You’re crushing me, you fool.”

“I will, old man. Just do me a favor first. Tell me your name, please.”

“You know my name. My name is Vogel. Ludwig Vogel.”

“No, no, not that name. Your
real
name.”

“That is my real name.”

“Do you want to sit up and leave Vienna like a man, or am I going to have to sit on you the whole way?”

“I want to sit up. You’re hurting me, damn it!”

“Just tell me your name.”

He was silent for a moment; then he murmured, “My name is Radek.”

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t hear you. Can you say your name again, please? Loudly this time.”

He drew a deep breath of air and his body went rigid, as though he were standing at attention instead of lying across the back seat of a car.

“My—name—is—Sturmbannführer—Erich—
Radek
!”

I
N THE
M
UNICH
safe flat, the message flashed across Shamron’s computer screen:
PACKAGE HAS BEEN RECEIVED
.

Carter clapped him on the back. “I’ll be goddamned! They got him. They actually got him.”

Shamron stood and walked to the map. “Getting him was always the easiest part of the operation, Adrian. Getting him out is quite another thing.”

He gazed at the map. Fifty miles to the Czech border.
Drive, Oded,
he thought.
Drive like you’ve never driven before in your life.

O
DED HAD MADE
the drive a dozen times but never like this—never with the siren screaming and the blue light whirling on the dash, and never with Erich Radek’s eyes in the rearview mirror, staring back into his own. Their flight from the city center had gone better than expected. The evening traffic had been persistent, but never so heavy that it didn’t part for his siren and flashing light. Twice, Radek rebelled. Each uprising was ruthlessly put down by Navot and Zalman.

They were racing north now on the E461. The Vienna traffic was gone, the rain was falling steadily and freezing at the edges of the windshield. A sign flashed past: C
ZECH
R
EPUBLIC
42
KM
. Navot took a long look over his shoulder, then, in Hebrew, instructed Oded to kill the siren and the lights.

“Where are we going?” Radek asked, his breathing labored. “Where are you taking me?
Where
?”

Navot said nothing, just as Gabriel had instructed.
“Let him ask questions till he’s blue in the face,”
Gabriel had said.
“Just don’t give him the satisfaction of an answer. Let the uncertainty prey on his mind. That’s what he would do if the roles were reversed.”

So Navot watched the villages flashing past his window—Mistelbach, Wilfersdorf, Erdberg—and thought of only one thing, the bodyguard he had left unconscious in the entranceway of Radek’s house on the Stöbbergasse.

Poysdorf appeared before them. Oded sped through the village, then turned into a two-lane road and followed it eastward through snow-covered pine.

“Where are we going? Where are you taking me?”

Navot could endure his questions in silence no longer.

“We’re going home,” he snapped. “And you’re coming with us.”

Radek managed a glacial smile. “You made only one mistake tonight, Herr Lange. You should have killed my bodyguard when you had the chance.”

K
LAUS
H
ALDER OPENED
one eye, then the other. The darkness was absolute. He lay very still for a moment, trying to determine the position of his body. He had fallen forward, with his arms at his sides, and his right cheek was pressed against cold marble. He tried to lift his head, a bolt of thunderous pain shot down his neck. He remembered it now, the instant it had happened. He’d been reaching for his gun when he’d been clubbed twice from behind. It was the lawyer from Zurich, Oskar Lange. Obviously, Lange was no mere lawyer. He’d been in on it, just as Halder had feared from the beginning.

He pushed himself onto his knees and sat back against the wall. He closed his eyes and waited until the room stopped spinning, then rubbed the back of his head. It was swollen the size of an apple. He raised his left wrist and squinted at the luminous dial of his wristwatch: 5:57. When had it happened? A few minutes after five, 5:10 at the latest. Unless they’d had a helicopter waiting on the Stephansplatz, chances were they were still in Austria.

He patted the right front pocket of his sport jacket and found that his cell phone was still there. He fished it out and dialed. Two rings. A familiar voice.

“This is Kruz.”

T
HIRTY SECONDS LATER
, Manfred Kruz slammed down the phone and considered his options. The most obvious response would be to sound the alarm Klaxons, alert every police unit in the country that the old man had been seized by Israeli agents, close the borders and shut down the airport. Obvious, yes, but very dangerous. A move like that would raise many uncomfortable questions.
Why was Herr Vogel kidnapped? Who is he really?
Peter Metzler’s candidacy would be swept away, and so too would Kruz’s career. Even in Austria, such affairs had a way of taking on a life of their own, and Kruz had seen enough of them to know that the inquiry would not end at Vogel’s doorstep.

The Israelis had known he would be hamstrung, and they had chosen their moment well. Kruz had to think of some subtle way to intervene, some way to impede the Israelis without destroying everything in the process. He picked up the telephone and dialed.

“This is Kruz. The Americans have informed us that they believe an al-Qaeda team may be transiting the country by automobile this evening. They suspect the al-Qaeda members might be traveling with European sympathizers in order to better blend into their surroundings. As of this moment, I’m activating the terrorism alert network. Raise security at the borders, airports, and train stations to Category Two status.”

He rang off and gazed out the window. He had thrown the old man a lifeline. He wondered whether he would be in any condition to grab it. Kruz knew that if he succeeded, he would soon be confronted with yet another problem—what to do with the Israeli snatch team. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and removed a slip of paper.

“If I dial this number, who’s going to answer?”

“Violence.”

Manfred Kruz reached for his telephone.

T
HE
C
LOCKMAKER, SINCE
his return to Vienna, had scarcely found cause to leave the sanctuary of his little shop in the Stephansdom Quarter. His frequent travels had left him with a large backlog of pieces requiring his attention, including a Vienna Biedermeier regulator clock, built by the renowned Vienna clockmaker Ignaz Marenzeller in 1840. The mahogany case was in pristine condition, though the one-piece silvered dial had required many hours of restoration. The original handmade Biedermeier movement, with its seventy-five-day runner, lay in several carefully arranged pieces on the surface of his worktable.

The telephone rang. He lowered the volume on his portable CD player, and Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G faded to a whisper. A prosaic choice, Bach, but then the Clockmaker found the precision of Bach a perfect accompaniment to the task of dismantling and rebuilding the movement of an antique timepiece. He reached out for the telephone with his left hand. A shock wave of pain shot down the length of his arm, a reminder of his exploits in Rome and Argentina. He brought the receiver to his right ear and cradled it against his shoulder. “Yes,” he said inattentively. His hands were already at work again.

“I was given your number by a mutual friend.”

“I see,” the Clockmaker said noncommittally. “How can I help you?”

“It’s not me who requires help. It’s our friend.”

The Clockmaker laid down his tools. “Our friend?” he asked.

“You did some work for him in Rome and Argentina. I assume you know the man I am referring to?”

The Clockmaker did indeed. So, the old man had misled him and twice put him in compromising situations in the field. Now he had committed the mortal operational sin of giving his name to a stranger. Obviously he was in trouble. The Clockmaker suspected it had something to do with the Israelis. He decided that now would be an excellent moment to sever their relationship. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I believe you have me confused with someone else.”

The man at the other end of the line tried to object. The Clockmaker hung up the phone and turned up the volume on his CD player, until the sound of Bach filled his workshop.

I
N THE
M
UNICH
safe flat, Carter hung up the telephone and looked at Shamron, who was still standing before the map, as if imagining Radek’s progress northward toward the Czech border.

“That was from our Vienna station. They’re monitoring the Austrian communications net. It seems Manfred Kruz has taken their terror alert readiness to Category Two.”

“Category Two? What does that mean?”

“It means you’re likely to have a bit of trouble at the border.”

T
HE TURNOUT LAY
in a hollow at the edge of a frozen stream bed. There were two vehicles, an Opel sedan and a Volkswagen van. Chiara sat behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, headlights doused, engine silent, the comforting weight of a Beretta across her lap. There was no other sign of life, no lights from the village, no grumble of traffic along the highway, only the rattle of sleet on the roof of the van and the whistle of the wind through the spires of the fir trees.

She glanced over her shoulder and peered into the rear compartment of the Volkswagen. It had been prepared for Radek’s arrival. The rear foldout bed was deployed. Beneath the bed was the specially constructed compartment where he would be hidden for the border crossing. He would be comfortable there, more comfortable than he deserved.

She looked out the windshield. Not much to see, the narrow road rising into the gloom toward a crest in the distance. Then, suddenly, there was light, a clean white glow that lit the horizon and turned the trees to black minarets. For a few seconds, it was possible to see the sleet, swirling like a cloud of insects on the wind swept air. Then the headlamps appeared. The car breasted the hill, and the lights bore into her, throwing the shadows of the trees one way, then another. Chiara wrapped her hand around the Beretta and slipped her forefinger inside the trigger guard.

The car skidded to a stop next to the van. She peered into the back seat and saw the murderer, seated between Navot and Zalman, rigid as a commissar waiting for the blood purge. She crawled into the rear compartment and made one final check.

“T
AKE OFF YOUR OVERCOAT
,” Navot commanded.

“Why?”

“Because I told you to.”

“I have a right to know why.”

“You have no rights! Just do as I say.”

Radek sat motionless. Zalman pulled at the lapel of his coat, but the old man folded his arms tightly across his chest. Navot sighed heavily. If the old bastard wanted one final wrestling match, he was going to get it. Navot pried open his arms while Zalman pulled off the right sleeve, then the left. The herringbone jacket came next; then Zalman tore open his shirtsleeve and exposed the sagging bare skin of his arm. Navot produced a syringe, loaded with the sedative.

“This is for your own good,” Navot said. “It’s mild and very short in duration. It will make your journey much more bearable. No claustrophobia.”

“I’ve never been claustrophobic.”

“I don’t care.”

Navot plunged the needle into Radek’s arm and depressed the plunger. After a few seconds, Radek’s body relaxed; then his head fell to one side and his jaw went slack. Navot opened the door and climbed out. He took hold of Radek’s limp body beneath the armpits and dragged him out of the car.

Zalman picked him up by the legs, and together they carried him like war dead to the side of the Volkswagen. Chiara was crouched inside, holding an oxygen bottle and a clear plastic mask. Navot and Zalman laid Radek on the floor of the Volkswagen; then Chiara placed the mask over his nose and mouth. The plastic fogged immediately, indicating that Radek was breathing well. She checked his pulse. Steady and strong. They maneuvered him into the compartment and closed the lid.

Chiara climbed behind the wheel and started the engine. Oded slid the side door shut and rapped his palm against the glass. Chiara slipped the Volkswagen into gear and headed back toward the highway. The others climbed into the Opel and followed after her.

F
IVE MINUTES LATER
, the lights of the border appeared like beacons on the horizon. As Chiara drew nearer, she could see a short line of traffic, about six vehicles in length, waiting to make the crossing. There were two border policemen in evidence. They had their flashlights out and were checking passports and looking through windows. She glanced over her shoulder. The doors over the compartment remained closed. Radek was silent.

The car in front of her passed inspection and was released to the Czech side. The border policeman waved her forward. She lowered her window and managed a smile.

“Passport, please.”

She handed it over. The second officer had maneuvered his way around to the passenger side of the van, and she could see the beam of his flashlight flickering around the interior.

“Is something wrong?”

The border policeman kept his eyes down on her photograph and said nothing.

“When did you enter Austria?”

“Earlier today.”

“Where?”

“From Italy, at Tarvísio.”

He spent a moment comparing her face to the photo in the passport. Then he pulled open the front door and motioned for her to get out of the van.

U
ZI
N
AVOT WATCHED
the scene from his vantage point in the front passenger seat of the Opel. He looked at Oded and swore softly under his breath. Then he dialed the Munich safe flat on his cell phone. Shamron answered on the first ring.

“We’ve got a problem,” Navot said.

H
E ORDERED HER
to stand in front of the van and shone a light in her face. Through the glare she could see the second border policeman pulling open the side door of the Volkswagen. She forced herself to look at her interrogator. She tried not to think of the Beretta pressing against her spine. Or of Gabriel, waiting on the other side of the border in Mikulov. Or Navot, Oded, and Zalman, watching helplessly from the Opel.

“Where are you traveling to this evening?”

“Prague,” she said.

“Why are you going to Prague?”

She shot him a look—
None of your business.
Then she said, “I’m going to see my boyfriend.”

“Boyfriend,” he repeated. “What does your boyfriend do in Prague?”

“He teaches Italian,”
Gabriel had said.

She answered the question.

“Where does he teach?”

“At the Prague Institute of Language Studies,”
Gabriel had said.

Again, she answered as Gabriel had instructed.

“And how long has he been a teacher at the Prague Institute of Language Studies?”

“Three years.”

“And do you see him often?”

“Once a month, sometimes twice.”

The second officer had climbed inside the van. An image of Radek flashed through her mind, eyes closed, oxygen mask over his face.
Don’t wake,
she thought. Don’t stir. Don’t make a sound. Do the decent thing, for once in your wretched life.