Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (138 page)

“Call the ambassador! Help my wife, goddamn it!”

“Who do you work for!”

“You know who I work for! Help my wife. Don’t let her die!”

“Her life is in your hands, Mr. Allon.”

“You’re dead, you motherfucker! If my wife dies tonight, you’re dead. Do you hear me? You’re fucking
dead!”

The tape dissolved to a blizzard of silver and black. Kruz sat for a long time, unable to take his eyes from the screen. Finally he switched his telephone to secure and dialed a number from memory. He recognized the voice that greeted him. They exchanged no pleasantries.

“I’m afraid we have a problem.”

“Tell me.”

Kruz did.

“Why don’t you arrest him? He’s in this country illegally on a forged passport, and in violation of an agreement made between your service and his.”

“And then what? Hand him over to the state prosecutor’s office so they can put him on trial? Something tells me he might want to use a platform like that to his advantage.”

“What are you suggesting?”

“Something a bit more subtle.”

“Consider the Israeli your problem, Manfred. Deal with it.”

“And what about Max Klein?”

The line went dead. Kruz hung up the phone.

IN A QUIET backwater of the Stephansdom Quarter, in the very shadow of the cathedral’s north tower, there is a lane too narrow for anything but pedestrian traffic. At the head of the lane, on the ground floor of a stately old Baroque house, there is a small shop that sells nothing but collector-quality antique clocks. The sign over the door is circumspect, the shop hours unpredictable. Some days it does not open for business at all. There are no employees other than the owner. To one set of exclusive clients, he is known as Herr Gruber. To another, the Clockmaker.

He was short of stature and muscular in build. He preferred pullovers and loose-fitting tweed jackets, because formal shirts and ties did not fit him particularly well. He was bald, with a fringe of cropped gray hair, and his eyebrows were thick and dark. He wore round spectacles with tortoise-shell frames. His hands were larger than most in his field, but dexterous and highly skilled.

His workshop was as orderly as an operating room. On the worktable, in a pool of clean light, lay a two-hundred-year-old Neuchatel wall clock. The three-part case, decorated in floral-patterned cameos, was in perfect condition, as was the enamel dial with Roman numerals. The Clockmaker had entered the final stages of an extensive overhaul of the two-train Neuchatel movement. The finished piece would fetch close to ten thousand dollars. A buyer, a collector from Lyon, was waiting.

The bell at the front of the shop interrupted the Clockmaker’s work. He poked his head around the door frame and saw a figure standing outside in the street, a motorcycle courier, his wet leather jacket gleaming with rain like a seal’s skin. There was a package under his arm. The Clockmaker went to the door and unlocked it. The courier handed over the package without a word, then climbed onto the bike and sped away.

The Clockmaker locked the door again and carried the package to his worktable. He unwrapped it slowly—indeed, he did almost everything slowly—and lifted the cover of a cardboard packing case. Inside lay a Louis XV French wall clock. Quite lovely. He removed the casing and exposed the movement. The dossier and photograph were concealed inside. He spent a few minutes reviewing the document, then concealed it inside a large volume entitled
Carriage Clocks in the Age of Victoria.

The Louis XV had been delivered by the Clockmaker’s most important client. The Clockmaker did not know his name, only that he was wealthy and politically connected. Most of his clients shared those two attributes. This one was different, though. A year ago he’d given the Clockmaker a list of names, men scattered from Europe to the Middle East to South America. The Clockmaker was steadily working his way down the list. He’d killed a man in Damascus, another in Cairo. He’d killed a Frenchman in Bordeaux and a Spaniard in Madrid. He’d crossed the Atlantic in order to kill two wealthy Argentines. One name remained on the list, a Swiss banker in Zurich. The Clockmaker had yet to receive the final signal to proceed against him. The dossier he’d received tonight was a new name, a bit closer to home than he preferred, but hardly a challenge. He decided to accept the assignment.

He picked up the telephone and dialed.

“I received the clock. How quickly do you need it done?”

“Consider it an emergency repair.”

“There’s a surcharge for emergency repairs. I assume you’re willing to pay it?”

“How much of a surcharge?”

“My usual fee, plus half.”

“For this job?”

“Do you want it done, or not?”

“I’ll send over the first half in the morning.”

“No, you’ll send it
tonight.
”

“If you insist.”

The Clockmaker hung up the telephone as a hundred chimes simultaneously tolled four o’clock.

8

VIENNA

G
ABRIEL HAD NEVER been fond of Viennese coffeehouses. There was something in the smell—the potion of stale tobacco smoke, coffee, and liqueur—that he found offensive. And although he was quiet and still by nature, he did not enjoy sitting for long periods, wasting valuable time. He did not read in public, because he feared old enemies might be stalking him. He drank coffee only in the morning, to help him wake, and rich desserts made him ill. Witty conversation annoyed him, and listening to the conversations of others, especially pseudo-intellectuals, drove him to near madness. Gabriel’s private hell would be a room where he would be forced to listen to a discussion of art led by people who knew nothing about it.

It had been more than thirty years since he had been to Café Central. The coffeehouse had proven to be the setting for the final stage of his apprenticeship for Shamron, the portal between the life he’d led before the Office and the twilight world he would inhabit after. Shamron, at the end of Gabriel’s training period, had devised one more test to see whether he was ready for his first assignment. Dropped at midnight on the outskirts of Brussels, paperless and without a centime in his pocket, he had been ordered to meet an agent the next morning in the Leidseplein in Amsterdam. Using stolen money and a passport he’d taken from an American tourist, he’d managed to arrive on the morning train. The agent he found waiting was Shamron. He relieved Gabriel of the passport and his remaining money, then told him to be in Vienna the following afternoon, dressed in different clothes. They met on a bench in the Stadtpark and walked to the Central. At a table next to a tall, arched window, Shamron had given Gabriel an airline ticket to Rome and the key to an airport locker where he would find a Beretta pistol. Two nights later, in the foyer of an apartment house in the Piazza Annabaliano, Gabriel had killed for the first time.

Then, as now, it was raining when Gabriel arrived at Café Central. He sat on a leather banquette and placed a stack of German-language newspapers on the small, round table. He ordered a Schlagobers, black coffee topped with whipped cream. It came on a silver tray with a glass of iced water. He opened the first newspaper,
Die Presse,
and began to read. The bombing at Wartime Claims and Inquiries was the lead story. The Interior Minister was promising swift arrests. The political right was demanding harsher immigration measures to prevent Arab terrorists, and other troublesome elements, from crossing Austria’s borders.

Gabriel finished the first newspaper. He ordered another Schlagobers and opened a magazine called
Profil.
He looked around the café. It was rapidly filling with Viennese office workers stopping for a coffee or a drink on the way home from work. Unfortunately none bore even a remote resemblance to Max Klein’s description of Ludwig Vogel.

By five o’clock, Gabriel had drunk three cups of coffee and was beginning to despair of ever seeing Ludwig Vogel. Then he noticed that his waiter was wringing his hands with excitement and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Gabriel followed the line of the waiter’s gaze and saw an elderly gentleman coming through the door—
An Austrian of the old school, if you know what I mean, Mr. Argov.
Yes, I do, thought Gabriel.
Good afternoon, Herr Vogel.

HIS HAIR WAS nearly white, deeply receded, and combed very close to his scalp. His mouth was small and taut, his clothing expensive and elegantly worn: gray flannel trousers, a double-breasted blazer, a burgundy-colored ascot. The waiter helped him off with his overcoat and led him to a table, just a few feet from Gabriel’s.

“An Einspänner, Karl. Nothing more.”

Confident, baritone, a voice used to giving orders.

“Can I tempt you with a Sachertorte? Or an apple strudel? It’s very fresh tonight.”

A weary shake of the head, once to the left, once to the right.

“Not today, Karl. Just coffee.”

“As you wish, Herr Vogel.”

Vogel sat down. At that same instant, two tables away, his bodyguard sat, too. Klein hadn’t mentioned the bodyguard. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed him. Perhaps he was a new addition. Gabriel forced himself to look down at his magazine.

The seating arrangements were far from optimal. As luck would have it, Vogel was facing Gabriel directly. A more oblique angle would have allowed Gabriel to observe him without fear of being noticed. What’s more, the bodyguard was seated just behind Vogel, his eyes on the move. Judging from the bulge in the left side of his suit jacket, he was carrying a weapon in a shoulder holster. Gabriel considered changing tables but feared it would arouse Vogel’s suspicion, so he stayed put and sneaked glances at him over the top of his magazine.

And on it went for the next forty-five minutes. Gabriel finished the last of his reading material and started in on
Die Presse
again. He ordered a fourth Schlagobers. At some point he became aware that he too was being watched, not by the bodyguard but by Vogel himself. A moment later, he heard Vogel say, “It’s damned cold tonight, Karl. How about a small glass of brandy before I leave?”

“Of course, Herr Vogel.”

“And one for the gentleman at that table over there, Karl.”

Gabriel looked up and saw two pairs of eyes studying him, the small, dull eyes of the fawning waiter, and Vogel’s, which were blue and bottomless. His small mouth had curled into a humorless smile. Gabriel didn’t know quite how to react, and Ludwig Vogel was clearly enjoying his discomfort.

“I was just leaving,” Gabriel said in German, “but thank you very much.”

“As you wish.” Vogel looked at the waiter. “Come to think of it, Karl, I think I’ll be going, too.”

Vogel stood suddenly. He handed the waiter a few bills, then walked to Gabriel’s table.

“I offered to buy you a brandy because I noticed you were looking at me,” Vogel said. “Have we ever met before?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Gabriel said. “And if I was looking at you, I meant nothing by it. I just enjoy looking at faces in Viennese coffeehouses.” He hesitated, then added, “One never knows whom one might run into.”

“I couldn’t agree more.” Another humorless smile. “Are you sure we’ve never met before? Your face seems very familiar to me.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“You’re new to the Central,” Vogel said with certainty. “I come here every afternoon. You might say I’m Karl’s best customer. I know I’ve never seen you here before.”

“I usually take my coffee at Sperl.”

“Ah, Sperl. Their strudel is good, but I’m afraid the sound of the billiards tables intrudes on my concentration. I must say, I’m fond of the Central. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

“Perhaps,” Gabriel said noncommittally.

“There was an old man who used to come here often. He was about my age. We used to have lovely conversations. He hasn’t come for some time. I hope he’s all right. When one is old, things have a way of going wrong very quickly.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe he’s just moved on to another coffeehouse.”

“Perhaps,” Vogel said. Then he wished Gabriel a pleasant evening and walked into the street. The bodyguard followed discreetly after him. Through the glass, Gabriel saw a Mercedes sedan slide forward. Vogel shot one more glance in Gabriel’s direction before lowering himself into the back seat. Then the door closed and the car sped away.

Gabriel sat for a moment, turning over the details of the unexpected encounter. Then he paid his check and walked into the frigid evening. He knew he had just been sent a warning. He also knew that his time in Austria was limited.

THE AMERICAN WAS the last to depart Café Central. He paused in the doorway to turn up the collar of his Burberry overcoat, doing his best to avoid looking like a spy, and watched the Israeli disappear into the darkened street. Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction. It had been an interesting afternoon. A ballsy move on Vogel’s part, but then that was Vogel’s style.