The Detachment (17 page)

On the one hand, Emma Capps, widowed but retaining her married name, was fairly easy to track. For starters, we had both her home and work addresses, courtesy of standard IRS paperwork. We also had plenty of photographs, scraped from the university’s website, from Capps’s Facebook page, and from Capps’s own website, where she blogged about trends in the art world and advertised her paintings—impressive oil works that were at once recognizably realistic but also bathed in an otherworldly, melting luminescence. On the other hand, none of us was particularly familiar with Vienna, we knew nothing of Capps’s daily habits, and we had only four days before Finch was expected to arrive in the city.

Still, an experienced four-man team, operating within urban concealment, can typically nail down the details of a civilian’s routine within a matter of days, and so it was for us with Capps. The fourth-floor flat in the déclassé 15
^th
District, near Westbanhof, the main train station; morning yoga at Bikram Yoga College, a few blocks away; breakfast at Café Westend, also in her neighborhood; the university in the afternoon, where, given the paucity of students because of the summer break, we assumed she was painting rather than teaching. She was an attractive woman of about fifty with wavy brown hair, an erect posture, and a purposeful stride—easy to watch in both senses of the phrase. She seemed to live alone, and I wondered what had happened to her deceased husband, and how old she’d been when she’d lost him, and whether there had been any children beforehand. If there had been, presumably they were now grown and living on their own. Horton hadn’t included such details in her file, either because he didn’t have them, or, more likely, because he understood that no one other than a sociopath wants to become overly familiar with the humanity of someone targeted, even peripherally, in an op. And, indeed, as we watched Capps and learned her routines, I felt an inchoate hope that there were children somewhere, or a lover, or someone else in her life besides the brother we were about to take away.

On the fourth day we were watching her, the day we expected Finch to arrive, she stayed at the university later than usual. The four of us had shadowed her from her neighborhood that morning and were now taking turns circling the university, and at first I was concerned when she failed to emerge around five as she had previously. I would have expected her to meet Finch at the airport, or at least at Westbanhof Station. Could he have been coming in on a late flight? Had he canceled, or had Horton been wrong about him coming in the first place? But then I realized there was another possibility—simply that Finch, who had been visiting his sister here for many years, would know his way around and require no escort. So maybe the deviation in routine was a good sign.

Turned out it was. Capps left the university at close to six. There were plenty of pedestrians about, all enjoying the late summer daylight, and there were also lots of bicyclists and motor scooters and cars, so following Capps without being observed was easy. I stayed on her from a discreet distance, then watched her enter Café Prückel, a classic Viennese coffee shop in one of the glorious nineteenth-century buildings that characterized the area—where, with the kind of serendipity that occasionally smiles down upon an op, Dox was presently taking a load off while Treven, Larison and I worked the street. I called him on the mobile he was carrying.

“Our girl is coming to see you,” I said when he picked up. “Did you—”

“Saw her already, amigo. I’m at one of the sidewalk tables, enjoying a tasty espresso and apple strudel
mit Schlag
.”

“‘
Mit Schlag
’?”

“Means with whipped cream.”

“I know what it means.”

“Oh. Well, when in Rome and all that, you know, I just like to blend.”

For a moment, I pictured enormous, goateed Dox amidst the effete students and artistes of the area. What I pictured couldn’t fairly be characterized as blending.

“That’s…admirable,” I said.

“
Danke
, buddy, I appreciate it. Anyway, what’s the plan?”

“Stay put for now. One of us will get a table on the other side of the building or inside so we have a view of both entrances. She might be meeting her friend there.”

The oblique references were probably unnecessary—the phones Horton had supplied were encrypted, and at this distance we were connected by their radio function rather than through a cell tower. But no sense taking chances.

“Roger that. Tell you what, get here soon so I can get up and drain the dragon. I’ve got three espressos inside me at this point and I think at least two are trying to get out.”

“Hold it in for five more minutes. I’ll buzz you as soon as we have someone else inside.”

“Can we make it four? I swear, I am currently engaged in mortal bladiatorial combat, and—”

“Look, I’ll try,” I said, exasperated. I clicked off and called Larison and Treven. Larison headed into the café; Treven, who was on a rented motor scooter, stayed outside.

Once Larison had confirmed he was inside and could see Capps, I told Dox to pull out. If Capps was indeed meeting Finch here, I didn’t want to give him the chance to log more of us than was strictly necessary.

I waited on a bench under the shade of some trees in the nearby Stadtpark, just a harmless-looking Japanese tourist taking in the sights and sounds and smells, savoring the sense of loneliness and freedom that comes only from solitary sojourns in strange lands, where all the everyday things seem subtly wondrous and different and new, where there’s no one to please or disappoint or explain to, where the traveler finds himself suspended between the beguilement of the comforts he left behind, and the allure of an imaginary future he senses but knows he can never really have.

I passed nearly an hour that way, the day’s heat slowly loosening, the trees’ shadows lengthening, pensioners and lovers and dog walkers drifting past me, occasionally enjoying an adjacent park bench. Maybe Horton’s intel had been faulty. Maybe Finch wouldn’t show. Maybe I’d get credit in the next life, or the afterlife, for trying, for a good faith effort that had ultimately failed to produce results.

My mobile buzzed. Larison’s number. I clicked answer. “Yeah.”

“Gang’s all here,” he said in his gravelly whisper.

I could hear the sounds of the café around him—music, conversation, laughter. “Good. Sound quality okay?”

The phones we were carrying were equipped with the latest listening gear—integrated electronic amplifiers. State of the art, as Horton had promised. Not as powerful as a parabolic mic, but a hell of a lot smaller and less obtrusive. Depending on overall acoustics, the user could eavesdrop on a quiet conversation as much as thirty feet away through a pair of ordinary wire-line earbuds, the kind Larison would be wearing right now.

“Excellent,” he said.

“Good. Let me know if you find out where we’ll be dining and staying.”

“I will.”

“Does it look like just us? Or should we expect extra company?

“Unless the extra company is cooling its heels outside, it looks like just us.”

So Finch was traveling without security. Unexpected, given his position, and even more so given the quality of enemy he must have developed through his information-brokering hobbies. Maybe he felt the dirt he had banked made him untouchable. Maybe he felt his side trip to Vienna had been planned discreetly enough to offer adequate protection. It didn’t matter. I’d have Treven make a pass on the motor scooter and Dox on foot to confirm, but for now it seemed like good news for us.

“All right,” I said. “If you learn anything or need anything, we’re nearby.”

“Copacetic for now.”

I clicked off and considered. For the moment, I didn’t want to say anything to Larison, but in my mind his cover was already blown. Even if Finch was relaxed enough to travel without a bodyguard, the way he had planned this trip suggested a degree of security sensitivity—certainly enough for him to log Larison and his danger vibe. Dox had commented on it, too, on our drive west from Las Vegas. “That hombre could make Satan’s neck hairs stand on end,” was how he’d put it. “He’s a reloader for sure.”

“A reloader?” I’d asked.

“Yeah, I’d empty the whole magazine into him, then reload and do it again, just to be sure.”

I agreed with his assessment. If Larison had a weakness, it was that danger aura he put out. Most men who have it just can’t cloak it. And if Finch picked up on it, he’d sure as hell take note if he spotted Larison again later that evening.

Ten minutes later, Larison buzzed me again. “Good news,” he said. “We’re eating at a place called Expidit. That’s how it sounds, anyway, I don’t know how it’s spelled. Like ‘expedite’ but with ‘it’ at the end, not ‘ite.’”

“I’ll see what I can find online. What about lodging?”

“A hotel called the Hollman Bell something. Again, I couldn’t make it out exactly. But that should be enough to work with.”

“Arrival time?”

“They’re done with their drinks and waved the waiter off when he asked if they wanted another, so I’d guess soon.”

“Okay, let me know if they head out. I’m going to try to find the restaurant and hotel.”

It took me only a minute to locate the Xpedit restaurant and Hollman Beletage Design and Boutique Hotel, both within a half mile of the university. Finch must have chosen the hotel for its proximity, and probably Capps had proposed the restaurant for the same reason.

I thought for a moment, then called Larison again. “Does our friend have a bag with him?” I asked.

“No.”

That meant he’d already checked in at the hotel. It also made it more likely that he and Capps would be on foot the rest of the evening. With no bag to carry, it would be a shame to waste the glorious weather by taking a cab.

“Okay,” I said, “here’s how I want us to play it. I’ll let the other guys know we’re going to stay nice and loose for the duration. No sense following too closely if we know where things are going to wind up. You stay put when they leave. I don’t want our friend seeing you get up at the same time he does, or to spot you later tonight.”

I expected some pushback, because no professional likes someone suggesting he’s been made. But Larison surprised me, saying only, “Agreed. Where do you want me?”

“Give them ten minutes, then head to the hotel. It’s the Hollman Beletage, on Köllnerhofgasse less than a half mile northwest of here. Find it on a map, but don’t look it up directly.”

“You don’t want a record of multiple Google searches of the restaurant and hotel.”

“I didn’t use Google, but yes. No sense leaving an electronic paper trail. Not that anyone’s going to be looking.”

Again he said, “Agreed.”

“Spend an hour getting to know the area, then let’s talk again. I’ll be doing the same.”

I clicked off, then called Dox and Treven to pass on the information Larison had given me. I told them to keep a loose eye on the restaurant, and to let me know when Finch and Capps showed up and when they were leaving. For the moment, the restaurant was of secondary interest: a possibility, but probably less promising than the hotel, where he was more likely to be alone. I might change that assessment after reconnoitering both, along with the route in between. The Xpedit restroom might be a possibility. Or, assuming Capps and Finch said their goodnights at the restaurant and she didn’t walk him to the hotel, some dark stretch of sidewalk, or an alley, on the way from one to the other. Whatever I decided, I wanted to avoid, if possible, using the cyanide, which Horton had deposited and we had retrieved at a dead drop at the base of the Mozart statue in the Burggarten, like something straight out of a John le Carré spy novel. I wasn’t entirely sure why I was reluctant. Maybe it was the inherent danger of such a powerful compound. Maybe it was some vestigial security discomfort in doing things the way Horton wanted, the way he expected. Maybe it was a perverse pride in doing the work up close, without tools, in a way almost no one else ever could.

I checked the restaurant first, and could immediately see it was unlikely to work. It was a large, open, L-shaped room, with enormous windows fronting the sidewalks outside. There was a hostess standing by the door, which meant I couldn’t slip in undetected for an on-site examination now without being remembered later. A hostess also suggested the need for reservations, and while presumably they would take walk-ins on an as-available basis, the place was pretty full. If a table were open, I could put Dox or Treven inside, hopefully somewhere that offered a view of Finch and Capps. Or I could lurk outside, keeping an eye on Capps and Finch through the large windows, then moving quickly inside if Finch got up to use the restroom. But that would almost certainly involve a “Would you mind if I used your restroom?” exchange with the hostess, at exactly the time one of the diners would subsequently turn up dead in said restroom. And if I couldn’t get to Finch, say because another patron was in the restroom at the same time he was, he’d see me, making it harder for me to get close later on.

I moved on to the hotel, noting with disappointment that there were no good venues on the way, even assuming I could be sure of Finch’s exact route and anticipate him accordingly. But as soon as I reached the hotel, I felt reassured. Call it assassination feng shui: the vibe was just more favorable. The entrance was in the center of an antique, balustraded building that occupied an entire short block. There was no doorman, no bellboy, and no driveway, just a dark, wooden door under an orange awning, flanked on the left by a clothes shop and on the right by a tobacco vendor and a hardware store, all currently closed. Parked cars lined the narrow street alongside the building, creating concealment possibilities around the hotel entrance. I saw not a single pedestrian, and compared to the revelry of the Ringstrasse, this part of the city was practically sepulchral.

I walked around the block, my footfalls against the stone sidewalk the only sound of any note. There was a restaurant around the corner, and two cafés down the street, but they were small affairs, presumably catering to people in the neighborhood and not attracting crowds from farther away. Everything else was either residential, or closed. I saw no security cameras anywhere, and was grateful that, for the moment, at least, Vienna wasn’t as blanketed with the devices as Tokyo, London, and, increasingly, major American cities.