The Memorist (10 page)

Saturday, April 26
^th
—5:35 p.m.

A
fter Meer had checked in and unpacked she’d lain down and tried to relax but she kept remembering Ruth on the floor and how cold the woman’s skin had been. At home whenever she was restless, she walked. So Meer went downstairs, got a map from the concierge, and took off.

The giant Ferris wheel gleamed in the setting sun and the cables that tethered the gondolas looked like fragile gold threads instead of strong steel capable of withstanding thousands of pounds of pressure: the distant landmark was as good a destination as any other.

Vienna, like many other European cities she’d visited, was a medley of architectural styles, occasionally dissonant, often harmonious. A baroque bell-domed Italian-style church peacefully coexisted between two simple Biedermeier town houses next to a fanciful gilt-and-bronze Secessionist apartment building. But now she reached an area identified on the map as Leopoldstadt, which had a more cohesive feel, with narrow cobbled streets and
houses, theaters and stores crowded on top of each other. Most of the signage was in German but occasionally she’d see Hebraic letters on a storefront. Even though, like her mother, she wasn’t religious, Judaism was her heritage and the familiar symbols were reassuring.

Suddenly, Meer heard shouting—a woman’s voice and then a man’s—and turned, searching out the noise, but twilight had descended on the street and she couldn’t see anyone in the shadows. Scanning the three- and four-story buildings that leaned into each other, she searched for the open window where the noise might be coming from. One of the buildings drew her attention precisely because it didn’t have any windows. Nondescript except for two columns on either side of the door, it was set back slightly and shrouded in even more obscurity than the others. The shouting resumed and Meer became certain this was its source. As she stood there listening, she felt a chill that came from inside her, not from the night. Shivering overtook her as the air started to shimmer and her surroundings became translucent. Her shoulders tensed and her jaw muscles tightened as a metallic taste filled her mouth. Her spine began to throb. The dreads were back, and with them the music and more memories.

Vienna, Austria
September 26
^th
, 1814

A
s the twilight deepened around her, Margaux walked the half block to the nondescript gray building, climbed up the wide steps between the two columns, lifted the doorknocker and let it fall.

The door opened a crack and candlelight from inside the foyer spilled out on the landing as the servant peered into her face with surprise. “I’m sorry, Frau Neidermier, but you can’t come in, it’s against the rules for women to visit,” he said once he’d realized who she was.

She walked past him, striding into the anteroom with feigned bravado.

“Can I help you?” he asked, completely unsure of how to handle her forced entry.

“I’d like to see Rudolph Toller,” she said, naming her husband’s business partner, hoping she sounded stronger and braver than she felt. So much depended on the outcome of this meeting.

Staring up at the elaborate domed ceiling Margaux tried to calm her nerves by concentrating on the hundreds of tiny mirrors that twinkled like stars. Caspar had told her there was no more elaborate building in all of Vienna, and she was certain it was true. What a spectacle her husband and his partner had created. What a treasure trove. Tables inlaid with lapis lazuli, carnelian, tiger’s eye, onyx and malachite. Gold fittings and gilt moldings glinted in the firelight. Glazed oil paintings of ancient Egyptian scenes added dimension to the boundaries of the room. And the smell! Burners in all four corners of the room scented the air with the same Cassia incense her husband had given her when he’d come back from his last trip. Being here was like being inside her husband’s mind, seeing through his eyes. Feeling her own eyes brimming, she blinked back tears.

“If Caspar were here now, he’d remind me that it’s a mistake to ever underestimate you,” Toller said as he came out to greet her. “He used to say you were like your homeland’s Mistral—an unrelenting wind. And he was right. You’ve broken all our rules coming here, Margaux. I was going to respond to your letter in time.”

Despite the fact that her husband had trusted Toller enough to include him on his Indian expeditions, the man’s cadaverous countenance frightened her. As he bent down to kiss her hand a whiff of his stale scent reached her nostrils: he smelled as if he were spoiling from the inside out.

“But I don’t have time.”

“Did you come here in your own carriage?” he asked suspiciously.

The three gold keys dangling from the chain around his neck shone in the firelight. Even though Margaux knew he’d replaced Caspar as the Anibus, it pained her to see the necklace on him. As head of the Society, her husband had
worn it under his shirt for their entire marriage. When Toller had come to tell her he’d returned home alone from India and she’d seen the keys hanging from his neck, she’d had to hold herself back from ripping them off.

Margaux straightened her shoulders, adding another inch to her slight form. “Yes, I came in my carriage.” It took effort but her voice didn’t waver.

“Is it waiting outside?” Toller asked.

“No. Of course not. My driver is in the park, down the road. I know better than that.”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming?”

“Why are you interrogating me?”

“Forgive me, but we’re more concerned than usual about drawing attention to the Society with all of Europe here in Vienna for the Congress. Thousands of dignitaries and delegates and every one of them with a spy in tow. Despite the supposed enlightenment of our times, the Emperor’s laws make our existence here a crime punishable by law.”

“I know that. Caspar explained it all to me long ago. I wouldn’t—”

“Come, Margaux, let me take you back to your carriage.” Toller took her arm.

She wrested it away and stood resolute. “As Caspar’s wife, by Austrian law what belonged to him now belongs to me. I’m here to claim what he found on his last trip.”

“Those items belong to the Society.”

“No, in fact, they don’t. My income funded every one of my husband’s explorations, Herr Toller. Now, please. Would you be so kind as to give me what I’ve come for?”

“What the devil!” Toller lost his patience. “I most certainly will not.”

Margaux and Major Archer Wells had discussed what
would happen if Toller refused, so she didn’t falter. Without waiting for him to accompany her, Margaux crossed the foyer and quickly walked into the inner sanctum as if she’d been there a dozen times before and knew where she was going. It was heady being inside the actual rooms after so many hours of studying their architectural plans with Caspar.

“You’re trespassing,” Toller called out as he chased after her into the library.

Opening a door at the far end, Margaux walked into a closet. Caspar had been so proud of the building’s puzzles and had told her—yes—here was the handle—invisible unless you knew where it was. She pulled on it and a section of the wall swung open and a
whoosh
of cool air wrapped around her.

“He shared this too?” Toller was behind her, breathing heavily, his voice thick with anger. Grabbing Margaux’s arm again, he tried to pull her back. Surprising herself a little and him more, she kicked him hard enough to hurt him. Caspar had taught her how to defend herself using whatever she had available: her fists, her boots, a pistol or a sword. They lived in dangerous times and he’d wanted her to be safe while he was gone.

With the seconds she gained, Margaux rushed down the dimly lit staircase that circled back on itself as it descended into the catacombs. At the landing, the cavern opened up before her. Dozens of niches were carved into the walls, each one containing a dusty skeleton. A shocked
O
escaped from Margaux’s lips. Although her husband had described the old Roman burial ground to her, the reality of these long-dead was deeply shocking. Shadows flickered and moisture dripped down the stone walls. The mold was heavy and the scent of decay filled the air.

Holding a lantern, Toller came up behind her, leering. “What’s the matter?”

Margaux started to breathe through her mouth as she proceeded toward the far end of the room toward the crude cell with iron bars: the Memorists’ vault where she expected to find the treasure her husband had found in India: the treasure Major Archer Wells had offered to buy for a sum that was more than enough for her to fund her husband’s rescue. Only the cell was locked.

“What do you think is down here besides our records?” Toller asked.

“The engraved flute Caspar wrote about in the last letter he sent me.”

Toller’s laugh was more sickening than the smell of the dungeon. Stepping up to the rusted iron door, he used one of the keys from the chain around his neck in the lock. “It’s not here. Look for yourself.”

Vienna, Austria
Sunday, April 27
^th
—10:05 a.m.

T
he six-foot-three-inch-tall Texan poured what must have been his sixth cup of coffee of the day. He didn’t blow on it or sip it. If it burned, he didn’t let on. There was a china plate of fruit and another of cheese and a basket of bread on the table in front of him, but they remained untouched. Caffeine was the only fuel Tom Paxton needed, even if it was too hot.

Seated opposite him in the suite’s dining room, now outfitted as a makeshift office, were the architects of the plan that had won Global Security this contract. Kerri, his personal assistant, sat next to him as she always did, her laptop open and her fingers flying over the keys. Paxton felt reassured by the constant tapping.

Bill Vine, who, along with the other two men at the table, had been in Vienna for the last month overseeing the “symphony job” as they’d dubbed it, was bringing his boss up to date when Paxton interrupted.

“If I read you right on that last point, you’re saying there
are
still
access control issues? You haven’t resolved all of them? Do I have to remind you the concert’s four days away? What the hell is going on?”

“There’s only one issue we don’t have locked down. That’s all. And we’re close to solving it.” An ex-army guy, Vine never lost his cool. He’d seen enough death and had enough bad memories stored up to haunt him for the rest of his life. While he knew every job was a matter of life and death, not much rattled him. Certainly not a demanding boss, which was one of the reasons he still had this job. “Let’s go over what we’ve got squared away first. The traffic issues are taken care of. We have the city’s agreement to close the street outside the concert hall on the night of the performance. Even VIPs will be let off a block away and required to walk. Access to all entrances and exits of the protected area will be handled with a Zenith biometric access card and mantrap and we’re up to speed on all that. Everything’s in top working order and we have backups to our backups. The locals are being very cooperative.”

Vine had been with Global since Desert Storm. His PTSD would have incapacitated a less determined man but he kept his demons under control. Even so, every once in a while, like this morning, just to be safe, Paxton searched for evidence of them deep in the man’s eyes. He didn’t see them. If he ever did, Vine would be out no matter how close the two men had become or how much Vine had done for the company.

“Can you show me the card setup?” Paxton asked.

“You bet.” While Vine typed commands into his computer to bring up the right program, Paxton shifted his focus to the other members of the team, checking them for alertness, signs of tension, weariness. Being at the ISTA
conference in the catbird seat, he couldn’t afford any screwups. It had taken him too long to get there.

Every year the noteworthy body gathered in a different country to share the latest developments in security products and procedures, see demonstrations, debate policy and discuss challenges. Attended by the top brass from every major security company, hundreds of analysts, VIPs and officials from most governments’ security agencies, the International Security and Technology Association conference was a giant bull’s-eye: a sweetheart target for a showy terrorist attack. And on Thursday night it would be his responsibility to prevent that from happening.

Since ISTA’s inception in 1958, individual firms competed for the honor of providing the conference’s security each year. Several companies were usually chosen, depending on how many venues there were. This year there were six. One to handle the conference center where most of the activities, meetings, panel discussions and exhibitions would take place, and one for each of the four hotels where the attendees were staying. Those five firms would do little more than provide backup systems since the venues themselves were chosen based on the state of their security.

But the site the sixth company would be protecting was not as secure.

The systems in place in the one-hundred-and-thirty-nine-year-old Musikverein concert hall at Bösendorferstraße 12, off the Kärntner Ring were mediocre at best, so the company awarded that contract inherited the biggest opportunity along with the biggest challenge. And that company was Global Security Inc.

“You want all the gory details?” Vine asked his boss.

“You may think we all know every step of this system as well as our own names but—”

Vine cut him off, finishing the sentence for him. No one else on the team had the nerve to do that but Paxton actually cracked a smile as Vine intoned the company mantra, mimicking his boss’s voice: “But repetition is a small price to pay to ensure everything goes smoothly.” And then he launched into a monologue illustrated by dozens of 3-D visual displays on the laptop. “The holder will activate the card by placing his or her thumb in the left quadrant. The thumbprint will need to match the chip implanted within the card. The chip will have specific information about the cardholder…” Vine looked up and over at Paxton. “You know that drill, you set it up. Am I right in assuming you want me to keep going anyway?”

“Yeah, I like hearing your voice.”

Vine offered Paxton the closest thing to a smile he could manage: the right corner of his mouth lifted very slightly. You didn’t notice what was off about Vine when you first met him. Square-jawed with a full head of dark brown hair, he was a good-looking man, just past his prime but holding his own. And then you noticed how little his face moved and how few expressions he could manage. Twenty-two separate surgeries had put Humpty Dumpty together again. Well, almost put him back together again.

“Each cardholder’s name, organization, age and weight will be entered along with a picture, passport and driver’s license information. The maintenance crews, catering crews and concert hall employees have agreed to comply. We’re almost done collecting their data.”

“How far from being done?” Paxton asked.

“With those groups, another twelve hours.”

“Good. Go on.”

Around the table, there was a subtle restlessness. Paxton didn’t care that he was boring the bejeezus out of them. He wanted to hear the details again. And again. Like a lover telling him over and over how good it feels. Not that he was sure he’d remember what that was like but this was no time to reflect on the dried-up, hostile battlefield he used to call a marriage.

“The card will work only when the thumbprint matches the database on the chip. We’ll have proximity readers read the cards. Enough so we don’t cause traffic at any of the entrances, which could be used as diversions. If the information given to the reader matches the original database in the access control computer, the mantrap access gate will allow entrance into the building. If the information doesn’t match, the gate will lock, allowing neither entrance nor exit. Of course there’s an override protection so that the guards at our monitoring point can allow access in cases of emergency. The concert hall isn’t happy about the gates.”

“Why?” Paxton asked as he got up and poured himself the seventh cup of coffee.

“Aesthetics.”

“Aren’t we using bulletproof plexi? They should be thankful we’re not bringing in metal bar gates.”

“The building’s an historic treasure and they—”

“Fuck ’em.” Paxton dismissed the concern. “How many pounds leeway are you building into the sensor pads in case the weight on the access card isn’t exactly the same as the weight entered into the database? I don’t want to have a repeat of the incident in Washington last month.” A Supreme Court judge had gained six pounds since his access card had been created and the mantrap had locked him in.

“Ten pounds. Should be fine.”

Paxton sat back down and ran through it all again in his mind, then looked at Vine with an expression of bewilderment. “So all that’s left is the orchestra. That’s where the snafu is? With the fucking musicians?”

“I’m getting to it.”

“Or avoiding it.”

“I’m waiting for a phone call and was hoping it would come in while I was briefing you. We’re at a standstill, Tom.”

“Why are they giving us a hard time?”

“The concertmaster doesn’t want to submit the members of the orchestra to the ‘ordeal’ as he insists on referring to it. He’s saying that these are world renowned artists and he won’t have them treated like criminals.”

“We need this solved ASAP.” Paxton was about to belabor the point but stopped himself. There was no reason to lecture Vine. Instead, he turned to his number two. “Alana, time for your song and dance.”

Alana Green, a science and math whiz who had graduated from MIT at eighteen, had been with Global ever since. Now, at twenty-four she was still the youngest employee and only one year older than Paxton’s daughter. About to launch into her presentation, she stopped when Kerri’s cell phone rang. Paxton’s assistant looked at the display and then answered it. “David Yalom is on his way up,” she said after taking the call.

“Let’s wait,” Paxton said to Green. “We might as well put this show on for the press.”

“And one other thing,” Kerri continued.

Paxton looked back at her.

“I just got word that, schedules permitting, we might have a few extra guests at the concert.”

Paxton raised his eyebrows.

“Don’t keep me in suspense.”

“The Vice President of the United States and Secretary of Defense will be in Eastern Europe toward the end of next week. It seems that both of them are Beethoven fans.”