Jeffery Deaver - Ice Cold

Thompson gave me the Austrian’s info and sent me on my way. On the surface, the assignment seemed straightforward. As long as the Szalay family could get to the Prater safely, then I could get them out of Austria with no problems.

Or so I thought.

I met the asset at Trześniewski’s, one of my favorite cafés. They served small rectangular open sandwiches of fresh bread and various spreads. It was a Viennese mainstay since before the First World War. The man gave his name as “Ernst.” It probably wasn’t real. He looked about my age, had blonde hair, and was as Austrian as they come. Being in public, we spoke German.

“There has already been one attempt on Szalay’s life,” he told me. “It happened last night in District Twenty-Two. Two assassins attempted to shoot into the car they were in while it was stopped at a street light. Luckily, our man in the car behind them engaged the attackers in gunfire. Szalay and the family got away safely.”

“Jesus,” I said. “How come we didn’t hear about that?”

“I’m sure the police are trying to figure out what really happened. All they found were two dead men lying in an intersection.” Ernst shrugged. “Vienna’s a rough town these days.”

We talked about the logistics of getting the family out of the park and into an unmarked van that would take them immediately to Salzburg, and from there, into West Germany and the American Zone. Since the Riesenrad was in the southwest corner of the park, near the front entrance, I thought it best that we meet in that vicinity. Just across from the attraction, on the other side of the circular Riesenradplatz , stood a small pavilion containing restrooms, a snack bar, and an ice cream parlor. Ernst thought that was perfect. Ausstellungsstraße , a major east-west avenue, ran just north of the Prater main entrance. At the given time, the van could pull up to the curb and I could herd the family into it quickly.

“As long as you’re not seen by the opposition, that should work fine,” my Austrian colleague said.

“One last question. Why are we doing this at the Prater ?” I thought it was a reasonable question.

Ernst shrugged. “It’s what I was told. Maybe the family wants to ride the carousel and eat some cotton candy.”

The temperature outside was nippy but not terribly cold. The park would soon close for its regular hiatus through winter. On the fourth it would close at seven, and that’s when the van would arrive to pick up the Szalay family. Ernst promised to have them at the designated spot at six-thirty, just as it was becoming dark. He didn’t think that thirty minutes of exposure was too bad, but unfortunately that was the way the timing had to work. That was fine, or so I thought.

That afternoon, I did as much fact-finding as I could regarding the presence of Soviet hit squads in Vienna. All I found out was what we already knew. They were indeed in the city, but I had no idea how many or who they were. Nevertheless, I was confident the handover would go smoothly. It sounded easy enough: collect the family from Ernst at the amusement park, maybe have an ice cream with them, and then walk them to the street corner to catch the van. My part would take less than two hours of my time, including the travel to and from my home and the Prater . Easy.

I was at the park by six-fifteen. It wasn’t very crowded due to the chilly weather. Much of the place had been hit by bombs during the war, and it had taken a while to rebuild everything. The big wheel had been damaged, too. The Prater reclaimed its former glory around the same time as Austria reentered the global community as a sovereign nation. Most of the attractions were back, along with newer things. The Riesenrad looked brand new, although they’d reduced the number of gondolas in order to spread them out more around the wheel. Part of the attraction was a small building that housed an exhibit telling the park’s history. Passengers had to buy tickets, go through the minimuseum, and then climb the steps to the platform where they boarded a gondola.

Taking my position by the ice cream parlor, I lit a cigarette and stood as if I was waiting for someone—which I was. There’s no entrance fee to the park itself; it’s only if you want to go on the rides or play games that they charge you money. The wheel was right in front of me, as big as the sky. Unlike most Ferris wheels, this one rotated very slowly, so that riders could stand in the gondola, look out the windows, take pictures, or whatever. It was also possible to arrange to rent the “dining car,” which was decked out with a tablecloth-covered table, candles, and waiters. Perfect for a special occasion.

I kept my eyes moving, noting the faces of the people as they strolled through the Riesenradplatz on their way in or out of the park. Some went straight to the Ferris wheel. By the time I’d finished my cigarette, it was six-thirty. And, right on time, Ernst appeared from behind the pavilion. He spoke German again. “I have your package.”

I didn’t see anyone but him. “Oh?”

He jerked his head toward the trees that lined the park behind the pavilion. “I wanted to make sure everything was okay. I’ll be right back.”

Ernst left me and I waited another minute. Then, the man I recognized as Tamás Szalay came around the corner of the building with his wife and two children. He was shorter than I’d imagined, but he was definitely the same man. The wife was even smaller, but she was pretty in a conservative Hungarian way. Her head was wrapped in a scarf to ward off the chill. Szalay’s eyes darted fervently around the Riesenradplatz . The daughter appeared to be fourteen or fifteen, but I knew from the file she was only twelve. Her eyes were wide with excitement at the lights and colors of the amusement park. The boy, probably six or seven, was just as fascinated. Now standing near the base of the Riesenrad , he pointed to it and set off a string of Hungarian at his parents. He wanted to ride the wheel.

“Hello,” Szalay said to me in English. We clasped hands. His was moist from nervousness. I asked him if he spoke any English. He shook his head. I tried German. Szalay made the universal sign with his fingers—“a little.” His Russian was much better than my Hungarian, so we settled on that.

“Long journey?”

“Yes.”

“Everything okay?”

“I think so, but we’re being followed.”

“Oh?” I looked behind the family. I didn’t see Ernst. “Where is…?”

Szalay turned and motioned back to the trees. It was dark back there. “He… he’s with the other man who brought us.”

That didn’t sound right to me, but I figured Ernst knew what he was doing.

The boy continued to jabber about the wheel. He was nearing tears as his mother tried to comfort him. Szalay turned to him and shook his head. No, they were telling him. No time to ride the Ferris wheel. The boy became hysterical. He started to scream and cry and throw a tantrum. We were attracting a lot of attention.

I looked at my watch. “Actually, you have some time, if you’d like. It might be better than standing here.” I glanced toward the building at the base of the Riesenrad . There wasn’t much of a line to buy tickets. “My treat.”

He spoke to his wife in Hungarian, and then they decided to take me up on my offer. It would be a nice present for the children. After all, they didn’t know when they’d ever be in Vienna again. When they told their son, he immediately settled down and was happy.

I walked them to the other side of the platz to the ride’s box office, pulled out my wallet, and handed over enough Austrian schillings to buy four tickets. I gave them to him and said, “Here. Wrap yourself good. It might be cold up there.”