Daniel Silva - A Death in Vienna

THE CONSOLE OF sophisticated electronic equipment was of German manufacture. The microphones and transmitters concealed in the apartment of the target were of the highest quality-designed and built by West German intelligence at the height of the Cold War to monitor the activities of their adversaries in the east. The operator of the equipment was a native-born Argentine, though he could trace his ancestry to the Austrian village of Braunau am Inn. The fact that it was the same village where Adolf Hitler was born gave him a certain standing among his comrades. When the Jew paused in the entrance of the apartment house, the surveillance man snapped his photograph with a telephoto lens. A moment later, when the girl on the motorbike drew away from the curb, he captured her image as well, though it was of little value since her face was concealed beneath a black crash helmet. He spent a few moments reviewing the conversation that had taken place inside the target’s apartment; then, satisfied, he reached for the telephone. The number he dialed was in Vienna. The sound of German, spoken with a Viennese accent, was like music to his ears.

AT THE PONTIFICIO Santa Maria dell’Anima in Rome, a novice hurried along the second-floor corridor of the dormitory and paused outside the door of the room where the visitor from Vienna was staying. He hesitated before knocking, then waited for permission before entering. A wedge of light fell upon the powerful figure stretched out on the narrow cot. His eyes shone in the darkness like black pools of oil.

“You have a telephone call.” The boy spoke with his eyes averted. Everyone in the seminary had heard about the incident at the front gate the previous evening. “You can take it in the rector’s office.”

The man sat up and swung his feet to the floor in one fluid movement. The thick muscles in his shoulders and back rippled beneath his fair skin. He touched the bandage on his shoulder briefly, then pulled on a rollneck sweater.

The seminarian led the visitor down a stone staircase, then across a small courtyard. The rector’s office was empty. A single light burned on the desk. The receiver of the phone lay atop the blotter. The visitor picked it up. The boy slipped quietly from the room.

“We’ve located him.”

“Where?”

The man from Vienna told him. “He’s leaving for Bariloche in the morning. You’ll be waiting for him when he arrives.”

The Clockmaker glanced at his wristwatch and calculated the time difference. “How is that possible? There isn’t a flight from Rome until the afternoon.”

“Actually, there’s a plane leaving in a few minutes.”

“What are you talking about?”

“How quickly can you get to Fiumicino?”

THE DEMONSTRATORS WERE waiting outside the Hotel Imperial when the three-car motorcade arrived for a rally of the party faithful. Peter Metzler, seated in the back of a Mercedes limousine, looked out the window. He’d been warned, but he’d expected the usual sad-looking lot, not a brigade-strength band of marauders armed with placards and bullhorns. It was inevitable: the nearness of the election; the aura of invulnerability building around the candidate. The Austrian left was in full panic, as were their supporters in New York and Jerusalem.

Dieter Graff, seated opposite Metzler on the jump seat, looked apprehensive. And why not? Twenty years he’d toiled to transform the Austrian National Front from a moribund alliance of former SS officers and neo-fascist dreamers into a cohesive and modern conservative political force. Almost single-handedly he’d reshaped the party’s ideology and airbrushed its public image. His carefully crafted message had steadily attracted Austrian voters disenfranchised by the cozy power-sharing relationship between the People’s Party and the Social Democrats. Now, with Metzler as his candidate, he stood on the doorstep of the ultimate prize in Austrian politics: the chancellery. The last thing Graff wanted now, three weeks before the election, was a messy confrontation with a bunch of left-wing idiots and Jews.

“I know what you’re thinking, Dieter,” said Metzler. “You’re thinking we should play it safe-avoid this rabble by using the back entrance.”

“The thought did cross my mind. Our lead is three points and holding steady. I’d rather not squander two of those points with a nasty scene at the Imperial that can easily be avoided.”

“By going in the back door?”

Graff nodded. Metzler pointed to the television cameramen and still photographers.

“And do you know what the headline will be tomorrow in Die Presse? Metzler beaten back by Vienna protesters! They’ll say I’m a coward, Dieter, and I’m not a coward.”

“No one’s ever accused you of cowardice, Peter. It’s just a question of timing.”

“We’ve used the back door too long.” Metzler cinched up his tie and smoothed his shirt collar. “Besides,chancellors don’t use the back door. We go in the front, with our head up and our chin ready for battle, or we don’t go in at all.”

“You’ve become quite a speaker, Peter.”

“I had a good teacher.” Metzler smiled and put his hand on Graff’s shoulder. “But I’m afraid the long campaign has started to take a toll on his instincts.”

“Why would you say that?”

“Look at those hooligans. Most of them aren’t even Austrian. Half the signs are in English instead of German. Clearly, this little demonstration has been orchestrated by provocateurs from abroad. If I’m fortunate enough to have a confrontation with these people, our lead will be five points by morning.”

“I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”

“Just tell security to take it easy. It’s important that the protesters come across as the Brownshirts-and not us.”

Peter Metzler opened the door and stepped out. A roar of anger rose from the crowd, and the placards began to flutter.

Nazi pig!

Reichsführer Metzler!

The candidate strode forward as though oblivious to the turmoil around him. A young girl, armed with a rag soaked in red paint, broke free of the restraint. She hurled the rag toward Metzler, who avoided it so deftly that he barely seemed to break stride. The rag struck a Staatspolizei officer, to the delight of the demonstrators. The girl who had thrown it was seized by a pair of officers and hustled away.

Metzler, unruffled, entered the hotel lobby and made his way to the ballroom, where a thousand supporters had been waiting three hours for his arrival. He paused for a moment outside the doors to gather himself, then strode into the room to tumultuous cheers. Graff detached himself and watched his candidate wade into the adoring crowd. The men pressed forward to clutch his hand or slap his back. The women kissed his cheek. Metzler had definitely made it sexy to be a conservative again.

The journey to the head of the room took five minutes. As Metzler mounted the podium, a beautiful girl in a dirndl handed him a huge stein of lager. He raised it overhead and was greeted by a delirious roar of approval. He swallowed some of the beer-not a photo opportunity sip, but a good long Austrian pull-then stepped before the microphone.

“I want to thank all of you for coming here tonight. And I also want to thank our dear friends and supporters for arranging such a warm welcome outside the hotel.” A wave of laughter swept over the room. “What these people don’t seem to understand is that Austria is for Austrians and that we will choose our own future based on Austrian morals and Austrian standards of decency. Outsiders and critics from abroad have no say in the internal affairs of this blessed land of ours. We will forge our own future, an Austrian future, and that future begins three weeks from tonight!”