A Death in Vienna

Brünnerstrasse, is a two-lane road that runs north from Vienna through the rolling hills of theWeinviertel, Austria’s wine country. It is fifty miles to the Czech border. There is a crossing, sheltered by a high arching canopy, usually manned by two guards who are reluctant to leave the comfort of their aluminum and glass hut to carry out even the most cursory inspection of outgoing vehicles. On the Czech side of the crossing, the examination of travel documents typically takes a bit longer, though traffic from Austria is generally welcomed with open arms.
    One mile across the border, anchored to the hills of South Moravia, stands the ancient town of Mikulov. It is a border town, with a border town’s siege mentality. It suited Gabriel’s mood. He stood behind the brick parapet of a medieval castle, high above the red-tile roofs of the old city, beneath a pair of wind-bent pine. The cold rain beaded like tears on the surface of his oilskin coat. His gaze was down the hillside, toward the border. In the blackness, only the lights of the traffic along the highway were visible, white lights rising toward him, red lights receding toward the Austrian border.
    He looked at his watch. They would be inside Radek’s villa now. Gabriel could picture briefcases opening, coffee and drinks being poured. And then another image appeared, a line of women dressed in gray, making their way along a snowy road drenched in blood. His mother, shedding tears of ice.
    “What will you tell your child about the war, Jew?”
    “The truth, Herr Sturmbannführer. I’ll tell my child the truth.”
    “No one will believe you.”
    She had not told him the truth, of course. Instead, she had set the truth to paper and locked it away in the file rooms of Yad Vashem. Perhaps Yad Vashem was the best place for it. Perhaps there are some truths so appalling they are better left confined to an archive of horrors, quarantined from the uninfected. She had been unable to tell him she was Radek’s victim, just as Gabriel could never tell her he was Shamron’s executioner. She always knew, though. She knew the face of death, and she had seen death in Gabriel’s eyes.
    The telephone in his coat pocket vibrated silently against his hip. He brought it slowly to his ear and heard the voice of Shamron. He dropped the telephone into his pocket and stood for a moment, watching the headlights floating toward him across the black Austrian plain.
    “What will you say to him when you see him?”Chiara had asked.
    The truth,Gabriel thought now.I’ll tell him the truth.
    He started walking, down the narrow stone streets of the ancient town, into the darkness.
    35
    VIENNA
    UZI NAVOT KNEWa thing or two about body searches. Klaus Halder was very good at his job. He started with Navot’s shirt collar and ended with the cuffs of his Armani trousers. Next he turned his attention to the attaché case. He worked slowly, like a man with all the time in the world, and with a monkish attention to detail. When the search was finally over, he straightened the contents carefully and snapped the latches back into place. “Herr Vogel will see you now,” he said. “Follow me, please.”
    They walked the length of the central corridor, then passed through a pair of double doors and entered a drawing room. Erich Radek, in a herringbone jacket and rust-colored tie, was seated near the fireplace. He acknowledged his guests with a single nod of his narrow head but made no attempt to rise. Radek, Navot gathered, was a man used to receiving visitors seated.
    The bodyguard slipped quietly from the room and closed the doors behind him. Becker, smiling, stepped forward and shook Radek’s hand. Navot did not wish to touch the murderer, but given the circumstances he had no choice. The proffered hand was cool and dry, the grip firm and without a tremor. It was a testing handshake. Navot sensed that he had passed.
    Radek flicked his fingers toward the empty chairs, then his hand returned to the drink resting on the arm of his chair. He began twisting it back and forth, two twists to the right, two to the left. Something about the movement made acid pour into Navot’s stomach.
    “I hear very good things about your work, Herr Lange,” Radek said suddenly. “You have a fine reputation among your colleagues in Zurich.”
    “All lies, I assure you, Herr Vogel.”
    “You’re too modest.” He twisted his drink. “You did some work for a friend of mine a few years back, a gentleman