A Death in Vienna

some way to impede the Israelis without destroying everything in the process. He picked up the telephone and dialed.
    “This is Kruz. The Americans have informed us that they believe an al-Qaeda team may be transiting the country by automobile this evening. They suspect the al-Qaeda members might be traveling with European sympathizers in order to better blend into their surroundings. As of this moment, I’m activating the terrorism alert network. Raise security at the borders, airports, and train stations to Category Two status.”
    He rang off and gazed out the window. He had thrown the old man a lifeline. He wondered whether he would be in any condition to grab it. Kruz knew that if he succeeded, he would soon be confronted with yet another problem—what to do with the Israeli snatch team. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and removed a slip of paper.
    “If I dial this number, who’s going to answer?”
    “Violence.”
    Manfred Kruz reached for his telephone.
    THE CLOCKMAKER, SINCEhis return to Vienna, had scarcely found cause to leave the sanctuary of his little shop in the Stephansdom Quarter. His frequent travels had left him with a large backlog of pieces requiring his attention, including a Vienna Biedermeier regulator clock, built by the renowned Vienna clockmaker Ignaz Marenzeller in 1840. The mahogany case was in pristine condition, though the one-piece silvered dial had required many hours of restoration. The original handmade Biedermeier movement, with its 75-day runner, lay in several carefully arranged pieces on the surface of his worktable.
    The telephone rang. He lowered the volume on his portable CD player, and Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G faded to a whisper. A prosaic choice, Bach, but then the Clockmaker found the precision of Bach a perfect accompaniment to the task of dismantling and rebuilding the movement of an antique timepiece. He reached out for the telephone with his left hand. A shock wave of pain shot down the length of his arm, a reminder of his exploits in Rome and Argentina. He brought the receiver to his right ear and cradled it against his shoulder. “Yes,” he said inattentively. His hands were already at work again.
    “I was given your number by a mutual friend.”
    “I see,” the Clockmaker said noncommittally. “How can I help you?”
    “It’s not me who requires help. It’s our friend.”
    The Clockmaker laid down his tools. “Our friend?” he asked.
    “You did some work for him in Rome and Argentina. I assume you know the man I am referring to?”
    The Clockmaker did indeed. So, the old man had misled him and twice put him in compromising situations in the field. Now he had committed the mortal operational sin of giving his name to a stranger. Obviously he was in trouble. The Clockmaker suspected it had something to do with the Israelis. He decided that now would be an excellent moment to sever their relationship. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I believe you have me confused with someone else.”
    The man at the other end of the line tried to object. The Clockmaker hung up the phone and turned up the volume on his CD player, until the sound of Bach filled his workshop.
    IN THE MUNICHsafe flat, Carter hung up the telephone and looked at Shamron, who was still standing before the map, as if imagining Radek’s progress northward toward the Czech border.
    “That was from our Vienna station. They’re monitoring the Austrian communications net. It seems Manfred Kruz has taken their terror alert readiness to Category Two.”
    “Category Two? What does that mean?”
    “It means you’re likely to have a bit of trouble at the border.”
    THE TURNOUT LAYin a hollow at the edge of a frozen streambed. There were two vehicles, an Opel sedan and a Volkswagen van. Chiara sat behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, headlights doused, engine silent, the comforting weight of a Beretta across her lap. There was no other sign of life, no lights from the village, no grumble of traffic along the highway, only the rattle of sleet on the roof of the van and the whistle of the wind through the spires of the fir trees.
    She glanced over her shoulder and peered into the rear compartment of the Volkswagen. It had been prepared for Radek’s arrival. The rear foldout bed was deployed. Beneath the bed was the specially constructed compartment where he would be hidden for the border crossing. He would be comfortable there, more comfortable than he