A Death in Vienna

and their masters at the Interior Ministry, it was referred to simply as “Kruz’s gang.” In moments of self-aggrandizement, a misdemeanor to which Kruz willingly pleaded guilty, he imagined himself the protector of all things Austrian. It was Kruz’s job to make certain that the rest of the world’s problems didn’t seep across the borders into the tranquilÖsterreich . Department Five was responsible for counter-terrorism, counter-extremism, and counter-intelligence. Manfred Kruz possessed the power to bug offices and tap telephones, to open mail and conduct physical surveillance. Foreigners who came to Austria looking for trouble could expect a visit from one of Kruz’s men. So could native-born Austrians whose political activities diverged from the prescribed lines. Little took place inside the country that he didn’t know about, including the recent appearance in Vienna of an Israeli who claimed to be a colleague of Eli Lavon from Wartime Claims and Inquiries.
    Kruz’s innate mistrust of people extended to his personal secretary. He waited until she had left the room before prizing open the envelope and shaking the print onto his blotter. It fell facedown. He turned it over, placed it in the sharp white light of his halogen lamp, and carefully examined the image. Kruz was not interested in Renate Hoffmann. She was the subject of regular surveillance by Department Five, and Kruz had spent more time than he cared to remember studying surveillance photographs and listening to transcripts of proceedings inside the premises of the Coalition for a Better Austria. No, Kruz was more interested in the dark, compact figure walking at her side, the man who called himself Gideon Argov.
    After a moment he stood and worked the tumbler on the wall safe behind his desk. Inside, wedged between a stack of case files and a bundle of scented love letters from a girl who worked in payroll, was a videotape of an interrogation. Kruz glanced at the date on the adhesive label—JANUARY1991—then inserted the tape into his machine and pressed the play button.
    The shot rolled for a few frames before settling into place. The camera had been mounted high in the corner of the interrogation room, where the wall met the ceiling, so that it looked down upon the proceedings from an oblique angle. The image was somewhat grainy, the technology a generation old. Pacing the room with a menacing slowness was a younger version of Kruz. Seated at the interrogation table was the Israeli, his hands blackened by fire, his eyes by death. Kruz was quite certain it was the same man who was now calling himself Gideon Argov. Uncharacteristically, it was the Israeli, not Kruz, who posed the first question. Now, as then, Kruz was taken aback by the perfect German, spoken in the distinctive accent of a Berliner.
    “Where’s my son?”
    “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
    “What about my wife?”
    “Your wife has been severely injured. She needs immediate medical attention.”
    “Then why isn’t she getting it?”
    “We need to know some information first before she can be treated.”
    “Why isn’t she being treated now? Where is she?”
    “Don’t worry, she’s in good hands. We just need some questions answered.”
    “Like what?”
    “You can begin by telling us who you really are. And please, don’t lie to us anymore. Your wife doesn’t have much time.”
    “I’ve been asked my name a hundred times! You know my name! My God, get her the help she needs.”
    “We will, but first tell us your name. Your real name, this time. No more aliases, pseudonyms, or cover names. We haven’t the time, not if your wife is going to live.”
    “My name is Gabriel, you bastard!”
    “Is that your first name or your last?”
    “My first.”
    “And your last?”
    “Allon.”
    “Allon? That’s a Hebrew name, is it not? You’re Jewish. You are also, I suspect, Israeli.”
    “Yes, I’m Israeli.”
    “If you are an Israeli, what are you doing in Vienna with an Italian passport? Obviously, you’re an agent of Israeli intelligence. Who do you work for, Mr. Allon? What are you doing here?”
    “Call the ambassador. He’ll know who to contact.”
    “We’ll call your ambassador. And your foreign minister. And your prime minister. But right now, if you want your wife to get the medical treatment she so desperately needs, you’re going to tell us who you work for and why you’re in Vienna.”
    “Call the ambassador! Help my wife, goddamn