A Death in Vienna

it!”
    “Who do you work for!”
    “You know who I work for! Help my wife. Don’t let her die!”
    “Her life is in your hands, Mr. Allon.”
    “You’re dead, you motherfucker! If my wife dies tonight, you’re dead. Do you hear me? You’re fuckingdead!”
    The tape dissolved to a blizzard of silver and black. Kruz sat for a long time, unable to take his eyes from the screen. Finally he switched his telephone to secure and dialed a number from memory. He recognized the voice that greeted him. They exchanged no pleasantries.
    “I’m afraid we have a problem.”
    “Tell me.”
    Kruz did.
    “Why don’t you arrest him? He’s in this country illegally on a forged passport, and in violation of an agreement made between your service and his.”
    “And then what? Hand him over to the state prosecutor’s office so they can put him on trial? Something tells me he might want to use a platform like that to his advantage.”
    “What are you suggesting?”
    “Something a bit more subtle.”
    “Consider the Israeli your problem, Manfred. Deal with it.”
    “And what about Max Klein?”
    The line went dead. Kruz hung up the phone.
    IN A QUIETbackwater of the Stephansdom Quarter, in the very shadow of the cathedral’s north tower, there is a lane too narrow for anything but pedestrian traffic. At the head of the lane, on the ground floor of a stately old Baroque house, there is a small shop that sells nothing but collector-quality antique clocks. The sign over the door is circumspect, the shop hours unpredictable. Some days it does not open for business at all. There are no employees other than the owner. To one set of exclusive clients, he is known as Herr Gruber. To another, the Clockmaker.
    He was short of stature and muscular in build. He preferred pullovers and loose-fitting tweed jackets, because formal shirts and ties did not fit him particularly well. He was bald, with a fringe of cropped gray hair, and his eyebrows were thick and dark. He wore round spectacles with tortoise-shell frames. His hands were larger than most in his field, but dexterous and highly skilled.
    His workshop was as orderly as an operating room. On the worktable, in a pool of clean light, lay a 200-year-old Neuchatel wall clock. The three-part case, decorated in floral-patterned cameos, was in perfect condition, as was the enamel dial with Roman numerals. The Clockmaker had entered the final stages of an extensive overhaul of the two-train Neuchatel movement. The finished piece would fetch close to ten thousand dollars. A buyer, a collector from Lyon, was waiting.
    The bell at the front of the shop interrupted the Clockmaker’s work. He poked his head around the door frame and saw a figure standing outside in the street, a motorcycle courier, his wet leather jacket gleaming with rain like a seal’s skin. There was a package under his arm. The Clockmaker went to the door and unlocked it. The courier handed over the package without a word, then climbed onto the bike and sped away.
    The Clockmaker locked the door again and carried the package to his worktable. He unwrapped it slowly—indeed, he did almost everything slowly—and lifted the cover of a cardboard packing case. Inside lay a Louis XV French wall clock. Quite lovely. He removed the casing and exposed the movement. The dossier and photograph were concealed inside. He spent a few minutes reviewing the document, then concealed it inside a large volume entitledCarriage Clocks in the Age of Victoria.
    The Louis XV had been delivered by the Clockmaker’s most important client. The Clockmaker did not know his name, only that he was wealthy and politically connected. Most of his clients shared those two attributes. This one was different, though. A year ago he’d given the Clockmaker a list of names, men scattered from Europe to the Middle East to South America. The Clockmaker was steadily working his way down the list. He’d killed a man in Damascus, another in Cairo. He’d killed a Frenchman in Bordeaux and a Spaniard in Madrid. He’d crossed the Atlantic in order to kill two wealthy Argentines. One name remained on the list, a Swiss banker in Zurich. The Clockmaker had yet to receive the final signal to proceed against him. The dossier he’d received tonight was a new name, a bit closer to home than he preferred, but hardly a challenge. He decided to accept the assignment.
    He picked up the telephone and dialed.
    “I received the clock. How quickly do you need it