A Death in Vienna

done?”
    “Consider it an emergency repair.”
    “There’s a surcharge for emergency repairs. I assume you’re willing to pay it?”
    “How much of a surcharge?”
    “My usual fee, plus half.”
    “For this job?”
    “Do you want it done, or not?”
    “I’ll send over the first half in the morning.”
    “No, you’ll send ittonight. ”
    “If you insist.”
    The Clockmaker hung up the telephone as a hundred chimes simultaneously tolled four o’clock.
    8
    VIENNA
    GABRIEL HAD NEVERbeen fond of Viennese coffeehouses. There was something in the smell—the potion of stale tobacco smoke, coffee, and liqueur—that he found offensive. And although he was quiet and still by nature, he did not enjoy sitting for long periods, wasting valuable time. He did not read in public, because he feared old enemies might be stalking him. He drank coffee only in the morning, to help him wake, and rich desserts made him ill. Witty conversation annoyed him, and listening to the conversations of others, especially pseudo-intellectuals, drove him to near madness. Gabriel’s private hell would be a room where he would be forced to listen to a discussion of art led by people who knew nothing about it.
    It had been more than thirty years since he had been to Café Central. The coffeehouse had proven to be the setting for the final stage of his apprenticeship for Shamron, the portal between the life he’d led before the Office and the twilight world he would inhabit after. Shamron, at the end of Gabriel’s training period, had devised one more test to see whether he was ready for his first assignment. Dropped at midnight on the outskirts of Brussels, paperless and without a centime in his pocket, he had been ordered to meet an agent the next morning in the Leidseplein in Amsterdam. Using stolen money and a passport he’d taken from an American tourist, he’d managed to arrive on the morning train. The agent he found waiting was Shamron. He relieved Gabriel of the passport and his remaining money, then told him to be in Vienna the following afternoon, dressed in different clothes. They met on a bench in the Stadtpark and walked to the Central. At a table next to a tall, arched window, Shamron had given Gabriel an airline ticket to Rome and the key to an airport locker where he would find a Beretta pistol. Two nights later, in the foyer of an apartment house in the Piazza Annabaliano, Gabriel had killed for the first time.
    Then, as now, it was raining when Gabriel arrived at Café Central. He sat on a leather banquette and placed a stack of German-language newspapers on the small, round table. He ordered a Schlagobers, black coffee topped with whipped cream. It came on a silver tray with a glass of iced water. He opened the first newspaper,Die Presse, and began to read. The bombing at Wartime Claims and Inquiries was the lead story. The Interior Minister was promising swift arrests. The political right was demanding harsher immigration measures to prevent Arab terrorists, and other troublesome elements, from crossing Austria’s borders.
    Gabriel finished the first newspaper. He ordered another Schlagobers and opened a magazine calledProfil. He looked around the café. It was rapidly filling with Viennese office workers stopping for a coffee or a drink on the way home from work. Unfortunately none bore even a remote resemblance to Max Klein’s description of Ludwig Vogel.
    By five o’clock, Gabriel had drunk three cups of coffee and was beginning to despair of ever seeing Ludwig Vogel. Then he noticed that his waiter was wringing his hands with excitement and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Gabriel followed the line of the waiter’s gaze and saw an elderly gentleman coming through the door—An Austrian of the old school, if you know what I mean, Mr. Argov.Yes, I do, thought Gabriel.Good afternoon, Herr Vogel.
    HIS HAIR WASnearly white, deeply receded, and combed very close to his scalp. His mouth was small and taut, his clothing expensive and elegantly worn: gray flannel trousers, a double-breasted blazer, a burgundy-colored ascot. The waiter helped him off with his overcoat and led him to a table, just a few feet from Gabriel’s.
    “An Einspänner, Karl. Nothing more.”
    Confident, baritone, a voice used to giving orders.
    “Can I tempt you with a Sachertorte? Or an apple strudel? It’s very fresh tonight.”
    A weary shake of the head, once to the left, once to the right.
    “Not today, Karl. Just