A Death in Vienna

coffee.”
    “As you wish, Herr Vogel.”
    Vogel sat down. At that same instant, two tables away, his bodyguard sat, too. Klein hadn’t mentioned the bodyguard. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed him. Perhaps he was a new addition. Gabriel forced himself to look down at his magazine.
    The seating arrangements were far from optimal. As luck would have it, Vogel was facing Gabriel directly. A more oblique angle would have allowed Gabriel to observe him without fear of being noticed. What’s more, the bodyguard was seated just behind Vogel, his eyes on the move. Judging from the bulge in the left side of his suit jacket, he was carrying a weapon in a shoulder holster. Gabriel considered changing tables but feared it would arouse Vogel’s suspicion, so he stayed put and sneaked glances at him over the top of his magazine.
    And on it went for the next forty-five minutes. Gabriel finished the last of his reading material and started in onDie Presse again. He ordered a fourth Schlagobers. At some point he became aware that he too was being watched, not by the bodyguard but by Vogel himself. A moment later, he heard Vogel say, “It’s damned cold tonight, Karl. How about a small glass of brandy before I leave?”
    “Of course, Herr Vogel.”
    “And one for the gentlemen at that table over there, Karl.”
    Gabriel looked up and saw two pairs of eyes studying him, the small, dull eyes of the fawning waiter, and Vogel’s, which were blue and bottomless. His small mouth had curled into a humorless smile. Gabriel didn’t know quite how to react, and Ludwig Vogel was clearly enjoying his discomfort.
    “I was just leaving,” Gabriel said in German, “but thank you very much.”
    “As you wish.” Vogel looked at the waiter. “Come to think of it, Karl, I think I’ll be going, too.”
    Vogel stood suddenly. He handed the waiter a few bills, then walked to Gabriel’s table.
    “I offered to buy you a brandy because I noticed you were looking at me,” Vogel said. “Have we ever met before?”
    “No, I don’t think so,” Gabriel said. “And if I was looking at you, I meant nothing by it. I just enjoy looking at faces in Viennese coffeehouses.” He hesitated, then added, “One never knows whom one might run into.”
    “I couldn’t agree more.” Another humorless smile. “Are you sure we’ve never met before? Your face seems very familiar to me.”
    “I sincerely doubt it.”
    “You’re new to the Central,” Vogel said with certainty. “I come here every afternoon. You might say I’m Karl’s best customer. I know I’ve never seen you here before.”
    “I usually take my coffee at Sperl.”
    “Ah, Sperl. Their strudel is good, but I’m afraid the sound of the billiards tables intrudes on my concentration. I must say, I’m fond of the Central. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
    “Perhaps,” Gabriel said noncommittally.
    “There was an old man who used to come here often. He was about my age. We used to have lovely conversations. He hasn’t come for some time. I hope he’s all right. When one is old, things have a way of going wrong very quickly.”
    Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe he’s just moved on to another coffeehouse.”
    “Perhaps,” Vogel said. Then he wished Gabriel a pleasant evening and walked into the street. The bodyguard followed discreetly after him. Through the glass, Gabriel saw a Mercedes sedan slide forward. Vogel shot one more glance in Gabriel’s direction before lowering himself into the back seat. Then the door closed and the car sped away.
    Gabriel sat for a moment, turning over the details of the unexpected encounter. Then he paid his check and walked into the frigid evening. He knew he had just been sent a warning. He also knew that his time in Austria was limited.
    THE AMERICAN WASthe last to depart Café Central. He paused in the doorway to turn up the collar of his Burberry overcoat, doing his best to avoid looking like a spy, and watched the Israeli disappear into the darkened street. Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction. It had been an interesting afternoon. A ballsy move on Vogel’s part, but then that was Vogel’s style.
    The embassy was in the Ninth District, a bit of a trek, but the American decided it was a good night for walking. He liked walking in Vienna. It suited him. He’d wanted nothing more than to be a spy in the city of spies and had spent his youth preparing himself. He’d studied German at his grandmother’s knee and Soviet