A Death in Vienna

inside the gates of the embassy on Haraykon Street and escorted him into the building. Crawford’s office was large and, for Shamron’s taste, overdecorated. It seemed the office of a corporate vice president rather than the lair of a spy, but then that was the American way. Shamron sank into a leather chair and accepted a glass of chilled water with lemon from a secretary. He considered lighting a Turkish cigarette, then noticed the NOSMOKINGsign prominently displayed on the front of Crawford’s desk.
    Crawford seemed in no hurry to get down to the matter at hand. Shamron had expected this. There was an unwritten rule among spies: when one asks a friend for a favor, one must be prepared to sing for his supper. Shamron, because he was technically out of the game, could offer nothing tangible, only the advice and the wisdom of a man who had made many mistakes.
    Finally, after an hour, Crawford said, “About that Vogel thing.”
    The American’s voice trailed off. Shamron, taking note of the tinge of failure in Crawford’s voice, leaned forward in his chair expectantly. Crawford played for time by removing a paper clip from his special magnetic dispenser and industriously straightening it.
    “We had a look through our own files,” Crawford said, his gaze downward at his work. “We even sent a team out to Maryland to dig through the Archives annex. I’m afraid we struck out.”
    “Struck out?” Shamron considered the use of American sports colloquialisms inappropriate for a business so vital as espionage. Agents, in Shamron’s world, did not strike out, fumble the ball, or make slam dunks. There was only success or failure, and the price of failure, in a neighborhood like the Middle East, was usually blood. “What does this meanexactly ?”
    “It means,” Crawford said pedantically, “that our search produced nothing. I’m sorry, Ari, but sometimes, that’s the way it goes with these things.”
    He held up his straightened paper clip and examined it carefully, as though proud of his accomplishment.
    GABRIEL WAS WAITING INthe back seat of Shamron’s Peugeot.
    “How did it go?”
    Shamron lit a cigarette and answered the question.
    “Do you believe him?”
    “You know, if he’d told me that they’d found a routine personnel file or a security clearance background report, I might have believed him. Butnothing ? Who does he think he’s talking to? I’m insulted, Gabriel. I truly am.”
    “You think the Americans know something about Vogel?”
    “Bruce Crawford just confirmed it for us.” Shamron glared at his stainless-steel watch. “Damn! It took him an hour to screw up the nerve to lie to me, and now you’re going to miss your flight.”
    Gabriel looked down at the telephone in the console. “Do it,” he murmured. “I dare you.”
    Shamron snatched up the telephone and dialed. “This is Shamron,” he snapped. “There’s an El Al flight leaving Lod for Rome in thirty minutes. It has just developed a mechanical problem that will require a one-hour delay in its departure. Understand?”
    TWO HOURS LATER,Bruce Crawford’s telephone purred. He brought the receiver to his ear. He recognized the voice. It was the surveillance man he had assigned to follow Shamron. A dangerous game, following the former chief of the Office on his own soil, but Crawford was under orders.
    “After he left the embassy, he went to Lod.”
    “What was he doing at the airport?”
    “Dropping off a passenger.”
    “Did you recognize him?”
    The surveillance man indicated that he did. Without mentioning the passenger’s name, he managed to communicate the fact that the man in question was a noteworthy Office agent, recently active in a central European city.
    “Are you sure it was him?”
    “No doubt about it.”
    “Where was he going?”
    Crawford, after hearing the answer, severed the connection. A moment later, he was seated before his computer, punching out a secure cable to Headquarters. The text was direct and terse, just the way the addressee liked it.
    Elijah is heading to Rome. Arrives tonight on El Al flight from Tel Aviv.
    18
    ROME
    GABRIEL WANTED TOmeet the man from the Vatican someplace other than his office on the top floor of the Apostolic Palace. They settled on Piperno, an old restaurant on a quiet square near the Tiber, a few streets over from the ancient Jewish ghetto. It was the kind of December afternoon only Rome can produce, and Gabriel, arriving first, arranged for a table outside