A Death in Vienna

detected no surveillance, though Gabriel knew that even an agent of Chiara’s skill would be hard-pressed to find a professional in the midday crowds of San Telmo.
    Ramirez didn’t arrive until three. He made no apology for being late. He was a large man, with thick forearms and a dark beard. Gabriel looked for the scars of torture but found none. His voice, when he ordered two steaks and a bottle of red wine, was affable and so loud it seemed to rattle the bottles on the shelves. Gabriel wondered whether steak and red wine was a wise choice, given the intense heat. Ramirez looked as though he found the question deeply scandalous. “Beef is the one thing about this country that’s true,” he said. “Besides, the way the economy is going—” The rest of his remark was drowned out by the rumble of a passing cement truck.
    The waiter placed the wine on the table. It came in a green bottle with no label. Ramirez poured two glasses and asked Gabriel the name of the man he was looking for. Hearing the answer, the Argentine’s dark eyebrows furrowed in concentration.
    “Otto Krebs, eh? Is that his real name, or an alias?”

“An alias.”
    “How can you be sure?”
    Gabriel handed over the documents he’d taken from the Santa Maria dell’Anima in Rome. Ramirez pulled a pair of greasy reading glasses from his shirt pocket and thrust them onto his face. Having the documents out in plain sight made Gabriel nervous. He cast a glance in Chiara’s direction. The wristwatch was still on her left hand. Ramirez, when he looked up from the papers, was clearly impressed.
    “How did you get access to the papers of Bishop Hudal?”
    “I have a friend at the Vatican.”
    “No, you have a verypowerful friend at the Vatican. The only man who could get Bishop Drexler to willingly open Hudal’s papers isil papa himself!” Ramirez raised his wineglass in Gabriel’s direction. “So, in 1948, an SS officer named Erich Radek comes to Rome and staggers into the arms of Bishop Hudal. A few months later, he leaves Rome as Otto Krebs and sets sail for Syria. What else do you know?”
    The next document Gabriel laid on the wooden tabletop produced a similar look of astonishment from the Argentine journalist.
    “As you can see, Israeli intelligence placed the man now known as Otto Krebs in Damascus as late as 1963. The source is very good, none other than Aloïs Brunner. According to Brunner, Krebs left Syria in 1963 and came here.”
    “And you have reason to believe he still might be here?”
    “That’s what I need to find out.”
    Ramirez folded his heavy arms and eyed Gabriel across the table. A silence fell between them, filled by the hot drone of traffic from the street. The Argentine smelled a story. Gabriel had anticipated this.
    “So how does a man named René Duran from Montreal get his hands on secret documents from the Vaticanand the Israeli intelligence service?”
    “Obviously, I have good sources.”
    “I’m a very busy man, Monsieur Duran.”
    “If it’s money you want—”
    The Argentine held up his palm in an admonitory gesture.
    “I don’t want your money, Monsieur Duran. I can make my own money. What I want is the story.”
    “Obviously, press coverage of my investigation would be something of a hindrance.”
    Ramirez looked insulted. “Monsieur Duran, I’m confident I have much more experience pursuing men like Erich Radek than you do. I know when to investigate quietly and when to write.”
    Gabriel hesitated a moment. He was reluctant to enter into aquid pro quo with the Argentine journalist, but he also knew that Alfonso Ramirez might prove to be a valuable friend.
    “Where do we start?” Gabriel asked.
    “Well, I suppose we should find out whether Aloïs Brunner was telling the truth about his friend Otto Krebs.”
    “Meaning, did he ever come to Argentina?”
    “Exactly.”
    “And how do we do that?”
    Just then the waiter appeared. The steak he placed in front of Gabriel was large enough to feed a family of four. Ramirez smiled and started sawing away.
    “Bon appétit,Monsieur Duran. Eat! Something tells me you’re going to need your strength.”
    ALFONSO RAMIREZ DROVEthe last surviving Volkswagen Sirocco in the western hemisphere. It might have been dark blue once; now the exterior had faded to the color of pumice. The windshield had a crack down the center that looked like a bolt of lightning. Gabriel’s door was bashed in, and it required much of his depleted reservoir of