A Death in Vienna

up. The boy slipped quietly from the room.
    “We’ve located him.”
    “Where?”
    The man from Vienna told him. “He’s leaving for Bariloche in the morning. You’ll be waiting for him when he arrives.”
    The Clockmaker glanced at his wristwatch and calculated the time difference. “How is that possible? There isn’t a flight from Rome until the afternoon.”
    “Actually, there’s a plane leaving in a few minutes.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “How quickly can you get to Fiumicino?”
    THE DEMONSTRATORS WEREwaiting outside the Hotel Imperial when the three-car motorcade arrived for a rally of the party faithful. Peter Metzler, seated in the back of a Mercedes limousine, looked out the window. He’d been warned, but he’d expected the usual sad-looking lot, not a brigade-strength band of marauders armed with placards and bullhorns. It was inevitable: the nearness of the election; the aura of invulnerability building around the candidate. The Austrian left was in full panic, as were their supporters in New York and Jerusalem.
    Dieter Graff, seated opposite Metzler on the jump seat, looked apprehensive. And why not? Twenty years he’d toiled to transform the Austrian National Front from a moribund alliance of former SS officers and neo-fascist dreamers into a cohesive and modern conservative political force. Almost single-handedly he’d reshaped the party’s ideology and airbrushed its public image. His carefully crafted message had steadily attracted Austrian voters disenfranchised by the cozy power-sharing relationship between the People’s Party and the Social Democrats. Now, with Metzler as his candidate, he stood on the doorstep of the ultimate prize in Austrian politics: the chancellery. The last thing Graff wanted now, three weeks before the election, was a messy confrontation with a bunch of left-wing idiots and Jews.
    “I know what you’re thinking, Dieter,” said Metzler. “You’re thinking we should play it safe—avoid this rabble by using the back entrance.”
    “The thought did cross my mind. Our lead is three points and holding steady. I’d rather not squander two of those points with a nasty scene at the Imperial that can easily be avoided.”
    “By going in the back door?”
    Graff nodded. Metzler pointed to the television cameramen and still photographers.
    “And do you know what the headline will be tomorrow inDie Presse ? Metzler beaten back by Vienna protesters! They’ll say I’m a coward, Dieter, and I’m not a coward.”
    “No one’s ever accused you of cowardice, Peter. It’s just a question of timing.”
    “We’ve used the back door too long.” Metzler cinched up his tie and smoothed his shirt collar. “Besides,chancellors don’t use the back door. We go in the front, with our head up and our chin ready for battle, or we don’t go in at all.”
    “You’ve become quite a speaker, Peter.”
    “I had a good teacher.” Metzler smiled and put his hand on Graff’s shoulder. “But I’m afraid the long campaign has started to take a toll on his instincts.”
    “Why would you say that?”
    “Look at those hooligans. Most of them aren’t even Austrian. Half the signs are in English instead of German. Clearly, this little demonstration has been orchestrated by provocateurs from abroad. If I’m fortunate enough to have a confrontation with these people, our lead will be five points by morning.”
    “I hadn’t thought of it quite that way.”
    “Just tell security to take it easy. It’s important that the protesters come across as the Brownshirts—and not us.”
    Peter Metzler opened the door and stepped out. A roar of anger rose from the crowd, and the placards began to flutter.
    Nazi pig!
    Reichsführer Metzler!
    The candidate strode forward as though oblivious to the turmoil around him. A young girl, armed with a rag soaked in red paint, broke free of the restraint. She hurled the rag toward Metzler, who avoided it so deftly that he barely seemed to break stride. The rag struck a Staatspolizei officer, to the delight of the demonstrators. The girl who had thrown it was seized by a pair of officers and hustled away.
    Metzler, unruffled, entered the hotel lobby and made his way to the ballroom, where a thousand supporters had been waiting three hours for his arrival. He paused for a moment outside the doors to gather himself, then strode into the room to tumultuous cheers. Graff detached himself and watched his candidate wade into the adoring