A Death in Vienna

exceptionally well. As Elena led the group toward the staircase, he slipped into his office and closed the door. An impressive group of men, he thought. He expected great things to come of this venture. His own role in the affair, however minor, had been carried off with precision and quiet competence. In today’s world, such attributes were of little value, but they were the coin of Herr Zigerli’s miniature realm. He suspected the men of Heller Enterprises and Systech Communications probably felt exactly the same way.
    IN CENTRAL ZURICH,on the quiet street near the spot where the heavy green waters of the Limmat River flow into the lake, Konrad Becker was in the process of buttoning up his private bank for the evening when the telephone on his desk purred softly. Technically, it was five minutes before the close of business, but he was tempted to let the machine get it. In Becker’s experience, only problem clients telephoned so late in the afternoon, and his day had been difficult enough already. Instead, like a good Swiss banker, he reached for the receiver and brought it robotically to his ear.
    “Becker and Puhl.”
    “Konrad, it’s Shelby Somerset. How the hell are you?”
    Becker swallowed hard. Somerset was the name of the American from the CIA—at least, Somerset is what he called himself. Becker doubted very much it was his real name.
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Somerset?”
    “You can drop the formalities for starters, Konrad.”
    “And for the main course?”
    “You can walk downstairs to the Talstrasse and climb in the back seat of the silver Mercedes that’s waiting there.”
    “Why would I want to do that?”
    “We need to see you.”
    “Where is this Mercedes going to take me?”
    “Somewhere pleasant, I assure you.”
    “What’s the dress code?”
    “Business attire will be fine. And, Konrad?”
    “Yes, Mr. Somerset?”
    “Don’t think about playing hard to get. This is the real deal. Go downstairs. Get in the car. We’re watching you. We’re always watching you.”
    “How reassuring, Mr. Somerset,” the banker said, but the line had already gone dead.
    TWENTY MINUTES LATER,Herr Zigerli was standing at reception when he noticed one of the Americans, Shelby Somerset, pacing anxiously outside in the drive. A moment later, a silver Mercedes eased into the circle, and a small, bald figure alighted from the back seat. Polished Bally loafers, a blast-proof attaché case.A banker, thought Zigerli. He’d bet his paycheck on it. Somerset gave the new arrival a hail-fellow smile and a firm clap on the shoulder. The small man, despite the warm greeting, looked as though he were being led to his execution. Still, Herr Zigerli reckoned the talks were going well. The moneyman had arrived.
    “GOOD AFTERNOON, HERR BECKER.Such a pleasure to see you. I’m Heller. Rudolf Heller. This is my associate, Mr. Keppelmann. That man over there is our American partner, Brad Cantwell. Obviously, you and Mr. Somerset are already acquainted.”
    The banker blinked rapidly several times, then settled his cunning little gaze on Shamron, as if he were trying to arrive at a calculation of his net worth. He held his attaché over his genitals, in anticipation of an imminent assault.
    “My associates and I are about to embark on a joint venture. The problem is, we can’t do it without your help. That’s what bankers do, isn’t it, Herr Becker? Help launch great endeavors? Help people realize their dreams and their potential?”
    “It depends on the venture, Herr Heller.”
    “I see,” Shamron said, smiling. “For example, many years ago, a group of men came to you. German and Austrian men. They wanted to launch a great endeavor as well. They entrusted you with a large sum of money and granted you the power to turn it into an even larger sum. You did extraordinarily well. You turned it into a mountain of money. I assume you remember these gentlemen? I also assume you know where they got their money?”
    The Swiss banker’s gaze hardened. He had arrived at his calculation of Shamron’s worth.
    “You’re Israeli, aren’t you?”
    “I prefer to think of myself as a citizen of the world,” replied Shamron. “I reside in many places, speak the languages of many lands. My loyalty, like my business interests, knows no national boundaries. As a Swiss, I’m sure you can understand my point of view.”
    “I understand it,” Becker said, “but I don’t believe you for a minute.”
    “And if