Free A Death in Vienna by Daniel Silva Page A

Kruz. Seated at the interrogation table was the Israeli, his hands blackened by fire, his eyes by death. Kruz was quite certain it was the same man who was now calling himself Gideon Argov. Uncharacteristically, it was the Israeli, not Kruz, who posed the first question. Now, as then, Kruz was taken aback by the perfect German, spoken in the distinctive accent of a Berliner.
    “Where’s my son?”
    “I’m afraid he’s dead.”
    “What about my wife?”
    “Your wife has been severely injured. She needs immediate medical attention.”
    “Then why isn’t she getting it?”
    “We need to know some information first before she can be treated.”
    “Why isn’t she being treated now? Where is she?”
    “Don’t worry, she’s in good hands. We just need some questions answered.”
    “Like what?”
    “You can begin by telling us who you really are. And please, don’t lie to us anymore. Your wife doesn’t have much time.”
    “I’ve been asked my name a hundred times! You know my name! My God, get her the help she needs.”
    “We will, but first tell us your name. Your real name, this time. No more aliases, pseudonyms, or cover names. We haven’t the time, not if your wife is going to live.”
    “My name is Gabriel, you bastard!”
    “Is that your first name or your last?”
    “My first.”
    “And your last?”
    “Allon.”
    “Allon? That’s a Hebrew name, is it not? You’re Jewish. You are also, I suspect, Israeli.”
    “Yes, I’m Israeli.”
    “If you are an Israeli, what are you doing in Vienna with an Italian passport? Obviously, you’re an agent of Israeli intelligence. Who do you work for, Mr. Allon? What are you doing here?”
    “Call the ambassador. He’ll know who to contact.”
    “We’ll call your ambassador. And your foreign minister. And your prime minister. But right now, if you want your wife to get the medical treatment she so desperately needs, you’re going to tell us who you work for and why you’re in Vienna.”
    “Call the ambassador! Help my wife, goddamn it!”
    “Who do you work for!”
    “You know who I work for! Help my wife. Don’t let her die!”
    “Her life is in your hands, Mr. Allon.”
    “You’re dead, you motherfucker! If my wife dies tonight, you’re dead. Do you hear me? You’re fucking dead!”
    The tape dissolved to a blizzard of silver and black. Kruz sat for a long time, unable to take his eyes from the screen. Finally he switched his telephone to secure and dialed a number from memory. He recognized the voice that greeted him. They exchanged no pleasantries.
    “I’m afraid we have a problem.”
    “Tell me.”
    Kruz did.
    “Why don’t you arrest him? He’s in this country illegally on a forged passport, and in violation of an agreement made between your service and his.”
    “And then what? Hand him over to the state prosecutor’s office so they can put him on trial? Something tells me he might want to use a platform like that to his advantage.”
    “What are you suggesting?”
    “Something a bit more subtle.”
    “Consider the Israeli your problem, Manfred. Deal with it.”
    “And what about Max Klein?”
    The line went dead. Kruz hung up the phone.
     
    I N A QUIET backwater of the Stephansdom Quarter, in the very shadow of the cathedral’s north tower, there is a lane too narrow for anything but pedestrian traffic. At the head of the lane, on the ground floor of a stately old Baroque house, there is a small shop that sells nothing but collector-quality antique clocks. The sign over the door is circumspect, the shop hours unpredictable. Some days it does not open for business at all. There are no employees other than the owner. To one set of exclusive clients, he is known as Herr Gruber. To another, the Clockmaker.
    He was short of stature and muscular in build. He preferred pullovers and loose-fitting tweed jackets, because formal shirts and ties did not fit him particularly well. He was bald, with a fringe of cropped gray hair, and