Free A Death in Vienna by Daniel Silva Page B

his eyebrows were thick and dark. He wore round spectacles with tortoise-shell frames. His hands were larger than most in his field, but dexterous and highly skilled.
    His workshop was as orderly as an operating room. On the worktable, in a pool of clean light, lay a two-hundred-year-old Neuchatel wall clock. The three-part case, decorated in floral-patterned cameos, was in perfect condition, as was the enamel dial with Roman numerals. The Clockmaker had entered the final stages of an extensive overhaul of the two-train Neuchatel movement. The finished piece would fetch close to ten thousand dollars. A buyer, a collector from Lyon, was waiting.
    The bell at the front of the shop interrupted the Clockmaker’s work. He poked his head around the door frame and saw a figure standing outside in the street, a motorcycle courier, his wet leather jacket gleaming with rain like a seal’s skin. There was a package under his arm. The Clockmaker went to the door and unlocked it. The courier handed over the package without a word, then climbed onto the bike and sped away.
    The Clockmaker locked the door again and carried the package to his worktable. He unwrapped it slowly—indeed, he did almost everything slowly—and lifted the cover of a cardboard packing case. Inside lay a Louis XV French wall clock. Quite lovely. He removed the casing and exposed the movement. The dossier and photograph were concealed inside. He spent a few minutes reviewing the document, then concealed it inside a large volume entitled Carriage Clocks in the Age of Victoria.
    The Louis XV had been delivered by the Clockmaker’s most important client. The Clockmaker did not know his name, only that he was wealthy and politically connected. Most of his clients shared those two attributes. This one was different, though. A year ago he’d given the Clockmaker a list of names, men scattered from Europe to the Middle East to South America. The Clockmaker was steadily working his way down the list. He’d killed a man in Damascus, another in Cairo. He’d killed a Frenchman in Bordeaux and a Spaniard in Madrid. He’d crossed the Atlantic in order to kill two wealthy Argentines. One name remained on the list, a Swiss banker in Zurich. The Clockmaker had yet to receive the final signal to proceed against him. The dossier he’d received tonight was a new name, a bit closer to home than he preferred, but hardly a challenge. He decided to accept the assignment.
    He picked up the telephone and dialed.
    “I received the clock. How quickly do you need it done?”
    “Consider it an emergency repair.”
    “There’s a surcharge for emergency repairs. I assume you’re willing to pay it?”
    “How much of a surcharge?”
    “My usual fee, plus half.”
    “For this job?”
    “Do you want it done, or not?”
    “I’ll send over the first half in the morning.”
    “No, you’ll send it tonight. ”
    “If you insist.”
    The Clockmaker hung up the telephone as a hundred chimes simultaneously tolled four o’clock.

8
VIENNA
    G ABRIEL HAD NEVER been fond of Viennese coffeehouses. There was something in the smell—the potion of stale tobacco smoke, coffee, and liqueur—that he found offensive. And although he was quiet and still by nature, he did not enjoy sitting for long periods, wasting valuable time. He did not read in public, because he feared old enemies might be stalking him. He drank coffee only in the morning, to help him wake, and rich desserts made him ill. Witty conversation annoyed him, and listening to the conversations of others, especially pseudo-intellectuals, drove him to near madness. Gabriel’s private hell would be a room where he would be forced to listen to a discussion of art led by people who knew nothing about it.
    It had been more than thirty years since he had been to Café Central. The coffeehouse had proven to be the setting for the final stage of his apprenticeship for Shamron, the portal between the life he’d led before the Office and the