Gabriel finished the first newspaper. He ordered another Schlagobers and opened a magazine called Profil. He looked around the café. It was rapidly filling with Viennese office workers stopping for a coffee or a drink on the way home from work. Unfortunately none bore even a remote resemblance to Max Klein’s description of Ludwig Vogel.
By five o’clock, Gabriel had drunk three cups of coffee and was beginning to despair of ever seeing Ludwig Vogel. Then he noticed that his waiter was wringing his hands with excitement and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Gabriel followed the line of the waiter’s gaze and saw an elderly gentleman coming through the door-An Austrian of the old school, if you know what I mean, Mr. Argov.Yes, I do, thought Gabriel. Good afternoon, Herr Vogel.
HIS HAIR WASnearly white, deeply receded, and combed very close to his scalp. His mouth was small and taut, his clothing expensive and elegantly worn: gray flannel trousers, a double-breasted blazer, a burgundy-colored ascot. The waiter helped him off with his overcoat and led him to a table, just a few feet from Gabriel’s.
“An Einspänner, Karl. Nothing more.”
Confident, baritone, a voice used to giving orders.
“Can I tempt you with a Sachertorte? Or an apple strudel? It’s very fresh tonight.”
A weary shake of the head, once to the left, once to the right.
“Not today, Karl. Just coffee.”
“As you wish, Herr Vogel.”
Vogel sat down. At that same instant, two tables away, his bodyguard sat, too. Klein hadn’t mentioned the bodyguard. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed him. Perhaps he was a new addition. Gabriel forced himself to look down at his magazine.
The seating arrangements were far from optimal. As luck would have it, Vogel was facing Gabriel directly. A more oblique angle would have allowed Gabriel to observe him without fear of being noticed. What’s more, the bodyguard was seated just behind Vogel, his eyes on the move. Judging from the bulge in the left side of his suit jacket, he was carrying a weapon in a shoulder holster. Gabriel considered changing tables but feared it would arouse Vogel’s suspicion, so he stayed put and sneaked glances at him over the top of his magazine.
And on it went for the next forty-five minutes. Gabriel finished the last of his reading material and started in on Die Presse again. He ordered a fourth Schlagobers. At some point he became aware that he too was being watched, not by the bodyguard but by Vogel himself. A moment later, he heard Vogel say, “It’s damned cold tonight, Karl. How about a small glass of brandy before I leave?”
“Of course, Herr Vogel.”
“And one for the gentlemen at that table over there, Karl.”
Gabriel looked up and saw two pairs of eyes studying him, the small, dull eyes of the fawning waiter, and Vogel’s, which were blue and bottomless. His small mouth had curled into a humorless smile. Gabriel didn’t know quite how to react, and Ludwig Vogel was clearly enjoying his discomfort.
“I was just leaving,” Gabriel said in German, “but thank you very much.”
“As you wish.” Vogel looked at the waiter. “Come to think of it, Karl, I think I’ll be going, too.”
Vogel stood suddenly. He handed the waiter a few bills, then walked to Gabriel’s table.
“I offered to buy you a brandy because I noticed you were looking at me,” Vogel said. “Have we ever met before?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Gabriel said. “And if I was looking at you, I meant nothing by it. I just enjoy looking at faces in Viennese coffeehouses.” He hesitated, then added, “One never knows whom one might run into.”
“I couldn’t agree more.” Another humorless smile. “Are you sure we’ve never met before? Your face seems very familiar to me.”
“I sincerely doubt it.”
“You’re new to the Central,” Vogel said with certainty. “I come here every afternoon. You might say I’m Karl’s best customer. I know I’ve never seen you here before.”
“I usually take my coffee at Sperl.”
“Ah, Sperl. Their strudel is good, but I’m afraid the sound of the billiards tables intrudes on my concentration. I must say, I’m fond of the Central. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”
“Perhaps,” Gabriel said noncommittally.
“There was an old man who used to come here often. He was about my age. We used to have lovely conversations. He hasn’t come for some time. I hope he’s all right. When one is old, things have a way of going wrong very quickly.”
Gabriel shrugged. “Maybe he’s just moved on to another coffeehouse.”
“Perhaps,” Vogel said. Then he wished Gabriel a pleasant evening and walked into the street. The bodyguard followed discreetly after him. Through the glass, Gabriel saw a Mercedes sedan slide forward. Vogel shot one more glance in Gabriel’s direction before lowering himself into the back seat. Then the door closed and the car sped away.
Gabriel sat for a moment, turning over the details of the unexpected encounter. Then he paid his check and walked into the frigid evening. He knew he had just been sent a warning. He also knew that his time in Austria was limited.
THE AMERICAN WAS the last to depart Café Central. He paused in the doorway to turn up the collar of his Burberry overcoat, doing his best to avoid looking like a spy, and watched the Israeli disappear into the darkened street. Then he turned and headed in the opposite direction. It had been an interesting afternoon. A ballsy move on Vogel’s part, but then that was Vogel’s style.
The embassy was in the Ninth District, a bit of a trek, but the American decided it was a good night for walking. He liked walking in Vienna. It suited him. He’d wanted nothing more than to be a spy in the city of spies and had spent his youth preparing himself. He’d studied German at his grandmother’s knee and Soviet policy with the brightest minds in the field at Harvard. After graduation, the doors to the Agency were thrown open to him. Then the Empire crumbled and a new threat rose from the sands of the Middle East. Fluent German and a graduate degree from Harvard didn’t count for much in the new Agency. Today’s stars were human action figures who could live off worms and grubs and walk a hundred miles with some hill tribesman without complaining of so much as a blister. The American had got Vienna, but the Vienna that awaited him had lost her old importance. She was suddenly just another European backwater, a cul-de-sac, a place to quietly end a career, not launch one.
Thank God for the Vogel affair. It had livened things up a bit, even if it was only temporary.
The American turned into the Boltzmanngasse and paused at the formidable security gate. The Marine guard checked his identification card and permitted him to enter. The American had official cover. He worked in Cultural. It only reinforced his feelings of obsolescence. A spy, working with Cultural cover in Vienna. How perfectly quaint.
He rode the lift up to the fourth floor and paused at a door with a combination lock. Behind it was the nerve center of the Agency’s Vienna station. The American sat down before a computer, logged on, and tapped out a brief cable to Headquarters. It was addressed to a man named Carter, the deputy director for operations. Carter hated chatty cables. He’d ordered the American to find out one simple piece of information. The American had done it. The last thing Carter needed was a blow-by-blow account of his harrowing exploits at Café Central. Once it might have sounded compelling. Not anymore.
He typed five words-Avraham is in the game-and fired it into the secure ether. He waited for a response. To pass the time, he worked on an analysis of the upcoming election. He doubted it would be required reading on the seventh floor at Langley.
His computer beeped. He had a message waiting. He clicked on it, and words appeared on the screen.
Keep Elijah under watch.
The American hastily tapped out another message: What if Elijah leaves town?