Vienna
Three Days Later
The Vienna airport terminal is small compared to those in London, Paris, or Rome. Rather than overpowering architecture, gently curving sides of shining blue glass give passengers the sense of being embraced upon arrival.
At least, Lang thought so as he peered out of the window of the foundation's Gulfstream IV The aircraft had left the United States to deliver a team of pediatricians to Greenland, bound for the Arctic Cirde and a rumored outbreak of some strain of measles among children of one of the Eskimo tribes. The mission complete, Lang had arranged for the plane and crew to proceed to Scotland.
He was fairly certain his arrival was unknown to the mysterious group who apparently wanted to kill him. He had had to show no identification to purchase a British rail ticket from London to Glasgow, meet the plane, and depart minutes later.
Both England and Austria were European Union countries. No passport nor customs were required, and no official note of his arrival was made other than the aircraft's manifest or general declarations. Since these documents were rarely verified, Lang had donned the gray suit with epaulets on the shoulders worn by the foundation's flight crew. The general decs would show pilot, copilot, and two cabin attendants, one male, one female.
He hoped he had successfully concealed both his departure from London and his arrival here, although a careful check of the departure documents would show one fewer crew member when the plane returned to Atlanta with a very perplexed MD on board who would never guess his urgent summons to the foundation's headquarters was no more than camouflage for the Gulf- stream's side trip to Vienna.
With a single suitcase containing two copies of Jacob's translation, the SIG Sauer, and a change of clothes, Lang joined the other crew members in a casual stroll through the terminal along glossy tiles the color of butter as they reflected brightly lit shops and overhead lighting.
As far as Lang could tell, no one paid them the slightest bit of attention.
They parted company at the transportation exit, the crew taking a bus to a nearby hotel and Lang a taxi. Twenty minutes later he was on the Karntner Ring Strasse, if a swath that included tram tracks, four lanes of traffic, a middle green space, and four more traffic lanes could simply be described as a road. A tram's bell rang angrily as the cab made a U-turn to stop at the door of the Imperial Hotel.
Of the two Belle Epoch hotels of Vienna, the Sacher Haus was better known to tourists, but the Imperial boasted a guest list that had included Richard Wagner as well as the triumphant Adolf Hitler, in town to celebrate the 1938 Anschluss.
It was not the sort of place one would expect to house itinerant flight crews, but the man in the long-tailed coat behind the highly polished mahogany desk did not seem to notice the uniform. Lang gave him a foundation credit card, one that did not have his name on it, along with his passport, and signed the registration with an intentionally illegible signature, declining an offer for assistance with his single bag. Passing through the heavily carpeted lobby, Lang turned left into to a small vestibule housing ornate elevators.
His room, wallpapered a tasteful green, was furnished in a style that elsewhere would have been garish. Here, the gilt-edged furniture, swagged drapes, and elaborately made-up bed seemed perfectly in place, a memory of nineteenth-century Hapsburg grandeur. Lang was relieved to see the theme did not carry over to the bathroom. Modern fixtures and a multiheaded shower stall gleamed under operating-room brightness.
Checking his room's door and windows for security, Lang took out his cell phone to call Dr. Shaffer, who should be expecting him. The phone was answered on the second ring by a voice that Lang recognized from two previous conversations.
'Dr. Shaffer?'
'Ja?'
'Lang Reilly. We spoke a couple of times.'
There was an almost imperceptible pause, the short delay as the mind switched from one language to another. 'You are now here in Vienna?'
'The Imperial Hotel. Maybe you could drop by, have a beer or two, and we could talk?'
Another pause, this one longer.
'I would prefer another place, one where I will be able to recognize strangers as strangers. The Koenig Bakery. Do you know it?'
There were hundreds if not thousands of small restaurants in Vienna.
''Fraid not.'
The professor gave him directions.
Twenty minutes later Lang was walking beside the baroque buildings of old Vienna. Mozart had lived and composed within a block or so, written The Marriage of Figaro in an apartment on the dead-end Blutgasse. Johann Strauss had formed the world's first waltz orchestra nearby. Both Beethoven and Schubert had died here. The last Hapsburg emperors, including the kindly Franz Joseph, who described himself as the empire's chief bureaucrat, had worshiped at the Stephansdom, whose Gothic spires were visible over the rooflines.
Even the little restaurant to which the doctor had directed Lang was in historical context. He paused to read the menu posted outside one of several side-by-side eateries. Through open doors he could hear the murmur of conversation. Inside were three small rooms separated by white plaster walls contrasting with beams darkened by centuries of smoke from tobacco and candles.
Just inside the door a smallish man with a beard streaked with white took Lang by the arms. 'Langford Reilly?'
'How'd you guess?'
'As I said, I wanted to meet in a place where strangers would be obvious.'
Lang thought of the menu outside. Unlike in most European establishments, there was not one in English. Other than Dr. Shaffer, no one was speaking it in here, either.
Lang had an uneasy feeling. 'Any reason you're concerned about people you don't know?'
Dr. Shaffer was leading Lang to the back of the restaurant, the one place tables weren't close enough to touch. 'Within an hour of the time we first spoke,' the professor said in Oxford-accented English, 'a man appeared in front of my house. The next day another. I feel I am being followed because of our conversation. Why would that be?'
Lang didn't answer immediately. 'They' had retrieved or intercepted the call from his BlackBerry, a feat requiring a fair amount of sophistication-or sharing of information from the Anglo-American Echelon, the worldwide listening station in northern England that automatically recorded every conversation involving a satellite, which included most phone conversations, e-mails, and other communications. Having the communications was one thing. Being able to find one of interest among millions of others was another. Even if access to Echelon by someone other than England, Australia, New Zealand, Canada, or the United States were permitted-something unheard-of in Lang's days at the Agency-the sorting-out process would still be daunting. But what if…
'Mr. Reilly?'
Dr. Shaffer was peering at him curiously, as though Lang might have suddenly contracted some exotic disease. 'I was hoping you could tell me why I am being watched.'
Lang shrugged. 'I have no idea,' he said, hoping the lie was believable. 'As you'll see, these documents are of scientific and historic interest only.'
He hoped.
Without taking his eyes off Lang's face, Shaffer stuffed a copy of Jacob's translation into a briefcase beside him. 'In that case, you would have no objection to my going to the police?'
Lang picked up a menu, trying to recognize the German he had once known. Four of the six pages were handwritten specialties of the day. 'I would think that would be the thing to do. Could be a disgruntled student…'
'I have not taught in years. I work on a job-to-job basis for foundations and museums, usually doing chemical analyses of archeological finds.' He reached into a pocket somewhere, producing a pack of Marlboros. 'Do you mind?'
The only benefit of Gurt's departure had been that Lang had finally gotten the stench of her Marlboros out of his life. The damn smoke still lingered in the condominium and his clothes like a memory that would not go away.
