read-a little fat, with a blond crew cut-until, at a quarter to one, he followed Brano up to and across Mariahilfer Stra?e.
The fresh spring weather was apparent in the Viennese women’s freshly pressed short skirts, showing off their tapered legs and high heels as they strode to lunch meetings and offices. He wondered what Dijana was wearing right then; he wondered if she was wearing anything at all.
Neubaugasse was choked with little eateries, clothing and junk stores, and parked cars. He paused outside the Liebengaste, a small traditional restaurant on the sunny side of the street, then found a table inside, where he placed his bag beside his chair. There was only one other guest, a large man with a thick gray mustache buried in a newspaper. Brano didn’t recognize him. It was five until one. He asked the waitress for a beer and schnitzel, and the location of the toilet. She smiled and pointed to the back of the restaurant. As he got up, he noticed the man with the crew cut through the front window, hands in his pockets, as fast-moving Viennese passed him.
The bathroom door was unlocked. He opened it and switched on the harsh light. Beside the sink, on which sat a brown hat, Josef Lochert stood, smiling. The tall man had lost weight since that day he’d driven Brano to the Vienna airport. He was rubbing a thin beard he’d added to his juvenile mustache.
Brano closed the door and locked it.
“It’s about time I heard from you.”
Lochert chewed the inside of his lip. “There’s a sale at the tricot store.”
“What?”
Lochert raised an eyebrow. “I said, There’s a sale at the tricot store.”
Brano looked blankly at him, then closed his eyes and spoke the old, coded reply as it came to him. “But I’ve always been suspicious of cotton.”
“Okay, Sev.” Lochert stuck out his hand.
Brano gripped it but didn’t let go. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“You were the one who hit me in the Volksgarten, and then-”
But Brano didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he punched Lochert in the eye, then let go of his hand.
Lochert stumbled back against the wall, holding his face. “Okay,” he said. “Okay, Brano. I deserved that. But you were endangering our mission with that woman. I thought I was doing the right thing at the time.”
“No, Josef.” Brano took another step toward him. “You deserve a lot more than that. You tried to set me up for Bertrand Richter’s murder. And when that didn’t get me arrested by the Austrians, you took advantage of my condition and packed me off for home. I imagine you also called the Austrians who almost got me in the airport. Then you sent in a report that ended my career. You wanted Vienna to yourself.”
Lochert rubbed his eye; the other one squinted at him. “I don’t know what to say, Brano.”
“Well, you got what you wanted, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I suppose I did.”
Silence followed, and Brano didn’t feel the need to fill it.
Lochert finally lowered his hand from his wet, bloodshot eye. “Are you being followed?”
“Of course; he’s outside. I think I might want to do that again.”
“Enough, okay?” Lochert raised his hands. “Let’s consider ourselves at peace for the moment. Can we do that?”
Brano shrugged.
“Your instructions are simple,” said Lochert. “Yalta wants you to take care of Filip Lutz. I see you’ve already made contact with him.”
“Take care?”
“Kill him, Comrade Sev.”
At first Brano couldn’t think of anything to say.
Was this the answer he’d been waiting so long for? This? He shook his head. “I’m not the man for this. There are others.”
“Not this time.”
“Why me?”
“Orders.” Lochert took his hat from the sink.
“Wait a minute.”
“I’m not waiting for anything, Sev. I’m going.” He stepped toward the door, but Brano gripped his arm. Lochert looked at Brano’s hand.
“You’re not walking away,” said Brano. “I’ve been stuck in this country a month and a half now, and I don’t have any idea what’s going on. I’m not an amateur. I should have been told from the beginning.”
“So you could spill it to the Austrians?”
“You’re the usual hired gun, Lochert. And even if you’re the temporary rezident, there are plenty more of your kind around.”
“Think about it, Brano.” This close, below Lochert’s dripping eye, he noticed scars from old acne.
“Because Yalta can deny it if I’m caught.”
“You haven’t lost it all yet.”
“I don’t even work for the Ministry anymore. I’m just a murderer who fled the country.”
“Very good. Can I go now?”
“Wait.” Brano frowned. “A frame-up in a village, all the operatives I had to turn in here, letting Soroka out of the country-all this was to get rid of one troublesome journalist? I don’t believe it.”
“Do you want me to tell Cerny you’re refusing?”
“No.” He squeezed Lochert’s arm tighter. “What I want is for you to tell me why we want Lutz dead.”
Lochert sighed and, when Brano let go of his arm, settled on the toilet. “I was only supposed to tell you if I felt it was necessary.”
“It is necessary, Josef.”
“Well, then.” Lochert’s hands hung loosely between his knees. “You were at Lutz’s speech to that Christian organization, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
“They’re Lutz’s connection to the CIA.”
“I suspected as much.”
“But what you don’t know is why the CIA is giving him money. It’s not for those silly articles he writes.”
“Then what’s it for?”
Lochert paused. “You remember after the war, Truman’s plans to roll back the Iron Curtain?”
“Of course. I’ve seen Sasha Lytvyn around.”
“Well, they’re doing it again, with Filip Lutz at the head. It’s better organized than the one Frank Wisner led. It’s completely airtight, too. We don’t have anyone working on the inside. We’ve tried, of course, but come up with nothing. All we know is that something is being planned-probably an armed insurrection.”
“Something to shake up the Politburo,” said Brano. “That’s what he told me.”
“Lutz talks a lot, but only when he’s being vague.”
“Then we should interrogate him.”
“No.” Lochert shook his head. “That’s out of the question. He’s being watched too well, and we don’t want the Austrians to learn of this. At this point, they don’t know a thing-the Americans haven’t involved them. We want to keep it that way.”
Brano nodded, the zbrka of the last weeks dissipating. Explanations, however distasteful, and even from someone as distasteful as Lochert, were what he needed. “Is Jan Soroka connected to this?”
“Not that we know.”
Brano pressed a finger to his lips. “But it’s not Lutz heading this. There’s an old man named Andrew Stamer. He knew Frank Wisner. They were friends.”
“Yes, we know about Andrew-he was just a go-between. He passed Wisner’s knowledge on to Lutz. At most, he’s an occasional advisor, a nobody.”
Brano stepped back and leaned against the wall. He didn’t like that all-knowing look in Lochert’s good eye. “Tell me, then, why would the Americans be involved in a scheme they know will fail?”
“We’re here to be sure they fail, but don’t think it’s predetermined.”
