Osterreich. Department Five was responsible for counter-terrorism, counter-extremism, and counter-intelligence. Manfred Kruz possessed the power to bug offices and tap telephones, to open mail and conduct physical surveillance. Foreigners who came to Austria looking for trouble could expect a visit from one of Kruz’s men. So could native-born Austrians whose political activities diverged from the prescribed lines. Little took place inside the country that he didn’t know about, including the recent appearance in Vienna of an Israeli who claimed to be a colleague of Eli Lavon from Wartime Claims and Inquiries.
Kruz’s innate mistrust of people extended to his personal secretary. He waited until she had left the room before prizing open the envelope and shaking the print onto his blotter. It fell facedown. He turned it over, placed it in the sharp white light of his halogen lamp, and carefully examined the image. Kruz was not interested in Renate Hoffmann. She was the subject of regular surveillance by Department Five, and Kruz had spent more time than he cared to remember studying surveillance photographs and listening to transcripts of proceedings inside the premises of the Coalition for a Better Austria. No, Kruz was more interested in the dark, compact figure walking at her side, the man who called himself Gideon Argov.
After a moment he stood and worked the tumbler on the wall safe behind his desk. Inside, wedged between a stack of case files and a bundle of scented love letters from a girl who worked in payroll, was a videotape of an interrogation. Kruz glanced at the date on the adhesive label-JANUARY1991-then inserted the tape into his machine and pressed the play button.
The shot rolled for a few frames before settling into place. The camera had been mounted high in the corner of the interrogation room, where the wall met the ceiling, so that it looked down upon the proceedings from an oblique angle. The image was somewhat grainy, the technology a generation old. Pacing the room with a menacing slowness was a younger version of 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.
IN 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 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 200-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
