Chapter 43
There were two men inside the cramped bathroom, one washing his hands in a chipped sink, the other coming out of a narrow cubicle, adjusting his flies. Gaddis squeezed between the two of them, no eye contact, went into the cubicle and locked the door. There was an odd, crisp smell of mint on the air, as if his predecessor had sprayed breath freshener into the room out of consideration for his fellow man. Gaddis immediately pulled out the pen and notebook on which he had written the letter at the wedding and began to write quickly. He could not afford to forget any detail of what Wilkinson had told him and did not trust his fortysome-thing brain to reproduce a completely accurate account of their conversation in the morning.
The door of the bathroom opened and the two men left. Gaddis could hear the dull thump of what was now rock music in the cafe, muffled conversations beyond the door. He had no shorthand, but wrote at speed in an abbreviated script perfected over years of attending lectures: there were words, parts of words and coded abbreviations on the pages of his notebooks which made sense only to him.
The bathroom door opened again. Two men were talking to one another in German as they came in. Gaddis knew that he had only two or three minutes left in which to write his notes; after that, Wilkinson might lose patience and start to wonder why he was taking so long. He set down the details of Platov’s approach to Crane, closed the notebook and stood up.
At that moment, Karl Stieleke walked through the side entrance of the Kleines Cafe, removed a Beretta Px4 Storm and, in a single fluid movement, fired a silenced double-tap shot into the head of Robert Wilkinson, driving a fist of brain into the wall behind him. Stieleke, who was no more than four feet from the door of the cafe, did not pause to verify that Wilkinson was dead; he knew as much. Instead, he turned and pushed his way through the stunned crowd before anyone had time to react. He then sprinted north-east to a waiting vehicle and, within twenty seconds, was in the passenger seat of a Saab SUV, sitting alongside Alexander Grek and accelerating to seventy kilometres per hour along Singerstrasse.
Gaddis was putting the pen back in the inside pocket of his jacket when he sensed the commotion outside. At first, it sounded as if the music system had failed, the irritation of a song skipping repeatedly on a scratched CD, but then he heard a woman shouting ‘ Hilfe! ’ in a way that unnerved him. He opened the door and walked out of the bathroom into a scene of total panic; it was as if the cafe had tilted into another dimension. The music had stopped completely and crowds of drinkers were surging up out of the lower bar, pushing and tripping over themselves as they bottlenecked towards the main entrance on Franziskanerplatz. People were shouting, swearing. At first, Gaddis wondered if a fight had broken out, but this part of Vienna was surely too civilized, too orderly and conservative, for a couple of drunks to have begun trading blows. He tried to move against the tide of people and to get back to Wilkinson, but was caught in the energy of the panicking crowd and almost lifted off his feet as it carried him up a short, narrow flight of stairs towards the entrance. It was only then, in the first dim seconds of adjusting to the chaos around him, that Gaddis began to fear for Wilkinson. He said, in English, to a woman who was partly supporting herself on his shoulders: ‘What’s going on?’ but she ignored him, seemingly too shocked by what she had witnessed to explain why fifty or sixty people were suddenly hurrying out of Kleines Cafe into a deserted Viennese square at two o’clock in the morning.
Outside, almost immediately, Gaddis heard the word ‘gun’. It was spoken, very clearly and in English, by an American man whose face he could not see. He picked up further cubist snatches of conversation, phrases in both English and German which gradually assembled into the horrifying picture of what had happened. A man had been shot at point-blank range. An elderly man. Nobody had seen the gunman. Nobody had heard the gun.
Gaddis turned and tried to reach the booth, weaving through the dazed crowds. He was determined to get to Wilkinson. He was convinced that he was still alive. But there were too many people jammed into the narrow doorway and no means of getting past them. He recognized a woman who had been drinking near their table in the lower bar. She was holding a cigarette in her hand but seemed too dazed to remember to smoke it.
‘What happened?’ he asked her. There was no response. He said: ‘Problem?’ in German, and this time she reacted.
‘Somebody has been shot,’ she said, in English. ‘That is all I know.’ She reached for his arm, as if they were old friends and needed Gaddis to steady her.
‘A customer?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
It could only have been Wilkinson. Gaddis felt a dull charge of fear. His sense of dislocation was sudden and overwhelming. He was experiencing the same sense of bewildered shock that he had known in the apartment in Berlin and tried to void his mind of panic. Was he safe himself? He looked around the square and felt that at any moment he might be felled by a bullet. Simply by standing outside the cafe he was inviting a second shot. And what if he was recognized as the man who had been sitting with the victim? It was only a matter of time before somebody in the crowd pointed Gaddis out to the police.
In some obscure, still-functioning recess of his mind, he began to act decisively. A survival instinct kicked in. He noticed that people were running away from the bar, jogging into side streets, dragging their friends with them against a background of distant sirens. Gaddis followed, realizing that to get away from the scene of the attack was his best option. He turned south-east out of the square, moving swiftly downhill as part of a group of perhaps ten or twelve people. He passed between a shop selling English-language books and, on the opposite side of the street, what looked like a brothel or lap-dancing club. Ahead, Gaddis could see the traffic on Schubertring and the low trees of the Stadtpark. The street was no more than a few hundred metres from the Radisson and, for a moment, he toyed with the idea of going inside. But it was surely crazy to think that he could talk his way past a night porter who might later turn him over to the police.
He took out his mobile. He dialled Tanya’s number because there was nowhere else to turn. She picked up almost immediately, her voice groggy and disorientated.
‘Hello?’
He was convinced that she had betrayed him, yet there was a strange kind of reassurance in hearing her voice.
‘Why did you do it, Tanya?’
‘Sam?’
‘Bob Wilkinson has been shot.’
‘ Shot? What?’ She sounded genuinely appalled, repeating what Gaddis had told her as if to absorb the full implications of what he was saying. ‘Where are you?’
A siren blasted in the near-distance, matched instantly by a second vehicle, tearing towards the Kleines Cafe.
‘Why did you do it?’ he asked her again. ‘Company orders?’
‘I don’t know why you think I had anything to do with this. Where are you? Tell me what’s going on.’
He could almost believe in her innocence. He wanted to believe in it. But there was no trust left between them. He said: ‘How am I supposed to know? I went to the bathroom, I left Wilkinson sitting at a table, next thing I know he’s been killed. You tell me what happened. You’re probably in fucking Vienna. You tell me how the hell they found out where he was.’
‘Sam. Listen to me.’ Tanya had composed herself. She was suddenly preternaturally calm. ‘This is what I was worried about. I thought you were still in Spain. What is this number you’re calling from? Is it a new mobile?’
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Hang up. Switch it off and take out the battery. Get at least a mile away from where you are, find a public phone and call me back. Do that.’
‘What?’
But she had already broken the connection. Gaddis spoke against the dead line, but Tanya was gone. He concealed himself in the recess of an apartment block entrance and stared at the screen. She was obviously worried that the Russians had a fix on his mobile. But was she genuinely trying to protect him, or just buying time in which to call John Brennan? Either way, he knew that he had no option other than to do as Tanya had instructed. He turned off the phone, his nail digging hard into the power switch, slid back the casing and removed the battery. He
