by Dick Rosano
But I was here on an assignment and being sidetracked by the American Ambassador didn’t seem like a good idea. After completing my task, I bid her good night which she insisted on sealing with a warm kiss on the cheek. I escorted her to the sidewalk and a waiting cab, then turned toward Stephansplatz, heading toward Weihburggasse and the four-block walk back to the Vienna Marriott and my room.
Morning came early today, and I woke to the rising sun shining through the windows that I had failed to curtain the night before. I reached for the TV remote and clicked on CNN to see what was brewing at home, then rose from the bed to shower.
I was often told that Café Central was the best place for coffee in Vienna and I decided that this was the day to find out. It was a ten-minute walk from the hotel and the air was fresh, so I donned a light jacket and exited the Marriott toward Stephansplatz.
The café occupies a prestigious corner at the intersection of Strauchgasse and Herrengasse and serves as an all-day gathering place for the Viennese as well as tourists who’ve done their research and read up about the place. Over the years, the establishment has been visited by a long list of historic figures, including politicians, statesmen, and scientists, from Leon Trotsky, Joseph Stalin, and Adolph Hitler to Sigmund Freud, Adolph Loos, and Alfred Adler. That guest list would have been incentive enough to visit, but the café’s reputation for the best coffee and pastry in the city was my reason for stopping by.
As I walked in, I looked up at the high, vaulted ceilings sectioned by arches that connect at geometric angles above the room. The entire area is lit by grand chandeliers which cast majestic lighting on the comfortable tables and booths below. The center of the café is dominated by a bar that, in mornings such as this, is filled with sugary morning delights and the heady aromas of just-roasted coffee beans. A seated sculpture of 19th century Austrian writer Peter Altenberg greets those arriving from the street, catching them in his penetrating gaze as the door swings open onto the dining area.
The hostess guided me to a booth near the window but, just as I was about to slide onto the seat, I saw a familiar face at a small table by the back wall.
“Danke, fräulein,” I said, but waved her off and proceeded to the table at the other end of the dining room.
“Hello,” I said, greeting Weber who was sitting alone with her morning paper and black coffee. I had heard that the cappuccino and latte here were famous, but I wasn’t surprised that the inspector would be sipping from a cup of black coffee. It was simple, direct, and no-nonsense. Just like her.
She looked up and allowed a small smile, then waved her hand toward the empty chair across from her. Sitting down, I looked over my shoulder at the hostess who had followed me to the table, ordered un doppio espresso – a double espresso – and then turned my attention to Weber. The obviously multi-lingual hostess was undeterred by my accidental slip into Italian, rather than ordering ein doppelter espresso, and turned away to prepare the drink.
“Good morning,” I said to initiate conversation. Weber folded the newspaper and laid it on the table, all while looking directly into my eyes. A good interrogator knew to maintain eye contact, and I already had concluded that she was well trained.
“Morgen,” was her reply, a colloquial shortening of the standard ‘guten morgen’ expected by most foreigners.
A few beats passed before a true conversation could begin, and I tried to decide whether I should initiate it or leave it to Weber.
She seemed even more attractive when not in uniform. Her V-necked sweater hung loosely over her shoulders and across her torso; the fabric seemed to be cashmere and was a light tan that highlighted her skin. When I last saw Weber, her hair had been tied up in a bun and held captive under her uniform beret. Now, it hung long and loose past her shoulders and onto the sweater. Her brown eyes had a youthful glow, although I could see from her confident gaze that she was no twenty-something. The skin on her hands was smooth and I couldn’t help but notice that it was warmed by a friendly pink as she smiled at me. Tiny crinkled lines ran from the corners of her mouth and eyes; signs of experience but not age.
“So,” she began, “you have discovered Café Central.” It was not a question. I realized that, from my file, Weber might also know whether I had ever bought a coffee in this establishment.
“Doesn’t everyone,” I replied, “sooner or later?”
Weber smiled back and sipped from her coffee.
“Yes, I suppose so.” After another beat, she added, “How was the wine tasting last night? And how was Madame Ambassador?”
I couldn’t help but be amused and impressed by all that Weber knew but also by her natural instinct to challenge anyone whom she questioned.
“Very good,” I replied, then I waited a moment before adding, “the tasting I mean. Not the Ambassador.”
Weber smiled at my handling of her questions.
“She’s quite a personage in this city,” she suggested.
“She’s the American Ambassador,” I offered in a subtle defense. “She should be ‘quite a personage.’”
“Yes, but…” Weber paused for effect, “but she is also quite attractive.”
“I suppose. If you like that kind of…kind of personage.”
“Did you come here to question me, Mr. Priest?”
“Darren, please. And what makes you think that? I just happened to come to the café that – according to your own proclamation – everyone discovers at some point.”
“Hmmm,” she replied while taking another sip.
“Perhaps I should ask why you are here,” I suggested. “Were you looking for me?”
“I know where you are staying, Mr. Priest,” she said confidently, still ignoring my suggestion of using my first name. “I don’t need to look for you.”
“Okay, you know where I am staying, and you have an idea of why I am in Vienna. But you let me join you for coffee this morning. Does that mean you don’t still consider me a threat?”
“I consider all men a threat,” she said with a flat, serious tone.
“Ouch. That hurt!” My eye swung to the espresso on the table that had just been delivered, a move that allowed me to check her hand for a ring. Nothing there.
“Let me rephrase that,” Weber added carefully. “Women can be difficult and sometimes evil, but men can be both. Plus, men are more prone to carrying out their intentions with violence.”
“That almost sounds like a textbook recitation,” I added with a smile. Frankly, I was enjoying relaxing at the table with her. Without the uniform and the tidy bun on her head – not to mention the Glock on her hip – the inspector could be quite attractive.
“We know where you go and what you do,” she suggested, a warning that I hardly needed to be given. “Even with whom you talk on your phone.”
“I would expect nothing less,” I replied.
“For example, you are going to DFR-Wien today.” It wasn’t a question. “Is that the bank you said you were investigating?”
“No. I’m not investigating the bank. But possibly someone, an American, who has business with them. You see, U.S. banking regulations allow us to…”
“Follow the money,” she said. “Around the world. But, you see, Mr. Priest…”
“Darren. Please.”
“You see, Mr. Priest, you are in my country now. Americans may think they can go anywhere and poke around in respected institutions in other countries, but those other countries might not agree.”
“I tell you what; I’ll make you a deal. If I…,” I paused. “Can I call you Alana?”
“No.”
“Okay. Just thought I’d try.” I couldn’t help but smile when I saw the corner of Alana’s lips curl upward a bit.
“If I am only talking to people, and not opening their files or peering into their safe deposit boxes, is that alright?”
“We’ll have to see,” she responded. And with a swift sip from her coffee cup, Weber stood to go.
“Keep me posted, Mr. Prie
st.”
Chapter Eleven
April 16
DFR-Wien
It was not pure chance that I began my morning at Café Central. The coffeehouse was just a couple of blocks from DFR-Wien on Petrarcagasse, so passing by the café gave me a good opportunity to check it out.
Moments after Alana left the table – dropping a Euro on the table for tip – I stood, sipped the last of my espresso, and departed also.
DFR-Wien has a grand entrance, like many venerable banks in Europe. I guessed that it had occupied this prominent spot for many years, just a few steps up from the roadway and perched on granite risers to emphasize its girth and height. The façade sports tall columns that themselves support a triangular pediment above the massive bronze doors. Soaring windows with polished brass frames allow pedestrians to peer inside the lobby of the bank, windows that begin at waist level and rise nearly the full thirty-foot height of the bank’s first floor ceiling.
Despite their heavy appearance, the doors opened readily at the push of my hand. I thought about the mechanical assist that no doubt had been engineered into the design so that each visitor to the establishment would begin with a pleasant feeling of being welcome.
I stepped in through the doorway and appraised the room, taking note of the serious calm that presided over the space. There were eight teller windows on the left wall and three formal-looking desks positioned opposite them along the right wall. A handful of hightop counters occupied the middle of the long rectangular room, around which stood patrons scribbling notes on small slips of paper. It almost seemed like a throwback to the 1950s. Instead of the sound of computers clacking and the invisible movement of capital along fiberoptic circuits, here I witnessed real people, real tellers, and real forms and papers to fill out to initiate transactions.
“Can I help you, sir?”
I turned to see a young man of Asian extraction standing beside me.
“I am Mr. Chinh. Can I help you?” he repeated.
“Yes, you can. Thank you. I am looking for…” then I paused and reached into my pants pocket, fishing for the bit of note paper that I had prepared and deposited in my pocket exactly for the scene I was about to enact. I had planned to take on the role of shy newcomer, and the feigned awkwardness was intended to make him feel in command, and to deflect any concern about my intentions, as if I only had the barest notion of what I should be doing. “Timid and indecisive” worked well in these instances. I didn’t know who Mr. Chinh was but the so-called “Columbo Effect” was a useful strategy when approaching someone you intended to study closely without them noticing.
Peering at the crumbled note in my hand, I said, “I am looking for a Mr. Eichner.”
“That is the bank manager, Mr…?”
“Priest. Darren Priest.”
“Mr. Priest. Okay, Mr. Eichner only sees people by appointment. Perhaps I can help you?”
“Yes. Of course. Could you help me make an appointment with Mr. Eichner?”
“No,” said Chinh. “I meant perhaps I can answer your questions. Are you interested in opening an account with us? Investing, perhaps?”
Just then, a man who fit Eichner’s photo from the bank’s webpage came walking by. He dressed the part of a successful European banker, although the thin patch of hair that he combed over from his left temple reminded me more of an aging American businessman pretending that he was not going bald.
As he approached, I let the slip of paper fall from my hand, on the side that Eichner was passing by. I leaned over clumsily to pick it up and bumped into Eichner.
“Oh, sir, I’m so sorry,” I said.
“Please, Mr. Eichner,” Chinh spoke up, showing a little nervousness that this customer had rumpled the bank manager. “I’m sorry. I’ll help this…”
“You’re Mr. Eichner?” I interjected. “A friend from the States sent me to see you.”
This ploy stopped Chinh in mid-sentence, and it caused Eichner to stop and look at me. He leaned in at first, as if fewer inches between us would allow him to glean a bit more about me. He blinked too frequently, suggesting nervousness and a level of uncertainty that he was wary of challenging.
“Yes?” Eichner said with a formal smile. “And who is that?”
“Stanley Fowles.” Fowles is an entrepreneur from the States whose reputation for foreign investment was well known. I had researched his portfolio and knew that he had money in Austria, most likely Vienna, and I took a chance that he would have dealt with DFR-Wien. Eichner’s reaction convinced me that I had pushed the right button. I also knew that Fowles was famously reclusive and untrusting, so I didn’t have to worry about the bank calling him to check out my story.
“What can I do for you?” Eichner asked. He made no attempt to confirm my reference to Fowles, but he didn’t turn me away either.
“I’d like to learn more about the investments that have been so successful here at DFR, and how I might invest some of the revenues that my company is bringing in.”
“And what company is that, Mr…Mr…?”
“Priest. Darren Priest,” I said and extended my hand to him. Cool palms are not a definitive clue, so I didn’t make anything of the surface temperature of Eichner. But a warm sweaty palm would have sent me in a different direction.
“My company is very successful,” I continued, “and, as a result, people are always wanting to know my methods. But they also want to steal my plans.” Turning slightly away from Chinh to offer the next in private to Eichner, I added, “I especially need the secrecy that DFR-Wien is known for. We should discuss my company in private.”
“Mr. Priest,” Eichner deflected my attempt at a sidebar conversation, and spoke clearly so that Chinh would hear every word. “All reputable banks provide security and confidential protections for their clients. That is all we provide.”
“Yes, that, and safe deposit boxes,” I said, then added in a low voice, “off-ledger deposit boxes.”
I had discovered on my recent visit three weeks ago that DFR was the closest thing to the proverbial offshore bank in Austria. The bank was buoyed by the thousands of accounts that amassed tens of millions of Euros which made up its foundational portfolio, but there were also several dozen off-record investors who used DFR’s access to markets for profit while using DFR’s vault for storage of their “unmentionables.”
“Mr. Chinh,” Eichner said, addressing his subordinate. “Please show Mr. Priest to my office.” Then, turning to me, he added, “I will be right with you.”
Chinh swung his hand in the direction of a short set of stairs which led up to a glass-enclosed office on the mezzanine level overlooking the lobby. He started off ahead of me, as if a guide was required before one entered the sanctum of Eichner’s office.
“You can wait here, Mr. Priest,” he said, pointing to a leather armed chair opposite an imposing desk. “Can I get you some coffee? Or water?”
“Coffee would be excellent,” I responded. “I know the coffee in Vienna is superb. Thanks.”
“Yes,” Chinh said, finally opening up in a smile. “We serve Julius Meinl coffee here. What do you drink in the States? Starbucks?” The last was said with a dismissive tone.
“Never. If I can’t get Meinl or Helmut Sachers, I will settle for Illy.”
Chinh seemed impressed with my coffee preferences, which is what I wanted him to be. He nodded his head in approval and then left the office to secure a cup of coffee for me. When he returned a few moments later, he carried a cup and saucer in Old World china, the black broth steaming from the cup.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Priest, I didn’t ask if you wanted cream or sugar.”
“Neither,” I replied, and the look on his face convinced me that he expected that reply. Fresh roasted black coffee from an eminent house like Julius Meinl was seldom served “corrected” with cream or sugar.
Eichner tarried just long enough to convey his message to me: That this was his bank and he was in charge.
“So, Mr. Priest,” h
e said shutting the office door as he entered. “What is the name of your company?”
“Epic Design.”
“And what do you do?”
“We build buildings. Tall buildings. But like construction anywhere in America, you can’t succeed without…let’s say…some off-track betting.”
Eichner’s face was, at first, stony and passive. With my mention of the use of extraordinary methods, he softened just a bit. The deep crease that had settled at the edges of his mouth disappeared, a sign that his facial muscles were relaxing. And, although he didn’t lean forward, he ceased to push back in his chair so that his posture was now more vertical and ever-so-barely closer to me. His eyes abandoned the veiled look of disinterest, replaced by a glint of attention.
“I’m not a gambling man, Mr. Priest.”
“Neither am I. I bet, but I never gamble. Which is why I decided to visit you.”
“What can DFR-Wien do for you, Mr. Priest?”
“Give me privacy. And protection. I need to transfer some money here. It’ll be changed from dollars into francs from Burkina Faso, some of it into Djiboutian francs, and some of it into Somali shillings.”
“We don’t accept any of those currencies, Mr. Priest.”
“Then into Euros,” I continued, “through Greece and then through Latvia. You do accept Euros, right, Mr. Eichner?”
It was rhetorical, and he treated the question with a smile and a nod.
“And I will leave ten percent of the deposit in your hands,” I concluded my pitch.
Eichner was not skilled enough to avoid reacting to this. His eyebrows twitched suddenly, and his head bent forward a tiny bit. My research had shown that such off-record transactions in the Euro Zone were usually paid off with a five percent fee. My offer was double that and would no doubt capture Eichner in his own greedy trap.
“When will the funds be transmitted, Mr. Priest?”