“Good. Mr. Woodleigh is understandably anxious. His kidney is deteriorating quickly and he’s not eager to subject himself to the troubles of dialysis again.”
He raised his glass to toast with her. She responded in kind, but he had no sense that she considered this occasion as anything other than a business meeting. He wondered who shared a bed with her. She had to have a lover. She was too good looking. Was it someone who knew about her work? He couldn’t imagine that. Who would put up with what had to be a crazy schedule?
“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he said.
She smiled that Sphinx smile of hers, then shook her head. “Thanks, Doctor, but no. Better not mix business with pleasure. I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more.”
She picked up her bag and left. He could have sworn her hips swayed just a little more than usual. He wasn’t surprised that she’d left him the bill.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Vermeulen stood on the platform of the Kaisermühlen subway station, waiting for the Vienna-bound train. Frau Waldmüller sat on a bench not too far away. A white plastic bag with the red logo of Steffl, the Vienna department store, lay next to her. After her confession, she’d cried a lot—more from relief than anything else. It was clear to Vermeulen that she had participated in this scheme only because she feared for her son. It was also clear to him that her son was a crook rather than the victim of circumstances, as Frau Waldmüller had claimed. Could she really be so blind? But Vermeulen knew what children could make their parents do.
After she’d admitted the whole thing, she wanted nothing more to do with it. But Vermeulen convinced her otherwise. She was to deliver the signed letters as usual, one last time. Once Frau Waldmüller turned over the letters to the man, Vermeulen would follow him. The letters would be passed on to someone higher up in the gang. Vermeulen would identify the people and turn over that information to Dufaux, who, in turn, would hand it to the police. Dufaux had assured him that he had good relations with the Bundeskriminalamt, the Austrian Federal Criminal Police.
The Kaisermühlen station was above ground. The weather had improved from the day before, but the setting sun didn’t do much to warm Vermeulen. He wished he’d brought a warmer coat. Maybe there’d be a chance to buy one when this whole thing was over.
The platform was busy. The end of the regular workday meant that many of the three-thousand-odd UN employees were on their way home.
He called Tessa to check if things were okay at the clinic. She assured him that all was well, given the circumstances. Gaby was still not responsive.
The train pulled into the station. It was painted a sleek gray with a bright red stripe about a third of the way up from the platform. Frau Waldmüller entered the second car. He stepped into the third and inched his way through the standing passengers to the rear of the second one. The interior was gray, too, but the red seats and bright lights made it a pleasant space. The seats were facing each other in rows of two on both sides of the aisle. They had filled quickly. Vermeulen squeezed past Frau Waldmüller. Near the other end of the car, he grabbed the plastic strap hanging from the ceiling and waited.
The train stopped once more and then plunged beneath the Danube, toward the city center. There was so much he didn’t know about Vienna, and he knew he wouldn’t have time to find out. He hadn’t even visited one of the famous coffee shops. The place at the UN City wasn’t really what one could call a Viennese café.
A lot of passengers got off at the next station. The rider next to Frau Waldmüller was one of them. She placed the Steffl bag on the empty seat. The car became more crowded as others squeezed in. A few threw angry stares at Frau Waldmüller, but no one asked her to free up the seat. A man carrying an identical bag pushed his way forward. She took hers from the seat and put it on the floor. He sat down and put his next to hers. He wore faded jeans and a black leather jacket. Vermeulen recognized the face and the widow’s peak. It was the man who’d worn the tracksuit at the hospital. Turning away, he hoped the man hadn’t recognized him.
A few moments later, he glanced back, but nothing seemed amiss. The man looked straight ahead, uninterested in his surroundings.
The next stop was Praterstern. According to the map on the wall, it was a major station with many transfer opportunities. It was also the gateway to the Prater amusement park. If the man got out there, Vermeulen would have a hard time keeping him in sight. The train slowed. People began crowding toward the exit. The man remained seated. The train came to a stop. The crowd pressed against the doors, which opened with a hiss. The surging mass pushed against Vermeulen. Was the man leaving or not? Vermeulen craned his neck to keep an eye on the suspect. Sure enough, the man got up at the last moment, grabbing Frau Waldmüller’s plastic bag.
Vermeulen pushed against the passengers blocking his way. A ding sounded and a voice announced in German that the doors were closing. He was still a yard from the doors. With a hiss, the doors began sliding together.
“Hold the door!” he shouted in English. People looked at him curiously, but at least one of them understood and put his arm between the doors. With a sigh, the doors opened again. Vermeulen stumbled out of the train.
He scanned the platform in both directions. There were people everywhere, and black seemed to be the favorite jacket color. Finally, he saw the man approaching the escalator at the end of the platform. He hustled through the crowd. The escalator was too busy and too narrow to get ahead any farther.
Most of the crowd hurried to connect to the other subway line or the light rail lines that stopped at the station above street level. Which made Vermeulen’s search at the subway exit a bit easier. In the waning light of the day, he could make out the man, approaching one of the entrances to the Prater.
Vermeulen was pretty sure the man didn’t know he was being followed. Frau Waldmüller had been as circumspect as he could have hoped. And the man didn’t double back or stop suddenly—maneuvers a well-trained operative would have employed as a matter of course. The gang was feeling secure. They had done as they were told and put a scare into Vermeulen. It hadn’t occurred to them that he might follow them.
The amusement park was all lit up. Above the carousels, tilt-a-whirls, and assorted rides rose one of Vienna’s landmarks, the giant Ferris wheel. It was no longer the tallest structure in the park. A tower carousel at the far end of the park stood even taller. But with its illuminated red cars suspended between dual gray steel girders, the wheel was certainly the most impressive ride.
The man walked into the park.
It was still early in the year. Tourists were visiting the ski resorts in the Austrian Alps rather than Vienna. The Prater was still the domain of locals, and mostly teenagers at that. The man stopped under the large blue marquee with white neon lettering that spelled ‘Wiener Riesenrad.’ He bought a ticket and disappeared through the doors. Vermeulen couldn’t figure this out. He’d just picked up a bag with fake letters. Why was he taking them for a ride on the Ferris wheel?
Vermeulen saw another man wearing a trench coat and a gray fedora buy a ticket and walk through the door. He also carried a Steffl bag. Before Vermeulen could sort out what he’d just seen, a couple stepped up to the ticket counter. Vermeulen stopped waiting. He ran to the ticket booth, bought his ticket, and followed the other passengers through the door.
Inside, the flexible barriers guided a smattering of riders to stairs that provided access to the cars. The wheel stopped each time one of them approached the nadir of its journey. Its occupants left by one side while the new riders entered from the other. Four people entered. The two men were next. Vermeulen could see one of them hand the attendant money. The man nodded and locked the door after them.
The next car arrived. The process repeated itself. The two men entered. When the couple ahead of Vermeulen wanted to follow, the attendant stopped them.
“Bitte warten Sie auf den nächsten Waggon,” he said. The two shrugged and stepped back to wait for the next car.
“Ich bin mit Denen,” he ad libbed in bad German. I’m with them. The attendant looked confused, but then opened the door and let him inside. The two men stared at him with astonishment. The one in the leather jacket who’d been at the hospital recognized Vermeulen. His mouth fell open.
“Was soll das?” the one with the fedora said. He had a clean-shaven face, a hawkish nose, and dark eyes under bushy eyebrows. With his hat and coat, he looked like a Hungarian aristocrat.
The first one recovered his speech. “Das ist er!” He shook his head. It’s him.
“Yes, it’s me,” Vermeulen said. “You threatened my daughter. That will stop here and now!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The man with the fedora examined Vermeulen head to toe. The car shook slightly as the Ferris wheel began its rotation.
“Mr. Vermeulen, is it?” He spoke accent-free English and pronounced the name correctly. “What a surprise. I did not think I would have the pleasure of meeting you.”
“Spare me your pleasantries, Mister ….”
“Mr. Schmidt will do. Well, let us talk, then.”
“I’m not here to talk. I’m here to blow your operation sky high.”
The wheel stopped to let the couple board the next car.
“My, my. You have only just arrived, but you have already become Viennese.”
Vermeulen’s face must have shown his confusion, because Schmidt continued, “One of Vienna’s literary figures once said that Vienna has many landmarks and every Viennese thinks he’s one. But let me caution you, Mr. Vermeulen, your brashness will not serve you well here. You ought to go careful in Vienna. Everybody ought to go careful in a city like this.”
The saccharine smile on the man’s face so invited a punch, Vermeulen had to muster all his willpower to restrain himself. The Ferris wheel began its rotation again. This time it kept moving. Apparently there was nobody waiting to board below. The car rose above the trees and all of Vienna appeared spread out in a panorama that was stunning even under the darkening sky.
“Don’t bother threatening me. I know about your operation. All it takes is a few calls and it will end.”
“You forget your daughter.”
“I took care of that. You won’t find her again.”
Schmidt raised his eyebrows and looked at the man in the leather jacket.
“Ist sie nicht mehr im Unfallkrankenhaus, Popescu?”
Popescu looked surprised. Which was good news to Vermeulen.
“What am I saying?” Schmidt said. “Please forgive me for resorting to threats. I am sure we can arrive at an arrangement that is mutually beneficial and would leave your daughter out of things.”
In the distance, Vermeulen saw the illuminated spire of St. Stephen’s Cathedral, marking the center of the old city of Vienna.
“I have no interest in making a deal with you.”
“Please, hear me out. Did you ever see The Third Man?”
Vermeulen nodded.
“A spectacular film, don’t you agree, Mr. Vermeulen? The line about going careful in Vienna came from it. Do you remember the conversation between Holly Martins and Harry Lime right here on the Ferris wheel?”
Vermeulen shook his head. All he remembered were the dark black-and-white scenes of a bombed-out Vienna. So different from what he saw now. The car had reached the apex of the journey. Spread out to one side was the old city, full of churches, museums, and sights. On the other side stood the Millennium Tower and the high-rises of the Vienna International Centre, where he’d met with Dufaux. The wheel stopped again to let new passengers board.
Schmidt opened the window of the car. A gust of wind blew inside, sending a chill down Vermeulen’s back.
“In the film, Harry opens the door and tells his friend, ‘Look down there. Would you really feel any pity if one of those dots stopped moving forever? If I offered you twenty thousand pounds for every dot that stopped, would you really, old man, tell me to keep my money, or would you calculate how many dots you could afford to spend? Free of income tax.’
“You see, Mr. Vermeulen, today, we can’t open the door anymore. But we wouldn’t want to, because we are the opposite of Harry Lime. Harry Lime was willing to kill people with bad penicillin for profit. We don’t want any of those dots to stop moving. We want them to thrive. That’s why all our clients volunteer in exchange for generous compensation. Compared to Harry Lime, we are angels. It’s just that the law doesn’t quite understand that yet. Hence the subterfuge. Of course, I won’t be able to offer you twenty thousand pounds for each of our volunteers, but you won’t be disappointed by our offer. Won’t you reconsider your refusal?”
Vermeulen held on to the rod attached to the ceiling of the car. Despite Schmidt’s smile, he had no doubt the man would’ve pushed him out of the car if he could have opened the door. Good thing safety locks had been installed. The Ferris wheel continued its rotation and the car began its descent.
“I’m not going to be bribed by you, Schmidt. And I will stop this operation, Viennese adages notwithstanding. I know you are connected to the UN office, because Popescu here drove away in a car with a diplomatic license issued to the UN. Your gig will be over sooner than you think.”
The smile disappeared from Schmidt’s face when he heard about the license plate, but he recovered quickly.
“You are an enterprising investigator, Mr. Vermeulen. But your threats do not faze me. Since you work for the UN, you know its byzantine structure and rules. Even if you were to identify me, it would take a lot more than accusations from a rogue investigator to stop me.”
The word ‘rogue’ startled Vermeulen.
“You see, Mr. Vermeulen, we’ve done our own little investigation. I know of your complicated career at the UN. I also know that OIOS isn’t the best-liked bureau in the secretariat. Finally, I know you are on sick leave to attend to your daughter. You have no authority to investigate here.”
The car passed the tree line again. The ride was almost over.
“But Pierre Dufaux has,” Vermeulen said. “I’m only assisting him.”
“Dufaux won’t follow up. He likes his job too much. Which is not what people say about you. And harassing a ranking UN employee won’t sit well with your superiors. Remember what happened to you during the Iraqi oil-for-food investigation. How would you like to go back to doing audits in places like Sierra Leone?”
“You’re just blowing smoke, Schmidt. The UN can’t afford to have an employee involved in human trafficking.”
“Well, there are always other options. As another famous Viennese once said, ‘In Vienna you’ll have to die first before people remember you. But then you’ll live on forever.’ ”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jackson stood at the edge of a dirt square. An odor of charred meat and rot hung in the air. Although the Nairobi sky was overcast, the temperature felt like Newark in August. Behind him lay the train tracks that cut through Kibera. Rusty corrugated tin shacks crowded the tracks, sometimes leaving only inches between their roofs and where the train would go.
The square was the only open space he could see. In one corner, a few kids played soccer, leaving clouds of ochre dust in their wake. To his right, a carpentry shop had set out several rows of bed frames made from solid wood, some with padded headboards, their posts expertly turned. They were much nicer looking than what he’d seen at the cheap furniture places in Newark. No particleboard here. Their quality stood in sharp contrast to the ramshackle hovels that surrounded the square.
It was total insanity that he should be here. What had seemed like a smart decision when Gergi and Andrej were running after him with their guns drawn now felt like little more than acting on impulse. He’d run without thinking. And the whole damn world had played along. Nobody stopped him, not at JFK, not at Jomo Kenyatta International Airport. Have a nice flight, Mr. Abasi. Welcome home, Mr. Abasi. He’d needed someone to say, ‘Wait up, bro, don’t do anythi
ng stupid.’ Like flying one-way to Kenya on a dead man’s passport.
The first person to express any doubts about his plan was the hot-looking woman at the Tourist and Travelers Aid desk at the Nairobi airport. He’d asked her how he could find the Abasi family in Kibera and she’d stared at him like he’d asked her for the shortest way to Mars. She told him there were a half-million people living in Kibera—and yet no addresses or phonebooks. Seeing his face, she took pity on him and suggested that he check with the churches and mosques in Kibera. They’d be his best bet. “Take a matatu,” she said. Seeing his confusion, she added, “taxi.”
Those taxis were no yellow cabs. That’s for damn sure! Even the worst gypsy cabs in Newark were luxury rides compared to the minivans driven by maniacs with fifteen people occupying nine seats. The only reassuring part was being squeezed on all sides by other passengers, like the airbag had already inflated.
He ended up standing at the edge of Kibera, wondering what the hell to do next. If he returned the money to Abasi’s widow—always assuming she could be found—he’d be stuck in Kibera until he hustled up enough cash to get a ticket back home. If he didn’t return the money, then why the hell had he come here in the first place? The flight home would probably take all the money he had.
Across the square, a sign advertised the African Brotherhood Church and Pre-School. Someone had worked hard to create a professional look. The letters were hand-painted, baby blue against a white background, and spaced nicely, the caps painted in the right proportion. The sign evoked care and order, exactly what was missing from his life. He crossed the square and went into the church. A young man was sweeping the sanctuary. Despite having misgivings about his last snap decision, Jackson made another one.
“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for a family. Can you help me?”
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