What Happened in Vienna, Jack?

by Daniel Kemp

  I've heard stories of some of those who escaped from Austria to Croatia only to be shot by Weilham's friend Pavelić. He, Weilham that is, conveniently denies any knowledge of genocide. The world is corrupt, Mr Redden, and there's little I can do about it other than tell Jack and hope he can. Whatever you do, don't damn Jack's story as a mere fairy tale. He needed you to believe it in order to persuade you to come. Only Jack knows why that is.” From the breast pocket of his jacket he removed an envelope.

  “All of what I've just told you is written in this letter. Jack ordered me to give it to whoever he sent. I do not understand what this has to do with my family. I can only pray it has nothing.”

  Not only was Richard's world widening, so too was my own, but not apparently Fianna's whose expression had not changed. It seemed her world had collapsed further than it had when on the plane.

  * * *

  “I've told you of me, Shaun, now how about you? Let's do a spoof of Eamonn Andrews introducing 'This Is Your Life' without the television cameras. Start with where were you born in real life.”

  We were about two hours into our flight and I could see no reason to refuse. She had been open in her disclosure, so I followed suit with a description of my early life in Camberwell, London, then on to Oxford and my meeting with Trenchard. I concluded the brief biography with the night in Soho, but omitted any details of what Jack had told me. It was not enough for my fictional sister.

  “There's nothing about you in all that lot, just a matter of facts with no feelings, Shaun. Tell me of the girls you've loved and those that got away as well. Have there been many that ran out on you, or was it you who upped and ran leaving them begging for more, brother of mine?”

  “Can't remember any girls running away, Fianna. I'm much too debonair for runaway girls. No offence meant there, by the way.”

  “None taken, brother, but I'll screw up those cigarettes of yours and flush them down the toilet if you don't give me more info.”

  “I knew some girls at university, but not for any great length of time, I'd be too embarrassed to give details. Besides, I was too busy being a good student to chase after girls. I still want a Master's before settling down.”

  “Oh, I have a queer as a brother after all, do I?”

  “Master's degree, you idiot! It's an educational qualification.”

  “Ah! There was me thinking you too good looking to resist the cailíns in the world of study. No one catch your eye permanently up there in Oxford, Shaun? No legs pumping hard at the cycle pedals chasing after you, nor bosoms heaving as you disappeared over the horizon?”

  I loved the somewhat risqué picture she painted of female students on their bicycles charging towards me. I wished that Fianna had been one of those leading the assault on my virtue, but sadly it was far from the truth. It was me doing all the chasing and more often than not getting exhausted without reward.

  “I really did fancy one though. A very beautiful American girl name of Patricia. Patricia Ann Hickling. Came from rich parents, I believe. Far above my level in life.”

  “You never struck me as one of the oppressed proletariat. Unpolished and a bit awkward yes, but handsome enough to overcome those childish ineptitudes. Were you never educated to rise above your position and send the towers of oppression collapsing to ground?”

  “That's a lot of big words for an Irish country girl. Most of them easily forgotten. Am I handsome enough for you to forget your sexual preferences and initiate me into the mile-high club? If so, I'm ready to take instructions, ma'am.”

  “There'll be no instructions from me, Shaun. Rough and parochial you are, me boy. Is that how your Patty girl saw you?”

  “She was never my girl, although I did have ambitions in that direction.”

  “You never even spoke to her, did you?”

  “I spoke, but she never noticed me. Too busy with others, I suspect,” I replied regretfully.

  “Did you share your lessons with her?”

  “They were called lectures, not lessons. She was studying psychics and occasionally our studies overlapped in some small parts.”

  “You missed out on carrying her satchel then. What a wonderful pair you would have made. Leaving out the sordid details, tell me what you would do if you had a second chance with Patty Ann, Shaun?”

  “I've never spent much time pondering the unlikely and I'm not about to change that. You're a dreamer, my girl. A very pretty one, but nonetheless a head in the clouds type. I haven't said it before I know, but you have a wonderful name.”

  “I told you I'm a goddess, Shaun. Goddesses have no need to dream on beds of clouds. They live on one. You should go and find one of your own one day.” She was smiling and so were those eyes of hers.

  “Go on, tell me of your first real love?” I wanted those smiling eyes to remain.

  Elsewhere there was concern showing on faces rather than smiles.

  Early Monday In London

  “Earlier today I asked archives to fetch me all we had on Sir Horace Butler and do you know how much information we have recorded under his name, Perkins?

  “No, sir! I first came across that name when West disappeared from the Albany on Saturday. Never heard of him before that.”

  “Not likely you'll hear much of him in the near future either. There was nothing recorded on the card index. It had been completely sanitised. All information had been redacted other than one inscription; file closed by Royal decree.”

  “What do you make of that, Perkins?”

  “We're not meant to know, sir.”

  “Precisely! And what shall we do about that?”

  “Get everyone we have on it straight away?”

  “No, that won't work. First we need a key. Get me an appointment at St James's Palace within the hour, if not sooner.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Monday In New York

  The First Touch of Honesty

  “Not all of what I told you about the orphanage was true, Shaun. Finnegan didn't like boys dancing naked for him, he liked the girls and in particular me. That degenerate bastard took away my self-respect along with my virginity and that's why Imelda Duggen never found any bloodied sheets in the washing. It was that what egged her husband on, he thought I was what he imagined me to be. He believed what he had said of me being a slut was true all along.”

  We were in the lift on our way out of the Stockford company building sometime around two o'clock that Monday afternoon.

  “Apart from me being your sister, everything else I told you about me was true.”

  “What happens now?” I asked, only having to wait until the lift stopped at the floor below Richard's to find out. As the doors opened it was I who was asked a question.

  “Mr Redden?” He was a short man in his late twenties with a crop of shoulder-length brown hair.

  He limped as he entered the lift, but those characteristics were not what I first noticed. The left side of his face was deeply scarred and burnt with raised angry mauve lines from his forehead to below his shirt collar. Parts of his neck and jaw were covered by pale pink skin grafts. I could not take my eyes from his hideous injury as I nodded and helplessly replied, “yes, that's me.”

  “I didn't think there'd be too many people with red hair travelling from the fifteenth floor. The guy who gave me this envelope was spot-on in his timing.” He thrust the small white envelope towards me.

  “Do I owe you anything?” I asked, shocked by his condition.

  “No, bro, I've been paid! But if you want to donate then I won't stop you. My military service pension don't go far, if you get my drift.” I did as I dug into my pockets and found a five dollar bill.

  “I'm sorry, I've not got a lot.”

  “Don't sweat it. Every little helps, I'm not here to mug you.” I spent the remaining seconds of our downward journey in abject embarrassment for not having any other money to give him and failing to find any words to account for my meanness. As the lift stopped at the street level I hurrie
d from the building. It was then that I opened the letter.

  “It's from Jack. He wants me to meet him,” I announced lamely to a following Fianna.

  “Somehow I never thought it was from Father Christmas, Shaun. I'll be away to the hotel to await my brother's return,” she added playfully.

  Jack Price was seated at one of the only two window tables inside the brightly blue painted Salvatore's Restaurant and Coffee Bar, opposite the New York library. On the pavement, either side of the front door, sat eight burly men around three wooden tables. By the boisterous conversation and their mannerisms, it was plain that they knew each other. One I thought I'd seen before; at the airport when we'd arrived, but I couldn't be one hundred percent sure. He was a small, rotund man, no more than five feet tall, dressed in blue shorts with knee-length matching socks. Not someone you would readily forget. They looked accustomed to being there, as I only saw two with coffee and one with food. There was a well-built man in his middle fifties standing in the doorway, glancing from one table to another and occasionally adding a remark to the friendly exchange. He struck an imposing figure, with a full head of hair as black as coal which glistened in the sunlight, making it difficult to focus on his face.

  Jack was smartly dressed in a light grey suit, white shirt and yellow tie with a black fedora hat on the table before him. To all intents and purposes he hadn't a care in the world, unlike myself. My list of regrets at accepting his invitation was quickly growing. I could now add shame, as I hadn't the stomach to shake the hand of the departing disfigured war veteran whom I had just left. For a brief second I considered not following his written instructions to meet, turning around to chase after Fianna, but my curiosity had completely taken over, leaving no other option open.

  “You're a long way from Soho, Jack? According to Job you preferred darkened alleyways in which to hide rather than out in the open casting your spell over events.” I was annoyed but tried not show it.

  “Ah, Shaun, and it's good to see you too. I guess you're a trifle confused by what's just occurred,” he said on standing to greet me.

  “Only a bit, Jack, but as someone just said to me; don't sweat it. I'm in the process of learning more and more about you as each moment goes by. Will I live long enough to know all what you're about?” I passed him Stockford's letter, giving him a chance to clear away Schuschnigg's body and resurrect Aberman in one omnipotent stroke.

  “I certainly hope so, but it's mainly boring stuff really. Most of the time I spend reading a newspaper with my feet up. Only once in a while does something as important as this come along and then, well, we will soon find out.”

  “I'm guessing that you already know all there is to know about this Karl Weilham character and at the moment I can't see the necessity in flying me all the way here just to fill in any of the missing details. As for what's her name being here, again I'm at a loss. Care to enlighten me?”

  “Fianna Redden is the name you're looking for. We keep to the script Shaun, all of the time. Are you okay? As you sound a little miffed today.”

  “I'm sorry, Jack. That was churlish of me. I apologise. I think it was the note that upset my equilibrium a bit. I wasn't expecting to hear from you or see you in New York. I thought Fianna and I were on our own.”

  “Oh no, that would never do. There's too much invested in this for me to take a back seat. Shall we sit? Would you like coffee? It's rather good in here actually.”

  Psychology is not an exact science, but to me it can be summed up in one sentence: if you can't change the problem, change the way you are thinking about it. A practising psychologist will never give a defining answer. If the question posed by a patient is: how can I deal with this feeling? The specialist will answer: how would you like to deal with it? I was beginning to believe that Jack had that Master's degree I was after in psychology. He was good! I merely sat and ordered coffee.

  “They even empty the ashtrays in here, I see. You're sounding more and more as though you're a resident of Guildford, Jack. Have you got the DSM and Bar in a medal case on display in a cabinet at home? Moved into a plush detached mansion recently and barbecuing the local riffraff for brunch on Sundays, are we?”

  There was that smile of his again, not haughty nor arrogant, just one of supreme confidence. This man was used to being alone and relying only on himself. I knew I was being used but didn't want it to stop.

  “What's mine and Fianna's role exactly? I guess I'll be needing another name now this one is blown.”

  “Far from it, Shaun! Yours is buried so deep it's impossible to dig up. We have been extremely diligent in that respect. I told you that we've waited a long time for you and we're not about to lose you now. The likelihood of your arrival in this country with a fictitious sister being unearthed by any American security agency is so small as to be discounted at our end. However, if asked the whereabouts of Fianna Redden in the future by any of them, you will truthfully say that you have no idea where she went.” Went! That word hit me hard.

  “Nobody knows you're here and there's no reason for that to change.” He felt my surprise. “Yes! It is not planned that you'll see Fianna again. I hope you said your farewells.”

  If ever there was a moment in my life when I felt like screaming it was now. She had left me with no word of her impending departure but must have known all along. Without waiting for any reply from me, he continued with his dialogue.

  “She's here for a purpose unconnected to your own. But back to you, dear boy. Let's try to put your mind firmly to rest. Shaun Redden was a real person. Born in Belfast in the same month and year as your true self.” He stopped speaking as a man wearing the white apron of a waiter approached with the coffees.

  “This is Salvatore, Shaun, the owner of this establishment. Say hello!”

  He was the same man I had seen leaning against a door pillar talking to those men outside. Now I could make out his strong jawline, deep set black eyes and the fixed determined look on his face. I obeyed Jack's instructions and I nodded in acquiescence.

  “Salvatore was a colonel in Mussolini's army. Amongst many Germans that he served with was Karl Weilham, who you've just heard of, and Generaloberst Alexander Löhr, who you will hear more of. Salvatore has first-hand knowledge of atrocities carried out by Weilham. He was a witness to some of them. He will be your contact here in New York. If you have messages for me then leave them with Salvatore. He has a network of people he can call on if the need arises.”

  “Did you two meet in the same cafe you met Alain, Jack? Or was it in the place you once referred to as warmer than Vienna?” I asked, recovering my composure.

  I'm sure I saw him wink at me as he sipped his coffee. When Salvatore left our table, he continued to beguile me.

  “Salvatore and I have shared a few beers in our time in various places but let me get back to your history lesson, saving my recount of playful escapades for another day. Shaun Redden's parents both died in 1965 and there are few people that we discovered who can remember the young Shaun. Those that we did find can be discounted; too old for incriminating memories. He was a loner, was our Shaun. Apparently making no friends we're aware of. One month on from his parents' deaths in a tragic road accident, Shaun signed on as a galley hand on board a freighter ferrying coal from Swansea to Belfast, then iron ore from Belfast to Liverpool and finally plastics from Liverpool to Swansea. On registration he claimed to be one year older than he was, and using his father's name as a reference, nepotism won the day. Clive Redden, Shaun's father, was a seaman employed, when alive, by the Neiptiun Line, owners of the Aura. He was not a baker as Bridget was instructed to tell you.” He lit a cigarette and stared at me.

  “It was on that last leg of that seagoing triangle that MS Aura sank. There was a terrifying, vicious storm in the Irish Sea that sent the Aura to David Jones's locker along with the six crew members. There are no records of a Shaun Redden, no antecedents to hide, no fingerprints and no legend other than the sixteen-year-old who lived with his parent
s Mary and Clive. That brief history is in the letter I'll give you when we part. Read it, Shaun, then you'll know as much about him as anyone else does and will ever do.”

  “What is it you want Shaun Redden to do for you in New York?”

  “I guess you mean apart from enjoying your coffee and sightseeing?” His gaze moved from me to the outside as he took a few seconds to answer.

  “There are few steadfast rules of the game, Shaun. Most you'll pick up as we go along. All are simple, but equally all are important. One to ponder on as we sit enjoying each other's company. If you believe you're being followed then you must change some relevant detail about yourself.” I never allowed him to finish.

  “You don't advise jumping into a dead-end alley then, Jack?” He made no reply as he picked up from where he had left off.

  “Be it a coat you're wearing, or a bag you're carrying. Dump it. That will confuse whoever's on your tail.”

  “Am I being followed?” I asked.

  “No, you're not as far as I'm aware, but your hair colouring defines you. It has to go, Shaun. Salvatore's youngest daughter is a hairdresser. I've made arrangements for her to dye it and show you how to keep the new colour.”