by Alex Beer
Even now, with his features highlighted by a heavy crystal chandelier, he still had nothing in common with the coarse orphan boy Emmerich had battled thirty years before. If it wasn’t for the scar on his chin he would never have believed that Veit Kolja and Vanja Kollberg were one and the same person.
“Do you have to talk in that fucked up way?” Emmerich growled at him.
Kolja’s face didn’t change. “If Sister Erzsebet had heard that she would wash your mouth out with soap and then cane you a few times. Whatever happened to her anyway? Do you know?”
“She’s burning in hell.”
Kolja nodded contentedly. “Good,” he said, and for the first time since they’d met again they were in agreement.
“My boss is putting pressure on.” Emmerich came straight to the point. He didn’t want to stay any longer than necessary. Among all the Rothschilds, Auerspergs, and whoever else their names were, he felt out of place. And besides, he didn’t want to be spotted with Kolja. “I need to deliver results. Give me something. An insignificant stash, a few unimportant middlemen, or an expendable delivery for all I care.”
While Kolja thought it over, an exceedingly self-absorbed waiter served the food and drinks. The smell of freshly roasted coffee beans rose to Emmerich’s nose, and he had to hold himself back from diving straight into what had just been brought. When was the last time he’d drunk coffee that wasn’t made out of acorns, barley, or chicory?
“Please help yourself.” Kolja stirred sugar into his coffee and lit a cigar.
Emmerich didn’t want to indulge him and resisted. “I’m not here to have a tea party with you. Can you give me something or not?”
Kolja puffed thick white rings of cigar smoke into the air and grinned. “You’re being impatient. It’s a bad habit, and not the only one, if I recall correctly.”
Emmerich began to flush with anger. “Yes or no.”
Kolja slowly placed the cigarette down in an ashtray, spooned whipped cream onto his strudel, and took a bite of it. “Mmmm,” he enthused. Although it was difficult, Emmerich maintained his composure. He forced a smile and leaned back in his chair.
“Does the name Wilhelm Querner mean anything to you?” Kolja asked. Emmerich shook his head no. “I thought so. You cops really haven’t the slightest idea what’s happening in the underground.”
Emmerich stared at his counterpart with his lips pressed tightly together, but refused to be provoked. “Don’t keep me in suspense.”
“Querner is the head of a gang of smugglers who, in the last few months . . . ”
“Got it,” Emmerich interrupted. “I’m supposed to take care of the competition for you.”
“Querner and his men operate in brutal and immoral ways. They’re real criminals.”
“As opposed to you guys.” Emmerich laughed out loud.
“We deal in food, clothing, and medicine that we acquire legally abroad and then smuggle across the border. Querner’s men steal, rob, and cheat, and double-cross, wherever they can. They steal from the poor. We’re businessmen, they’re criminals.”
“If distorting the truth were an Olympic sport you’d have a whole crate of medals.”
The coffee smelled so good that Emmerich took a quick sip when Kolja looked away to find his lighter. When he’d finally found it, he relit his cigar and took a deep drag.
“Did you know that of the three hundred and forty thousand children who live in Vienna almost three hundred and thirty thousand of them are malnourished? The only reason they haven’t starved is because of the American relief organizations’ food programs.”
Emmerich couldn’t really follow the mental leap. “I myself have three . . . ” he began, but didn’t finish the sentence. Instead he reached for his cake fork and began to eat the apple strudel.
“In reality Woodrow Wilson is less concerned about the children than about nipping Bolshevism in the bud. But it doesn’t matter. So be it. In any event, the Americans have sent over nearly twenty thousand tons of food for children’s welfare programs. Condensed milk, rice, beans, sugar, onions, cocoa, and flour. And winter clothes.”
“Okay.” Emmerich had an idea of what Kolja was driving at.
“All this stuff is in the Schweizertrakt of the Hofburg Palace. Part of it is supposed to be sent to the surrounding states and I’ll give you three guesses as to who wants to help himself to it first.”
“Querner.”
“That’s something we would never do, for example. Taking food from children.”
Emmerich wasn’t sure whether he should really believe this, but he stayed silent.
“I know from a reliable source that the job’s going to take place tonight. The gang is going to go in and grab what they can under cover of darkness. We were planning to stop them, but I will allow you the honor.” He smiled graciously and waved the waiter over again. “Another round? It’s on me, of course.”
Emmerich swatted aside the suggestions and stood up. “I’m supposed to do your dirty work for you. You’ll owe me for that.”
Kolja ordered a cognac and then turned back to Emmerich. “You get Querner out of my way, and in exchange you can make hay out of his arrest. Imagine the headlines! Heroic Vienna police save hundreds of children from starvation. The way I see it, you’d owe me something.” He took up his cognac. “Sure you don’t want one?”
“I’m sure,” said Emmerich even though it wasn’t true. He could have used a swig of liquor just then.
19.
The Schweizertrakt, in front of which Emmerich, Winter, Hörl, and three other patrolmen in plainclothes were cooling their heels, was the oldest part of the Vienna Hofburg, the palace that had served as the Kaiser’s residence until his abdication. Since the laying of the first stone in the thirteenth century, generations of Hapsburgs had tried to put their stamp on it by adding to it and changing it, so that after six hundred years the complex had grown to nearly two hundred fifty thousand square meters, incorporating many architectural styles.
Since the end of the monarchy there had been much discussion of a democratic use for the complex. There had been suggestions for a pool in the palace garden and a people’s hall in the Winter Riding School, and there had been a thought of installing a museum of modern art in the imperial mews. These were all just pipe dreams for now, however, so many of the three thousand rooms stood empty or were handed over for use by relief organizations like the American Relief Administration, a children’s aid agency.
“Who would ever have thought,” said Hörl, blowing smoke rings, “that condensed milk, rice, and beans would become more coveted than jewels.” He motioned toward the entrance to the Imperial Treasury, where the imperial treasures were kept alongside other valuables.
“You can’t eat gold and gemstones, and they won’t keep you warm, either.”
Emmerich watched the simple façade of the inner courtyard, behind which the foodstuffs and winter clothes were stored. The stuff had traveled over five thousand miles, brought here from the United States by steamship, barge, freight car, and automobile in order to ease the misery of Austrian children—as long as Querner and his gang didn’t steal it first.
“Where the hell are they?” mumbled Hörl. “I’m cold and I need to go to the bathroom.”
“Are you sure the heist is taking place tonight?” asked Winter quietly.
Emmerich looked again at the papers he’d gotten from the responsible administrator. How had the Americans won the war? They were poorly organized and functioned like rank amateurs—they were sitting on the largest haul of treasure in the city and had only one mealy-faced watchman as security.
“The deliveries to the rest of the country are supposed to go out tomorrow.” He pointed to the date to confirm. “The next batch doesn’t come until next week. So if not tonight, when?”
Doubt began to creep over him. They’d secured the store
rooms and made sure that the only way in was through the Schweizer Gate. Had they missed something? Had Kolja sent him on a wild goose chase? Or had Querner noticed their presence and called off the heist?
All these possibilities were conceivable and they would all further lower Sander’s opinion of him. He’d already heard allegations of carelessness and wasting resources. The American administrator had also protested loudly when they sent him away, and there was a good chance that the arrogant pencil pusher would lodge a complaint.
He had to make an arrest.
“Great, now I’m out of smokes,” moaned Hörl, wandering over to the steps known as the Ambassadors Stairs that led up to the storerooms. “I’ll have a look to see if there are any inside.”
“The stuff is for children,” Emmerich spat, holding him back. “There’s definitely no tobacco.”
“Smoking curbs your appetite. I’m sure it works on kids, too.” Hörl tried to push past Emmerich.
Emmerich was about to vent his frustration on his colleague when suddenly they heard the hum of engines.
Finally.
In an instant Emmerich’s irritation switched to feverish excitement. “Quick,” he called to the assembled men. “Take your positions.”
The troop sprang into action: Emmerich hurried to the entrance door, Winter rushed to his side, the other police hid in various recesses.
Beyond the red-black Schweizer Gate, two trucks came into view. They were too wide to fit through the narrow gate, so Querner and his men parked them there in the adjoining courtyard.
“Here we go! Hurry!” came a deep voice, and then the doors of the vehicles opened and one man after another emerged.
“There’s a lot of them.” Winter grew pale.
“ . . . Five, six, seven . . . ” Emmerich counted, gulping, “ . . . eight, nine, ten . . . ” So Emmerich and his troop were outnumbered. To make matters worse, Querner’s lugs were all big and strong, which couldn’t be said of his own.
“Oh, god,” Winter whispered as the crooks came toward them with sinister looks on their faces.
They walked purposefully, and in long heavy strides. Their body language displayed confidence. None seemed to have any moral qualms about stealing food from thousands of children.
“Scum.”
Emmerich fixed on the man who was leading the group. The man was a good half a head taller than him, had broad shoulders, and his arms were as thick as some people’s thighs. A bloody scar ran from the right corner of his mouth to his ear, giving his face an added look of maliciousness.
This must be Querner.
The ten men stopped in front of Emmerich and Winter, and Querner gave a signal to a bearded giant who could have auditioned anytime for the role of Wotan in Wagner’s Ring Cycle.
“Vee kam for de guds,” the giant said.
Emmerich, who didn’t speak English, didn’t know how to answer. “Okay,” he finally said, pointing to the Ambassadors Stairs.
Querner turned to his men. “Come on! Get the stuff!”
Emmerich waited until half of them disappeared into the building, then held up his right hand. “Stop!” he ordered in an authoritative tone. He wanted to split up the gang. It would be easier for his own squad to arrest five men at a time.
Querner narrowed his eyes and Emmerich noticed he seemed to suddenly be on alert. The sinews in his neck tightened, a vein on his forehead pulsed, and his left hand reached into his jacket pocket.
“What iz?” asked the giant, frowning so much that his eyebrows nearly touched each other.
“The Ausweis,” Emmerich demanded, trying to sound as American as possible.
Much to his surprise, Querner pulled two documents out of his pants pocket and handed them to him. The two items were an Imperial and Royal passport under the name of Rudolf Gruber and a confirmation from the “Amerikan Relief Administration” with an official seal and the signature of Herbert C. Hoover.
Emmerich studied the papers closely but couldn’t see any irregularities. The letterhead, the stamps, the photo, and the many entries all seemed aboveboard and completely authentic.
Were these actually genuine? Was this guy not Wilhelm Querner but Rudolf Gruber? Were these men not crooks but the actual drivers who would deliver the aid supplies to the surrounding states? Had they just come a bit early?
What should he do now? He couldn’t just arrest them on a wing and a prayer.
Emmerich wiped the sweat from his brow and tried not to betray his uncertainty.
“Achoo,” Winter, who was next to Emmerich and had apparently noticed his boss’s doubt, sneezed. “Achoo.”
“Blez ju,” said the giant.
Emmerich didn’t understand, and frowned.
Winter held his hand in front of his mouth. “Forgery,” he hissed to Emmerich in the form of a cough. “American with a K instead of a C.”
Emmerich looked at the seal again and immediately saw what his assistant meant. “Now,” he said the next instant, casting a thankful glance at Winter and pulling out his pistol. “You’re under arrest.”
The crooks reached for their weapons but Emmerich’s men were faster and now also superior in numbers. The thugs were handcuffed while uttering a string of curses and insults that would have made a sailor blush.
“So, gentlemen. Who would have thought that a simple C would one day put you behind bars?” Emmerich sighed, relieved. “Quick!” he called to his own men. “Keep your eyes on the Ambassadors Stairs. The others will be out any minute.” It wasn’t difficult to overpower the rest of the crooks. They emerged from the building carrying heavy sacks and were too surprised to put up any real resistance.
“Can any of you drive one of those?” Emmerich pointed to the two trucks Querner and his henchmen had arrived in.
“I can,” said Hörl. “I shuttled the officers around during the war.”
“Wunderbar. In that case I suggest we load our cargo and take them in. Choose a truck and I’ll take the other one.”
“Do you know how to drive something like that?” asked Winter.
“No, but it can’t be that difficult.” Emmerich, his body still pumping with adrenaline, got behind the wheel and turned the ignition key. “What are you waiting for?” he yelled to his sidekick. “Hop in!”
After a short, breakneck ride, they reached the station house. Winter stepped out of the truck, his legs trembling.
“The world can only hope that you can never afford a vehicle like that,” he mumbled, staggering to the entrance.
20.
Great job!” District Inspector Sander shook Emmerich’s hand and clapped him patronizingly on the shoulder. “In a quarter of an hour I’ll be meeting the mayor and representatives of the American children’s relief agency. The authorities are relieved and extremely pleased that we’ve brought these unscrupulous criminals to account.”
We, my ass, Emmerich thought. Sander hadn’t stood out in the cold for hours, long enough for his legs to take root, and he hadn’t risked his life arresting the gang—but now he was earning the praise.
“Who’s off now and wants a beer?”
Hörl and another officer were carrying two crates of Ottakringer into the station house and being met with many hellos. All the officers who had taken part in the arrest of the Querner gang had gathered in the commissariat to celebrate their success together.
Emmerich took a bottle, popped the top with a loud pop, and washed down his irritation. Let his boss dress himself in borrowed plumes—as long as he could pursue the murder case undisturbed, he didn’t care.
“No thanks,” Sander said when Hörl offered him a beer, too. “I’m about to meet the mayor—I need to show up sober.” He straightened his collar and plucked imaginary balls of lint from his immaculately fitted three-piece suit. Emmerich turned to leave the commissariat, but Sander didn’t let him go so easil
y. “Terrific that you got the anonymous tip-off.”
Emmerich faked a smile. “Law-abiding citizens are a blessing.”
Sander clapped him on the shoulder again. “The arrest of the Querner gang was an important step in the right direction. Next up is Veit Kolja. How are you getting on with that case?”
Emmerich’s smile faded. Couldn’t Sander leave him in peace for a couple of days at least? He had hoped the Querner sting would placate him for a while and divert his attention from Kolja.
“I’m doing my best,” he said, teeth clenched.
“That’s what I’m counting on. And not only me. When can I tell the mayor to expect Kolja to be locked up?”
Give him an inch, he’ll take a mile. “It will be a while.”
Sander didn’t even try to hide his displeasure. “As soon as the Querner report is done, please give me a written update on your next steps.” He looked at his watch and put on his Homburg. “Have a nice evening.”
Emmerich drained his beer and snorted. Nice evening, my ass. He went to look for Winter and found him in an animated conversation with Hörl.
“There you are, boss.” Winter’s cheeks were red and his eyes were gleaming from all the hubbub. “That was kind of exciting today, eh?”
Emmerich shrugged and stopped himself from making a comparison to the drama of trench warfare and gas attacks. “Can you take care of the paperwork later?” he asked his assistant instead. “Sander wants the Querner report as quickly as possible, and I have to take care of something.”
“Yes, of course.” Winter looked around conspiratorially. “You are welcome to stay at my place again, by the way. Don’t be intimidated by my grandmother.”
“Thanks for the offer,” said Emmerich, praying he wouldn’t have to accept.
It was pitch black as Emmerich stood in front of an apartment door that was both familiar and oddly foreign to him. His heart beat so hard that it felt as if it might jump out of his chest. Even the heroin, which had served him so well in the past few days, was unable to calm him. His mouth was dry, his hands were wet, and it took three attempts before he finally managed to knock.