Brano tilted his head. “It is.”
“I find his analyses a little weak, but he has some good ideas, don’t you think?”
“I haven’t read much yet.”
She squatted so her head was just above the table and lowered her voice. “Maybe I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I think in the end he’s becoming too much of an apologist for capitalism. And of course they eat this up. Anyone who suggests that violent revolution isn’t necessary is just not seeing things straight.”
“That’s a good point,” said Brano. “I’m not from here-”
“I know. Your accent.”
“Do you think Austria’s ripe for revolution?”
“Oh, I wish!” She laughed expressively. “But no. There’s too much American money coming in. If Austria were left on its own, then recession would come, and there would be a move toward revolution. But everyone here thinks the Americans can do no wrong. As if they’re saving us from some horrible fate.” She tapped the table with a long, red-painted fingernail. “I was in Zagreb last year. No one can tell me those Yugoslavs are hating their lives. They own their own apartments. Half of them have bought a summer home on credit. I can’t even afford my rent!”
“More people should travel.”
“You’re not kidding.” The waitress glanced back, then stood up. “I suppose I should get back, so I can pay my rent. Geez. What a scam.”
Brano smiled.
It was good to break the silence, good for his head. Days spent inside himself led to unreal perspectives. This was why the intelligence services of the world used silence to tame their subjects. Emotions became too acute, and paranoid suspicions became facts. This was what silence had done to Jakob Bieniek.
Brano found the waitress, paid for his coffee, and added a handsome tip.
“For the Revolution,” he said, and she winked at him conspiratorially.
His sunburned shadow followed him from the Espresso Arabia, down Kohlmarkt, and to a bus that brought them back to Mariahilfer, a few streets before his. Then he backtracked, turning down Theoboldgasse, thinking of betrayal.
He could not be sure, but a week of silence had begun to take its toll, undermining his conviction that he was less a victim than a pawn in a grandiose plan dreamed up by Yalta. All he could see was a series of betrayals. The Doctor had not done what he had promised outside Budapest, and Pavel Jast’s betrayals were blatant. Captain Rasko, it turned out, was only interested in closing his little murder investigation as easily as possible, and, yes, he had even begun to trust Soroka-there were moments during that long ride through Hungary when he almost accepted that Jan simply had pity on his situation. Brano hated his own naivete.
Most important, Colonel Laszlo Cerny had ignored the evidence Brano had collected on the Bieniek murder and had obviously been behind the Doctor’s failure to appear at the Madai farm. He’d allowed Brano to be questioned with a car battery in an Austrian safe house for a month. Now, five days into his comfortable imprisonment, no messages had been left for him at the Eszterhazy Park dead drop. He was beginning to suspect that Cerny, and therefore the Ministry, had abandoned him.
But he would continue, because there was nothing else left for him to do.
Brano paused at the corner of Eszterhazy Park. His shadow stood at the other end of the block, wiping his nose again. Brano crossed the park and sat on his bench near the base of the enormous flak tower-a remnant of Hitler’s last-ditch efforts to defend his Reich-then opened his book. Capitalist planning exists for the express purpose of maintaining the existing social relationships and orientations, of consolidating capitalism by rationalizing it, and, by coordinating private and public decisions, of reducing the inherent risks…
But he was barely reading, distracted by the stiffness in his left pocket: the bent nail he’d extracted from the frame of his sofa that morning. Around it he had wrapped and taped a piece of paper on which was written a series of numbers that, when decoded, read WEB-GASSE 25, v/3-b. SEV.
He stared blankly at the book for almost an hour, the zbrka of his thoughts keeping him warm, before he finally closed the book, stood up, and walked three trees behind his bench. He transferred the nail to his right pocket, the one he’d ripped a hole in, and unzipped his pants. There were some Japanese tourists taking photographs of the flak tower, but they didn’t notice him. As he urinated, he dropped the nail through his pant leg and stamped it into the wet ground.
26 MARCH 1967, SUNDAY
The Cafe Mozart was around the corner from the Hotel Sacher, at Albertinaplatz’s crosscurrent of traffic, across from the Kapuzinerkirche’s equestrian statue. Brano had walked the whole way into town, crossing empty streets and closed storefronts. Even for a Sunday, Vienna seemed to have shut down. The vacant buildings of the Museum Quarter were stone sentries over an evacuated city. Only once did he spot a crowd, hovering outside a church, but he was running late and didn’t want to investigate.
Brano paused in front of a pastry counter laden with Austrian sweets. The cafe was full, perhaps the only open place in town. Ludwig waved from the corner, where he sat with a small black briefcase beside his crossed legs. Brano passed four old women in mink stoles smoking at a round table as the Austrian rose to shake his hand. “A very happy Easter to you, Brano.”
“Oh, so that’s what it is.”
“What?” asked Ludwig as he waved to a waiter.
“Nothing.”
“Melange good for you?”
“Of course.”
“One melange,” he told the young black-and-white-suited waiter. “And a small whiskey.”
“It’s early, Ludwig.”
“And it’s a holiday. Tell me,” he said once the waiter had left, “how are you settling in? You look tired. There are bags under your eyes.”
Brano looked at himself in the beveled mirror behind Ludwig’s head; the Austrian was right. “I’m not sleeping well.”
“Well, that’s bad news. Loneliness can be a difficult thing.”
“I’m used to it.”
“Maybe we can set you up with some introductions.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“What’s that book you’ve got? None of my boys can figure out what it is.”
Brano showed him the cover of Strategie Ouvri ere et Neocapitalisme.
“Trying to start world revolution in France, Brano?”
“We have to start somewhere.”
“Did you bring your passport?”
Brano took it out of his jacket and handed it over.
From his briefcase, Ludwig took out a slip of paper, a stamp, an inkpad, and a stick of glue. He found a clean page in the passport, rubbed glue on it, and pressed the slip into the page with the side of his fist. Then he used the inkpad and stamp to place the blue seal of an eagle with ruptured shackles on the page. He waved the open passport like a fan. “Any friends show up?”
“Friends?”
“Old friends. They’re bound to find you soon.”
“No, no old friends.” Brano took back the passport. “Have you received inquiries about me?”
“Your people seem to have counted you among their many losses. They’re silent.”
“What about my other old friends?”
“Which ones?”
“The Sorokas.”
Ludwig peered out the window. “I suppose it’s no secret. Their kid got a nasty cold after swimming that marsh. It’s to be expected. He’s in a London hospital now, while they wait for American visas.”
“Feel insulted?”
“That they didn’t stay in Austria? No, we don’t have the mystique of the New World.” He looked up as the waiter set down a whiskey and a melange, then raised his glass. “To the people who do, surprisingly, prefer it here.” He knocked back the shot. “You might hear from one of them.”
“Yes?”
“Fraulein Frankovic.”
To avoid betraying his feelings, Brano took a quick swallow that burned his tongue. “Sh
e knows I’m in town?”
“We choose our secrets very carefully. Your presence in Vienna is not one. Anything you want to know?”
“About what?”
“About her.”
Brano shook his head and settled back into his chair. He wanted to know everything, but not from this man; instead he gazed out at the street, where his chubby, sunburned shadow was blowing his nose. “He’s not up to your regular standards, is he?”
“You get who you can these days.”
“How is Karl?”
When Ludwig slapped the table, his empty glass rattled. “I knew you liked that guy! Karl worried you hated him because of that battery trick, but I told him-I said, Karl, you’re just too damn likable!”
“Sure,” said Brano. “He’s a fine man.”
“Know why we’re here, in the Cafe Mozart?”
“Because this is where you’ve installed the microphones.”
Ludwig shook his head. “We can install microphones anywhere we like, Brano. No, it was for you. A little fun. Ever see the film The Third Man’.”
“I’ve never been much for moving pictures.”
“Oh, you should be. One of these days they’ll get rid of books, mark my words. But this particular film is a little about what we do.”
“It’s about imprisoning people in apartments?”
“Not that literal, Brano. Come on. It’s from just after the war, a kind of spy movie. Takes place in Vienna. And while Graham Greene was writing the script, he lived in the Hotel Sacher and came here each day to take notes. How do you like that?”
“Graham Greene,” said Brano. “I believe he’s a good friend of Kim Philby. Maybe I should see his film.”
Ludwig crossed his arms. “Unfortunately, the place I’d rather take you has been closed since the war. The Cafe Central. I think you’d prefer it there. Your proletarian hero Comrade Trotsky used to play chess on those tables.”
Brano tapped the table with his fingertip. “He’s no hero of mine. Trotsky was a class traitor who deserved what he got in Mexico.”
Brano was pleased to see that the Austrian didn’t know whether he should take the comment seriously. “You know,” Ludwig said finally, “something’s bugging me.”
“What’s that?”
“Our old dead body, Bertrand Richter.”
“I told you what I knew.”
“Of course you did. But we picked up the guy you said killed him. What was his name?”
“Erich Tobler on Hauptstra?e.”
“Right, right. Well, the thing is, he’s never heard of Bertrand Richter.”
“And you believe him.”
“I don’t know what to believe, Brano. I’m of half a mind that you’re the one who killed poor Bertrand. But Erich and I have more talks scheduled. We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
“I’m sure you will, Ludwig. You know what you’re doing.”
The smile returned, broad and toothy. “You’re quite a charmer today, Brano. It’s nice to see that side. Go on. Enjoy the day.”
“I’m curious about something.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s Easter Sunday, and you’re here with me. Don’t you have a family to spend the day with?”
Ludwig’s smile faded. “I don’t think we’re here to discuss my personal life.”
Brano nodded at his empty coffee cup. “Will the Second Republic take care of this?”
“Business expenses.”
“I guess that’s one advantage.”
Ludwig squinted as Brano stood and picked up his book. Then he nodded as he got the joke.
Brano walked back home slowly, watching churches along the way spill the faithful into the empty streets. The sunburned shadow remained a half block away, leisurely wandering, and at Web-Gasse 25 Brano noticed a second shadow sitting in a new Volkswagen across the street. An old man with a thick, white mustache and beard, to compensate for his decaying hair. The old man looked vaguely familiar-perhaps a face from West Berlin. He watched Brano unlock his door and go inside but made no move.
Ludwig’s shadows were more conspicuous by the minute.
Through the holes in his mailbox door he spotted a letter. He retrieved the unstamped envelope as an old woman nodded a Gru? Gott at him on her way out, and in the elevator opened it. Inside was a yellow English-language pamphlet published by the “Committee for Liberty in the Captive Nations,” titled A Communist War? Below the title was the image of a hammer striking a sickle.
He opened his door, then went inside and locked it. He took the pamphlet to the living room and tilted it in the sunlight, looking for invisible indentations that weren’t there. He sat on the sofa, smiling as he read, for it was clear then that Ludwig, or his bearded associate, did have a sense of humor after all.
A COMMUNIST WAR?
Dear Friend,
There is much talk these days of an impending war between Red China and the Soviet Union. Optimism, to be sure. Such an argument encourages the feeling among Leftist professors that detente with the Soviet Union is the best course of action, to prepare for a war against the Red Chinese. Is this truly the best course of action? THE HYPOCRISY What these communist/detente sympathizers forget is that war between two communist powers is, by their own logic, impossible. Communists believe war is caused by the retention of profit by a small group of capitalists, leading to the roller-coaster ride of inflation and depression. The moneymaking machine of war, they say, is the one thing that can repair a capitalist depression. Therefore Communism, not burdened by profit, cannot lead to war. The academics had better reread their hero, Karl Marx! THEN WHY TENSION? There are many reasons for the present tension between these two godless nations, and I will mention just a few: 1) The truth is that these two communist powers are, in fact, “capitalist.” That is, a small group of men hold the wealth, leaving the great masses with next to nothing. 2) Just this year Brezhnev, the Soviet Communist leader, spoke angrily against Red China for blocking arms shipments to the North Vietnamese Communist aggressors. It seems that while both Brezhnev and Chairman Mao wish to “bury” Capitalism, they cannot agree on the proper method. 3) The Soviet Union, desperate to keep its hold on World Communism, has united the Communist Parties throughout the world in an attempt to end the other, Chinese, form. RABID DOGS! What the Leftist professors will not tell anyone is that these are the precise reasons why detente must not be followed. At this moment we have two communist giants glaring at one another like rabid dogs, and this is when it is most important to act. The Captive Nations of Eastern Europe, so long under the boot of the Soviet Menace, must be set free of their chains! Be one with us, and appeal to President Johnson to push forward efforts to roll back the Iron Curtain. God bless America. Dr. Ned Rathbone
The Committee for Liberty in the Captive Nations
December 18, 1966
30 MARCH 1967, THURSDAY
Day 11. The Subject began Thursday with the same routine as previous days. The Subject’s regularity has been a source of surprise, only interrupted by occasional visits to bookstores (often loitering in the political section). This agent has, however, noted an increased level of drinking. The Subject’s one or two evening beers have turned into two beers at a bar, followed by a bottle of wine from his 24-hour local, brought back home to drink in front of the television.
Perhaps the drinking explains the acts of 30 March.
This agent stood beside the flak tower at the corner of Eszterhazy Park as the Subject read on his usual bench and, at noon, urinated on his usual tree. Rather than returning to his seat, he walked down Windmuhl to Fillegradergasse, then, just before the Hotel Terminus, jogged up the steps leading to Theobaldgasse, turning left on Mariahilfer (effectively doubling back on himself). This agent, fearing he would lose contact, jogged as well. The Subject turned right at Stiftgasse, then took another right on Siebensterngasse. This agent rounded the corner as well, but found the Subject staring at him through the rear windshield of a taxi that was pulling
away.
This agent immediately telephoned his superiors.
“Innere Stadt, you said?”
“Yes. The center.”
“But where in the center?”
Brano looked back at the sunburned man dwindling to insignificance. “Turn here. Right. Then go to the Westbahnhof.”
“Westbahnhof? That’s not in the center!”
“Please, just do it.”
Brano paid the driver and jogged into the modern, airy train station. There were three people in line at the ticket counter. The heavy woman in front of him wore a kerchief around her head and leaned on a cheap, heavy bag, much like the fat provincial women of Bobrka, sweating beneath too many layers of skirt. Soon he was at the window.
“Salzburg,” he said. “First class.”
The clerk looked at a list of cities and numbers on the wall. “It’s leaving right now.”
“I’ll make it.”
“I doubt it.”
“Just let me worry about that.” Brano glanced behind himself, then handed over his money.
Ticket in hand, he ran up the stairs to the second level and paused, looking back again through the windows that covered the front of the Westbahnhof, his thumping heart reminding him he was old for this kind of action.
Then he spotted it: the gray Renault that parked along Europaplatz. Two men bolted out the back and across the concrete toward the station.
Instead of approaching the platforms, he exited left beneath a sign that said FELBERSTRA?E. He jogged through the station’s parking lot, north along a back street, then, panting, caught a tram along Lerchenfelder Gurtel. The car was tight with warm Viennese, and when he began to laugh involuntarily, many turned to look at him.
He got off at Gablenzgasse and returned on foot, taking the narrow backstreets overlooked by dirty buildings and shops, until he was back at the corner of Tannengasse and Felberstra?e. Across the street an old woman moved slowly with her cane; on his side a drunk counted coins. “Funfundsechzig… siebzig.” When the woman had finally made it to her door and the drunk had shuffled past and disappeared around the corner, Brano turned to face the wall.
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