Lindstrom's Progress

by Moss, John

  “Mr. Lindstrom, I was the person who identified her mutilated corpse. Even Pope Retzinger—no, it is Pope Francis now—he could not bring Madalena back to us. The ashes have been scattered.”

  “Where?”

  “This is a windy country; you will never find them.”

  Harry explained that he did not want to collect Lena’s ashes. He just wanted to know where she had arranged to have them dispersed.

  “I sent them to a school in Hinterbrühl.”

  “Good, good, do you have a name?”

  “Honsberger, yes.”

  “No,” he said. “Who did you send her ashes to in Hinterbrühl?”

  “To a woman, let me see, her name is written down.” Frau Honsberger rummaged through slips of yellow paper piled neatly in the top drawer of her desk, found the one she was looking for, smoothed it on the desktop to make its inscription legible, and copied the name on a fresh yellow slip that she slid across to Harry.

  The name was so precisely printed it looked like the work of a machine.

  “Rachel Damboch. Are you sure?”

  “Fräulein Strauss left instructions. I do not think the lady, this Rachel Damboch, is at the school. She is in retirement, I think perhaps into the country near Salzburg. Perhaps it is to Hallstatt she went. The Kinderdorf in Hinterbrühl, they will have her address. The package was to be sent forward. You must write down the school. Here. I shall do that.”

  She took the yellow slip from Harry and wrote down the rest of the information.

  “There, that is all I know about where she is buried, yes. Do we say buried for ashes? Where she is disposed, yes. There was nothing to bury. She is disposed.”

  “Thank you,” said Harry, rising to his feet. Salzburg, then. Hinterbrühl and possibly Hallstatt. “Danke schön, Frau Honsberger.”

  Harry stopped at the Café Central for a quick mélange. Its rich bitter genius was wasted on him in the rush. He didn’t take time for kaiserschmarrn. Then he cut over to Stephansdom, forced himself to slow down, and ambled along the pedestrian walkway, trying to sort out his next move. He’d need sleep before going to Salzburg. If he found Rachel Damboch he was convinced he’d find Madalena Strauss.

  But do you really want to find her, Harry?

  Do I have a choice?

  You can’t just turn her over to Sakarov?

  If I don’t, kids die. Most likely, I die. And Joan too, I assume.

  It would be a matter of good housekeeping for Sakarov.

  He breathed deeply and exhaled audibly.

  Between rocks and hard places, Harry, devils and the deep blue sea. Let’s think.

  As he walked slowly back to the Kressler, Harry abandoned emotive clichés and resorted to pure logic, which left him grasping at nothing.

  He bought a hot doughnut confection from a street vendor, but a single bite flooded his mouth with sugar, salt, and grease. He dumped the remainder in a trash bin and wiped his fingers on the insides of his pants pockets.

  That’s disgusting.

  I know.

  There’s always a third option, Harry. When the choice is impossible, choose neither!

  I can hardly walk away.

  There’s a fourth. Choose both.

  He was searching for the wrong person! He needed to track down Joan first then keep her close while he found Lena.

  What about the children?

  Until Sakarov finds Lena, they’re safe.

  He regretted the mouthful of doughnut and the late evening coffee. He went into a bar at the Kressler and asked for a double cognac, XO. He was exhausted and fine brandy was the best route to a good sleep. He remembered Madalena had ordered single malt scotch. Cognac was more subtle, but she was mercurial and elusive, not subtle. He had no idea what time it was back in Toronto. It didn’t matter. He had thirty-three hours to go.

  From his hotel room, he could see the reflection of the Kressler in the sheer façade of the building opposite. He turned out his lights and traced with his eyes a deliberate pattern until he found the balcony where the Findlays had jumped to their deaths, no doubt feeling righteous to the end. That would have been Sakarov’s room, next door to the one Harry had occupied. But the Findlays were staying at the Imperial. Lena had met them there, where she informed them she would make their private transgressions a public scandal. In speaking on the child’s behalf she condemned him to death.

  Joan would be at the Imperial. Sakarov would have sent her there on his personal account. He would have conceived of no reason to hide her or forcibly hold her captive. He was indifferent to Harry finding her. Harry had to find Lena. His moral commitment would keep him under control.

  Harry lost himself in the shimmering dimensions of the window glass—seeing the boy, seeing himself, seeing the lights of Vienna, and seeing the shadowy room behind him. For a brief and vivid moment, Simon Wales appeared in the mêlée of images, as real as if his ghost had replaced Harry’s own reflection. Harry turned away and at that moment consigned Simon to the same dark regions of his psyche where Matt and Lucy resided—ageless and immutable beyond thought or grief or memory. Simon was simply a part of him, totally absorbed.

  In the morning, after a rough night and with twenty-four hours to go, Harry logged onto the Western University mainframe. He had never cancelled his Huron College account and as a Western affiliate it provided access to university files around the world. What he needed was entry into the shadowy stacks of the Universität Wien, not more than a short ride on a Ringstrasse trolley from his hotel.

  He tracked down Rachel Damboch. He found her manuscripts. They were itemized but had not been scanned into the system. Signing as Professor Harry Lindstrom, Department of Philosophy, Huron College University, London, Ontario, he sought out an archivist by email and explained that he would shortly be arriving Austria to do research and would need permission to view the Damboch papers. Did Universität Wien have an address where Frau Damboch could be reached?

  He received a cordial response immediately from an assistant librarian telling him Rachel Damdoch’s last known address was in care of a school in Hinterbrühl. The librarian told him she was familiar with Harry’s work and assured him the university would be most accommodating when he arrived in Vienna. She also informed him that, before her employment at the library, she had worked on early iron-age funeral rites. If she could be of any assistance, she would be happy to help.

  She attached a copy of a paper she had recently published in an American academic journal. It was entitled “From Bronze Age to Iron, Shifting Burial Practices through Central Europe, from 1000 to 500 BCE.” She didn’t question the authenticity of Harry’s unusual non-institutional email address: lindstromalone.com.

  This was the first time Harry had actively participated in academia since the accident. It was a nostalgic reminder of how intimate and expansive that world had been, for both Karen and himself, until it was suddenly swallowed up in a tumult of water and razed in a fiery inferno.

  He felt good as he made his way to the Imperial. He would take Joan with him to Hinterbrühl. Once he located Rachel Damboch, he would find Lena. And then, and then. He became distracted as he approached the hotel, an imposing stately edifice just past the Staatsoper across the Ringstrasse. He was being followed. Stopping to gaze into the reflection in the angled window of a high-end clothing store, he could see who it was. He was dismayed but not surprised.

  Dimitri Sakarov paused to look into another shop window. He didn’t seem to care if he was seen. Perhaps he preferred it that way. But clearly he had no desire to connect. It was more threatening just to be there, to be watching.

  Harry found Joan DeBrusk in a comfortable suite, registered under her own name. She was virtually a prisoner of fear. No one was guarding her. She was alarmed to see Harry. Vienna was a city of strangers and, despite the pleasantness of the hotel staff, reassuringly remote. A familiar face could only mean trouble.

  “Did Sakarov tell you why you’re here, Joan?”

  �
��No.” Her face was flushed with colour. “But he gave me no option.”

  “I know.” He tried to sound reassuring.

  “People will miss me. I didn’t show up for work. The Centre will miss me. I don’t mean to whine, but I would much rather be home.”

  “Joan, have you any idea where Lena is?”

  “Isn’t she still in Toronto?”

  Lena hadn’t let Joan know when she slipped away. Joan had assumed Lena wanted privacy and not tried to reach her.

  He explained his mission and told Joan to pack nothing more than she could carry in her purse, which conveniently was a large Roots bag with lots of pockets. She resisted.

  “Where are you going?” You, not we, she said.

  “Salzburg. A school in Hinterbrühl. We’re looking for Rachel Damboch, the woman who raised her.”

  “It is too dangerous to leave,” she said. “Mr. Sakarov told me I am being watched. If I do not do what he says, they will set fire to the Zylberman Centre. He told me they will lock the doors from outside and kill children, Harry; he will burn them to death. He did not seem angry that I had shot him. I had better stay here unless he allows me to go.”

  “Joan, don’t you understand?”

  “Yes, you must find Lena, of course. But…” But there was nothing more to say.

  Her face showed the strain of her situation, but terror was oddly becoming. The pallor of innocence had fallen away and she looked almost wanton, despite her Walmart apparel and modest demeanour. Her hair caught the sunlight filtering through linden trees outside the hotel window. It shimmered like burnished copper. Her lips were full and glowing vermillion, her high cheeks gleamed and a scattering of freckles enhanced her delicate features. She did not look at all like Madalena Strauss, but it struck Harry, in this frightening situation, she looked very beautiful. It was as if she had at last come into her own.

  Damn it, Harry. This is the most exciting thing that has happened in her entire life.

  “Joan, if we don’t find Lena, you will end up floating in the Danube. Countless children will die.”

  Joan was pondering. She was confused. He didn’t believe there was a moral dilemma. Joan DeBrusk was a good person. She was afraid. She appeared not to trust her own judgment. She appeared not to trust Harry. The only thing she seemed sure of was Sakarov. She had shot him. He would kill her.

  Harry moved around the suite, gathering a few toiletries, a change of lingerie, an extra pair of walking shoes, stuffing it all into her bag.

  “Now,” he declared, taking her hand firmly in his. “We’re leaving.” She resisted. He pulled firmly. “We’re leaving,” he repeated.

  She moved robotically at first, but by the time they got to the emergency exit, she mumbled, “I’m sorry, forgive me,” and picked up the pace. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re trying to get out of here without Sakarov seeing us.”

  “Oh my goodness, my God. Is Mr. Sakarov actually in Vienna?” She wrenched herself free of Harry’s grip. “I think I had better stay here,” she declared, grasping the stair rail with both hands.

  Fear as a moral imperative, Harry! Maybe she’s right.

  Joan was standing on the step above him. He reached out to her gently. She stared at his hand like it was holding open the gates of hell. Then, with what Harry took as an act of astonishing whimsy, she crossed herself, stepped down and thrust her own hand into his.

  “Let’s go, then,” she said. “He’s fat, but he’s fast.”

  They descended the stairs to the basement and slipped out a service entrance past garbage containers into a laneway that led to a knoll beside open water. Once they were safely beyond the sight range of the hotel, Harry paused to look back. Sakarov was nowhere in sight.

  They moved with the strolling pedestrians toward the U-Bahn at Karlsplatz. Harry knew they stood out as North Americans. He wasn’t sure whether it was the clothes or their way of moving. When they descended underground, he tried to sort out the intricate network of subway systems to find the best way to the train station for Salzburg.

  Once seated on an IC high speed train, they both relaxed.

  Joan fell asleep before the train pulled away from the station. Harry realized she probably hadn’t slept much in the last couple of days. Looking at her, he felt pangs of sadness. She was like a fish out of water, he thought—scales glistening in the open air before it expired.

  The train surged into motion. He looked down at his watch then glanced up. Sakarov was standing on the platform outside their window. The big man looked directly at him and cocked his thumb and forefinger like a pistol. With a grotesquely explosive shuddering of his lips and a recoiling of his fist, he simulated firing. Harry instinctively ducked. When he looked out again, the train had picked up speed. He leaned forward but couldn’t see Sakarov.

  About halfway to Salzburg, Harry relaxed enough to enjoy the spectacular scenery. Joan stirred several times. Harry covered her with his nubuck jacket. She slept the rest of the way.

  After just over three hours they disembarked. Outside the station, they saw the back end of a trolley as it pulled away toward the town centre. Annoyed at missing it, he took Joan by the hand until she picked up his pace. They walked along a bustling road through an area that had been devastated by American bombs during World War II and rebuilt in a perfunctory fashion with American money. When they reached the lee of a forested hill the architecture and ambience transformed into a Tyrolean movie set. From nondescript grey, the buildings turned cream and ochre with symmetrical rows of small windows set flush to the wall, each whimsically backed by lace curtains and fronted with a meticulously tended flowerbox.

  They cut down into the old town straddling the Salzach River. They had wasted precious time not taking the trolley. Crossing the riverside promenade, Harry was reminded that this was precisely where sixteen year old Lena had met her Norwegian boyfriend, Freya’s father, who used another man’s name.

  The looming baroque profile of Hohensalzburg Castle passed out of sight as they turned down the venerable Getreidegasse with its invitingly ominous passageways and its profusion of iconic signs made of sheet metal and gilt. They ducked into The Von Trapp Family Establishment Restaurant, featuring portraits in its windows of Christopher Plummer and Julie Andrews. Harry chose a seat by the window on the theory that they’d see anyone following them before being seen.

  “What’s our next move, Harry?”

  He looked down at his plate with a single large Bavarian sausage slung across it, dividing the diced potato salad on one side from the lank clump of sauerkraut on the other. Harry had chosen the least impressive restaurant in a town famed for elevating honest German cooking to a culinary art. He should have known better. The sign was in English.

  Joan had already begun digging in. She was famished from her voluntary captivity in the Imperial. She should have used room service. It was Sakarov’s nickel.

  “I saw Sakarov in the Westbanhof station in Vienna,” he said.

  “Oh my God.” She instinctively slunk down lower in her chair and bent her head forward, but didn’t stop slicing off grey discs of sausage and scooping up forkfuls of sauerkraut and oily potatoes.

  “We need to rent a car,” he explained, sitting forward to gaze at the late summer tourists streaming along the Getreidegasse, many of them filtering in and out of the passageway in the building opposite lined with expensive shops. “We’ve got to get to the school in Hinterbrühl.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s where Lena spent her childhood.”

  “Do you think she’ll be there?” Joan sat straight again, her attention piqued.

  “I’m sure she won’t be, but they’ll be able to tell us where to find the person who does know. Eat up. Let’s go.”

  “I’m eating as fast as I can,” said Joan, pressing her lips closed with her fingers, as if the pressure would make her chewing go faster. She swallowed then spoke: “Harry, I’m sorry about my behaviour at the hotel. Hesitating lik
e that was selfish. Of course we must save Lena. Morality is not intuitive, you know.” She pressed her lips again, trying to chew faster. “But since I’m with you, there’s not so much rush, is there?”

  Harry looked puzzled. She tried to explain: “I mean, why would Mr. Sakarov want to murder me and the children now? It would accomplish nothing. He got what he wanted.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You. You’re tracking down Lena. He doesn’t need me anymore.”

  Harry gazed across the table at her. He tried to swallow a forkful of potato salad. He wondered if they’d both be better off just putting Joan on a plane to Toronto. Let Morgan and Miranda look after her.

  She smiled around a mouthful of food. Not elegant, he thought, but unnervingly sweet.

  And still at risk.

  You think?

  Doesn’t she get it, Harry? She’s your incentive to keep going. You stop and she dies.

  He glanced at his watch and did a brief calculation. He’d been on the move for a full day. Her execution was set for eighteen hours from now—unless Sakarov and Lena connected, or unless Lena was rescued and the three of them managed to escape together.

  So, there’s an escape clause! You’re not going to give up Lena.

  Not if I can help it.

  That probably means leaving Sakarov dead. Otherwise he’ll murder children on two continents.

  “Harry, if you know we can find Madalena through this school, then why wouldn’t Mr. Sakarov know the same thing?”

  “Because she’s not a schoolgirl anymore,” he responded, pushing his plate to the side. He took a deep breath. She would cooperate more efficiently if she understood and his explanation had plausible simplicity.

  “Sakarov deals in kids. He works with adults. He doesn’t make the connection that we were all kids, even his customers, even the woman who wants to bring him down. He knows all about her work as a renegade cop in Vienna. I doubt he knows anything of her life growing up. It doesn’t interest him. But she’s taken refuge in her own childhood, and that’s where we’re going.”

  “Umphh, I’m finished. Aren’t you going to eat anything more? Here, let me.” She picked up the untouched sausage from Harry’s plate, wrapped it in a wad of serviettes and stuffed it into her Roots handbag. “We may need it later.”