“We were here,” the man said. After a second he added, “A woman was just checking in when the fireworks went off. I think one of our lieutenants took her through.”
“You checked her identification?”
“Yes.” Then, “No, we were in the process. We sent them through when the disturbance began.”
“Why did the lieutenant go with her?”
The policeman smiled sardonically. “We value our women here; we don’t put them on tractors.” Several policemen grinned as the Russians walked off.
“Suspicious bastards,” one of the Austrians said. “That was a fine piece, though. Maybe the lieutenant will get lucky with her.”
“Keep your mind on your work,” a sergeant said sharply.
“Where the hell is Ezdovo?” Bailov asked.
Melko shrugged.
Bailov looked grim as he ran toward the palace.
206SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 9:10 P.M.Vienna
Brother Johann Schmidt had been the curator of St. Stephen’s catacombs since the last year of the Great War. He had seen the breakup of the Austro-Hungarian empire, the rise of Hitler, the Anschluss, the Nazis’ fall and the start and end of the Soviet occupation. Through it all he had gauged every event solely by its potential for affecting the sacred remains in his care. Compared with past events this summit between the Americans and Russians was but a small ripple, yet their security forces had been as nervous as novitiates meeting the archbishop for the first time. They had wanted tours stopped three days before the meetings but he had stood his ground and the archbishop had backed him. Who else would do what he did, living his days among ghosts? The order had trouble attracting the young, and no priest would accept such menial duty. The security people had wanted to check the underground, but he had fought this as well. Beyond the area where tourists were allowed the tunnels were sacred; he would have no infidels traipsing in there, especially Communists.
It had been the archbishop who had proposed a compromise. “Brother Johann will personally search the catacombs,” he assured the visitors, his voice syrupy. But despite the archbishop’s assurances Johann did not alter his routine, touring the catacombs every night at the same time and making his way to his own private chapel built with and among the sacred relics.
The catacombs were cool, the temperature constant, the air in the upper levels slightly humid. Brother Johann was as aware as anybody of events in the world above but he was more comfortable belowground where he could count on everything being in place, and where whatever organic change there was would be more easily measured in time frames that were magnitudes of his life span. Down here he had some sense of the control that God must feel. Sometimes he even confessed his arrogance.
Despite the thousands of times he had traveled his twisted and confined world Brother Johann never took his rounds for granted. As insurance that his refuge remain undisturbed he employed sprinklings of a mixture of talcum powder and cinnamon at shadowy intersections, threads strung at various heights and angles in the corridors, slivers of black paper inserted in door hinges and strips of foil tucked into burial chambers, each designed to help him guard this holy ground. Most intruders came on four legs, but every few years somebody tried to violate the sanctuary, usually as a prank or lark. Nevertheless, his caution paid. The tunnel system under the city was frequented by tramps and rough elements, and their potential for desecrating his beloved sanctuary was never far from his thoughts.
“Let them come,” he whispered as he made his way down a tunnel toward the Y-shaped forks. If people made their way in they would find a few surprises. There were surprises down here that only he knew about.
Brother Johann was close to the crossing when he saw a heel print in the powder-cinnamon he had spread along one of the walls. Kneeling beside it, he saw that the print had a tread, which meant that it was not one of the other brothers, who wore sandals at this time of year, and not Father Martin, the only priest who had ever shown any genuine interest in his relics. Father wore a laceless shoe he called a penny loafer that he had acquired during his sojourn in America. This print had not been there this morning or at midday, which meant that somebody had been here in the past eight or nine hours.
Brother Johann squinted as he stared along the corridor floor looking for more prints. He was surprised when something struck him in the head and sent him sprawling backward. Bless me, Father, for I have sinned, he prayed as he lost consciousness.
207SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 9:12 P.M.Vienna
The last woman to enter was some sort of performer in the opera company; though he wasn’t sure why, Gnedin rechecked her signature after she had gone through security. She was attractive and nervous, and he wondered what part she would play in the performance.
There was no more traffic now in the security office, and there wouldn’t be until the festivities were over. Then all the guests would file through and repeat the same procedure they had undergone when coming in.
Gnedin stepped outside to breathe some fresh air and saw stars twinkling above.
“Did a woman just check through?” Bailov asked as he approached.
“A few minutes ago. I think she’s part of the opera company.”
“Identity verified?”
Gnedin nodded. “Photograph, signature, the whole thing.”
“Was she alone?”
“Came in with a police lieutenant. Middle-aged, with a black mustache.”
“Where is he now?”
“He left her here and came back outside.” Gnedin looked at the sky again, then at the pebbled walks, which were dry. He thought for a moment, then said, “He had an umbrella.”
“There’s no rain,” Bailov said, looking at the clear sky.
“He said, ‘Here you are, Miss. Not a drop on your hair.’”
Now Melko joined his comrades in looking at the sky. “It hasn’t been raining,” Bailov said. “Not even a sprinkle.” He pushed Melko. “Get back to the entrance and find out if those idiots checked the lieutenant’s identification. See if they know him; get me a bloody name.” He turned to Gnedin: “Find the woman.”
“Detain her?”
“Yes.”
Melko ran off, his walkie-talkie banging against his hip.
“What about you?” the doctor asked.
“I’ll look around out here.”
“Maybe it was nothing,” Gnedin said, but Bailov had already disappeared down the walk.
208SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 9:20 P.M.Vienna
The monk on the tunnel floor was the one who had led the tour earlier today. Frash had blended into the middle of the group, and as they climbed a set of nearly vertical stairs he had thrust a hip back, caught an elderly man off balance, and knocked him down the stairs, setting off a chain reaction. Like a good Samaritan, he had been first to reach the fallen man, apologizing profusely for his clumsiness. The monk and others helped to carry the injured man up to the surface, and in the confusion Frash had backtracked into the tunnels; even if they were counting heads above there would be no way for them to get an accurate count in the chaos he had created.
He had only meant to stun the monk, but the man had been too old, his bones too frail. One blow with the butt of his pistol had left a gaping hole in his skull. Had he gone to Heaven? Without baptism the souls of infants were consigned to Limbo, a room filled with cotton wads and soft towels fresh from the clothesline. Zog: No name for a king. Mother had large breasts, even when she read the Boston Globe. Use me, the bitch said. Mother’s cunt or was it Mother Cunt? Was there a special neighborhood set aside for monks and priests in Heaven? Surely there was such a place in Hell. It had been their kind’s idea. Ali felt good, strong.
There was a copperhead under the table in the kitchen at the cottage; it was short and fat, with a head shaped like a trowel. “Papa can’t kill it,” Mother whispered. “Don’t make a mess, I just cleaned the floor.” The .22 rifle held Remington longs. Did copperheads have brains or go to Limbo? There were more question
s than answers. One round at the bottom of the left eye and only a small amount of blood thereafter, the small bullet cutting a skip mark in the linoleum and lodging deep in a knotty pine cabinet. “Papa would be proud,” said Mother, “if he could stand the sight of blood.”
Salt poured into an open wound. No lie there, the cunt. Collectively you could sometimes believe what you heard, but odds were bad on individual items. A dog couldn’t bite with its left eye blown out. The devil’s eye, that left one, radiating evil. No left eye, no lifeline; it severed the umbilical cord to Lucifer. Hoxha’s left eye dominated; Mother’s too, but she denied this.
To shoot well, you had to think the bullet into the target. Someday missiles would use the same principle, but it would take practice, not to mention engineering. Why didn’t maggots eat bone? He had hated lima beans as a child; same principle, he supposed, but principles mattered only to kings and a few priests, never to politicians. And not to Mother. Erasing a blackboard did not make it clean; you had to wash it as well. Only then could you start anew. Trust no one, Mother said. Including her? The Gypsy woman had a soft mouth that swallowed everything. Had Mother?
It was exciting to find a will of your own, satisfaction in knowing you had equals, even when they were few and far between. Knowing too much made it impossible to keep facts straight. There was only so much storage.
“You’ll never be a scholar,” Papa had said. “You lack focus and discipline.” Such as abandoning your own people to left-eye dominance. Hitler knew how to lead, but had a low aptitude for common sense.
Past is present, Ali thought, or was it the other way around? Who controls them? he taunted Albert. Mother’s voice: “Jesus, Sal. . . . where the hell did you find that one?” Do it now, Ali said.
209SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 9:22 P.M.Vienna
Melko searched for the man they had talked to earlier, but couldn’t find him. He described him to several policemen, but drew blanks; he guessed they were taking some pleasure in playing dumb for a Russian. Eventually he found a sergeant who told him he had just relieved several of his men for a smoke.
“Where?”
“Over there,” he said, motioning to a line of trees where a couple of red embers glowed in the shadows.
He found the policemen squatting with their backs braced against tree trunks, and shone the light on each of their faces, moving down the line slowly. “Turn that fucking thing out,” one of them complained. “You’re ruining my night vision.”
“Which wasn’t much to begin with,” another man joked.
The first policeman was the one he was looking for. Melko turned the light on him and saw a lighted cigarette go tumbling into the darkness. “Hey,” the man complained. “I told you about the light once. Now shut it off or I’ll have to teach you some manners.” Several of the other men snickered.
Melko put his hand around the man’s throat and hoisted him violently, banging his head against the tree. The other Austrians scrambled to their feet, but Melko ignored them. “You said a lieutenant took the woman through the entrance just after the firecrackers went off.”
“Fetch an officer quickly,” one of the other men told a mate, “before this damned Ivan breaks Kurt’s neck.” None of the men tried to help their comrade.
The man clawed at Melko’s arm, but couldn’t break the grip; when he began to gag, the Russian loosened his grip and let the man tumble heavily on his side.
Melko heard footsteps moving away. “That lieutenant who took the woman through: did you know him?” He kept the light in the man’s face.
“Never saw him before. Never seen most of these people before,” the man croaked as he rubbed his neck.
“Did you check his identification?”
There was no answer; Melko saw in his eyes that he had not. “Fool,” he muttered. When his own men failed in such basics, he had executed them on the spot.
He heard people running toward him, their slung weapons rattling, the beams of their lights dancing across the lawn. There was a conversation on his walkie-talkie. “Clear the frequency,” Melko said in German. Then in Russian, “Team One, are you there?”
“What’s going on?” an Austrian demanded.
“Shut up,” Melko snapped.
“I hear you.” It was Gnedin’s voice.
“The lieutenant was never checked and nobody here can identify him. Is One with you?”
“No,” Gnedin radioed back, his voice clear and crisp.
“Tell him I’m coming.”
“I demand to know what’s going on here!” the sergeant said, raising his revolver toward Melko.
Three Spetsnaz men stepped quietly out of the darkness and flanked the Austrian. “Trouble, sir?” one of the soldiers asked Melko.
Melko waved them off and pointed a finger at the sergeant. “Seal the grounds. Let nobody in or out until further notice. Do it quietly.” He liked being called sir, he decided as he trotted toward the palace.
210SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 9:31 P.M.Vienna
The Archbishop’s Palace faced the north side of the cathedral. A nun with a hawk nose and missing lower teeth opened the door and frowned at them. “No visitors,” she said with a croak and attempted to close the door, but Valentine got his foot in, caught the door with his hands and pushed past. The nun retreated several steps and began looking around the foyer. Frantically looking for a weapon, he guessed; he was impressed that she was ready to sacrifice herself in the defense of church property. He held up his hands as a sign of peace, then slowly pulled his wallet out of his jacket and took out a card. “Show this to your superiors.”
211SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 9:40 P.M.Vienna
Gnedin found Sylvia with the ballet dancers. “A woman in a dark coat and a large bag?”
“I saw her,” Sylvia said. “She was wearing a long black dress underneath.”
When his walkie-talkie came to life, Gnedin stepped to the side and talked to Melko. His face told her that they had a serious problem. “Find her and hold her,” he told her. “I have to get Bailov.”
“Didn’t she clear security?” Sylvia asked.
“She did but her companion didn’t, and now nobody can identify him.” He vaulted over a dancer who was doing a split on the floor.
Sylvia went over to where the opera people had gathered and found a heavyset police lieutenant on the stairs at the intersection of two halls. The men in brown coveralls were up and moving, blocking her way. She checked her watch; by now dinner would be finished.
“Did you see a woman in a dark coat?” she asked the policeman.
He seemed to think about it, then shook his head. “Not since I came on duty an hour ago.”
“How long is your shift?”
“Three hours, which is standard.”
She moved on and began opening doors to the private practice rooms, but the fat man in the red cummerbund saw her and began shouting as he ran toward her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
Inside the first room was a heavyset woman in a black gown. She was sitting on a love seat, bent down, trying to buckle the thin straps to her shoes. “Is it time already?” she asked.
When Talia caught up she found Sylvia kneeling beside the singer holding her dress in one hand and the swatch of cloth from the Albanians’ flat in the other. “It’s a match,” she said excitedly.
212SATURDAY, JUNE 3, 1961, 9:44 P.M.Vienna
The nun led them into a library where several folding tables were set up. A man with thick glasses and a Notre Dame sweatshirt was perched on a stool beside one of them. He had slicked-back brown hair and wore plaid Bermuda shorts and penny loafers with no socks. “You’ve given Sister Mary-Helene quite a scare,” he said with a touch of amusement. The table in front of him was covered with various shapes of balsa wood and a bolt of cheesecloth. “The archbishop is at the Schönbrunn tonight,” he said, “which gives me a chance to work on my model airplanes. They fly on a tether, which is analogous to the human condition. We think we’re free, bu
t the Hereafter awaits us all.” He pushed his glasses up on his head, picked up the card Valentine had given to the nun and slid it across the table. “American Legion,” he said. “Should this mean something to me?”
“It got us in,” Valentine said.
The man waved the glowering nun out, held out his hand and shook his head. “Most of the world hates American impetuousness, but I find it refreshing. When an American gets something in his head there’s no stopping him and all rules go out the window. Father Martin Good,” he added. “But Marty will suffice.”
“Our names don’t matter,” Valentine said.
“Not a fellow countryman by the looks of him. Russian?” the priest asked, looking at Ezdovo.
“Something like that,” Valentine said.
The priest lit a cigarette and sat down. “Is your American Legion chapter a good one?”
“It’s got a great bar. Lots of chicken-fried steak and Lone Star beer at bargain basement prices.”
“Shit kickers dancing the two-step.”
“It’s that kind of place,” Valentine said. “You seem to know a lot about the States.”
“Ten years in South Bend, Indiana. Professor of history. Medieval architecture—churches mostly. My superiors felt I was drifting too far from my order’s values. They sent me here for a refresher in the pastoral life, which is not so bad, though Vienna hardly resembles South Bend on a football weekend. But I guess you’re not here for cross-cultural small talk. A matter of security, I presume?”
“We need to get into the catacombs.” Ezdovo showed the priest his official security credentials.
“Brother Johann’s purview,” the priest said. “He’s old now and a bit past his prime, I’m afraid. He even sleeps down there. Thinks of it as his private domain. I doubt that he’ll open up, even for me.”
The Domino Conspiracy Page 67