“Has he been charged?” she asked.
“Unlawful gathering.”
“He was part of the demonstration?”
“Close enough.”
“We’ll take responsibility for him.”
The police sergeant glanced at the man on the floor. “We’ve got his name. We can always take care of him later.”
Fuck you, Hinz thought. He had left his identification in his cab and given them a false name. He supposed that the lack of papers had added to their hostility, but he had not stayed alive this long without understanding the fascist mentality. Would the woman be able to pay? If not, he decided that when he got back to the cathedral he would insist on immediate payment in American greenbacks, then get away from these crazy people.
Melko followed the police outside and blocked their view while Gnedin helped Hinz sit up.
“You asked for me?” Sylvia said.
“I want to see identification,” the cabdriver said. It felt like several teeth had been loosened. She showed him a card with a photograph and he wished he could see more clearly. “Your friend says he would like to take you to Mass.”
Gnedin and Sylvia looked at each other, not understanding. “At Saint Stephen’s,” Hinz added.
220SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1961, 12:28 A.M.Vienna
Valentine was exhausted by the time he and the Siberian reached the public sector of the catacombs housing the Ducal Vault. Their clothes were torn, their hands, elbows and knees raw, their faces black with coal dust that had mixed with sweat to form a kind of grease. The area had a neatly laid black-and-white tile floor—too neat, he guessed, to satisfy tourists with their hearts set on the macabre. “Nice atmosphere,” he whispered to Ezdovo. The place reminded him of a cross between a Galveston barbershop and a New Orleans graveyard. The area near the vent tunnel was cluttered with stone biers and the Hapsburg burial vault containing copper urns filled with the intestines of several centuries of the royal line, their hearts and bodies being buried elsewhere; the logic of such separation escaped him, but the variety of human behavior was infinite, especially in its treatment of the dead.
“We’re wasting time,” Ezdovo said. He slipped into one of the robes supplied by the priest and moved ahead.
The area beyond was open but they moved cautiously when they found the door with four crosses; it was just beyond the entry to a small chapel with red cushions on its kneelers. The door was ajar, and there were lights in the dusty tunnel beyond. Valentine slid behind his companion and checked his pistol. “No silencers,” he told the Siberian. “If there’s a problem we can use the sound to locate each other.”
Ezdovo nodded and dropped his silencer into his pocket.
A few yards down the tunnel they saw the switch for the lights, and along the ceiling they saw the wire the priest had described; it was threaded through grommets cut from stone. Valentine took a coin from his pocket, flipped it, caught it and pressed it against his hand. “Heads or tails?”
“For what?” the Siberian asked.
“To see who takes the point.”
“I’ll go first.”
“Call it.”
“Why?”
“It’s an old American custom.”
“Tails,” the Siberian said.
Valentine lifted his hand just enough to peek. It was tails. “Heads,” he said. “You lose.”
He returned the coin to his pocket and started to move forward, but Ezdovo caught his arm. “I didn’t see it,” he growled.
The American twisted free. “That’s another wrinkle of democracy,” he said. “Secret ballot.”
221SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1961, 1:00 A.M.Vienna
Bailov drove the truck while Gnedin worked on Hinz, who sat between them. He was conscious but battered, giving directions with hand signals and an occasional word to guide them to the center of the city and a location behind the archbishop’s palace.
“What’s this?” Melko asked as they turned into a pitch-black alley.
“I’ve brought you where I was told to.”
As soon as the truck stopped and Sylvia and Talia had jumped down from the back a priest emerged from the darkness. “How many of you?” he asked.
“Four,” Bailov answered.
“Where’s my money?” Hinz asked. What did the priest have to do with these people?
“When we’re done,” Bailov said. “Remain with the truck.”
The group descended a set of stone stairs to a cellar; there the priest pointed to a rack of hooded black robes. “Take what you need.”
Father Good showed them the base of the coal chute and gave them flashlights and a hand-drawn map. “Years ago the catacombs were used as an escape system,” he said. “They would enter from the center of the church—the current tourist entrance—and from the towers and altar. Your friend asked me to tell you that.”
Sylvia stepped forward. “Why?”
The priest looked at his watch. “Your colleague said that I should remind you that in eight hours President Kennedy and his wife will arrive at St. Stephen’s for Mass.”
Sylvia kicked off her shoes and climbed into the coal chute. When she got to the vent tunnel she called down to the others, “It’s really tight. We’ll have to crawl.”
Bailov took Melko’s arm. “You’re in no condition for this.”
“He’s right,” Talia said, removing her shoes and turning to the priest. “Is this the only way in?”
“Until Brother Johann opens the tourist gate in the cathedral at ten A.M.”
“Brother Johann?” Talia asked.
“The caretaker.”
“Where is he?”
Father Good smiled. “Only God and Johann know. He sleeps somewhere in the tunnels.”
When the team had disappeared up the chute Melko sat on the floor and lit a cigar. He would give them some time, then follow. Only Melko decides what Melko can’t do, he told himself. The bullet had only nicked his side.
222SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1961, 1:25 A.M.Vienna
Albert wondered whether he had dozed off. He was moving slowly through the tunnel, which seemed to stretch to infinity. It doesn’t go up, he told Ali; it doesn’t feel right. He sensed that the tunnel had angled gently away from the end of the cathedral and that it would not connect with the sacristy, but Ali refused to listen, which was how it had always been.
223SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1961, 1:30 A.M.Vienna
It had been interesting to see Kharlamov and Salinger, the official Soviet and American spokesmen, sitting together on a stage at the Hofburg Palace. In previous summits the two sides had issued individual statements, usually from separate locations. Sometimes the opposing briefings were held at the same time, which made for head-to-head competition and gave each camp a rough idea of who had captured the most press interest. But yesterday afternoon there had been a thousand journalists jammed together in the same theater, crawling all over one another like shrimp in a basket, the noise unbelievable, the reporters’ manners barbaric—par for the course, Arizona reminded himself.
Neither spokesman had said much of substance and both had smiled a lot in an effort to demonstrate genuine goodwill for the other. It was pretty convincing, Arizona admitted to himself; even the most skeptical journalists seemed filled with optimism. A very good show indeed.
Now he was back in the CIA office in the embassy with so much caffeine in his system that it kept him awake only in the technical sense; his thoughts were skipping and jumping haphazardly. Dinner at the Schönbrunn Palace had gone off with no major hitches; he had heard that someone in the Soviet delegation had been taken ill, but the Russians had assured everyone that it was nothing serious, which might or might not be the truth. The bastards tended to distort even the most inconsequential facts, a practice that the Company understood to be Soviet strategy; if you lied about everything all the time your enemy had to work twice as hard to sort out what was really happening. But now the day was over, there were no signs of Valentine, Charles or their Soviet pals, and everyone
was on his best behavior. It was downright bizarre.
224SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1961, 2:45 A.M.Vienna
The air was cool but their robes were heavy and made them sweat. They took turns leading, each of them sticking close to the walls. The corridor led them past bins filled with chalky bones, containers cut into the earthen walls like sleepers on an overnight train. Several times huge brown rats leaped out and ran squealing down the tunnel. When the bins ran out they found rooms cut into the sides. These were three meters square and packed with remains. One room contained rows of skulls stacked like bottles of vintage wine; others contained other parts, but most of them were a mixed jumble. In some places bulbs were burned out, and whenever they got to a dark stretch they slowed down. They had just passed through such an area when the Siberian sank to one knee and held up a hand. Valentine edged his way forward and kept to the far wall. “The floor’s been dusted,” Ezdovo said.
Valentine saw that his companion was tense. “This whole place is a dust bin,” he whispered.
The Siberian touched his fingers to the floor, brought them to his lips and grimaced. “Talcum and cinnamon,” he said. “Part of a security system. Primitive but effective.” He reached forward, poked at a thread dangling along the wall and held it up for Valentine to see.
Further on Ezdovo stopped again, knelt and touched the dirt.
“More cinnamon?” Valentine asked.
“Blood,” the Siberian said, sniffing like an animal. “Fresh.”
225SUNDAY, JUNE 4, 1961, 3:20 A.M.Vienna
The tunnel ended abruptly at a concave wall made of gray cobblestones fitted tightly together. No cement, which suggested that it was more than one layer deep. Albert tapped the stones with a human femur, the sound an unresponsive click. There was no way through; it might as well be Hoover Dam. It was a dead end, like the inside of a stone condom. He retreated a few meters and squatted, holding the femur out like a golfer gauging a difficult putt. The stairs to the sacristy had been cut off. No way up, Ali wailed softly, no way up. Albert felt Ali’s adrenaline kick in and tried to resist. Don’t panic, he cautioned himself. Control your breathing, stay calm, think.
Talia’s left eye was swollen shut, every exertion sending a searing pain through her head, but she hid this from the others. The bothersome thing was that they had no indication that the renegade American was here, but Ezdovo and the American called Valentine had called for help, which meant they suspected something. How had her husband ended up with the American? Hunters, she guessed. Similar instincts and a need for solitude. The group had been impressed at how Ezdovo had tracked Mock to her flat, and they had all seen his rage at finding the Austrian woman dead and Frash gone. Teamwork had been neater under Petrov’s leadership, she chastised herself. The catacombs were eerie and cramped. Until she found Ezdovo she would worry. Two units without coordination were a threat to each other.
Sylvia moved to Talia’s side, sensing her concern. “We should keep moving.”
Talia put the priest’s map on the floor. The basic pattern of the tunnel system under the cathedral was a Y, with the right branch the path to the blocked-off sacristy and the left one stretching away to uncharted tunnels that eventually connected to Vienna’s underground. This area, the priest said, was the most dangerous because it was not part of the original catacombs and suffered frequent cave-ins. Ezdovo would wait at the intersection of the Y she guessed; if Frash was trying to get to the sacristy he would be in the right branch and could be trapped there until the force reunited.
Sylvia touched Talia’s back. “They’ll wait for us,” she said.
Albert felt his control slipping as he ducked in and out of the burial vaults, desperately searching for another way forward rather than retreating back through the tunnel.
By the time they reached the intersection even Valentine could see that somebody had tried to brush the blood trail clean. Ezdovo found faint footprints. They were as clear to him as if he were reading a book. “Deeper here,” he said, pointing to a print. “The weight has shifted to the heel, which means he’s carrying something heavy.” A wounded man? The blood suggested someone was hurt.
Valentine wanted to go on, but the Siberian stopped him. “We’ll wait here for the others. If he’s ahead we have him trapped.”
“He’s there,” the American said. “I can feel him.”
As soon as he got into the vault Ali knew something was different, but it took a while to sort it out. The floor was cluttered with neat islands of human bones, some of the piles as high as his waist. There was room to move, not a lot but enough. Some skulls had dried flesh and pieces of hair still stubbornly clinging to them, like his clinging to the dream. Or was it a nightmare? The truth of the room opened to him like a gradual sunrise. Its dimensions were different, not in size but in shape. Even the bone piles had new meaning, islands in a small sea. He skirted them slowly, knowing there was a through passage here, but he discovered it only when he brushed against a pile of bones that didn’t rattle and give like the others. When he got hold of it and pulled, it raised up. Shining his light on the pile, he saw that the bones had been secured together and that the mass attached to a small trapdoor. Instincts intact; the Church taught the one true path to its flocks but never closed all its own options. Disguise them, yes; obliterate them, no. He shone the light into the hole. Solid earth, polished by use. He moved in, leaving the trapdoor open behind him.
Talia made the soft clicking sound of a ptarmigan, heard it repeated ahead and saw Ezdovo step out of a shadow. She wanted to run to him but knew better; discipline counted now. She saw his concern when he looked at her. “The Albanians,” she said. “Finished.”
Valentine heard shuffling behind him; then the Siberian appeared, leading the others. Sylvia came last, her face streaked with coal dust. “He’s here,” he told her as she slid her hand to his waist, let it linger briefly and withdrew it. “We were at Mock’s laboratory and saw how the cellar was walled off. There’s an underground beneath the old city and it’s connected to the cathedral. It hit me when we were in it. Kennedy will be here tomorrow.”
“Today,” she said, checking her watch. “In six hours.”
“It’s ideal,” he said. “There’s no way for security to search it thoroughly even if they had been allowed to, and the archbishop apparently put the kibosh on that.”
“Seems almost obvious,” she told him. “Too easy. How would he have known?”
“How does an animal know anything?” Valentine said. “Besides, we don’t have him yet.”
Albert smiled when he emerged into another room; this one had a small altar in the corner, a bed, an empty bookcase and several kerosene lanterns. The monk’s private hideaway, he guessed, and best of all, another tunnel, smaller than the main one, but running parallel, a possible way around the dead end, the Church’s predictability not disappointing him. An institution couldn’t survive nearly two thousand years on absolutes. Mother would appreciate how well he had learned to read their foes. His heartbeat was normal, his pulse slow and regular, whereas Ali’s adrenals were as fierce as fire storms; his own were slower to ignite and once lit, fast-burning, over and done with, and in that sense more human. What to do when the secret voices were yours but not yours? Mother never appreciated this; she wrote it off to late maturity, as if a full allotment of testosterone would stiffen his manhood and silence his wretched voices. Use me. He saw her face, sweaty, eyes rolled back, lips drawn tightly over her teeth. Deeper, she said as he stared into the tunnel. Not yet, Albert said.
The tension was heavy. Talia knew that safety dictated posting someone at the intersection, but when she told the group none of them was interested in volunteering. She understood; they needed action now to finish what had been started. She wanted this as much as any of them, but repressed her feelings, understanding now how Petrov must have been torn when he sent them out and remained behind. They were gone, leaving her with her thoughts. If they ran into trouble they would use the walkie-talkie.
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Back in the main tunnel Frash saw nothing. It was time to hide his trail. He pushed a bone under the electrical wire and pulled down softly. The bulbs along the corridor flickered before he broke the circuit and ducked back into his newly found escape route.
When the lights surged Valentine looked toward Sylvia, but they were in darkness before her face registered. The team froze. “The switch is back near the entrance,” Valentine said loud enough for all of them to hear.
“Be still,” Ezdovo said with a growl. “I heard something ahead. Scraping.”
The walkie-talkie crackled and Bailov fumbled to turn down the sound. “Is there a problem?” Talia asked. Even at low volume her voice seemed to echo in the close confines.
“Maintain radio silence,” Bailov said quickly. “No contact unless there’s imminent danger.” Tight fits like these tunnels wouldn’t allow much room to maneuver.
Albert heard the radio and knew he was no longer alone. Fuck them, Ali said, we have to push on. Careful, Albert countered weakly, there’s no room for error now. Who was he talking to? He had trusted Mother and Lumbas. My way now, Ali said. He had a picture of Kennedy in his mind.
Using his light, Ezdovo saw the bone along the wall; above it was the broken wire. Why here? he wondered as the rest of the group caught up; the end was nowhere in sight. He shone his light on the wire long enough for them to see it, then clicked it off. He remembered the long journey under the monastery in Moscow, and how it included blind alleys, false leads and traps. Were Russian Orthodox minds any different from their Roman kin’s?
“Why’ve we stopped?’ Bailov asked.
The Siberian flashed his light again, this time illuminating the bone by the wall. “Not an accident,” he said as he moved into the closet ossuary, came out, went into the next one and was gone nearly ten minutes. When he emerged from the second one he switched on his light and waved for them to follow.
The Domino Conspiracy Page 69