22 Lower Austria
Lower Austria
It was Babette, Karl Gruber’s usually sensible daughter, who had insisted on the damn dog. He had arrived at that precarious
stage in life, she informed him, alone and on the very doorstep of senility and incontinence, when he required a companion.
Because she lived with her husband in an elegant district of Vienna, and he resided in the dreary Lower Austrian town of Falkenstein,
another life form would have to fill the role—a German pinscher, deer red in color and malevolent in mood and aspect, whom
she christened Oscar. They had taken an instant dislike to one another, dog and man, that five long years of living beneath
the same roof had done nothing to diminish. If anything, their relationship had grown more strained with time. It was now
characterized by resentment, especially on the part of the man. He had provided Oscar with a comfortable home and looked after
his bodily needs and emissions without complaint. And yet the beast barely tolerated his presence, only occasionally allowing
himself to be stroked or scratched. As for the notion of companionship, Karl Gruber had long ago reached the unsettling conclusion
that it was he who was the companion of the canine, and not the other way around.
The cottage they reluctantly shared was on the northern end of Falkenstein, not far from the ruins of the medieval castle.
At half past seven that morning its ramparts wore a fine gray cloak of fog.
Oscar, having moved his bowels in a vineyard of Grüner Veltliner grapes, was straining resentfully at his leash.
Though he had undergone rigorous training, he refused to walk at the heel of his owner, preferring instead to lead the way, as if he were the one in charge.
His ears were cocked and alert, his banana-shaped tail erect.
Pinschers, as Karl Gruber had discovered, much to his dismay, were ratters by breeding and instinct, which left them prone to bite.
Oscar was never more contented than when sinking his teeth into the outstretched hand of a stranger.
And no morning constitutional was complete unless it included the murder of an innocent rodent.
Beyond the castle lay a dense green wood cut with footpaths and bisected by a single two-lane road known as the L23. Oscar,
with a glance over his shoulder, demanded to be freed from his leash, and Karl Gruber, though it was forbidden by local edict,
happily complied. The thirty minutes that his canine companion spent roaming the woods in search of prey were the most pleasant
of his day. Lately he had lost the ability to separate one from the other. In his mind they were distinguished only by the
weather, the obsession of the aged. Babette was right, he was standing at the edge of the abyss. He could no longer summon
the face of his parents or siblings from the cold soup of his memory, and even Lotte, his late wife, was slipping away. A
part of him looked forward to the day he could no longer recall Oscar’s name. The dog would become Babette’s problem. Revenge,
he thought to himself with a smile, would be his.
With a heavy heart he called out Oscar’s name now, for it had been a long time since he had seen hide or hair of his dreaded companion.
Not surprisingly his summons went unanswered; Oscar obeyed instructions only when it pleased him.
But when another ten minutes or so went by with no sign of him, Karl Gruber allowed himself to consider the possibility that some unspeakable tragedy had befallen the beast. Then he heard the familiar sound of Oscar’s bark, knife-edged and distant, and he realized with profound sadness that his most fervent prayers had not been answered after all.
The barking persisted, then grew irate. Karl Gruber followed the sound westward across the wood, and eventually he discovered
Oscar gnawing on an object lying along the grassy verge of the L23. At first Karl Gruber thought it was the carcass of an
animal or a sack of something that had fallen from a passing lorry. But upon closer inspection he realized that the object
was not a dead animal or fallen debris but a rather well-attired man who was hooded and bound with silver duct tape. Oscar
had latched onto the poor fellow’s ankle. Karl Gruber, with considerable difficulty, managed to pull the dog away. Then he
removed the hood from the man’s head and found himself gazing into the greenest eyes he had ever seen.
The man’s mouth was covered by duct tape as well. Karl Gruber removed it carefully, and the man addressed him calmly in German,
with the accent of a native Berliner.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Falkenstein.”
“Lower Austria?”
“Yes, that’s right.”
The man absorbed this information, then asked, “Are you carrying a phone, by any chance?”
“Yes, of course.” Karl Gruber dug the device from his pocket. “I’ll ring the Bundespolizei right away.”
“Please don’t,” the man replied in the same unruffled tone.
“There’s no need to involve the police in this matter.
” Then he recited the number he wanted Karl Gruber to dial.
He entered it with his thumb while holding Oscar at bay, then placed the phone in speaker mode and held it near the man’s mouth.
A few seconds elapsed before the device at the other end of the connection began to ring.
It was answered at once by a man who spoke English with a British accent. His tone was one of desperation.
“Where in God’s name is my wife? You promised to release her if I wired the money.”
Karl Gruber, who possessed more than a passing familiarity with the English language, shot a startled look at the green-eyed
man lying helpless on the side of the road.
“Sorry, Edward,” the man said. “It’s only me.”
The dog’s razor-sharp teeth had sliced through Gabriel’s gabardine trousers and carved four gashes in his lower leg. The creature’s
owner, perhaps fearing legal repercussions, suggested a visit to the nearby hospital for treatment, but Gabriel politely declined.
All he needed, he insisted, was a bit of antibacterial ointment and a few plasters, and he would be as good as new.
The first order of business, though, was cutting away the duct tape that had left him defenseless in the face of the canine’s
assault. Fortunately the dog’s owner was in the habit of carrying a pocketknife, a large Swiss Army model with many helpful
tools and implements, including a pair of scissors. Herr Gruber carefully freed Gabriel’s limbs and appendages, inflicting
no new wounds in the process. Then they all three set off along the tree-lined road—Gabriel and Herr Gruber and Herr Gruber’s
dog. They were, he thought, a motley trio if there ever was one.
“We really should call the police,” said the elderly Austrian.
“Probably,” agreed Gabriel. “But we’re not going to.”
“You’re not a criminal, are you?”
“Do I look like a criminal?”
“You do, actually.”
It was a walk of nearly a kilometer to Herr Gruber’s neat little cottage in Falkenstein.
Inside, it smelled of dog and mothballs.
He fetched a first aid kit, and Gabriel, after rolling up the left leg of his ruined trousers, applied the antibiotic ointment and the field dressing.
Then he borrowed Herr Gruber’s phone a second time and rang a local taxi company.
The car soon appeared, driven by a woman who spoke without cease during the hour-long journey to Vienna. Gabriel paid the
fare in cash—the kidnappers had allowed him to retain possession of his billfold and passport—and then made his way to the
K?rntnerstrasse, Vienna’s famed pedestrian shopping street, where he purchased toiletries, a change of clothing, and a new
iPhone. The first call he placed was to Edward Knight in London.
“Anything?” he asked.
“No,” replied Knight. “Nothing at all.”
“Are you sure they received the money?”
“They said they did, but perhaps you should have a word with your cyber specialist.”
She was still at the Baur au Lac Hotel in Zurich, where she had spent a sleepless night attempting without success to penetrate
the data network of CyproBank of Nicosia. Gabriel gave her a quick update, then instructed her to pack her bags.
“Where should I go?” she asked.
“I’m told Mykonos is lovely this time of year.”
“What about Alice?”
“There is no Alice,” he answered. “Not yet, at least.”
There was a small hotel near St. Stephen’s Cathedral where Gabriel, in another lifetime, had passed a tense Friday afternoon before killing two Hezbollah suicide bombers outside Vienna’s main synagogue.
Shopping bags in hand, he checked into the same hotel and, as misfortune would have it, was assigned to his old room.
He stayed there long enough to shower and change and book a seat on the next British Airways flight to London.
Then, after informing Chiara of his whereabouts and travel plans, he checked out of the hotel and, bidding the doorman a pleasant morning, went into the street.
The flight was scheduled to depart at half past two, leaving Gabriel with an hour to kill. He should have headed straight
to Schwechat Airport, but against all better judgment he decided to lead himself on a walking tour of the Innere Stadt instead.
Everywhere he turned there were reminders of his past. There was the famous coffeehouse where he had once come face-to-face
with Erich Radek, colleague of Adolf Eichmann and tormentor of Gabriel’s mother. And the little café where each afternoon,
when he had finished work on the painting he was restoring in the cathedral, he used to take his young son for gelato. And
the popular Italian restaurant where the child had eaten a last meal of buttered spaghetti while his mother, distracted by
the television behind the bar, watched Iraqi Scud missiles falling on Tel Aviv.
Gabriel’s last stop was the small square in the Jewish quarter where their car had been parked that night. He had strapped
the child into his seat, he had kissed his wife. One last kiss . . . Even now he could taste the wine on her lips and hear the hesitation of the starter when she turned the key. Then, in a flash
of brilliant white light, she and the child were lost to him forever. Somehow, he thought, the kidnappers of Alice Winter
had known this.
Good morning, Mr. Allon. Welcome back to Austria . . .
Unshed tears blurred his vision as he left the square and went in search of a taxi.
He found one on the Rotenturmstrasse and instructed the driver to take him to the airport.
His flight departed on schedule and touched down at Heathrow at four o’clock, leaving him just enough time to make the 4:32 train from Heathrow Central to Exeter.
Chiara and the children were waiting outside in the Range Rover when he emerged from the station.
He slid into the passenger seat, pressed his lips to Chiara’s cheek, then telephoned Edward Knight.
“Nothing,” said the billionaire, and rang off.