He patted the right front pocket of his sport jacket and found that his cell phone was still there. He fished it out and dialed. Two rings. A familiar voice.
“This is Kruz.”
THIRTY SECONDS LATER, Manfred Kruz slammed down the phone and considered his options. The most obvious response would be to sound the alarm Klaxons, alert every police unit in the country that the old man had been seized by Israeli agents, close the borders and shut down the airport. Obvious, yes, but very dangerous. A move like that would raise many uncomfortable questions.Why was Herr Vogel kidnapped? Who is he really? Peter Metzler’s candidacy would be swept away, and so too would Kruz’s career. Even in Austria, such affairs had a way of taking on a life of their own, and Kruz had seen enough of them to know that the inquiry would not end at Vogel’s doorstep.
The Israelis had known he would be hamstrung, and they had chosen their moment well. Kruz had to think of some subtle way to intervene, some way to impede the Israelis without destroying everything in the process. He picked up the telephone and dialed.
“This is Kruz. The Americans have informed us that they believe an al-Qaeda team may be transiting the country by automobile this evening. They suspect the al-Qaeda members might be traveling with European sympathizers in order to better blend into their surroundings. As of this moment, I’m activating the terrorism alert network. Raise security at the borders, airports, and train stations to Category Two status.”
He rang off and gazed out the window. He had thrown the old man a lifeline. He wondered whether he would be in any condition to grab it. Kruz knew that if he succeeded, he would soon be confronted with yet another problem-what to do with the Israeli snatch team. He reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and removed a slip of paper.
“If I dial this number, who’s going to answer?”
“Violence.”
Manfred Kruz reached for his telephone.
THE CLOCKMAKER, SINCE his return to Vienna, had scarcely found cause to leave the sanctuary of his little shop in the Stephansdom Quarter. His frequent travels had left him with a large backlog of pieces requiring his attention, including a Vienna Biedermeier regulator clock, built by the renowned Vienna clockmaker Ignaz Marenzeller in 1840. The mahogany case was in pristine condition, though the one-piece silvered dial had required many hours of restoration. The original handmade Biedermeier movement, with its 75-day runner, lay in several carefully arranged pieces on the surface of his worktable.
The telephone rang. He lowered the volume on his portable CD player, and Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 4 in G faded to a whisper. A prosaic choice, Bach, but then the Clockmaker found the precision of Bach a perfect accompaniment to the task of dismantling and rebuilding the movement of an antique timepiece. He reached out for the telephone with his left hand. A shock wave of pain shot down the length of his arm, a reminder of his exploits in Rome and Argentina. He brought the receiver to his right ear and cradled it against his shoulder. “Yes,” he said inattentively. His hands were already at work again.
“I was given your number by a mutual friend.”
“I see,” the Clockmaker said noncommittally. “How can I help you?”
“It’s not me who requires help. It’s our friend.”
The Clockmaker laid down his tools. “Our friend?” he asked.
“You did some work for him in Rome and Argentina. I assume you know the man I am referring to?”
The Clockmaker did indeed. So, the old man had misled him and twice put him in compromising situations in the field. Now he had committed the mortal operational sin of giving his name to a stranger. Obviously he was in trouble. The Clockmaker suspected it had something to do with the Israelis. He decided that now would be an excellent moment to sever their relationship. “I’m sorry,” he said, “but I believe you have me confused with someone else.”
The man at the other end of the line tried to object. The Clockmaker hung up the phone and turned up the volume on his CD player, until the sound of Bach filled his workshop.
IN THE MUNICH safe flat, Carter hung up the telephone and looked at Shamron, who was still standing before the map, as if imagining Radek’s progress northward toward the Czech border.
“That was from our Vienna station. They’re monitoring the Austrian communications net. It seems Manfred Kruz has taken their terror alert readiness to Category Two.”
“Category Two? What does that mean?”
“It means you’re likely to have a bit of trouble at the border.”
THE TURNOUT LAY in a hollow at the edge of a frozen streambed. There were two vehicles, an Opel sedan and a Volkswagen van. Chiara sat behind the wheel of the Volkswagen, headlights doused, engine silent, the comforting weight of a Beretta across her lap. There was no other sign of life, no lights from the village, no grumble of traffic along the highway, only the rattle of sleet on the roof of the van and the whistle of the wind through the spires of the fir trees.
She glanced over her shoulder and peered into the rear compartment of the Volkswagen. It had been prepared for Radek’s arrival. The rear foldout bed was deployed. Beneath the bed was the specially constructed compartment where he would be hidden for the border crossing. He would be comfortable there, more comfortable than he deserved.
She looked out the windshield. Not much to see, the narrow road rising into the gloom toward a crest in the distance. Then, suddenly, there was light, a clean white glow that lit the horizon and turned the trees to black minarets. For a few seconds, it was possible to see the sleet, swirling like a cloud of insects on the windswept air. Then the headlamps appeared. The car breasted the hill, and the lights bore into her, throwing the shadows of the trees one way, then another. Chiara wrapped her hand around the Beretta and slipped her forefinger inside the trigger guard.
The car skidded to a stop next to the van. She peered into the back seat and saw the murderer, seated between Navot and Zalman, rigid as a commissar waiting for the blood purge. She crawled into the rear compartment and made one final check.
“TAKE OFF YOUR OVERCOAT, ” Navot commanded.
“Why?”
“Because I told you to.”
“I have a right to know why.”
“You have no rights! Just do as I say.”
Radek sat motionless. Zalman pulled at the lapel of his coat, but the old man folded his arms tightly across his chest. Navot sighed heavily. If the old bastard wanted one final wrestling match, he was going to get it. Navot pried open his arms while Zalman pulled off the right sleeve, then the left. The herringbone jacket came next, then Zalman tore open his shirtsleeve and exposed the sagging bare skin of his arm. Navot produced a syringe, loaded with the sedative.
“This is for your own good,” Navot said. “It’s mild and very short in duration. It will make your journey much more bearable. No claustrophobia.”
“I’ve never been claustrophobic.”
“I don’t care.”
Navot plunged the needle into Radek’s arm and depressed the plunger. After a few seconds, Radek’s body relaxed, then his head fell to one side and his jaw went slack. Navot opened the door and climbed out. He took hold of Radek’s limp body beneath the armpits and dragged him out of the car.
Zalman picked him up by the legs, and together they carried him like war dead to the side of the Volkswagen. Chiara was crouched inside, holding an oxygen bottle and a clear plastic mask. Navot and Zalman laid Radek on the floor of the Volkswagen, then Chiara placed the mask over his nose and mouth. The plastic fogged immediately, indicating that Radek was breathing well. She checked his pulse. Steady and strong. They maneuvered him into the compartment and closed the lid.