Shields stroked his poorly-shaven jaw. 'It might not be at that.'
He stood up and went behind his desk where he picked up the telephone and proceeded to make a number of calls, but using a vocabulary and an accent that I was unable to comprehend. When finally he replaced the receiver in its cradle, he looked at his wristwatch and said: 'The train to Munich takes eleven and a half hours, so there's plenty of time to make sure he gets a warm hello when he gets off.'
The telephone rang. Shields answered it, staring at me open-mouthed and unblinking, as if there wasn't much of my story he had believed. But when he put down the telephone a second time he was grinning.
'One of my calls was to the Berlin Documents Centre,' he said. 'I'm sure you know what that is. And that Linden worked there?'
I nodded.
'I asked them if they had anything on this Max Abs guy. That was them calling back just now. It seems that he was SS too. Not actually wanted for any war crimes, but something of a coincidence, wouldn't you say? You, Becker, Abs, all former pupils of Himmler's little Ivy League.'
'A coincidence is all it is, I said wearily.
Shields settled back in his chair. 'You know, I'm perfectly prepared to believe that Becker was just the trigger-man for Linden. That your organization wanted him dead because he had found out something about you.'
'Oh?' I said without much enthusiasm for Shields's theory. 'And which organization is that?'
'The Werewolf Underground.'
I found myself laughing out loud. 'That old Nazi fifth-column story? The stay-behind fanatics who were going to continue a guerrilla war against our conquerors? You have to be joking, Shields.'
'Something wrong with that, you think?'
'Well, they're a bit late for a start. The war's been over for nearly three years. Surely you Americans have screwed enough of our women by now to realize that we never planned to cut your throats in bed. The Werewolves ' I shook my head pityingly. 'I thought they were something that your own intelligence people had dreamed up. But I must say I certainly never thought there was anyone who actually believed that shit. Look, maybe Linden did find out something about a couple of war-criminals, and maybe they wanted him out of the way. But not the Werewolf Underground. Let's try and find something a little more original, can we?' I started another cigarette and watched Shields nod and think his way through what I had said.
'What does the Berlin Documents Centre have to stay about Linden's work?' I said.
'Officially, he was no more than the Crowcass liaison officer the Central Registry of War Crimes and Security Suspects of the United States Army. They insist that Linden was simply an administrator and not a field agent. But then, if he were working in intelligence, those boys wouldn't tell us anyway. They've got more secrets than the surface of Mars.'
He got up from behind the desk and went to the window.
'You know, the other day I had eyes of a report that said as many as two out of every thousand Austrians were spying for the Soviets. Now there are over 1.8 million people in this city, Gunther. Which means that if Uncle Sam has as many spies as Uncle Joe there are over 7,000 spies right on my doorstep. To say nothing of what the British and the French are doing. Or what the Vienna state police get up to that's the Commie-run political police, not the ordinary Vienna police, although they're a bunch of Communists as well of course. And then only a few months ago we had a whole bunch of Hungarian state police infiltrated into Vienna in order to kidnap or murder a few of their own dissident nationals.'
He turned away from the window and came back to the seat in front of me.
Grasping the back of it as if he were planning to pick it up and crash it over my head, he sighed and said: 'What I'm trying to say, Gunther, is that this is a rotten town. I believe Hitler called it a pearl. Well, he must have meant one that was as yellow and worn as the last tooth in a dead dog. Frankly, I look out of that window and I see about as much that's precious about this place as I can see blue when I'm pissing in the Danube.'
Shields straightened up. Then he leaned across and took hold of my jacket lapels, pulling me up to my feet.
'Vienna disappoints me, Gunther, and that makes me feel bad. Don't you do the same, old fellow. If you turn up something I think I should know about and you don't come and tell me, I'll get real sore. I can think of a hundred good reasons to haul your ass out of this town even when I'm in a good mood, like I am now. Am I making myself clear?'
'Like you were made of crystal.' I brushed his hands off my jacket and straightened it on my shoulders. Halfway to the door I stopped and said: 'Does this new cooperation with the American Military Police extend as far as removing the tail you put on me?'
'Someone's following you?'
'He was until I took a poke at him last night.'
'This is a weird city, Gunther. Maybe he's queer for you.'
'That must be why I presumed he was working for you. The man's an American named John Belinsky.'
Shields shook his head, his eyes innocently wide. 'I never heard of him. Honest to God, I never ordered anyone to tail you. If someone's following you it has nothing to do with this office. You know what you should do?'
'Surprise me.'
'Go home to Berlin. There's nothing here for you.'
'Maybe I would, except that I'm not sure that there's anything there either.
That's one of the reasons I came, remember?'
Chapter 16
It was late by the time I got to the Casanova Club. The place was full of Frenchmen and they were full of whatever it is that Frenchmen drink when they want to get good and stiff. Veronika had been right after alclass="underline" I did prefer the Casanova when it was quiet. Failing to spot her in the crowd I asked the waiter I had tipped so generously the previous night if she had been in the place.
'She was here only ten, fifteen minutes ago,' he said. 'I think she went to the Koralle, sir.' He lowered his voice, and dipped his head towards me. 'She doesn't much care for Frenchmen. And to tell the truth, neither do I. The British, the Americans, even the Russians, one can at least respect armies that took a hand in our defeat. But the French? They are bastards. Believe me, sir, I know. I live in the 15th Bezirk, in the French sector.' He straightened the tablecloth. 'And what will, the gentleman have to drink?'
'I think I might take a look at the Koralle myself. Where is it, do you know?'
'It's in the 9th Bezirk sir. Porzellangasse, just off Berggasse, and close to the police prison. Do you know where that is?'
I laughed. 'I'm beginning to.'
'Veronika is a nice girl,' the waiter added. 'For a chocolady.'
Rain blew into the Inner City from the east and the Russian sector. It turned to hail in the cold night air and stung the four faces of the International Patrol as they pulled up outside the Casanova. Nodding curtly to the doorman, and without a word, they passed me by and went inside to look for soldierly vice, that compromising manifestation of lust exacerbated by a combination of a foreign country, hungry women and a never-ending supply of cigarettes and chocolate.
At the now-familiar Schottenring I crossed on to WShringer Strasse and headed north across Rooseveltplatz in the moonlit shadow of the twin towers of the Votivkirche which, despite its enormous, sky-piercing height, had somehow survived all the bombs. I was turning into Berggasse for the second time that day when, from a large ruined building on the opposite side of the road, I heard a cry for help. Telling myself that it was none of my business I stopped for only a brief moment, intending to keep to my route. But then I heard it again: an almost recognizably contralto voice.