Agents of Treachery – Spy Stories

MAX IS CALLING by Gayle Lynds

Vienna was cold that spring, and dreary. The sixteenth- and seventeenth-century buildings of the Innere Stadt stood like sentinels against time, cloaked in a chilly mist. Dressed in rain gear, businesspeople and students, hausfrauen and doktoren hurried through pools of yellow lamplight, umbrellas bobbing. Only the cafés and pubs could be counted upon for gaiety. The last refuge, they were bustling of course. The rich aromas of coffee and beer scented the gray air.

Watching carefully all around, two men in dark trench coats moved quickly past St. Stephens Cathedral, its Romanesque entrance alight. The old city of Strauss and Mahler, Freud and Klimt felt like a dream, an exciting dream to one of the pair- Bayard Stockton. But then he was with Jacob “Cowboy” Crandell, a Langley undercover legend, in a city storied for its espionage.

As Bay had learned, the Viennese were a melancholy lot, relentlessly self-absorbed with their glorious past of the Hapsburg empire. Flamboyant fatalism, some called it. But then they had survived the Nazis and the Cold War to become the political ground zero of east and west, north and south. Some seventeen thousand diplomats operated in the city, a full one percent of the population-and about half had links to intelligence services.

They worked at embassies and global agencies such as OPEC, the IAEA, and the UN. From business to government, Langley wanted to know what they were thinking, who was on the take, who was in line to get the next contract, and the peccadilloes, peculiarities, and vulnerabilities of all players and potentials. Naturally, Vienna was awash with foreign agents. The freewheeling ones occasionally murdered in broad daylight, while the authorities, who often knew them, looked the other way. As it had historically, Vienna handled everything diplomatically, especially when a political connection existed.

Bay loved it. Fresh from Langley’s grueling training courses, he had been there two exhilarating months. He was young for the business, only twenty-five, a wiry man not quite six feet tall. His collar was up against the frigid damp, and a black beret covered his head, wavy red hair showing beneath. There was nothing unusual about his smooth face, his blue eyes, or his shaved chin, which was just the way he liked it. In his pocket was an unmarked envelope containing 5,000 euros-about $6,250- which made anonymity even more important tonight.

“Stop walking like an athlete,” Cowboy rumbled under his breath. “Dammit, boy, you should’ve learned that in CIA 101. Rolling off your feet shows the strength of your muscles and your training. The Viennese are always looking around, which means they’re going to check you out. Don’t give them a reason to remember you. What were you-a runner? The one hundred?”

Bay blinked. In his enthusiasm for being with Cowboy and his mission tonight he had forgotten himself. “Yeah, the hundred.” And free weights, of course. But he did not mention that. He flattened his feet, tightened his joints.

Cowboy’s cool blue eyes appraised him. Then he dipped his big head in a short nod. He seldom gave compliments, so Bay was pleased with the nod.

“Hell, this is a beautiful antique burg.” Cowboy was peering around at the buildings, grande dames decked out in soaring pediments, ornate rococo, and regal porticoes. Hands dug into his coat pockets, he was fifty-two years old, a tall, rangy man with a neutral expression. His brown hair, broad face, and rimless eyeglasses were wet, but he seemed immune to what would annoy the rest of humanity, which Bay admired. From the wilds of Wyoming, Cowboy wore Tony Lama snakeskin cowboy boots. They were incidental to his nickname. The real reason was his shoot-from-the-hip boldness, which occasionally got him into trouble but more often resulted in success. Close-mouthed and adaptable, he knew the city like the veins in his hands and was the most productive of the station’s case officers, handling an impressive twenty assets.

As they walked, his boots clicked on the cobblestones. To Bay, they sounded like exotic music in this very correct city.

“Operating here is like being inside a museum, punctuated by boredom, of course,” Cowboy instructed. “The lull before the storm. I used to believe I could die happy in my Jaguar. Now I know Vienna’s the place. What do you think?”

“It’s terrific.” Bay shot him a grin.

When a new officer arrived at his first station, he was customarily given a desk job for several weeks to read and analyze reports, recorded conversations, and streams of satellite data. Once he was familiar with that, he was assigned to shadow experienced officers for hands-on training. Bay had worked with two good ones and been pretty successful so far. Then Herb Rutkowski, the head of station, had called him into his office this afternoon to give him special instructions and the good news his next assignment was with Cowboy Crandell.

“Tell me about Max, sir.”

As they turned the corner, they passed the Mozart statue, and Cowboy said, “It was four months ago, Christmas season on the Kärntner Strasse. The stores were busy, a lot of people coming and going. I felt a tug on my pocket and grabbed. The hand was gone, but a torn piece of paper was left inside. Of course, that was the first contact-a list of four names. All were Chechen informants, just as the note claimed. There was also a phone number, which the station traced. It belonged to a disposable cell; the owner was unidentifiable. So I figured what the hell… I dialed the number, and the man who answered told me to call him Max, and he’d give me more intel for a price. All his contacts with me have been through disposable cells. Wily bugger, but his intel’s been good.”

“Is Max a Chechen?”

“Damn right he is. Never seen his face, and don’t have a clue who he really is.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not here. Most of my assets are unknowns, but these Chechens are the best at it. Austria’s got one of the most liberal refugee programs in the EU, so about twelve thousand are living in the city. Mostly they’re from the two wars against Russia. A lot aren’t legal. They were guerrilla fighters and soldiers and don’t have a war or any good way to earn a living, so they’ve invaded the criminal underworld. Made it a hell of a lot more dangerous in the process. Besides the usual thievery and break-ins, they act as bodyguards, smugglers, strong-arm tacticians, and assassins. Not a postcard picture of Vienna. It drives the authorities nuts, especially when one country hires them to screw another country.”

“How will my blind date work?”

As they strode along, a frown crossed Cowboy’s face. Instantly it was gone. “Max gives me a location and the time to arrive. Then he phones to tell me exactly where to meet. You’ll go in with the five grand. He’ll give you a piece of paper folded down to nothing, which is his latest report. You’ll give him the dough. It’s always dark, and he doesn’t like to talk. Herb says you speak Russian, but good luck trying to have a conversation with him.”

“I understand, sir.”

“I hope you do.”

Pedestrians pushed past them. The edge of an umbrella nearly spiked Bay’s head. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain it was unintentional. When he turned back, a tall woman dressed in a short red skirt, flesh-colored tights, very high heels, and a formfitting black jacket was sauntering down a building’s steps, smiling widely. Her red lips were so shiny they seemed to reflect light. Although she held a small collapsible umbrella overhead, her long golden hair hung limp from the mist.

“Cowboy,” she purred in German, “it has been a long time. Who is this nice young gentleman with you?” She sidled up to Bay and ran her free hand down over his trench coat and inside to pat his shirt. Her breath smelled of peppermint toothpaste.

Bay grinned.

“Having a slow evening, Estelle?” There was a devilish light in Cowboy’s eyes as he answered in German. “This is my new friend, Bay. You have any info, feel free to pass it to him. He won’t mind.”

“Oh?” She stared into Bay’s eyes, her hand pressing against his heart.

He could feel it pound.

“I would like to give him ‘information,’” she decided.

“I’ll just bet you would,” Cowboy said. “We’ve got to be going, Estelle. Behave yourself.”

Estelle gave a pretty nod and backed off. “Have a nice evening.”

But as they walked away, Cowboy said to Bay, “Give me five euros.”

Bay reached inside his trench coat. And spun on his heel. He ran back to Estelle, who was trotting up her steps.

He grabbed her arm and felt big, hard muscle. “Nice trick. Hand over my wallet.”

Estelle turned and pouted. “I don’t know-”

Bay’s voice turned steely as he saw the prominent Adam’s apple. “Don t fuck with me. You know what I can do to you. Give it to me. Now.”

Her long black lashes lowered and raised. “You’re so mean. Oh, all right.” She took the wallet from her jacket pocket.

He snatched it and jogged off. Ahead, Cowboy was striding along without a look over his shoulder.

When he caught up, Bay said, “Okay, I get it. Estelle’s a guy.”

Cowboy laughed loudly. “You’re lucky you found out the easy way.” Then as they rounded the corner, he looked sharply at him. “Herb says you’re a hotshot. Ivy League, top of your class at the Farm, six languages. Grew up in Europe. What I see is eagerness and idealism, not that that’s the end of the world. I’m just warning you this is no glamour gig. It’s exhausting, nerve-numbing, and frustrating. The days are over of putting on your tux for an embassy party every night to try to get buddy-buddy with some East Bloc official so you can convince him his ideology sucks and he should play on our team. Now you’ve got to infiltrate the tenements, the mud huts, the terrorist cells. Vienna’s as close to the old Cold War days as you’ll get, and it’s not very.”

“Then why are you so successful?”

Cowboy chuckled. “Charm.” His expression grew serious as he continued, “The word is out I pay, and I keep my mouth shut. Chechen informants won’t take a piss unless they’re sure they can do it in secret.”

“With so many assets, you must handle a lot of money. Do you ever have trouble getting it for them?”

“As long as they deliver, Langley will. Tonight’s money is for Max’s last piece of intel. In it he claimed the Lebanese were paying the French tens of millions of dollars in contracts in exchange for nuclear technology, starting with a seventy-megawatt commercial atomic reactor and a smaller research reactor. Apparently they’re already building both.”

“Jesus. Lebanon aiming for nuclear capabilities? That’s fucking terrifying.” Bay already knew about it, but Herb had instructed him to pretend he did not. According to Herb, Cowboy was so intent on keeping his unknowns happy that he did not press them for more information when he should. Bay’s job tonight was to try to get Max to reveal how he had found the intel so the station could back-check it.

“Yeah, I can just see Hezbollah cackling about it in the Bekaa Valley,” Cowboy said with relish. “I’d love to be in Jerusalem when Mossad gets the news. The Israelis will go nuts. They’ll start polishing the jet to bomb it, and Washington will go into a paroxysm trying to calm them down until they can confirm or disprove it from other sources.”

“Max’s intel could be wrong.”

“Exactly. That’s why we’re paying him only five thousand euros.”

“And if it’s accurate?”

“Max gets a big bonus. As for tonight, he’ll either have more about that, or else he’s got something new for me. Limo drivers, housekeepers, babysitters, secretaries-all of them are sources for a good informant. The problem for us in the professional spy game is it’s harder than hell to get to them ourselves. That’s how much the world’s changed.” Cowboy paused. “I’ll be honest with you. I don’t like that Herb wants you to do the meet. I’ve never been ordered to let someone else handle one of my assets. This is your first time, right?”

“Right,” Bay said. “Are your other assets as productive as Max?”

“Some are. Some aren’t.”

“It’s incredible how many you have.”

“I know what I’m doing. I hope like hell you do, too. This is where we wait.”

They stopped alongside the tall paned-glass windows of Café Militant. Cowboy pulled open the brass-handled door, and they stepped into a spacious, high-ceilinged room from the extravagant past. The brass fixtures glittered, the crystal chandeliers glowed with soft light, and the marble-topped tables shone. Although nearly every table and booth was filled, the place emanated a kind of happy solitude. That was Vienna for you- the populace was together but alone. Teaspoons tinkled and newspapers rustled as patrons glanced up.

The liveried waiter approached, very erect, gold-rimmed menus in hand.

“Servus, Herr Ober,” Cowboy greeted him in German with the perfect inflections of a native Austrian.

Satisfied that the unexpected would not intrude, the patrons returned to their reading. The waiter straightened approvingly and led them across the aged parquet floor to a velvet-upholstered booth. It was faded royal purple.

Without a glance at the offered menu, Cowboy solidified his credentials: “Tsvoh melanges, bitte.” He ordered the coffees using the colloquial word for two, tsvoh, instead of tsvai.

With an approving lift of his head, the waiter vanished. Cowboy took out his cell phone and laid it on the table, preparing to receive the call from Max. The device was actually a Secure Mobile Environment Portable Electronic Device-an SME-PED computer handheld. With it one could send classified e-mail, access classified networks, and make top secret phone calls. Created under guidelines of the National Security Agency, it appeared ordinary, like a BlackBerry, and while either on or off secure mode could be operated like any smart phone with Internet access. All the covert officers carried the handhelds.

“Not all of your assets are unknowns surely,” Bay said. “I’d heard you were a master at recruiting.”

“When I was working in West Berlin in the old days, we used a system called the BAR code. BAR stood for ‘befriend, assess, recruit.’ Sounds simple, but it can be blown in a heartbeat. To give you an example, I remember one potential who was a file clerk in the East German embassy-he had access we liked. He also had a mistress with three children in addition to a wife with two kids. Debt up to his nose hairs. One of my people had gotten him to pull a couple of inconsequential files for money. This was the point at which he could go either way-back off and risk we’d rat him out, which he probably figured we wouldn’t, or go in deeper for a lot more money, which would’ve been a death sentence if he were caught. So I had my man bring him to a safe house. As soon as he stepped inside the door, I walked across the room with a big-ass smile, my hand outstretched, and introduced myself by saying, ‘My friends call me Cowboy.’ The guy’s shoulders relaxed, and a silly grin filled his face. I expressed sympathy for a man with so many family obligations, talked about how each of his children had a right to a first-rate education and wouldn’t it be great if they could all escape to the West. I respected the guy. By the time we’d finished off a bottle of Stoli vodka, the guy was ready to pawn his soul.” He sighed happily. “Ah, for the good old days.”

The waiter arrived with two frothy, milky coffees.

Cowboy reached for his. “Viennese roasts can’t compare to the Illys and Lavazzas of the world, but they’re still damn good.”

Bay liked melanges, too. He sipped the hot drink.

Cowboy checked his Rolex.

“Is Max late?” Bay wondered.

“Relax.” As Cowboy drank deeply, his cell phone rang. He snatched it up and read the screen. “Max is calling.”

Bay nodded casually while his heart rate sped.

Cowboy listened, then spoke into the handheld in Russian, “Give the boy your report, and he’ll pay you just the way I do. This is out of my hands, Max, but he’ll take good care of you. Where do you want to meet?” He ended the connection. “He’s unhappy I won’t be there, but he wants the money. You won’t have a problem. Remember, show him respect. That’s the answer for the Chechens. Threaten him, and you’ll get a shiv up your ribs.”

“I don’t have any reason to threaten him.”

“I know you don t, but it’s what he thinks that matters.” Cowboy left euros on the table, and they walked out of the café. On the street, he relayed the directions. “Herb is an ass. He should never have put you in this position. I’ll be waiting for you.”

Edgy, Bay walked off through the lamplight. Down the street a door opened, and the mournful sound of a jazz saxophone wafted out. Rain droplets floated ghostlike in the night air. Passing an alley, he peered into the darkness. Empty.

He continued on and turned the corner. Six shops later, he came to another alley. Glancing along the street, he assessed the few walkers. There were no cars in the pedestrianized Innere Stadt.

At last he entered the alley. Brick buildings towered on either side, and trash cans stood next to padlocked doors. There were lights high on the buildings, but as he progressed deeper into the dark passageway, the lights were shattered. Chest tight, he could not see well enough to spot anything. He took out a tiny flashlight and beamed it onto the cobblestones.

“Stop,” a voice ordered in Russian. It was deep, gravelly. “You are?”

“Cowboy sent me, Max,” Bay answered in Russian. Then he remembered Cowboy’s story about West Berlin. “My friends call me Bay.” He smiled warmly and stretched out his hand. He could just make out a tall, shadowy form.

The shadow was motionless. “Turn off your light and resume approaching.”

As he walked again, Bay let his hand drift down. “I was in Chechnya a few years ago. The mountains are even more beautiful than Switzerland’s. Are you from Grozny? I ate at the Hollywood restaurant there. Great food.” What he did not say was most of the patrons were armed, and closing time was dicey. “I’m sorry you’re in exile. We’d like to help you and your family. If you don’t want to go back to Chechnya, we can arrange papers for you to have a better life here in Vienna or somewhere else.”

But Max did not rise to the BAR code conversational bait. “I am wearing infrared glasses,” he warned. “I am watching you. Do not remove your weapon. Give me the money.”

Bay felt the comforting weight of the 9-millimeter Browning holstered in his armpit. “I’m sorry, but no, Max. First tell me how you found out about Lebanon’s nuclear projects, then I’ll give you the cash.” He started to reach into his trench coat pocket.

“Stop!” Max ordered.

“You want to be paid, don’t you?”

The voice lowered menacingly. “Continue.”

Bay took out the fat envelope and held it up. “It’s all here. Five thousand beautiful euros.”

“Show me-slowly.”

Bay opened the envelope, fanned out the cash, then returned it to the envelope. “Tell me about the Lebanese, and of course give me the intel you brought for Cowboy.”

“The Lebanese are not my friends as Cowboy is, so I have written the information for him.”

Heels clicked on the cobblestones toward Bay. A gloved hand extended. But instead of offering the promised small folded note, the hand ripped away Bay’s envelope.

Without thinking, Bay reacted. He slammed a kagi-zuki hook punch toward Max’s chest, but Max was already backing off. The blow fell short as Max pivoted and smashed a foot in an expert yoko-geri side snap kick into Bay’s side, the sharp heel bruising. As Bay lashed back, a second blow from the foot struck his temple. He fell hard, his head hitting the cobblestones.

As if from a great distance, he heard Max warn, “I work only with Cowboy, boy.”

In pain, Bay tried to speak, to roll over, to get up. His mind swam. He heard someone moan, then realized it was he. A wave of nausea swept through him.

Wiping sweat from his face, Bay limped back around the corner. He ached everywhere, and his head throbbed. But his brain was clearing. The good news was no ribs were broken. And that was the only good news. He did not like what he was thinking.

There were few people out now. He passed the first alley, heading toward the Café Militant. A sense of eerie desertion filled the street. As he neared the café, the looming figure of Cowboy, peering through his damp eyeglasses, stepped out of a dark doorway and joined him. The jovial expression on his face vanished as he took in Bay’s appearance.

“What in hell happened to you?” Cowboy said.

“You were right. Max was unhappy not to be working with you tonight.”

“You didn’t insult him, did you? Chechens are thin-skinned.”

“No, and I didn’t threaten him either. The bottom line is Max didn’t give me any intel. He took the money, beat on me, and split.”

“Christ! What in hell have you done. He was one of my best assets! I told Herb this wasn’t a good idea. Fucking Herb. He should’ve been sent back to Langley long ago to some desk job where he couldn’t screw up an operation!”

“I did get some good information about Max.” Bay spoke slowly to be certain Cowboy understood every word.

“What?”

“His identity.”

Cowboy stared. His broad face stretched in surprise. “Jesus, who is he?”

“Give me back the five thousand euros, Cowboy.”

“What in hell are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Your boots. The sound of them on the cobblestones. The hard heel that slammed into my side and skull.”

“You’re delusional. Max rattled your brain.”

“Then there are your unknown assets who’re needing small fortunes of money every month,” Bay continued grimly “Your Jaguar. Your Rolex watch. The fact that ‘Max’ knew I had a weapon. When I finally peeled myself off the ground, I felt along the back of the alley. There’s a door that opens onto the alley on this street. You ran down it to get to the meet before I did. You’re Max, you asshole.”

Bay saw Cowboy’s hand twitch, and there was a sudden movement of air. Instantly Bay reached for his Browning, but almost invisibly Cowboy’s Glock had appeared. The taller man took one step back and pointed it at Bay’s heart.

“Now I know how you got that Phi Beta Kappa key,” Cowboy rumbled. “Smart little shit, aren’t you. Take your hand out of your coat.”

As they stood facing each other on the lonely street, Bay felt fresh sweat bead up on his forehead. Slowly he removed his hand and lowered it to his side. “I’ll bet you’ve been making up all your unknowns’ intel-including the story about Lebanon. How could you do that?”

Cowboy blinked. “God knows the cops won’t care if I erase you. By now they may have already identified you as being with the station-”

“Why, dammit!”

Emotions played across Cowboy’s face, finally settling into chilly neutrality. “Goethe said something like this-the most important things aren’t always to be found in the files. We make up history as we go along, and only a few of the million or so viewpoints ever make it into the files or the history books. You’re wondering how I ‘could do it,’ so I’ll tell you about Nick Shadrin. You know the name?”

Bay shook his head. Nerves on fire, he tried to figure out how to take down Cowboy or at least escape.

But Cowboy’s gaze was alert, and his pistol steady. “Shadrin was a Soviet defector back in the fifties. His real name was Nikolai Artamonov, and he became a spy for us. Then in the late seventies he vanished here in Vienna. Some said he died accidentally from too much chloroform when the KGB kidnapped him. Others said it was natural causes and we buried him quietly to hide it from the KGB. But the story I like was he’d been KGB all along. After twenty years acting secretly against us, his mission was over, and he wanted to return to his family in Moscow. Mossad found out and cut a deal with the KGB to not blow the operation if they’d exchange some key Jewish dissidents being held in the Gulag. Imagine it. The Vienna Woods. The dead of winter. A cluster of shriveled Jews, the KGB and Mossad weaponized to their fangs, and Nick Shadrin. To this day they’re still covering up the exchange. Neither wants us to know our foe and supposed friend conspired to serve their own interests and give us a black eye. So here’s the point. History’s an imaginary construct. It’s half-truths and lies. If you’re on the front lines and paying attention, you get hit with deep disappointment. At the same time, you’re freed. You realize it’s just a game, and the objective of every game is to separate the winners from the losers. That’s why I do it.”

Now Bay understood. “What you’re really saying is there are no rules for you.”

“Or for you either. You’re young. I’ll teach you everything I know and give you a cut. Pretty soon you’ll have your own string of unknowns. You’ll learn to maneuver. How to make the best plays. If you want to end up at the top of the mountain at Langley, I can help with that, too.”

Bay had a sick taste in his mouth. “You poor, sorry bastard.”

Cowboy’s head snapped back as if he had been slapped. His finger tightened on the trigger.

“Go ahead, shoot,” Bay dared. “I’d rather be dead than do what you do. You could’ve stayed one of the best. What a contribution you could be making! Disappointed? Hell, you’re not disappointed. You quit, then you turned. You’re a failure.”

An ironic smile spread across Cowboy’s face. “Ah, another case where history will be written more than one way. But then Vienna’s the place. You have a lot to learn, but I suspect you’re the type who’ll do it.” He turned on his heels and ran east.

“Stop, Cowboy!” Bay hurtled after him, his head throbbing. “Come back to the station with me. It’ll be better for you if you’re the one who tells Herb. Cowboy, stop!”

Although Cowboy was in his fifties, his long legs ate up the distance, while Bay ached with every stride. His muscles were weak. Pushing himself, he drew on his years as a runner, but Cowboy remained ahead.

At the Parkring, cars roared past. Their headlights were cones of white light, their taillights bloody streams of red. Cowboy jumped into a dark green Jaguar XK8 parked at the curb. Even at a distance, Bay could hear the power of the engine as it revved. Still running, he watched as the car slid into traffic. But then the Jaguar suddenly shot out from the congestion, careening off at an angle.

“No!” Bay bellowed.

Bolting up over the curb, the car smashed into a thick telephone pole. The hood cracked open, and white steam rose wraithlike around it. The ear-bleed noise of the blasting horn filled the air. As traffic slowed, a police siren began to scream. Pedestrians gathered around until Bay could no longer see the Jaguar.

Breathing heavily, he pushed through the crowd. The horn was quiet, and a police car was stopped at the curb. Angrily he wiped his sleeve across his wet face. The driver’s door to the Jag was open, and a policeman was leaning inside.

“How is he?” Bay asked in German.

The policeman stepped back. “Do you know him, sir?” Although his tone and demeanor were polite, Bay detected wariness.

“He’s Jacob Crandell, a political officer at the U.S. consulate. I work there, too. How is he?” he repeated as he stared inside. Cowboy was no longer leaning on the horn, his body relaxed back against the seat. His head lolled to the side, and his glasses were crooked on his nose, one lens cracked. His eyes were closed. Blood spilled from a corner of his mouth, but oddly he was smiling.

“I’m sorry to tell you, sir, I could find no pulse,” the policeman said. “I’ve called for an ambulance. Please show me your identification.”

Woodenly he took out his wallet and handed it over.

As the policeman wrote, Bay tried to feel the pavement under his feet, the mist against his skin, smell the exhaust in the air.

A second policeman joined the first. “Who is it?”

“Cowboy Crandell,” the first one said. “I’d been wondering what he was up to.” He returned Bay’s billfold.

“Good, then this is an easy case. A traffic accident.”

They did not look at Bay. They did not want to be given another reason, Bay realized.

“Yes, a traffic accident,” said the other. “Very straightforward.”

Bay silently slid back into the crowd and walked away. As the traffic of the Parkring thundered, his mind roamed over the evening, remembering Cowboy’s stories, advice, and gruff kindness. Cowboy had always lived on the edge, which was fine, but then he had died from it as if it were a disease. Still, he had died the way he wanted.

Hell, this is a beautiful antique burg… Operating here is like being inside a museum, punctuated by boredom, of course. The lull before the storm. I used to believe I could die happy in my Jaguar. Now I know Vienna’s the place.

Bay dug his hands into his trench coat pockets and headed back into the Innere Stadt. He passed busy cafés and noisy pubs. People milled on the street, deciding where to find their next dose of gaiety in the gray night. As he walked, he could hear Cowboy’s voice: You have a lot to learn, but I suspect you’re the type who’ll do it. Bay smiled to himself, realizing he was keeping his movements nondescript, just as Cowboy had said to do. With cold fingers he wiped tears from his eyes. Then he glanced covertly around and faded into the crowd.