Daniel Silva - A Death In Vienna

DEATHIN VIENNA
BY
DANIEL SILVA

ALSO BY DANIELSILVA

The Confessor

The EnglishAssassin

The KillArtist

The MarchingSeason

The Mark ofthe Assassin

The UnlikelySpy

Dedicated tothose who give the murderers
and their accomplices no peace,
Tomy friend and editor, Neil Nyren,
And, as always, to my wife,Jamie, and
my children, Lily and Nicholas

In a place wherewood is chopped, splinters must fall, and there is no avoiding this.

SS-GRUPPENFHRERHEINRICH MLLER
HEAD OF THE GESTAPO

Were notin the Boy Scouts. If wed wanted to be in the Boy Scouts, wewould have joined the Boy Scouts.

RICHARDHELMS
FORMER CIA DIRECTOR

PARTONE
THE MAN FROM CAF CENTRAL

1
VIENNA

T HE OFFICE IShard to find, and intentionally so. Located near the end of a narrow,curving lane, in a quarter of Vienna more renowned for its nightlifethan its tragic past, the entrance is marked only by a small brassplaque bearing the inscription WARTIME CLAIMS AND INQUIRIES. Thesecurity system, installed by an obscure firm based in Tel Aviv, isformidable and highly visible. A camera glowers menacingly from abovethe door. No one is admitted without an appointment and a letter ofintroduction. Visitors must pass through a finely tuned magnetometer.Purses and briefcases are inspected with unsmiling efficiency by oneof two disarmingly pretty girls. One is called Reveka, the otherSarah.

Once inside, thevisitor is escorted along a claustrophobic corridor lined withgunmetal-gray filing cabinets, then into a large typically Viennesechamber with pale floors, a high ceiling, and bookshelves bowedbeneath the weight of countless volumes and file folders. The donnishclutter is appealing, though some are unnerved by the green-tintedbulletproof windows overlooking the melancholy courtyard.

The man whoworks there is untidy and easily missed. It is his special talent.Sometimes, as you enter, he is standing atop a library ladderrummaging for a book. Usually he is seated at his desk, wreathed incigarette smoke, peering at the stack of paperwork and files thatnever seems to diminish. He takes a moment to finish a sentence orjot a loose minute in the margin of a document, then he rises andextends his tiny hand, his quick brown eyes flickering over you. EliLavon, he says modestly as he shakes your hand, thougheveryone in Vienna knows who runs Wartime Claims and Inquiries.

Were it not forLavons well-established reputation, his appearanceashirtfront chronically smeared with ash, a shabby burgundy-coloredcardigan with patches on the elbows and a tattered hemmightprove disturbing. Some suspect he is without sufficient means; othersimagine he is an ascetic or even slightly mad. One woman who wantedhelp winning restitution from a Swiss bank concluded he was sufferingfrom a permanently broken heart. How else to explain that he hadnever been married? The air of bereavement that is sometimes visiblewhen he thinks no one is looking? Whatever the visitorssuspicions, the result is usually the same. Most cling to him forfear he might float away.

He points youtoward the comfortable couch. He asks the girls to hold his calls,then places his thumb and forefinger together and tips them towardhis mouth. Coffee, please. Out of earshot the girls quarrelabout whose turn it is. Reveka is an Israeli from Haifa,olive-skinned and black-eyed, stubborn and fiery. Sarah is awell-heeled American Jew from the Holocaust studies program at BostonUniversity, more cerebral than Reveka and therefore more patient. Sheis not above resorting to deception or even outright lies to avoid achore she believes is beneath her. Reveka, honest and temperamental,is easily outmaneuvered, and so it is usually Reveka who joylesslyplunks a silver tray on the coffee table and retreats in a sulk.

Lavon has no setformula for how to conduct his meetings. He permits the visitor todetermine the course. He is not averse to answering questions abouthimself and, if pressed, explains how it came to be that one ofIsraels most talented young archaeologists chose to siftthrough the unfinished business of the Holocaust rather than thetroubled soil of his homeland. His willingness to discuss his past,however, goes only so far. He does not tell visitors that, for abrief period in the early 1970s, he worked for Israelsnotorious secret service. Or that he is still regarded as the fineststreet surveillance artist the service has ever produced. Or thattwice a year, when he returns to Israel to see his aged mother, hevisits a highly secure facility north of Tel Aviv to share some ofhis secrets with the next generation. Inside the service he is stillreferred to as the Ghost. His mentor, a man called AriShamron, always said that Eli Lavon could disappear while shakingyour hand. It was not far from the truth.

He is quietaround his guests, just as he was quiet around the men he stalked forShamron. He is a chain smoker, but if it bothers the guest he willrefrain. A polyglot, he listens to you in whatever language youprefer. His gaze is sympathetic and steady, though behind his eyes itis sometimes possible to detect puzzle pieces sliding into place. Heprefers to hold all questions until the visitor has completed hiscase. His time is precious, and he makes decisions quickly. He knowswhen he can help. He knows when it is better to leave the pastundisturbed.

Should he acceptyour case, he asks for a small sum of money to finance the openingstages of his investigation. He does so with noticeableembarrassment, and if you cannot pay he will waive the fee entirely.He receives most of his operating funds from donors, but WartimeClaims is hardly a profitable enterprise and Lavon is chronicallystrapped for cash. The source of his funding has been a contentiousissue in certain circles of Vienna, where he is reviled as atroublesome outsider financed by international Jewry, always stickinghis nose into places it doesnt belong. There are many inAustria who would like Wartime Claims to close its doors for good. Itis because of them that Eli Lavon spends his days behind greenbulletproof glass.

On a snow-sweptevening in early January, Lavon was alone in his office, hunched overa stack of files. There were no visitors that day. In fact it hadbeen many days since Lavon had accepted appointments, the bulk of histime being consumed by a single case. At seven oclock, Revekapoked her head through the door. Were hungry,she said with typical Israeli bluntness. Get us something toeat. Lavons memory, while impressive, did not extend tofood orders. Without looking up from his work, he waved his pen inthe air as though he were writingMake me a list, Reveka.

A moment later,he closed the file and stood up. He looked out his window and watchedthe snow settling gently onto the black bricks of the courtyard. Thenhe pulled on his overcoat, wrapped a scarf twice around his neck, andplaced a cap atop his thinning hair. He walked down the hall to theroom where the girls worked. Revekas desk was a skyline ofGerman military files; Sarah, the eternal graduate student, wasconcealed behind a stack of books. As usual, they were quarreling.Reveka wanted Indian from a take-away just on the other side of theDanube Canal; Sarah craved pasta from an Italian caf on theKrntnerstrasse. Lavon, oblivious, studied the new computer onSarahs desk.

When didthat arrive? he asked, interrupting their debate.

Thismorning.

Why do wehave a new computer?

Becauseyou bought the old one when the Hapsburgs still ruled Austria.

Did Iauthorize the purchase of a new computer?

The question wasnot threatening. The girls managed the office. Papers were placedbeneath his nose, and usually he signed them without looking.