Of course, he couldn’t just show up on Lenz’s doorstep and hope to gain
admittance. The approach had to be more sophisticated. Ben ran through
a mental list of the most prominent and influential people he knew
personally who would vouch for him, even lie for him.
He remembered the head of a major American charity who had come to see
him several times to ask for money. Each time the Hartman family, and
the firm, had given generously.
Payback time, Ben thought.
The charity head, Winston Rockwell, was seriously ill with hepatitis,
laid up in the hospital, last Ben had heard, and impossible to reach.
This was terribly unfortunate for Rockwell–but convenient for Ben.
He called Lenz’s home, asked for Jurgen Lenz, told the woman who
answered the phone–Mrs. Lenz?–that he was a friend of Winston
Rockwell’s and was interested in the Lenz Foundation. Code language
for: I have money to give you. Even rich foundations don’t turn away
contributions.
Mrs. Lenz replied in fluent English that her husband should be home by
five, and would Mr. Robert Simon like to come by for a drink? Jurgen
would be delighted to meet any friend of Winston Rockwell’s.
The woman who opened the door was an elegant, fine-boned woman in her
early fifties, wearing a gray sweater-dress, a pearl choker, and
matching pearl earrings.
“Please come in,” she said. “Mr. Simon, is it? I’m Use Lenz. How
nice to meet you!”
“Nice to meet you, too,” Ben said. “Thanks for seeing me, particularly
on such short notice.”
“Oh, don’t be silly, we’re thrilled to meet anyone Winston recommends.
You’re from–where, did you say?”
“Los Angeles,” he replied.
“We were there years ago for some beastly technology conference. Jorgen
should be right down–ah, here he is!”
A whippet-thin, athletic-looking man was bounding down the stairs.
“Hallo, there!” Jurgen Lenz called out. In his blue blazer, gray
flannel slacks, and rep tie he could have been an American chief
executive, maybe an Ivy League college president. His smooth face
glowed with health; his smile was sunny.
This was not at all what Ben had expected. Liesl’s gun, holstered to
his shoulder inside his sport coat and loaded with ammunition–he’d
stopped at a sporting-goods shop on the Karntner Strasse–suddenly felt
bulky.
Lenz shook Ben’s hand firmly. “Any friend of Winston Rockwell’s is a
friend of mine!” Then his voice became soft, tender. “How’s he doing
these days?”
“Not well,” Ben said. “He’s been in the George Washington University
Medical Center for weeks now, and the doctors are telling him he’s not
likely to go home for at least two weeks more.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that,” Lenz said, putting his arm around his
wife’s slender waist. “What a nice fellow he is. Well, let’s not stand
here. A drink, shall we? What’s the American expression–somewhere
it’s got to be six o’clock, hmm?”
Trevor parked his stolen Peugeot across the street from Lenz’s house in
Hietzing, switched off the engine, and sat back to wait. When the
target emerged from the house, he would get out of the car, cross the
street, and come close to him. He did not plan to miss.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE.
There was no time.
Certainly no time to go through channels, Anna realized.
Hartman had just made a charge at a hotel in the first district of
Vienna. It was for a small amount, the equivalent of about fifteen
dollars. Did that mean he had only stopped at the hotel for a drink, a
coffee, a late lunch? If so, he’d be long gone. But if he was staying
there, she had him.
She could go through the FBI legal in Vienna, but by the time the office
had made contact with the local police through the Austrian Justice
Ministry, Benjamin Hartman could well have gone on to another city.
So she had rushed to Zurich-Kloten Airport, bought a ticket on the next
Austrian Airlines flight to Vienna, and then located a pay phone.
The first call she made was to a contact of hers in the Vienna police,
the Bundespohzeidirektion. He was Dr. Fritz Weber, chief of the
Sicherheitsburo, the security unit of the Vienna police specializing in
violent crimes. This wasn’t exactly the section of the police she
needed to reach, but she knew Weber would be happy to help.
She’d met Weber a few years earlier when she’d been sent to Vienna on a
case involving a cultural attache at the American embassy there who had
become involved in a sex ring purveying somewhat underaged Madchen.
Weber, an affable man and a smooth politician, had been grateful for her
help, and her discretion, in rooting out a problem that presented
potential embarrassment for both countries–and had taken her out to a
festive dinner before she left. Now he seemed delighted to hear from
Agent Navarro and promised to get someone on the case immediately.
Her second call was to the FBI’s legal in Vienna, a man named Tom
Murphy, whom she didn’t know but had heard good things about. She gave
Murphy an abbreviated, sanitized rundown on why she was coming to
Vienna. He asked her whether she wanted him to arrange liaison with the
Vienna police, but she said no, she had her own contact there. Murphy, a
real by-the-book man, did not sound happy about it but made no
objection.
As soon as she arrived at Vienna’s Schwechat Airport, she placed another
call to Fritz Weber, who gave her the name and phone number of the
District Inspector on the surveillance squad who was now working the
case.
Sergeant Walter Heisler wasn’t fluent in English, but they managed to
muddle through.
“We went to the hotel where Hartman made the credit-card charge,”
Heisler explained. “He is a guest at the hotel.”
The sergeant worked fast. This was promising. “Great work,” she said.
“Any chance of finding the car?”
The compliment seemed to warm him up. Given that the target of
investigation was an American, he also realized that the involvement of
a representative of the U.S. government would eliminate most of the
complicated paperwork and jurisdictional issues that an apprehension of
a foreign national would normally present.
“We have already the how you say, the tail on him,” Heisler said with
some enthusiasm.
“You’re kidding. How’d you do that?”
“Well, once we found out that he is at the hotel, we put two men in
newsstand in front of the place. They saw he goes in rented car, an
Opel Vectra, and they follow him to part of Vienna called Hietzing.”
“What’s he doing there?”
“Visiting someone, maybe. A private home. We’re trying to know who it
is.”
“Amazing. Fantastic work.” She meant it.
“Thank you,” he said exuberantly. “You would like me to pick you up at
airport?”
There was some small talk for a few minutes, which was stressful, since
Ben’s cover was only half thought out. The mythical Robert Simon ran a
successful financial management firm based in L.A.–Ben figured that if
he kept it close to the truth, there’d be less chance of a serious
gaffe-and handled the assets of movie stars, real estate tycoons,
Silicon Valley IPO paper billionaires. Ben apologized that his client
list had to remain confidential, though he didn’t mind mentioning a name
or two they’d no doubt heard of.
And all the while he wondered: Who is this man? The sole heir of
Gerhard Lenz the notorious scientist and a principal in something called
Sigma.
As he and the Lenzes chatted, all three of them drinking Armagnac, Ben
furtively inspected the sitting room. It was furnished comfortably,
with English and French antiques. Paintings of the Old Master school
were framed in gilt, each one perfectly lighted. On a table beside the
couch he noticed silver-framed photographs of what he assumed were
family. Conspicuously absent was any picture of Lenz’s father.
“But enough about my work,” Ben said. “I wanted to ask you about the
Lenz Foundation. I understand its main purpose is to promote study of
the Holocaust.”
“We fund historical scholarship, yes, and we give to Israeli libraries,”
Jurgen Lenz explained. “We give a lot of money to combat hatred. We
think it’s extremely important that Austrian schoolchildren study the
crimes of the Nazis. Don’t forget, many of the Austrians welcomed the
Nazis. When Hitler came here in the thirties and gave a speech from the
balcony of the Imperial, he attracted enormous crowds, women weeping at
the sight of such a great man.” Lenz sighed. “An abomination.”
“But your father … if you don’t mind my saying …” Ben began.
“History knows that my father was inhuman,” Lenz said. “Yes, he
certainly was. He performed the most gruesome, the most unspeakable
experiments on prisoners in Auschwitz, on children ”
“Will you excuse me, please?” Use Lenz said, rising to her feet. “I
can’t hear about his father,” she murmured. She walked from the room.
“Darling, I’m sorry,” Lenz called after her. He turned to Ben,