The bellman’s English was just as good. “This way, if you please, gentlemen.” No elevator, but rather a walk up a flight of red-carpeted steps directly toward a full-length portrait of somebody who looked very important indeed, in his white military uniform and beautifully combed-out chin whiskers.
“Who might that be?” Dominic asked the bellman.
“The Emperor Franz Josef, sir. He visited the hotel upon its opening in the nineteenth century.”
“Ah. ” It explained the attitude of the staff here, but you couldn’t knock the style of this place. Not by a long shot.
In another five minutes, they were settled into their accommodations. Brian came wandering into his brother’s room. “God damn, the Residence Level at the White House isn’t this good.”
“Think so?” Dominic asked.
“Dude, I know so. Been there, done that. Uncle Jack had me up after I got my commission—no, actually it was after I came through the Basic School. Shit, this place is something. I wonder what it costs?”
“What the hell, it’s on my card, and our friend is nearby at the Bristol. Kinda interesting to hunt rich bastards, isn’t it?” That brought them back to business. Dominic pulled his laptop out of his bag. The Imperial was used to guests with computers, and the setup for it was very efficient indeed. For the moment, he opened the most recent file. He’d only scanned it before. Now he took his time with every single word.
GRANGER WAS thinking it through. Gerry wanted somebody to baby-sit the twins, and it seemed as though his mind was fixed on it. There were a lot of good people in the intelligence department under Rick Bell, but as former intelligence officers at CIA and elsewhere, they were all too old to be proper companions for the twins, young as the Caruso kids were. It wouldn’t look right to have people in their late twenties chumming around Europe with somebody in his middle fifties. So, better somebody younger. There weren’t many of those, but there was one . . .
He picked up his phone.
FA’AD WAS only two blocks away on the third floor of the Bristol Hotel, a famous and very upper-crust accommodation known particularly for its superior dining room and its nearness to the State Opera, which sat just across the street, consecrated to the memory of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, who had been the court musician for the House of Hapsburg before dying an early death, right here in Vienna. But Fa’ad wasn’t the least bit interested in such history. Current events were his obsession. Watching Anas Ali Atef die right before his eyes had shaken him badly. That had not been the death of infidels, something you could watch on TV and smile quietly about. He’d been standing there, watching the life drain invisibly from his friend’s body, watching the German paramedics fight vainly for his life—evidently doing their very best even for a person they must have despised. That was a surprise. And, yes, they were Germans just doing their job, but they’d done that job with obstinate determination, then they’d raced his comrade to the nearest hospital, where the German doctors had probably done the same, only to fail. A doctor had come to him in the waiting room and sadly told him the news, saying unnecessarily that they’d done everything that could have been done, and that it had looked like a massive heart attack, and that further laboratory work would be done to make certain that this indeed had been the cause of death, and finally asking for information on his family, if any, and who would see about the body after they were done picking it apart. Strange thing about the Germans, how precise they always were about everything. Fa’ad had made what arrangements he could, and then boarded a train for Vienna, sitting alone in a first-class seat and trying to come to terms with the dreadful event.
He was making his report to the organization. Mohammed Hassan al-Din was his gateway for that. He was probably in Rome at the moment, though Fa’ad Rahman Yasin was not quite sure. He didn’t have to be sure. The Internet was a good enough address, formless as it was. It was just so very sad for a young and vigorous and valuable comrade to fall down dead on the street. If it served any purpose at all, only Allah Himself knew what it might be—but Allah had His Plan for everything, and it was not always something for men to know. Fa’ad took a minibottle of cognac from his minibar and drank it right out of the glass container instead of pouring it into one of the snifters on top of the cabinet. Sinful or not, it helped steady his nerves, and anyway he never, did it in public. Damn such bad luck! He took another look at the minibar. Two more cognacs remained, and after that, several miniatures of Scotch whisky, the favorite drink of Saudi Arabia, Shar’ia or not.
“GOT YOUR passport?” Granger asked as soon as he’d sat down.
“Well, sure. Why?” Ryan asked.
“You’re going to Austria. Plane leaves tonight from Dulles. Here’s your ticket.” The director of operations tossed the folder across the desk.
“What for?”
“You’re booked into the Imperial Hotel. There you will link up with Dominic and Brian Caruso to keep them advised of intelligence developments. You can use your regular e-mail account, and your laptop is equipped with the proper encryption technology.”
What the hell? Jack wondered. “Excuse me, Mr. Granger. Can we go back a couple of steps? Exactly what’s going on here?”
“Your father asked that question once or twice, I bet.” Granger managed a smile that would chill the ice in a highball. “Gerry thinks the twins need backup on the intelligence side. So, you are detailed to provide that backup, kind of a consultant to them while they’re in the field. This does not mean that you’ll actually be doing anything but keeping an eye on intel developments through the virtual office. You’ve done some pretty good work on that. You have a good nose for tracking things on the ‘Net—damned sight better than Dom and Brian. Getting your eyes in the field might be useful. That’s why. You can decline the job, but in your place, I’d take it. Okay?”
“When’s the flight?”
“It’s on your ticket folder.”
Jack looked. “Damn, I’ll have to hustle.”
“So, hustle. There’ll be a car to take you to Dulles. Get going.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack replied, coming to his feet. Just as well he had a car service heading his way. He didn’t like the idea of leaving his Hummer in the Dulles parking lot. Thieves had fallen in love with the things. “Oh, who is cleared to know this?”
“Rick Bell will let Wills know. Aside from that, nobody, I repeat, nobody. Clear?”
“Clear, sir. Okay, I’m out of here.” He looked in the ticket folder to find an American Express black card. At least the trip was on the company dime. How many of these things did The Campus have sitting around in its file drawers? he wondered. But for damned sure it was all he needed for this day.
“WHAT’S THIS?” Dominic asked his computer. “Aldo, we’ve got company coming over tomorrow morning.”
“Who?” Brian asked.
“Doesn’t say. It says to take no action until he links up with us, though.”
“Jesus, who do they think we are, Louis the Fish? It’s not our fault the last guy jumped right into our lap. Why fuck around?”
“These are government types. If you get too efficient, they get scared,” Dominic thought aloud. “What about dinner, bro?”
“Fine, we can check their version of Vitello Milanese. You suppose they have any decent wines here?”
“Only one way to find out, Aldo.” Dominic picked a tie out of his suitcase. The hotel dining room looked about as formal as Uncle Jack’s old house.
CHAPTER 21
STREETCAR
NAMED DESIRED
IT WAS a new adventure for Jack in two different ways. He’d never been to Austria before. He’d damned sure never gone into the field as a spook to join up with an assassination team, and while the idea of terminating the lives of people who liked killing Americans seemed quite a good thing at a desk in West Odenton, Maryland—in Seat 3A of an Airbus 330, thirty-four thousand feet over the Atlantic Ocean it was suddenly a dicey state of affairs. Well, Granger had told him he wouldn’t really have to do anything. And that was fine with Jack. He still knew how to shoot a pistol—he regularly went shooting at the Secret Service’s range in downtown D.C., or sometimes at their academy at Beltsville, Maryland, if Mike Brennan was around. But Brian and Dom weren’t shooting people, were they? Not according to the MI5 report that had come to his computer. Heart attack—how the hell did you fake a heart attack well enough that a pathologist took the bait? He’d have to ask them about that. Presumably, he was cleared for it.