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“Suppose he knew about Eli’s investigation? What would he have to fear?”
“Nothing, other than the embarrassment of exposure.”
“Do you know where he lives?”
Renate Hoffma
“I just want to know where he lives.”
“He has a house in the First District, and another in the Vie
Gabriel, after taking a glance over his shoulder, asked Renate Hoffma
“Tell me something, Mr. Argov. In all the years I worked with Eli, he never once mentioned the fact that Wartime Claims and Inquiries had a Jerusalem branch.”
“It was opened recently.”
“How convenient.” Her voice was thick with sarcasm. “I’m in possession of those documents illegally. If I give them to an agent of a foreign government, my position will be even more precarious. If I give them to you, am I giving them to an agent of a foreign government?”
Renate Hoffma
“Do you know what will happen if you’re arrested by the Staatspolizei while in possession of confidential Staatsarchiv files? You’ll spend a long time behind bars.” She looked directly into his eyes. “And so will I, if they find out where you got them.”
“I don’t intend to be arrested by the Staatspolizei.”
“No one ever does, but this is Austria, Mr. Argov. Our police don’t play by the same rules as their European counterparts.”
She reached into her handbag, withdrew a manila envelope, and handed it to Gabriel. It disappeared into the opening of his jacket and they kept walking.
“I don’t believe you’re Gideon Argov from Jerusalem. That’s why I gave you the file. There’s nothing more I can do with it, not in this climate. Promise me you’ll tread carefully, though. I don’t want the Coalition and its staff to suffer the same fate as Wartime Claims.” She stopped walking and turned briefly to face him. “And one more thing, Mr. Argov. Please don’t call me again.”
THE SURVEILLANCE VAN was parked on the edge of the Augarten, on the Wasnergasse. The photographer sat in the back, concealed behind one-way glass. He snapped one final shot as the subjects separated, then downloaded the pictures to a laptop computer and reviewed the images. The one that showed the envelope changing hands had been shot from behind. Nicely framed, well lit, a thing of beauty.
7 VIENNA
ONE HOUR LATER, in an anonymous neo-Baroque building on the Ringstrasse, the photograph was delivered to the office of a man named Manfred Kruz. Contained in an unmarked manila envelope, it was handed to Kruz without comment by his attractive secretary. As usual he was dressed in a dark suit and white shirt. His placid face and sharp cheekbones, combined with his habitual somber dress, gave him a cadaverous air that u
His unit was known officially as Department Five, but among senior Staatspolizei officers and their masters at the Interior Ministry, it was referred to simply as “Kruz’s gang.” In moments of self-aggrandizement, a misdemeanor to which Kruz willingly pleaded guilty, he imagined himself the protector of all things Austrian. It was Kruz’s job to make certain that the rest of the world’s problems didn’t seep across the borders into the tranquil Österreich. Department Five was responsible for counter-terrorism, counter-extremism, and counter-intelligence. Manfred Kruz possessed the power to bug offices and tap telephones, to open mail and conduct physical surveillance. Foreigners who came to Austria looking for trouble could expect a visit from one of Kruz’s men. So could native-born Austrians whose political activities diverged from the prescribed lines. Little took place inside the country that he didn’t know about, including the recent appearance in Vie
Kruz’s i
After a moment he stood and worked the tumbler on the wall safe behind his desk. Inside, wedged between a stack of case files and a bundle of scented love letters from a girl who worked in payroll, was a videotape of an interrogation. Kruz glanced at the date on the adhesive label-JANUARY1991-then inserted the tape into his machine and pressed the play button.
The shot rolled for a few frames before settling into place. The camera had been mounted high in the corner of the interrogation room, where the wall met the ceiling, so that it looked down upon the proceedings from an oblique angle. The image was somewhat grainy, the technology a generation old. Pacing the room with a menacing slowness was a younger version of Kruz. Seated at the interrogation table was the Israeli, his hands blackened by fire, his eyes by death. Kruz was quite certain it was the same man who was now calling himself Gideon Argov. Uncharacteristically, it was the Israeli, not Kruz, who posed the first question. Now, as then, Kruz was taken aback by the perfect German, spoken in the distinctive accent of a Berliner.
“Where’s my son?”
“I’m afraid he’s dead.”
“What about my wife?”
“Your wife has been severely injured. She needs immediate medical attention.”
“Then why isn’t she getting it?”
“We need to know some information first before she can be treated.”
“Why isn’t she being treated now? Where is she?”
“Don’t worry, she’s in good hands. We just need some questions answered.”
“Like what?”
“You can begin by telling us who you really are. And please, don’t lie to us anymore. Your wife doesn’t have much time.”
“I’ve been asked my name a hundred times! You know my name! My God, get her the help she needs.”
“We will, but first tell us your name. Your real name, this time. No more aliases, pseudonyms, or cover names. We haven’t the time, not if your wife is going to live.”
“My name is Gabriel, you bastard!”
“Is that your first name or your last?”
“My first.”
“And your last?”
“Allon.”
“Allon? That’s a Hebrew name, is it not? You’re Jewish. You are also, I suspect, Israeli.”
“Yes, I’m Israeli.”