Daniel Silva GABRIEL ALLON Novels 1-4 (137 page)

“He started as a clerk at headquarters and eventually worked as a liaison officer between the Americans and the fledgling Austrian government.”

“Married? Children?”

She shook her head. “A lifelong bachelor.”

“Has he ever been in trouble? Financial irregularities of any kind? Civil suits? Anything?”

“His record is remarkably clean. I have another friend at the Staatspolizei. I had him run a check on Vogel. He came up with nothing, which in a way is quite remarkable. You see, almost every prominent citizen in Austria has a Staatspolizei file. But not Ludwig Vogel.”

“What do you know about his politics?”

Renate Hoffmann spent a long moment surveying her surroundings before answering. “I asked that same question to some contacts I have on some of the more courageous Viennese newspapers and magazines, the ones that refuse to toe the government line. It turns out Ludwig Vogel is a major financial supporter of the Austrian National Party. In fact, he’s practically bankrolled the campaign of Peter Metzler himself.” She paused for a moment to light a cigarette. Her hand was shaking with cold. “I don’t know if you’ve been following our campaign here, but unless things change dramatically in the next three weeks, Peter Metzler is going to be the next chancellor of Austria.”

Gabriel sat silently, absorbing the information he had just been told. Renate Hoffmann took a single puff of her cigarette and tossed it into a mound of dirty snow.

“You asked me why we were going out in weather like this, Mr. Argov. Now you know.”

SHE STOOD without warning and started walking. Gabriel got to his feet and followed after her.
Steady yourself,
he thought. An interesting theory, a tantalizing set of circumstances, but there was no proof and one enormous piece of exculpatory evidence. According to the files in the Staatsarchiv, Ludwig Vogel couldn’t possibly be the man Max Klein had accused him of being.

“Is it possible Vogel knew Eli was investigating his past?”

“I’ve considered that,” Renate Hoffmann said. “I suppose someone at the Staatsarchiv or the Staatspolizei might have tipped him off about my search.”

“Even if Ludwig Vogel really was the man Max Klein saw at Auschwitz, what’s the worst that could happen to him now, sixty years after the crime?”

“In Austria? Precious little. When it comes to prosecuting war criminals, Austria’s record is shameful. In my opinion, it was practically a safe haven for Nazi war criminals. Have you ever heard of Doctor Heinrich Gross?”

Gabriel shook his head. Heinrich Gross, she said, was a doctor at the Spiegelgrund clinic for handicapped children. During the war, the clinic served as a euthanasia center where the Nazi doctrine of eradicating the “pathological genotype” was put into practice. Nearly eight hundred children were murdered there. After the war, Gross went on to a distinguished career as a pediatric neurologist. Much of his research was carried out on brain tissue he had taken from victims of Spiegelgrund, which he kept stored in an elaborate “brain library.” In 2000, the Austrian federal prosecutor finally decided it was time to bring Gross to justice. He was charged with complicity in nine of the murders carried out at Spiegelgrund and brought to trial.

“One hour into the proceedings, the judge ruled that Gross was suffering from the early stages of dementia and was in no condition to defend himself in a court of law,” Renate Hoffmann said. “He suspended the case indefinitely. Doctor Gross stood, smiled at his lawyer, and walked out of the courtroom. On the courthouse steps, he spoke to reporters about his case. It was quite clear that Doctor Gross was in complete control of his mental faculties.”

“Your point?”

“The Germans are fond of saying that only Austria could convince the world that Beethoven was an Austrian and Hitler was a German. We like to pretend that we were Hitler’s first victim instead of his willing accomplice. We choose not to remember that Austrians joined the Nazi party at the same rate as our German cousins, or that Austria’s representation in the SS was disproportionately high. We choose not to remember that Adolf Eichmann was an Austrian, or that eighty percent of his staff was Austrian, or that seventy-five percent of his death camp commandants were
Austrian.
” She lowered her voice. “Doctor Gross was protected by Austria’s political elite and judicial system for decades. He was a member in good standing of the Social Democratic party, and he even served as a court forensic psychiatrist. Everyone in the Viennese medical community knew the source of the good doctor’s so-called brain library, and every one knew what he had done during the war. A man like Ludwig Vogel, even if he were exposed as a liar, could expect the same treatment. The chances of him ever facing trial in Austria for his crimes would be
zero.
”

“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 Hoffmann pushed a few stray hairs beneath the band of her beret and looked at him carefully. “You’re not thinking about trying to meet with him, are you, Mr. Argov? Under the circumstances, that would be an incredibly foolish idea.”

“I just want to know where he lives.”

“He has a house in the First District, and another in the Vienna woods. According to real estate records, he also owns several hundred acres and a chalet in Upper Austria.”

Gabriel, after taking a glance over his shoulder, asked Renate Hoffmann if he could have a copy of all the documents she’d collected. She looked down at her feet, as if she’d been expecting the question.

“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 Hoffmann, Gabriel decided, was a highly intelligent and street-smart woman. “You’re giving them to a friend, Miss Hoffmann, a friend who will do absolutely nothing to compromise your position.”

“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

O
NE 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 unnerved underlings. His Mediterranean features—the nearly black hair, the olive skin, and coffee-colored eyes—had given rise to rumors within the service that a Gypsy or perhaps even a Jew lurked in his lineage. It was a libel, advanced by his legion of enemies, and Kruz did not find it amusing. He was not popular among the troops, but then he didn’t much care. Kruz was well-connected: lunch with the minister once a week, friends among the wealthy and the political elite. Make an enemy of Kruz and you could find yourself writing parking tickets in the backwoods of Carinthia.

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 counterintelligence. 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 Vienna of an Israeli who claimed to be a colleague of Eli Lavon from Wartime Claims and Inquiries.

Kruz’s innate mistrust of people extended to his personal secretary. He waited until she had left the room before prizing open the envelope and shaking the print onto his blotter. It fell facedown. He turned it over, placed it in the sharp white light of his halogen lamp, and carefully examined the image. Kruz was not interested in Renate Hoffmann. She was the subject of regular surveillance by Department Five, and Kruz had spent more time than he cared to remember studying surveillance photographs and listening to transcripts of proceedings inside the premises of the Coalition for a Better Austria. No, Kruz was more interested in the dark, compact figure walking at her side, the man who called himself Gideon Argov.

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—JANUARY 1991—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.”

“If you are an Israeli, what are you doing in Vienna with an Italian passport? Obviously, you’re an agent of Israeli intelligence. Who do you work for, Mr. Allon? What are you doing here?”

“Call the ambassador. He’ll know who to contact.”

“We’ll call your ambassador. And your foreign minister. And your prime minister. But right now, if you want your wife to get the medical treatment she so desperately needs, you’re going to tell us who you work for and why you’re in Vienna.”