— 35 —Fünfunddreißig
Sterling sashayed through Café Hawelka’s swinging double doors, and was greeted by a wave of warm air and heated conversation.
The brown box of a café was strewn with tilted marble tables, creaky wooden chairs, and striped sofas, their once orange upholstery long since faded to soft peach. The white glass orbs on the entry’s chandelier were aged to a warm yellow. A tall waiter in a black vest loomed underneath them, tormenting the breathless American couple at the front of the line.
“We would like a table forzwei,” shouted the wife, clearly proud of her German.
“Unfortunately, we have no places free,” he said, bumping the empty marble table behind him, which wobbled with a thud. “None.”
Vienna was a great city to visit if you were inclined to be rudely dismissed by a café waiter for the high crime of offering him money for coffee. It was part of the local charm. You learned to adapt.
Sterling leaned around the couple, winking at the waiter. He smiled and promptly offered her a window booth.
“Fine, we’ll take our money to Starbucks!” screamed the man, using his American version of an inside voice.
“Bitte sehr,have a lovely day,” said the waiter, opening the door for them. It swung back with a satisfying swish after they departed.
Viennese cafés weren’t designed for tourists. Or people with trust issues. Theywerea fantastic place for a local to hide in plain sight with your face obscured by a newspaper, and your conversation masked by a cacophony of clocks chiming, silverware rattling, chairs creaking, and, because it was Vienna, grumbling. So much grumbling.
Sterling scanned the crowd. Guests and waiters dipped in and out behind wide columns and heavy curtains dividing the tiny café into a maze of claustrophobic corners. No wonder this was where Nightingale had contacted Fernando. Any one of them could be working for them or be their next target.
She hung her coat on a Thonet hat stand at the end of the banquette, whose S-curved arms bloomed like a gloomy flower. A fur coat worth thousands hung on a stand by the entrance where any petty thief could nab it and escape in a flash. Something you’d never see in Paris or Rome. The warped metal sign above it declared in hostile capital letters FÜR GARDEROBE KEINE HAFTUNG, avoiding responsibility for theft. But Vienna was safe in the velvet cushion of its low crime rate.
Unless you counted the murders, that is.
The swinging doors squeaked, and she waved Uncle Christoph over. He hugged her, then leaned back, examining her. “Dearie, have you slept since I saw you? You look like a promiscuous raccoon.”
“Stop it, I’ll blush,” said Sterling.
He hung his gray wool coat between hers and those of the elderly couple one booth over. “Why’d you insist on meeting here?”
Her reply was interrupted by the waiter’s brusque demand fortheir order. Sterling requested twoMelange. Christoph’s left eyebrow arched.
“I’mverytired,” she assured him. The waiter snatched their menus, then scurried away.
She surveyed the room. Couples flirting, suited men negotiating, would-be poets scribbling in black notebooks. Grumpy old men muttering to themselves about the headlines. Everywhere conversation.
“What’s going on?” he asked.
She waited as the young gent at a nearby table rose to leave, and slid against their booth to inch through the cramped space. Their waiter leaned by the far wall, hands clasped at belt level, clicking a pen. A couple bickered beside him. He looked away, but his ear was piqued at their conversation. Hospitality staff saw everything but went unnoticed. Perfect spies.
Sterling leaned in to whisper, “Have you heard of a group called Nightingale?”
Christoph scrunched his lips in thought, then shook his head. “Some new band? Dearie, you’re far too refined to fall for youth’s latest fleeting obsession, no matter how cute the singer might be.”
She laughed, briefly, then her face turned serious again. “It’s far more sinister. They’re a clandestine organization who appeared a few months ago, delivering blackmail demands. Seems they’re running the operation out of cafés.”
Christoph’s face knotted with concern. “Someone’s blackmailing you?”
Their waiter appeared and smacked down a warped silver tray that rattled long after he’d darted away. They waited until the crockery ceased clattering and he was out of earshot.
“No one’s after me,” she lied. “But I think they’re behind what happened to Hedy.”
Doors swished, floorboards creaked, and a chill draft tickled herneck. Sterling waved as Fernando shuffled towards them. He took his coffee while she updated him, inspecting the sugar cubes. Blank. Christoph asked what he was looking for.
She nodded at Fernando. “Show him.”
He unfolded a note from his pocket and laid it on the table. A square paper readingWe know, we’re watching. Follow the instructions under your seat.Stamped with the bird in a crown of leaves. “I was looking for this symbol, the mark of Nightingale.”
