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Castillo took a seat at the bar and after studying the array of beer bottles lined up under the mirror behind the bar ordered a Czech beer, a Dzbán.
It came with a bowl of pretzels, a bowl of peanuts, and a bowl of potato chips, which he thought was a nice custom until the barman laid the bill on the bar and Castillo turned it over to see that the beer was going to cost about eleven dollars, American.
As discreetly as he could, Castillo studied his fellow drinkers in the none-too-reflective mirror. And turned his ears up. The couple at the end of the bar was speaking American English, which permitted him to devote his attention to the others.
They were all speaking Viennese German. The second couple was probably married, for they had the rings and he heard the woman say, “You’ve never liked my mother and you know it.”
The remaining two men were alone, and, aside from ordering drinks, said nothing.
And no one showed more than a slight and quickly passing interest in him.
He had had three Dzbán lagers between five and quarter to six when he decided that if Aleksandr Pevsner was going to send someone to meet him—he thought it highly unlikely that Pevsner would come himself—it wasn’t going to be tonight.
He paid the bill with an American Express card that had both Karl Gossinger’s name and Der Tages Zeitung on it and left the bar. On the way back to the Bristol, he didn’t see anyone on Philharmonikerstrasse or Kaertnerstrasse or The Ring who either looked familiar or who showed any interest in him.
He had another beer, this time an Ottakringer Gold Fassl, as the Bristol didn’t stock Dzbán. The Gold Fassl came with a bowl of potato chips.
The bar was crowded. No one showed any interest in him. He signed the tab, noticing the Gold Fassl was as expensive as the Dzbán, and then walked across the lobby to the restaurant. No one in the lobby showed any interest in him.
He ordered—What the hell, I’m in Vienna—a Wiener schnitzel and was happy that he did. The pounded very thin, breaded veal cutlet covered a very large plate and was delicious.
He had—What the hell, I’m in Vienna—an Apfelstrudel for dessert and then went to his room.
He undressed to his undershorts and removed the knife taped to his calf, wincing as the adhesive pulled hair. Next, he hooked up his laptop and sent Otto, with a copy to Hall, a short e-mail message:
NO SHOW, BUT I JUST HAD FOUR GREAT BEERS AND A MARVELOUS WIENER SCHNITZEL. REGARDS, KARL
Then he went to bed and watched another movie, an old one, black-and-white, called The Third Man, starring Joseph Cotten, Trevor Howard, and Orson Welles. It was laid in Vienna, right after World War II, and there was a long sequence on the enormous Ferris wheel in Vienna’s amusement park, the Prater, down by the not-really-blue Blue Danube. Orson Welles was the villain, dealing in black market penicillin.
Castillo decided that he’d kill time tomorrow by taking a cab out there. He remembered his first ride on the wheel: Grosspappa had taken him when he was about six or seven.
What I’ll do is take a ride on the Ferris wheel and then have one of those great würstchen on a crusty roll, with that sinus-clearing mustard, and maybe some roasted chestnuts and a beer for lunch. What the hell, I’m in Vienna.
With that pleasant prospect in mind, Castillo turned off the lights and punched the pillow under his head.
Then lewd and lascivious mental images of the two hours he had spent with Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson in his room in the Le Presidente Hotel popped into his mind.
Well, if that turns out to be Ol’ Charley’s last piece of tail in this world, no complaints.
[THREE]
Office of the Director The Central Intelligence Agency Langley, Virginia 0915 8 June 2005
“Good morning, Mr. Director,” Mrs. Patricia Davies Wilson said as she was shown into DCI Powell’s office.
Powell stood up courteously.
“I understand you came directly from Dulles,” Powell said. “Would a cup of coffee be in order?”
“Oh, yes. Thank you very much.”
He gestured for her to take one of the two upholstered chairs facing his desk as he picked up his telephone to order coffee.
“How was the flight?” Powell asked. “More to the point, how are things in Angola?”
“Under control, Mr. Director,” she said. “I hope.”
It was clear that she meant Unless there’s something I don’t know about and Powell smiled his understanding.
