Man.”
They reached the end of the passage. Gabriel turned and started in the opposite direction. Ben-Avraham followed after him. Gabriel could see what he was thinking. Should he violate a petty Office dictum and risk the wrath of Lev—who loved nothing more than enforcing petty Office dictums—or should he perform a small favor for Gabriel Allon and Ari Shamron? Ben-Avraham’s deliberation did not last long. Gabriel had not expected it would. Lev was not the type to inspire personal devotion among his troops. Lev was the man of the hour, but Shamron was theMemuneh, and theMemuneh was eternal.
Gabriel, with a sideways movement of his eyes, sent Ben-Avraham on his way. He spent ten minutes pacing the length of the Opernpassage, searching for any sign of surveillance, then went back up to the street. From a public telephone he tried Max Klein’s number a second time. There was still no answer.
He climbed on a passing streetcar and rode it around the city center to the Second District. It took him a few moments to find Klein’s address. In the foyer, he pressed the buzzer for the apartment but received no response. The caretaker, a middle-aged woman in a flowered frock, poked her head from her apartment and eyed Gabriel suspiciously.
“Who are you looking for?”
Gabriel answered truthfully.
“He usually goes to the synagogue in the morning. Have you tried there?”
The Jewish Quarter was just on the other side of the Danube Canal, a ten-minute walk at most. As usual, the synagogue was under guard. Gabriel, despite his passport, had to pass through a magnetometer before being admitted. He took akippah from the basket and covered his head before entering the sanctuary. A few elderly men were praying near thebimah. None of them was Max Klein. In the foyer he asked the security guard whether he’d seen Klein that morning. The guard shook his head and suggested Gabriel try the community center.
Gabriel walked next door and was admitted by a Russian Jew named Natalia. Yes, she told him, Max Klein often spends his morning at the center, but she hadn’t seen him today. “Sometimes, the old ones have coffee at the Café Schottenring,” she said. “It’s at Number Nineteen. You might find him there.”
There was indeed a group of elderly Viennese Jews having coffee at the Café Schottenring, but Klein wasn’t one of them. Gabriel asked if he’d been there that morning, and six gray heads shook in unison.
Frustrated, he walked back across the Danube Canal to the Second District and returned to Klein’s apartment building. He pressed the buzzer and once again received no response. Then he knocked on the door of the caretaker’s apartment. Seeing Gabriel for a second time, her face turned suddenly grave.
“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll get the key.”
THE CARETAKER UNLOCKEDthe door and, before stepping across the threshold, called out Klein’s name. Hearing no reply, they went inside. The curtains were drawn, the sitting room was in heavy shadow.
“Herr Klein?” she called out again. “Are you here? Herr Klein?”
Gabriel opened the double doors leading to the kitchen and peered inside. Max Klein’s dinner was sitting on the small table, untouched. He walked down the hallway, pausing once to peer into the empty bathroom. The bedroom door was locked. Gabriel hammered on it with his fist and called Klein’s name. There was no response.
The caretaker came to his side. They looked at each other. She nodded. Gabriel seized the latch with both hands and drove his shoulder into the door. The wood splintered, and he stumbled into the bedroom.
Here, as in the sitting room, the curtains were drawn. Gabriel ran his hand along the wall, groping in the gloom until he found a switch. A small bedside lamp threw a cone of light on the figure lying on the bed.
The caretaker gasped.
Gabriel eased forward. Max Klein’s head was covered by a clear plastic bag, and a gold-braided cord was wrapped around his neck.
They reached the end of the passage. Gabriel turned and started in the opposite direction. Ben-Avraham followed after him. Gabriel could see what he was thinking. Should he violate a petty Office dictum and risk the wrath of Lev—who loved nothing more than enforcing petty Office dictums—or should he perform a small favor for Gabriel Allon and Ari Shamron? Ben-Avraham’s deliberation did not last long. Gabriel had not expected it would. Lev was not the type to inspire personal devotion among his troops. Lev was the man of the hour, but Shamron was theMemuneh, and theMemuneh was eternal.
Gabriel, with a sideways movement of his eyes, sent Ben-Avraham on his way. He spent ten minutes pacing the length of the Opernpassage, searching for any sign of surveillance, then went back up to the street. From a public telephone he tried Max Klein’s number a second time. There was still no answer.
He climbed on a passing streetcar and rode it around the city center to the Second District. It took him a few moments to find Klein’s address. In the foyer, he pressed the buzzer for the apartment but received no response. The caretaker, a middle-aged woman in a flowered frock, poked her head from her apartment and eyed Gabriel suspiciously.
“Who are you looking for?”
Gabriel answered truthfully.
“He usually goes to the synagogue in the morning. Have you tried there?”
The Jewish Quarter was just on the other side of the Danube Canal, a ten-minute walk at most. As usual, the synagogue was under guard. Gabriel, despite his passport, had to pass through a magnetometer before being admitted. He took akippah from the basket and covered his head before entering the sanctuary. A few elderly men were praying near thebimah. None of them was Max Klein. In the foyer he asked the security guard whether he’d seen Klein that morning. The guard shook his head and suggested Gabriel try the community center.
Gabriel walked next door and was admitted by a Russian Jew named Natalia. Yes, she told him, Max Klein often spends his morning at the center, but she hadn’t seen him today. “Sometimes, the old ones have coffee at the Café Schottenring,” she said. “It’s at Number Nineteen. You might find him there.”
There was indeed a group of elderly Viennese Jews having coffee at the Café Schottenring, but Klein wasn’t one of them. Gabriel asked if he’d been there that morning, and six gray heads shook in unison.
Frustrated, he walked back across the Danube Canal to the Second District and returned to Klein’s apartment building. He pressed the buzzer and once again received no response. Then he knocked on the door of the caretaker’s apartment. Seeing Gabriel for a second time, her face turned suddenly grave.
“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll get the key.”
THE CARETAKER UNLOCKEDthe door and, before stepping across the threshold, called out Klein’s name. Hearing no reply, they went inside. The curtains were drawn, the sitting room was in heavy shadow.
“Herr Klein?” she called out again. “Are you here? Herr Klein?”
Gabriel opened the double doors leading to the kitchen and peered inside. Max Klein’s dinner was sitting on the small table, untouched. He walked down the hallway, pausing once to peer into the empty bathroom. The bedroom door was locked. Gabriel hammered on it with his fist and called Klein’s name. There was no response.
The caretaker came to his side. They looked at each other. She nodded. Gabriel seized the latch with both hands and drove his shoulder into the door. The wood splintered, and he stumbled into the bedroom.
Here, as in the sitting room, the curtains were drawn. Gabriel ran his hand along the wall, groping in the gloom until he found a switch. A small bedside lamp threw a cone of light on the figure lying on the bed.
The caretaker gasped.
Gabriel eased forward. Max Klein’s head was covered by a clear plastic bag, and a gold-braided cord was wrapped around his neck.
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