"You're not referring to Major Miller?" Naylor said, testily.

"No, I am not," Hall said. "Major Miller is one of the good guys, Allan."

"I'm really happy to hear that," Naylor said. "You going to tell me what's going on?"

"Not right now," Hall said after a moments hesitation. "Did DIA tell you what you're supposed to do with him?"

"DIA can't tell me what-or what not-to do. But their TWX said that I would be furnished with the results of an investigation which will begin immediately. I had the feeling they will be disappointed if I don't nail him to a cross," Naylor said.

"Nothing like that is going to happen," Hall said, firmly. "What I'd like you to do, Allan, is send him up here. Is there any reason you can't do that?"

"Not that it matters, but officially or unofficially?"

"Whichever is easiest for you."

"Where do I tell him to go?"

"Can you get him a cell phone? Or does he have one?"

"If he doesn't, I'll see that he gets one."

"Get the number to me. And give him my personal number, to be used only if he thinks he has to."

"Okay."

"And tell him the key to Charley's apartment will be waiting for him at the Mayflower's front desk. Tell him to hang around the apartment as much as possible; that I'll contact him if-when-I need him."

"Okay."

"That probably won't be until Charley gets back."

"Back from where?"

"I told him to bring me a Sacher torte," Hall said.

It took Naylor a moment to take the meaning of that.

"What's Charley doing in Vienna?"

"Meeting with a Russian arms dealer by the name of Aleksandr Pevsner," Hall said.

"Jesus Christ!"

"Allan, I think it would be better if Miller wore civvies. But make sure he has a uniform with him."

"Done."

"As soon as I can, I'll explain all this to you, Allan."

"I'd like that, Matt. I hate to stumble along in the dark."

"As soon as I can, Allan."

"Good enough," Naylor said. "And thanks, Matt."

"We'll be in touch," Hall said and broke the connection.

[SIX]

Hotel Sacher Wein

Philharmonikerstrasse 4

Vienna, Austria

1650 8 June 2005

There had been no familiar faces in the lobby of the Bristol, nor on the sidewalk outside, nor on Kaertnerstrasse as Castillo walked to Philharmonikerstrasse and the Sacher.

And there was no one in the bar when he went inside.

The barman remembered him from last night.

" Ein anderes Dzban, meine herr?" he, asked.

" Ja. Bitte," Castillo said.

He had finished about half of the beer when the American couple he had seen last night came. The man remembered him, too, apparently. He nodded and gave Castillo a brief smile as he walked past him to sit where they had sat last night.

Castillo had just signaled the barman for another Dzban when two men came in. He could not remember having seen them before. They were in their forties, and, from the cuts of their suits, Castillo decided they were from somewhere east. Czechoslovakia or Hungary. Or maybe Poland.

That aroused his interest.

But neither man paid any interest to Castillo at all. One of them took some stapled-together papers from a ratty-looking briefcase and both men studied them with care. They spoke very softly-almost whispered-as if afraid that someone would eavesdrop on their conversation. Castillo could not make out what they were saying.

When he finished-slowly-the second bottle of Dzban, Castillo signaled for another and then went to the men's room.

He had just begun to relieve himself when he heard the door whoosh open and turned from the urinal, aware that his heart had jumped.

It was the American from the bar.

The American smiled. "Beer goes right through me," he announced.

Castillo nodded and returned his attention to the urinal, more than a little embarrassed at his jumping heart.

And then: Oh, shit!

Someone had pulled his jacket down, effectively immobilizing his arms.

"Careful," the American said, "you don't really want to piss all over the silk brocade wall."

The American patted him down, finding both knives.

He took the folding knife and flipped it open with a flick of the wrist.

"Nice," he said. "I suppose a journalist does need something like this to sharpen his pencils, doesn't he?"

Then he closed the knife and put it back in Castillo's shirt pocket.

"What I was looking for was a wire," the American said, and then, in Russian, said, "Adjust Mr. Gossinger's jacket, Sergei."

Whoever was behind him pulled the jacket back in place.

Castillo had trouble maintaining the direction of the flow of his urine into the urinal but did well under the circumstances.

The American went to the adjacent urinal and pulled down his zipper.

He looked over at Castillo.

"Beer really does go right through me," he said.

Castillo said nothing.

When his bladder finally emptied he pulled up his zipper and wondered what he was going to do next.

He saw that the men's room wall was indeed upholstered in red silk brocade.

If they were going to hurt – kill – me, they certainly had the opportunity. What the hell is going on?

The American completed his business with a satisfied sigh and Castillo heard him pull up his zipper.

The American went to a washbasin and started to wash his hands.

Over his shoulder, he said, "When you finish, Mr. Gossinger, Mr. Pevsner hopes that you will join him on the Cobenzl."

"May I turn around?" Castillo asked.

"Of course."

Castillo turned.

One of the Eastern Europeans-the larger one-was standing three feet from him with his hands crossed at his crotch. The American was still washing his hands.

As much to have something to do as for reasons of hygiene, Castillo took the half steps to the small row of washbasins and started to wash his hands.

The American carefully dried his hands.

"Well?" he asked.

"Well, what?"

"Are you going to join Mr. Pevsner on the Cobenzl?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Of course you do."

"Why the Cobenzl?"

"You know the Cobenzl?"

Castillo nodded. It was on top of a hill at what Castillo thought of as the beginning of the Vienna Woods. The street leading up it-he remembered the name: Cobenzlgasse-was lined with Heuriger, Gasthausen that sold new wine, which, Castillo also remembered, had a hell of a kick and produced memorable hangovers.

"Mr. Pevsner likes to watch the sun set over Vienna at this time of the year," the American said. "He thought you might enjoy it yourself."

"I'll go," Castillo said.

"Mr. Pevsner will be pleased," the American said.

This guy thinks I'm an asshole and wants me to know he does.

Unfortunately, he's right.

I was taken just now like a bumbling idiot. Like Peter Seller's Inspector Clouseau.

Castillo dried his hands.

"The car's outside," the American said. "I took care of your tab."

"Thank you," Castillo said, adding mentally, the asshole said politely.

The car at the curb was a Mercedes, a new 220, with deeply tinted windows and Prague license plates. The other East European stood on the curb holding the rear door open. The large East European got in the front seat and the American motioned for Castillo to get in the back.

"It'll be a little crowded in here, I'm afraid. Say hello to Ingrid."

The woman Castillo had thought was the American's wife was already in the car. She smiled at him.

" Guten abend, Herr Gossinger, "Ingrid said offering her hand.

" Guten abend, " Castillo replied.

She was, he saw now, a trim woman with luxuriant dark red hair.

She's much better looking than I remembered. I just didn't pay attention to her before.