The Vienna Connection

by Dick Rosano

  “Depends,” I replied.

  “On what?”

  “On whether you’re cultured enough to appreciate good wine.”

  Bordrick’s lips stiffened and his right eyebrow arched slightly at the open insult.

  “President Pendleton wants to see you,” he said with finality, standing to show me out the door. There was a uniformed guard outside the office who turned to me as I stepped over the threshold and he pointed down the hallway.

  “I will escort you to the White House, sir,” was all he said. I followed him down the corridor to the elevators, then down to the garage below the building. There was another armed officer already in the driver’s seat of the Chevy Suburban, so I got in the back as the first officer settled into the front passenger seat.

  Images of the Oval Office are all over the news and have been for decades. The decorations may change, from the subtle blues and greens of presidents like Kennedy, Bush, and Obama, to the gaudy gold and tinsel of Trump, but the basic layout is familiar to any American and most foreigners. Still, I had never been in the room and I was pleasantly awed when I was ushered in.

  I stood in the middle of the carpet without touching the furniture, lightly unnerved enough to avoid even sitting down on the couch, when the side door opened and the tall, lanky frame of President Michael Pendleton strode in. A Secret Service agent had his hand on the doorknob and quietly pulled the door shut, leaving me alone with the most powerful man in the world.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Pendleton said extending his hand and smiling, then motioning for me to sit down on the chair next to him. He didn’t sit behind the Resolute Desk, choosing instead to sit close to me, nearly knee to knee at the chairs that were nested close together in front of the desk.

  “You were in the Army,” Pendleton said, and I nodded as the President settled back into the cushions.

  “In a special interrogation unit,” he said. His follow-up wasn’t a question. He knew the answer, so I just nodded again.

  “I have something that I need for you to do,” he said, reaching out to the desk to retrieve a piece of paper.

  “But, sir, I’m not in the Army anymore. I’m a…”

  “A wine writer,” he interrupted with a wave of his hand. His demeanor seemed to blend respect for my past career but amusement at my choice of follow-on endeavors.

  “You knew that your time in the Army will follow you,” he added. “People will wonder, they’ll write stories. You knew that, right?”

  He paused to sip gently at the rim of the coffee cup that he had lifted from the brass coaster on the desk. Steam from the hot liquid swirled toward his face, and he followed with another careful sip. I sat quietly, considering the point he was making about my time in the Army, admitting without comment that I had already considered that bleak possibility myself.

  “I appreciate the time you spent in the service of our country, Armando. The country appreciates it. But although you were undercover, even deep undercover, at some point your activities – legitimate though they may have been – could be discovered and be made public.”

  Even though the President seemed pleasant and friendly, his affable manner couldn’t dispel the odd sensation I got that his phrasing carried with it a small dose of threat. Reading his expression was easy; Pendleton may be president, but he was inept at disguising his thoughts. Knowing that he – and certain others – were in possession of my entire file, the threat I perceived could entail the use of information about me, from the past to the present. As far back as high school, which was about how far service records and background investigations went for security clearances. All that was in the file or could be added to it.

  “We didn’t engage in any torture, sir,” I said defensively. It was rare that I would feel defensive about the work of Best Guess, but the Oval Office had that effect on me. “We didn’t have to,” I added.

  Pendleton smiled slightly, as if my comment was of little concern and possibly irrelevant to the greater context.

  “Would you have tortured the prisoners to get information?” he asked.

  “Never. It’s repugnant. And if that’s not enough, it’s also immoral and illegal. Not to mention completely ineffective. The kind of information you get from someone terrified by torture and trying only to stop the pain…”

  “Would be useless?” he interjected with raised eyebrows.

  I paused to cool my head, but the carefully constructed protocols for interrogation had been corrupted by untrained people hoping for a quick hit with waterboarding or other inhumane techniques. I wanted the President to know that we abhorred that tactic, for reasons of human dignity as well as effectiveness.

  “Funny,” Pendleton laughed, “earlier administrations didn’t agree with your assessment. But I agree with you, Armando. Still, that’s not the point.”

  “It is precisely the point, sir, if I may. We…”

  “We? You mean the team of Operation Best Guess?”

  “Yes. We were trained to be…”

  “Trained?”

  “Well, no. Adapted. Talented,” I replied.

  Pendleton clearly knew that the team of Best Guess had an obscure ability to discern truth and lies based on behavior and physical responses alone. His question betrayed a familiarity with our ops and convinced me that our team’s secrets were well briefed to him.

  “Still,” Pendleton interrupted my explanation, “whether you choose to be a wine writer or a plumber, Armando Listrani’s past could catch up with him. Why not kill him?”

  The directness of his solution caught me by surprise.

  “Don’t worry, Armando,” he chuckled. “I don’t want somebody to kill you.” Then he leaned forward in his chair toward me and added, “But wouldn’t your new career proceed more easily if you could just go on as a wine and food writer without the cumbersome burden of the Listrani identity lurking in the shadows?”

  I had to consider his suggestion. And not for the first time.

  “I didn’t do anything wrong, sir. We didn’t do anything wrong.”

  I felt the need to justify my career as an interrogator. Our services were vital to success during the war, and we – the six of us on the team – carried out our duties without inflicting physical or emotional harm on the subjects. We simply listened to them, picked up on misdirection signals however subtle, and steered the conversation toward new avenues until the subject gave up the information we were looking for.

  There were the easy ones, mostly guys whose wives and children made them fear American authority and who gave up their secrets almost as soon as we entered the room. There were some who thought they could beat us, giving off a glow of confidence, but who crumbled when we told them things, we detected that they thought they had hidden, clues to things not said.

  And then there were others who were skilled at layered stories, each layer disguising some kernel of truth but hidden beneath off-the-cuff comments that created a directional nightmare. Still, they broke too. We didn’t have to read their minds; we only had to uncover how they were being untruthful. Each time we were able to point out where their statements didn’t have the ring of truth, a slowly simmering fear would grow inside them. As the fear of our abilities to read into their comments grew, so did the simmer, which turned to a boil, which revealed itself as “tells” that even a first-year interrogator could unpuzzle. Even the hardened targets collapsed under that strategy.

  “No, of course you didn’t do anything wrong,” the President added, bringing me back to the moment. “But people who traffic in conspiracies could make something of your methods – and your past. You seem to be very happy with your writing and your wine tasting. Why not secure that as your true identity?”

  “Why would you become involved in this?” I asked.

  “I need your help on something,” he replied.

  “But I’m not volunteering for…”

  The President raised his hand to stop me and smiled.

  “Some things y
ou can’t unvolunteer for.”

  President Pendleton’s use of that same phrase made me realize that he was dead set on this, and he wasn’t asking me if I was agreeing to do it.

  I wouldn’t – couldn’t – jump right in. I still worried that my background was being used to put me in a dangerous, possibly irreversibly dangerous, position.

  “What is it that you want me to do?” I asked. I decided it was worth hearing him out. Besides, the President had already made it clear that he held the strongest hand.

  “Politics is a dirty business,” he said, his gaze turning downward in an instinctual move used by most people unconsciously trying to hide from the truth. He spoke quietly but otherwise made no effort to conceal the nature of our conversation. My mind drifted back to the days of Watergate and the taping system that Nixon had used in this very room. From Pendleton’s frank words, I concluded that there was no such system in place now.

  “Not everyone plays by the rules,” he continued, and I had to stifle a laugh. The game of politics might have rules, but most people had long since given up thinking these rules were designed for everyone.

  Pendleton stood and stared out the window with his back to me. The move required that he raise his voice a bit more, another clue that what he was about to say was less sensitive than what he had already revealed. He might not have known what his body language revealed, but I did.

  “Someone is trying to blackmail me. The files he has are made up of course, fictions made up about things I have supposedly said or done in private, people that I knew but didn’t disclose, and ideas that I supported but denied. He’s willing to attack my family, figuratively or literally.”

  “Who is it?”

  “That doesn’t matter just now,” he said. “But he has collected enough of this crap that he could use it against me in the next election.”

  I thought we were talking about his family, but Pendleton made it clear that this was politics. Besides, the ‘family’ angle was overused. It was the most common misdirection employed by politicians, and I quickly picked up physical tells that revealed his prevarication. Sergeant Randal’s scowl came to mind, so I didn’t try to analyze the President’s skin tone, pupil dilation, or other factors. But I also had complete faith in my innate ability.

  The President was not telling the truth, at least not all of it. Maybe some of the information was true, but probably this person he was talking about had corralled enough information to cause trouble for him.

  “What else can you tell me? And what do you want me to do about it?”

  “He has some records,” Pendleton resumed his description, now walking around the desk in a complete circuit before returning to me, almost like he was pacing. He stood next to me, hovering a bit, when he continued.

  “They are probably not here in the U.S.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “He has a lot of friends around the world. And he has assured me that I could ‘shake every tree in America’ and not find his files.”

  “Then where?”

  Pendleton sat on the edge of the Resolute Desk, one knee swung up on the surface so that his lower leg dangled. He paused to take another sip of the now cooled coffee.

  “There are three likely places – Berlin, Mendoza, and Vienna – but I’ve checked out Berlin and Mendoza through other channels. Frankly, I can’t completely cross them off the list, but my money is on Vienna. Austria, that is, not Virginia.”

  “Why there?”

  “He has invested a lot of money and kept it off the books in the States. I found out that he deals with a company called DFR-Wien, a bank that is headquartered in Vienna. They manage large portfolios for customers around the world, and they offer additional levels of security gratis for their high rollers.”

  “Like?”

  “Complete secrecy.”

  That’s a red herring. In my business, we know there is no such thing as complete secrecy. ‘No secret is known to only one person,’ Sergeant Randal often reminded us.

  “So, you think that in addition to the money he has invested at this bank – DFR, right? – this guy is holding information about you that would endanger your career and possibly your family?”

  I ripped off the end of that sentence without pausing. A corollary to my being able to pick up on other people’s lies was learning how to sound convincing on my own. If my voice had broken as I said, “possibly your family,” Pendleton might have sensed – even in an unconscious way – that I doubted him. For now, I knew that I should keep him believing that I believed him.

  “Yes,” was his terse reply.

  Chapter Four

  April 14

  Cantinetta Antinori, Vienna

  The heartbeat of Vienna is felt most keenly in Stephansplatz, a great square at the junction of several streets with massive stone churches, sculptured fountains, and monuments to the past intermingled with the chrome and glass restaurants and bars of the present.

  Towering over all is St. Stephen’s Cathedral, known to the Austrians as Stephansdom, an immense Gothic-style church that dates from the 14th Century. Like other churches that dominate the streets of medieval cities, this one has been host and witness to years and years of historic events in Vienna. Saints and sinners, politicians, statesmen, and charlatans all vying for the attention of the crowd, whatever the century. Whenever I walk through the squares and grand avenues of Europe, I understand Americans’ fascination with European culture better, especially considering how so much of it is rooted in the seamless – though often troubling – mingling of Church and State. Just as Americans stand in awe of the Church-State marriage that typifies Old Europe, that same mingling is expressly – though often inadequately – banned in the United States.

  Cantinetta Antinori sits on a quiet street just off the main plaza and down from St. Stephen’s Cathedral. It’s a classic ristorante with a superb menu that is considered the best among the best of excellent Italian eating establishments sprinkled throughout the city.

  On my way to dinner at the Cantinetta, and approaching too early for my reservation, I stopped by the Onyx bar across the plaza from Stephansdom for a cocktail before dinner. The bar is on the second floor of the DO & CO Hotel and features a glass wall and front row view of the crowds milling about below on Stephansplatz. Malach was behind the counter, swirling a towel through the interior of a large wine glass to dry and polish it, when I entered.

  “Guten abend,” he said with cheer. I had met Malach on a prior visit to Vienna. He prided himself on two things: gossip about the celebrities who passed through his bar, and the velvety smooth cocktails he concocted, blending sweetness and texture from the ingredients to seductively disguise the alcohol and, in so doing, get his customers’ tongues a-wagging. I had to secretly admire his approach. Perhaps his means of getting at the truth was even better than my own.

  “Good evening to you too, Malach,” I responded, settling onto the bar stool in front of him. Since I was alone, I didn’t need to take up one of the small, knee-height settees that crowded the glass view overlooking Stephansplatz. Besides, I enjoyed the conversation with Malach and looked forward to the endless stream of stories about the glitterati who frequented the Onyx.

  “So, who’s been here lately?” I asked.

  He set the glass down on the counter and leaned in towards me. He didn’t intend to whisper or conceal his next comments about the famous people who came to enjoy his drinks. Instead, he used this rather obvious maneuver to get the attention of customers sitting nearby that an important story was in the offing.

  “George Clooney,” he said, though he shrugged his shoulders. “But he was less interesting to me than the beautiful Amal Alamuddin.”

  So, Malach was more interested in Clooney’s spouse – equally accomplished as her husband – than in the guy whose face was spread across the billboards of Viennese movie houses on this very day.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Friendly. Very friendly,” h
e said, resuming his polishing of the wine glass. “I was pleased. He asked me for my best cocktail,” Malach began, but smiled. “How can I tell him my best? They are all good!”

  I had to laugh. Bartenders are taught to be good listeners, but I had learned from past visits that Malach was a talker, not a listener.

  “What did you fix for him?”

  “Well, he asked about vodka, so I blended it with vermouth, Campari, and a hint of ginger.”

  “That’s not far off from a Negroni,” I said in protest.

  “Of course, it is far off from that. It’s mine!”

  “And Amal?”

  “She only drinks wine. Fine wine.”

  While we talked, Malach began mixing a drink. With a flourish, he presented it to me, although I hadn’t ordered anything yet.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “Campari and soda,” he replied simply.

  “That’s not completely true, is it?”

  “Well, Campari and soda is a common drink in Italy, but I make it uncommonly here. You are going to Cantinetta Antinori for dinner, yes?”

  I hadn’t told him this, but only smiled at his intuition.

  “You always stop by here on your way to the Cantinetta,” he continued, making light of my apparent confusion. Maybe he was also a bit clairvoyant, another trait that I envied.

  I lifted the tumbler and examined it with my eyes first, then looked at Malach for an answer to my question.

  “Amaro,” he added, indicating a smooth liqueur favored by Italians. “Just a few drops.”

  I settled in with my drink while Malach attended to other guests at the bar. Swinging to the side on my barstool, I looked out the windows onto the plaza below, observing the throngs of tourists who wound through the streets and around the cathedral. It was a typical spring evening in Vienna, with occasional notes of a cooling breeze piercing the calm warmth of the earlier hours. The pedestrians below were enjoying the fresh air and lights of the city, and we – comfortable in the plush seating of the Onyx Bar above – were enjoying our people-watching from above.