by Dick Rosano
When I had finished the drink, I thanked Malach, dropped a twenty Euro note on the bar and headed back to the elevators to return to the street level below.
“Buona sera,” Malach called after me as I lifted my hand in salute and retreated to the lobby.
Three young people in business attire stepped out of the elevator as the doors opened. I held the door for the last of them and stepped into the empty carriage. After a quick descent to the street level, I exited the hotel from the corner doorway of the building, turned to my right and headed toward the Cantinetta.
Luca greeted me at the door as he had on each previous visit. He was familiar with my published articles and even the occasional mention of the Cantinetta Antinori itself when my visits to the city justified reference to my time in Vienna.
“Buona sera, Signor Priest,” he said, shaking my hand. “È passato molto tempo.”
“Sì, sì,” I said, without making any excuses for the passage of time since my last visit.
I settled into the small table to the left of the service bar and was greeted warmly by the other waiters. I had met each of them on several occasions in my visits to Vienna, and they remembered me for this but most likely for the generous tips I left.
“Risotto con tartufi,” I said to Luca while spreading the napkin on my lap. I couldn’t suppress a grin, knowing that he would not be able to produce my favorite risotto with the white truffles of Piedmont.
“Non è la stagione,” he replied. “No matter how much you like the white truffle, it’s not available in April.”
“Sì,” I responded with a smile. “Regrettably. But there are so many other dishes to choose from here, non è vero?”
Luca nodded with confidence, and I allowed him to choose my dinner.
The waiter brought a glass of Prosecco, a sparkling wine that had gained many followers in recent years. Then he settled a basket of rolls and bread on the table and poured a bit of olive oil onto the small plate by its side. I sampled the wine and tore off a bite-size chunk of the still-warm bread to dip into the olive oil that he brought to the table.
Several minutes later, a small serving of Gamberi con pomodoro arrived, shrimp with tomatoes and avocadoes over which a saffron mayonnaise had been spread. The tomato accompaniment embellished the sweet flavors of the shrimp which had been grilled to perfection, and the saffron mayo completed the taste sensation. He had chosen the wine well – the Prosecco paired beautifully with the dish.
After I consumed this course, the waiter whisked away the plates and the empty flute of wine and Luca looked in my direction for approval. I nodded and smiled, and he returned the gesture, full of confidence that I had been well treated.
The Cantinetta Antinori has collected a sumptuous wine list with a foundation of Antinori wines, but it also boasted an impressive assortment of other estates that had been acquired during Piero Antinori’s stewardship. Luca knew that I preferred the simple pleasures of Santa Cristina, a Tuscan red wine produced by the Antinori estate, so I was not surprised that the waiter brought a glass of it to my table. I could tell the wine’s identity by its forward aromas and supple texture, an astonishingly well-made wine for an easy price, and I tipped the glass in Luca’s direction, thanking him for remembering my preference.
Next came a plate of Stinco d’agnello stracotto, lamb shank that had been braised in red wine until the meat fell easily from the bone. The mixture of potatoes and plums served on the side were an added surprise and I knew that I hadn’t tasted this combination before. There was no time to fixate on lost memories, however; instead, I used my fork to dive into the assorted pleasures of the plate.
Twenty minutes passed, then more, as I enjoyed the dish and relaxed in between bites.
“Tutto bene?” Luca asked. “Everything is good?”
Caught with the glass of Santa Cristina at my lips, I could only smile and nod, and he returned to his station before moving toward another table that needed his attention.
The waiter removed the empty plate and now-empty wine glass but held out his hand to me, palm down, indicating that I should not be in a hurry and suggesting that the meal was not over yet. I had left myself to their intuition and not ordered anything thus far, and yet I knew that they were planning another course, and probably more wine.
A tiny glass of Vin Santo came first, Italy’s famous dessert wine, followed quickly by Sorbetto di fragole, a sorbet of strawberries served with a sprig of mint lazily leaning against the rim of the martini-style glass. It was refreshing and invigorating at the same time, and the Vin Santo was smooth and delicious, a golden nectar that coated the tongue and back palate.
“And, where to now?” Luca asked as I finished the repast.
“There is a wine tasting at Ristorante Firenze Enoteca tomorrow night,” I replied.
“Sì,” he responded, “I know of it. But it is good that you come here for dinner first.”
His smile reminded me of the friendly competition that the Italian restaurants in Vienna shared. They each had their followers and, despite Luca’s light disparagement, he had nothing against the Enoteca.
“Yes, it is good that I have,” I said, spreading my hands to indicate my presence for dinner on that evening.
“No, but I mean for tomorrow!” he answered. “You will come back again for dinner before the tasting?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “We’ll see,” but I doubted that I could manage another meal at Cantinetta on the brink of a tasting at the Enoteca.
A double espresso appeared soon afterward, and I leaned back to enjoy the aromas of roasted beans that the drink held in the cup. One sip, then another, and by the third sip the tiny cup was empty. But such is the way with espresso. It is best when hot and quick.
Chapter Five
April 15
Cascade Bar
My evening ended with the dinner. Although the center of Vienna here at Stephansplatz offered many bars and nightclubs, and I was tempted to find a seat in one of them, I decided instead to return to the Marriott for the night.
This morning, I drew my encrypted flash drive from the safe tucked into the cabinet in my room. It had all my files so I knew that I had not lost everything when the computer went missing; but without the computer, I couldn’t access them. I knew that I couldn’t put the device into a hotel computer; this practice was frowned upon in any sensitive work since the mere act of inserting it into a public computer’s USB port could transfer at least “ghosts” of the files from the flash drive.
I needed a computer, either the old one back or a new one altogether. Not knowing when I might see my computer again, I decided to go out in search of a store to buy a new one.
Finding such a convenience was not hard in Vienna, a city that was as modern as any other in Europe. There were Apple stores aplenty, and other small and large shops specializing in tablets, notepads, cell phones, and computers. A few blocks from the hotel I found a store that had the things I needed. I bought a laptop, paid to have the clerk upload all the necessary operating systems, and promised to return later in the afternoon to pick it up.
Meanwhile, I returned to the hotel for a midday meal and to review written notes that I would drop into the computer files once I had the opportunity. I sat at the Cascade Bar in the back of the Marriott lobby when I heard a voice from my right.
“Mr. Priest?”
The waitress approached me as I sipped the wine in my glass.
“Yes?”
“There is a phone call for you.”
I instinctively picked up my cell phone, which didn’t make sense since she couldn’t be talking about my own phone.
“Where?”
“At the front desk.”
Anyone who knew that I was at the Parkring Marriott would know my cell phone number. But I followed the finger she pointed in the direction of the broad front desk of the hotel. This was a particularly large lobby, spacious enough to include a substantial lounge area for arriving guests to cool their heels wh
ile waiting for their ‘I’m-sorry-not-ready-yet’ rooms, a huge spiral staircase designed by a Hollywood wannabe for staging wedding processions, a sprawling open-space restaurant, and this sweeping cocktail lounge with waterfalls. All in one long, wide space. Champions bar was at the other end, toward the street, and its casual sports-oriented atmosphere was a clear counterpoint to the elegance of this hotel lobby.
I took a quick gulp of the Catena Malbec, then stood and made my way around the restaurant, past the staircase, and up to the desk. Antoine, the tall handsome Austrian youth who had checked me when I arrived, was holding the phone out to me as I approached.
“She sounds nice,” he said with a lilting voice.
“Hello?” I asked after placing the phone to my ear.
“Mr. Priest, this is Inspector Weber. We have found your computer. Or, should I say, it has found us. We’d like to speak with you about its contents.”
That didn’t sound good. It was obvious that the police had already opened my files, or someone’s files left on there.
“I can come by tomorrow,” I said. That even sounded to me like a dodge.
“I have sent a car over to the hotel to pick you up.”
I looked to my left, out of the glass revolving door at the entrance of the hotel and saw two uniformed men standing beside a white Volkswagen Passat, staring back at me in the lobby.
“Okay,” I said turning my attention back to Weber on the desk phone. “I guess I’ll see you soon. I’ll just go up to my room and get my jacket.”
Before my words had even left my lips, the two armed men jumped into action and charged into the lobby, stopping quietly by my side. One lifted the receiver from my hand while the other placed a hand gently on my shoulder blade.
“This way, sir,” he said as they guided me out to the Passat.
Chapter Six
April 15
Police Inspectorate
Fortunately, my escorts didn’t put on the siren or lights as they drove through the streets of Vienna. True, my face was probably obscured by the tinted windows in the back of their sedan, but anonymity suited me best.
This was my third trip to Vienna, the first one three years ago on another assignment; the second and most recent visit just three weeks back to prep for my current work. Neither trip was for idle tourism and my penchant for organization had already mapped out a clear understanding of Vienna’s roads and neighborhoods. The historic center of the city included most of what people come to Vienna to see, including historic sites, museums, churches, and palaces. The Marriott Parkring that I chose for each visit is situated on the edge of this area and is a favorite of tourists whose plans included visiting the Mozart house, the remains of the apartment where Antonio Vivaldi died, the famous Plague Monument, and some of Austria’s best restaurants all clustered into a very walkable area. Not to slight the Hofberg and Schönbrunn palaces and the Staatsoper opera house, but this was the center of the city’s nightlife.
I saw only a little of this central part of Vienna as I was driven along Johannesgasse, across the bridge and onto Obere Donaustraße, then right onto Hollandstraße. Even without a siren, the driver sped through the streets, pausing only slightly before crossing intersections, and onto Leopoldsgasse before twisting the Passat suddenly to the right, into an empty parking space in front of the police station.
Both men exited their doors from the front seat. The officer on the passenger side stepped back to my door, opened it, and signaled for me to step out of the car.
“This way, Mr. Priest,” he said kindly, although I could easily detect an icy veneer in his voice.
The officer who had been driving the car made his way around the vehicle, bounded up the few steps in front of the station, and held open the door to the building. I followed him up the steps as his partner took up a position behind me. They escorted me past a uniformed officer at the front desk – not having to check in I suppose meant that my appointment had already been arranged – and into a small room beyond. I had to smile at the windowless room and its bare walls, just like in the movies. I reflexively looked up to see if there was a single bare light bulb hanging from the ceiling but saw instead that the light in the room was supplied by a simple floor lamp in the corner.
I was told to sit in the chair by the table, and that Inspector Weber would be with me in a few moments.
It was more like a half hour. My escorts didn’t search me or ask any questions, but they did confiscate my cell phone.
“It will be returned to you when you leave,” I was told. “It’s just protocol. We don’t allow personal phones in the station,” he explained, although I could see the bulge of a cell phone in his uniform shirt pocket.
The door opened quietly, and Inspector Weber appeared. She walked through the opening while staring at a piece of paper in her hand, navigating the room with a familiarity that comes only with frequent visits to such a setting. I was called to the precinct because they had found a computer believed to be mine, but she didn’t have one with her.
“Why are you in Vienna, Mr. Priest?” she asked without looking at me. She was still studying the paper as she reached out to pull back the chair she would sit in.
“I am here for a wine tasting. You see, I am a…”
“Wine writer,” Weber said, studying the paper.
“Yes, of course,” I admitted, and I relaxed a bit knowing that she was referring to my cover name, not my actual identity. I knew that my computer would not give away anything about Armando Listrani. But the Austrian polizei and Interpol are very adept at connecting the dots. I also knew that the U.S. government had not been flawless about protecting my birth name and identity since I surrendered my security clearance a few years ago.
“What are the wines that you are tasting? Austrian? And what will you do with the results of your…let’s say, research?”
Again, the multiple questions. I fought back the urge to smile back at her. The misdirection she used was very skilled, but common in interrogations. Trying to formulate answers to more than a single question often caused unprepared witnesses to admit the truth without realizing it.
“It’s a dinner, hosted by Ristorante Firenze…”
“On Singerstraße,” Weber said.
“Exactly. Plus, the restaurant includes Italian wines that appear in many Austrian markets.”
“Why Italian? Is there something wrong with Austrian wines? And why not at the Cantinetta Antinori?”
I paused, taking her measure, and carefully considered the answer to each of the questions before replying.
“Why not Italian?” I repeated. “They are certainly enjoyed by the Austrians, too. And no, there’s nothing wrong with Austrian wines; they’re very good, in fact. I like to eat at Cantinetta Antinori, but Ristorante Firenze is known for its wine list.”
Weber put down her pen and stared at me.
“Why are you in Vienna?”
“Like I said, for a…”
“Wine tasting. Right.”
“Tonight, in fact,” I added. “Perhaps you should…”
Just then the door opened, and an officer entered with a slip of paper that he passed to Weber. Then he took up a seat in the corner of the room. Weber unfolded the paper and read it quickly, then folded it back again and set it down on the table.
She looked at me with a show of impatience.
“I wasn’t invited, Mr. Priest, as you should know, since this is a tasting reserved for wine and food writers. Not for servants of the Austrian government, such as myself.”
“Still,” I began, “it will be…”
“Are you staying longer? Beyond the tasting?”
“Why should I leave? I like Vienna and always try to avail myself of the opera, restaurants, and bars of the city when I am here.”
“You have been here three times, Mr. Priest.” She picked up her stack of papers and began reading from them.
“You do seem to like the restaurants, particularly the ones with long wine li
sts, and you have been to the opera once, three years ago, to see Falstaff. What did you think, Mr. Priest?”
“Of what?”
“Falstaff. It was December…”
“Seventh,” I filled in. “In Two Thousand Sixteen, yes. It was quite good.”
She regarded me carefully and checked the notes on the page in her hand, nodding ever so slightly to concur in the date I have provided. I could tell that she was trying to decide whether my exact recall of the date three years past indicated a good memory or an orchestrated attempt to sound convincing.
She flipped several pages back and continued.
“But you don’t shop,” she added. “There’s no record of purchases on your credit card. No souvenirs, no artwork, no t-shirts.” Dropping the pages back on the table, she added, “No jewelry. Do you not have a wife or girlfriend, Mr. Priest? Vienna is known for its fine jewelry.”
“I just window shop.”
Weber stared at me for a long beat. And another. Then she picked up the slip of paper brought in by the other officer.
“We have your computer. It showed up here without notice. It was left on top of the garbage can outside the station’s entrance. Of course, we wanted to know whose it was, and what was on it.”
She glanced at the paper again.
“So, we opened the laptop and then began opening files on it.”
I was suspicious already, since my computer was password protected and the police could not have opened it without breaking the code. Not that they lacked the skill to do this, but oftentimes, when illicit activity is suspected, the police would follow strict protocol to protect the legitimacy of evidence as well as its chain of custody. So, they would ask for permission from the owner before opening the files. Weber and her colleagues skipped this part of police procedure, although maybe the events thus far convinced them that protocol could be dispensed with this time.
