The Vienna Connection

by Dick Rosano

  “Mike, you’ve looked at the funding bill for HHS, right?”

  Pendleton nodded, but hooked his finger and pointed out to the West Colonnade.

  “Well, it looks good on paper,” Ebert continued, walking toward the door but not willing to wait till they had the privacy of a walk outside the Oval Office. “But some nobody-congressman from Connecticut slipped a freebie in there,” he said as they stepped through the doorway into the shade of the colonnade.

  “What kind of freebie?”

  “Not free for the government. It’ll cost us twenty-seven million.”

  “What does it do?” pressed Pendleton.

  “It funds some research and publishes brochures on the availability of health insurance plans.”

  “Which plans?”

  “Basically, all of them,” said Ebert.

  “What’s the problem with that? Shouldn’t people get to know their options?”

  “Oh, sure,” the Senator said with a theatrical agreement that sounded more like condescending impatience. “Let’s spend more money to help people who should be doing their own due diligence.”

  “Not everyone can,” Pendleton suggested. “Insurance plans, tax forms, all that stuff. It’s a labyrinth for most people….”

  “You mean most people who didn’t bother to get a decent education in the first place,” complained Ebert. “Mike, we can’t just throw more money at these things. Do I agree that people should carefully weigh their options? Sure. But do I think the government should shell out millions to weigh their options for them? No.”

  Pendleton looked down as they walked, considering what the Senator was saying.

  “I think…”

  “No,” interrupted the senator. “You think that ‘times are tough, and we’ve got to stop wasting money.’ That’s what you’ll say.”

  The President looked at the Majority Leader and knew that the game was on. Ebert was there to lobby for him to veto the measure or let him fight it out in the trenches. And he knew that if the Senator was against something, he would leverage all his power to veto it.

  “Not sure, yet,” Pendleton said.

  Ebert stopped and turned toward the President, causing him to stop, but a couple of feet away.

  “Just read it, and we’ll talk,” the Senator said.

  Then he continued down the path to leave the White House grounds.

  Chapter Eight

  April 15

  Washington, D.C., and Vienna

  “Hey,” Ebert said into the phone pressed to his left ear. “You need to check into something for me.”

  At the other end of the Majority Leader’s call was Simone Frontiere, the recently appointed American Ambassador to Austria.

  “What is it?” she responded.

  “I picked up some scuttlebutt about a guy named Darren Priest. He’s in Vienna right now,” then Ebert paused. “Are you there? I mean, you’re in Vienna right now, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, Willy. I’m in Vienna. Who’s Darren Priest?”

  “Don’t know, actually. And I don’t know what he’s up to. But I heard someone from Bordrick’s office say that Mike, I mean Pendleton, sent Priest to poke around in your backyard. Have you heard anything about that?”

  “No. Is this Priest guy a spook? An insider? What’s his connection to Pendleton?”

  “Don’t know. And the President’s got too many things on his mind right now. We’ve got legislation pending on immigration, softening up the economy, and building defenses. I’m afraid that Mike’s been bitten by some rumor and he’s been distracted by something. He’s paying more attention to Vienna than he is to the economy, the election, and the bills that we’re trying to get through the Congress.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Find Priest, first. See what he’s up to.”

  Frontiere paused for a moment, holding the phone to her ear but not knowing how to respond.

  “I doubt that he’s just going to tell me why the President sent for him,” Frontiere interjected. “Do you have anything to go on? It would help if I had a clue, something that I could throw at this guy to get him to open up.”

  “Nothing. Again, Mike’s a little skittish right now. We’ve got a lot on our plate, and I’m trying to push some initiatives through Congress. I can’t have the President’s brain occupied with bullshit.”

  “Yeah, I know,” said Frontiere. She was familiar with Ebert, and familiar with his zero tolerance for agendas that differed from his own.

  “I don’t want him being led off on some wild goose chase,” he offered to further his concern.

  “Okay. I’ll look into it,” she agreed. “I assume this Priest guy registered with the consulate. I’ll start there.”

  “Right,” Ebert said. “Oh, wait, I just remembered something. Bordrick’s guy said Priest is a writer.”

  “A writer? How does that help me?”

  “Don’t know. A wine writer or something,” Ebert concluded.

  But Frontiere was already clicking off the phone. She knew most of the big social events in Vienna and, as American Ambassador, she was invited to all of them. She knew there was a wine tasting that evening at the Enoteca Firenze. If Priest was a wine writer, he would be there.

  Ebert pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at the dead thing for three seconds, then lowered it to his side.

  “Hmmm,” he said aloud. “That was quick.”

  He and Frontiere had a long history together, one that neither of them would report to their spouses. He had enjoyed her presence in his bed, and she had enjoyed his influence in the halls of power. Frontiere’s husband was a non-entity, a colorless academic who cared more for his books than he did for his wife’s great looks and dazzling intellect. It probably explained why he, Ernie Fields, remained back in Arlington when Simone Frontiere was posted to Vienna. The separation suited them both. Ernie could sequester himself in his library; Simone could mingle at the many society balls and glamorous restaurants of Europe.

  Ebert had placed the call while standing at the edge of the Reflecting Pool at the foot of the steps leading up to the Capitol building. He pushed the phone into his front pants pocket but remained at the pool for a moment. Tourists always flocked to Washington in the spring and this was no exception. By mid-July the streets, museums, and kid-centered events would be crowded with people of all races, sizes, and ages. Right in front of him, kids with non-Washington accents were skipping through the shallow waters of the pool – against the rules, noted Ebert – prompting in him a desire to say something. It’s not that he was driven by a respect for the city’s cherished monuments; he just liked to order people around.

  He chose to avoid contact since he didn’t want to be recognized and have his confrontational behavior mentioned in The Washington Post. Instead, he turned toward the gleaming stone edifice of the U.S. Capitol, admired what he considered to be his own personal office building, and climbed the steps.

  Chapter Nine

  April 15

  Ristorante Firenze Enoteca, Vienna

  The Ristorante Firenze Enoteca adjoins the Hotel Royal on Singerstraße, only steps from the constant hub-hub of Stephansplatz. Known for its authentic Italian food, the restaurant is most highly regarded as an enoteca, a wine library or wine specialty house. It was a logical setting for Vienna’s showcase of Italian wines, with its faux marble columns, arched ceilings, life-size Romanesque sculptures, and wall paintings. I had eaten there once before, finding the menu more than adequate and the food quite well prepared. But the big draw was the wine list.

  Since an event of this stature depended on timing, the restaurant staff sequestered the arriving guests in the lobby of the hotel, keeping the doors between the two establishments politely guarded by the maître d’hotel. Peeking through the glass doors that separated us from the wine tasting, I could see lots of activity, waiters straightening up the tables, arranging the glasses, pulling corks from the wines to be tasted, and so on. To keep the
thirsty wine pros at bay, trays of sparkling wine were passed around, bubbly that I quickly recognized as LaMarca Prosecco, a simple yet pleasing sparkling wine. It was a staple back home so it was easy for me to identify, but I knew that the restaurant’s wine list was stocked with many world-class bottles – which I hoped would be featured at the tasting.

  The waiters also passed around cocktails – Aperol spritzers, Campari and soda, and a house special cocktail – but these were generally declined by wine tasters trying to avoid numbing their palates with high alcohol drinks before the tasting.

  I scanned the crowd and considered the many nationalities and professions of those in attendance. I have always tried to remain easy-going and casual about the mythology of wine, but it looked as though some of the writers and wine professionals in the lobby came across as a bit stuffy. For decades, the culture of fine wine had attracted snooty know-it-alls who insisted not only that their opinion was correct and verifiable, but that the ‘neo-wine’ fans needed to pay close attention to the pronouncements of these wine cognoscenti. This high-brow approach to the subject kept college grads and young professionals from experimenting with the grape and it took a new generation of writers – those who would willingly review a box wine, for example – to bring the next horde of young consumers into the fold. I considered myself a member of this latter class and I felt privileged to taste, review, and write about wines – even those that people might open on any given Tuesday as readily as on a special Saturday night.

  “Hello,” I heard from behind me. It was a woman’s voice that I didn’t recognize.

  I turned around to see a very attractive woman dressed in a white and silver gown that had a shimmering lacy tunic covering the fabric and a hem that ended abruptly three inches above her knees. The neckline was scooped low and a string of green and blue glass beads with a single large stone was suspended from the low point in the curve and nestled in the deep well between her breasts.

  “I’m Simone,” she said, extending her hand. She looked to be in her mid-fifties. Her hair was carefully styled and blonde, and I picked up a subtle aroma of perfume that had the unambiguous air of sex about it.

  “I’m Darren,” I replied, taking her hand gently in mine. “Simone, you say. The American ambassador’s name sounds just like that.”

  “Oh, I’m so glad, because that’s who I am.”

  She played the mature coquette but didn’t idle long on a self-congratulatory response about how I knew the name of the ambassador. Instead, she enjoyed being known without introductions.

  “What brings you here, Darren?”

  “I am a wine writer. From the States, actually. Not local.”

  “Of course,” she said, slowly releasing my hand. “You didn’t sound Austrian.”

  “And what brings you here, Madame Frontiere?”

  “Please, Simone,” she said, smiling brightly back at me.

  “Of course. Simone. What brings you here?”

  “Great wine! I don’t have to write about it to want to drink it.”

  I had heard stories about her and descriptions of her beauty and sharp intellect. I had also heard stories about how her husband had remained at home in the States while she relocated to Vienna. Frontiere was a great student of international politics and a highly educated woman, but she was also known to be quite a flirt. I was getting a firsthand introduction to the latter, and I suspected that I would somehow be introduced to her intellectual abilities also.

  “Do you find this wine attractive?” she asked, raising the glass of Prosecco as if I didn’t know what she was drinking. Her hand held it at the level of her blue eyes, which sparkled in the light of the chandeliers, no doubt a practiced gesture for her.

  Staring directly into her eyes and enjoying the contact, I replied “yes,” and smiled back.

  The low murmur of conversations among the crowd was silenced by the opening of the doors that led into the restaurant.

  “Please,” said the maître d’hotel, and with a flourish his hand waved us toward the door that opened into the tasting. “Bitte.” – “please,” he added.

  I held out my right elbow to Simone and she slipped her hand through the crook of my arm as we walked toward the wine tasting.

  “Will you guide me?” she asked for effect, pretending to be the uninitiated wine consumer.

  “I doubt that you will need me to do that,” I replied.

  The few moments of silence as we entered the restaurant allowed me the time to wonder why she approached me in the anteroom. I was not the only young man in the crowd, and certainly not the most attractive. As I scanned the collected guests, I could tell that I was also not the only American. And I knew that I did not comport myself as an easy target.

  “Mr. Priest…” she said, but I interrupted.

  “Please, Darren.”

  “Yes,” she replied with a suggestive smile and a gentle squeeze of my arm. “Which wine do you prefer from Italy?”

  She had used my last name, an obvious slip, and Simone only realized it after it was too late. I had introduced myself simply as Darren, an occupational necessity to avoid last names until necessity required it. But she knew my surname and carelessly used it in her question. She may have realized her faux pas, but I reacted quickly so as to cover the gap in the conversation and pretend that I didn’t notice.

  “Oh, I have many favorite categories. There are the ‘Three B’s’ as they’re called.”

  “Really. I’ve never heard that before. What does that mean?”

  “Barolo, Barbaresco, and Brunello. The ‘Three B’s.’ That gives short shrift to the classic wines of Chianti, the subtle white wines of Alto Adige and Trentino, and the vibrant reds of Sicily…as well as many others. But the American buying public is stuck on the ‘Three B’s,’ plus Chianti.”

  “Huh,” she uttered, and for the first time I found her attention drawn to the wine. She took hold of my hand – a gesture with immediate intimacy – and dragged me toward a table that held a bevy of Chianti Classicos.

  “How about these?” she asked. “Where should we begin?”

  “Well, actually,” I said, sweeping my hand around the room. “We need to begin on a grander scale.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “When I go to a tasting, I assume that I can taste upwards of fifty wines. Spitting, of course, but more than that and I lose focus.”

  “That’s a lot of wine,” she said, almost in a schoolgirl giggle.

  “Yes, sure, but we have about one hundred fifty here tonight.”

  Simone followed the sweep of my hand around the room.

  “So, we should begin by deciding how many we want to taste, or what regions or types of wine we want to focus on.”

  “What do you suggest? Is there a focus of your article?”

  Another slip – I had not said anything about writing up this event. It may have been an unconscious reference, but her comment caught me in a trap. To maintain my cover as a wine writer, I had to ignore her mistake and have a ready answer for her question.

  “I cellar the ‘three B’s’ and have to resist the temptation to open one each night, but Ristorante Firenze is showcasing their great collection of Super Tuscans, wines that sometimes blend foreign grapes – Cabernet, Merlot, so on – with indigenous fruit like Sangiovese to avoid the stylistic limitations of the Italian regulations.”

  “Okay, then,” Simone said, pulling me in the direction of a table that sported wines from Antinori, Querceto, San Guido, and Angelo Gaja. Her quick understanding of the wines that I was talking about made me realize that she was not the novice that she pretended to be.

  I settled into my wine nerd persona, sipping and spitting, and asking the person serving the wine questions about tonnage, harvest conditions, and brix. Simone stood gracefully by, sipping – but not spitting – and occasionally touching my arm to ask a question of her own. I quietly marveled at how she could stand among a bunch of people sipping red wine and not somehow nud
ge someone into spoiling that white dress.

  We worked our way through the wines on the table, then spied another table set with samples of the Super Tuscans and proceeded in that direction.

  “So, this is what you do with your time?” she asked playfully.

  “It’s rough work,” I said with a grin, “but somebody’s got to do it.”

  As we walked between tables, I took advantage of the very small slice of privacy when not bellied up to the next tasting to ask a personal question.

  “So, Madame…uh, excuse me, Simone. Does your husband also enjoy wine?”

  “I don’t think so,” she said matter-of-factly. “I don’t really know, to tell you the truth.”

  There had been rumors in the media for a while that Ernie Fields and Simone Frontiere lived together but largely separately. I wasn’t trying to pry, and I surely didn’t want to flirt, but I always want to get the sense of people in my sphere, so I know how to react to them.

  “He drinks an occasional glass of wine,” she continued, “but he’s not here. Not here in Vienna.” She completed the sentence with a hint of suggestion.

  “That’s so unfortunate,” I replied. “I’m sure he misses your company.”

  With a quick sip of the wine glass in her hand, Simone dismissed the thought.

  “Oh, I’m sure he does. But I have important work to do.”

  “And,” I added with a tip of the glass that I held, “important wine tastings to attend.”

  Simone smiled and lifted her glass to me.

  “Well, a girl’s gotta have fun.”

  Chapter Ten

  April 16

  Café Central

  The event at Ristorante Firenze was as good as billed. The wines were spectacular, and I had the chance to taste some that were not available in the States. Sipping my way through about fifty wines as planned, I carried Simone through the protocol and was rewarded with increasingly flirtatious comments and body touches.