The Vienna Connection

by Dick Rosano

  “I need about a week to free them from their restraints in the U.S., then about another week to exchange them through the various currencies.”

  “A week?” Eichner sounded doubtful. “Electronic transmissions are instantaneous. Why so long?”

  “Monetary exchanges remain live for viewing by oversight organizations, but only for a few hours and no more than a few days. If I convert the funds too often through too many outlets without pausing, it will attract attention.”

  Eichner nodded.

  “I need to set up the process here, Mr. Priest. I will begin immediately, but I need to know a little more. For example, how much are we talking about?”

  “Two hundred forty million.”

  It didn’t take the talents of a Best Guess team member to know that Eichner was calculating his ten percent already.

  “Fine,” he said after regaining his composure, then standing. “I will begin immediately.”

  “There’s just one more thing,” I said without rising from the chair. Eichner paused and sat down again.

  “I need a box to store some papers in. You have those, I assume. But I do not want the box to appear on any register.”

  “Yes, Mr. Priest, we have those. And I would be pleased to serve that interest personally.”

  We exchange only a few more small comments, but each of us had a mission and knew what our next steps should be, so I stood, extended my hand to shake Eichner’s, and then I departed the bank.

  Instead of returning to the hotel, though, it was time for lunch, and I wandered by the brewery restaurant that I had discovered on my first trip to Vienna. Sausage and sauerkraut seemed in order, and I could sample another beer from the establishment’s long list.

  Chapter Twelve

  April 16

  1516 Brewing Company

  “Where did you go?”

  The raspy voice was immediately recognizable. But what was Aggie Darwin doing in Vienna, I wondered? Dining alone, I had taken up a spot at the bar rather than at one of the tables around the perimeter of the room. I sat at the corner, though, not wanting my back to be turned to the front door and the all-glass side of the restaurant. The voice came from my left and behind me, from the direction of the restrooms.

  “Nowhere, I guess,” I replied without looking up from my beer. Aggie sat down on the barstool beside me.

  “And everywhere,” I continued. “You know me, Aggie, just a guy trying to get along in the world.”

  Aggie signaled the guy behind the bar and asked for a beer.

  “Been back to Tall Cedars lately?” he asked, leaning on the lacquered bartop.

  “Once in a while,” I replied. The familiarity I felt with Aggie put me immediately at ease, even when I found him in an unfamiliar place. It was like resuming a conversation in mid-stream, a dialogue that we had carried on, then interrupted, only to begin again as if without a pause.

  Aggie and I had met at Tall Cedars commune a while ago, soon after I rotated back to the States and was discharged from the Army. I was told about Tall Cedars by a comrade in arms while in Afghanistan. He said his brother recovered from PTSD at the commune better than at the hands of the doctors treating him at the VA. “Detoxing” he called it. Ridding the mind of the toxins acquired from an endless war. I needed an unconventional remedy for my war woes, something the doctors wouldn’t treat, especially if I remained loyal to my pledge and didn’t tell them what I was involved in. Tall Cedars seemed like an option.

  “Yeah, me too,” Aggie replied. “I remember when you checked in. Plenty of cobwebs in the bell tower. Just like me. But mine were from IEDs blowing parts of my friends to hell and being afraid of stepping on one myself. You? Yours were different.”

  My years of interrogating had involved all sorts of people, from angry terrorists to aggrieved local families who had lost loved ones and built up walls of hate for Americans. I internalized some of their strife and carried it with me. Arnold “Aggie” Darwin had served in the Army too and, even though he didn’t say so, I figured out that he was a drone pilot.

  “Killing from a distance is worse than killing up close,” he had said one afternoon. “You can’t pay your respects for an enemy you never see.”

  “So, where did you go when you left Tall Cedars?” he continued.

  I worked my memory to recall how long ago I had met him. It was about three years, on one of my returns to the quiet collective of peace-minded nature-lovers. But I assumed Aggie meant “where did I go that time a few years ago” – after the first visit. I wasn’t really sure at this point where I had gone or where I had been, although occasional command visits to the Pentagon were not uncommon for me.

  Returning to the present, I lifted my beer mug again for a long draft of the liquid and turned toward Aggie. His ponytail was the same length I remembered, but it had picked up some strands of gray in just the few years since we last saw each other. His stubble of beard was not worn for fashion; he just preferred to remain permanently casual and a bit disheveled. He had on a flannel shirt that hung loosely from his thin shoulders, and his jeans were clean but faded. But his smile was just as infectious as I remembered it, and the sparkle that he had recaptured after his detox at Tall Cedars was still there. I had to smile, grateful that he had found peace.

  “What are you doing in Vienna?” I asked, changing the subject without answering his query.

  He just shrugged his shoulders but turned the question on me.

  “You?”

  “Just sightseeing,” I said. “And tasting wine.”

  For the first time, Aggie looked over at me and displayed a toothy grin.

  “Wine tasting,” he said with a feigned glow of respect. “How’s that? Have you taken up the grape?” he added with a finger tapping my beer glass.

  “Yeah, well, you know,” I offered. But he didn’t really know, so I filled Aggie in on the details of my new calling, explaining how I was a staff writer for The Wine Review and covered events and tastings, mostly in Europe.

  “Nice gig,” he said, impressed. “How’d ya get into that?”

  Now it was time for me to shrug my shoulders in a half answer. My new work wasn’t random, and it wasn’t due to any connections.

  “My family had their own winery in Italy. I guess I grew up knowing more about it than the next guy. I paid attention to what I was tasting, making mental notes on what I liked, what worked and what didn’t, and I read lots of articles. When I was sporting about looking for a career after the Army, I got a call from the editor of the magazine. He asked me if I would write an article on wines from southern Italy, Puglia to be exact, and I said yes.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. Well, yes, I knew of him. I had subscribed to The Wine Review and knew his name.”

  “Why did he call you?”

  “I wondered that myself, but a friend at The Washington Post called one day and asked if I had heard from them yet. It was then that I discovered that my friend had pitched my abilities to The Wine Review, and they decided to take a look at my writing.”

  “So, it worked?” Aggie asked.

  “Yep. Been there for a few years now.”

  “And you can live on that income?”

  “Oh, no,” I laughed. “But I conduct private classes, work at a culinary school nearby, and travel whenever The Wine Review asks me to.”

  “And that’s what brings you to Vienna?” Aggie asked. But I could hear the doubt in his voice.

  “Yeah, sure,” I replied. “For the tasting.”

  “Uh, huh,” he huffed.

  “A wine family from Italy, you say. There are lots of priests in Italy, I’m sure,” he said, making subtle fun of my last name and grinning over the rim of his beer glass, “but it doesn’t sound like an Italian name, my friend.”

  “Family,” was all I offered.

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  “So, if you’re coming to Vienna now,” Aggie began, “you should get to know Toby,” point
ing to the bartender who was drawing another beer for someone. Toby lifted his head in acknowledgement of me and said hello. He was a young guy, short goatee and mustache, and a great head of dark, curly hair.

  I lifted my beer mug in a return gesture.

  “Toby knows every beer served in this place,” Aggie added, “and this place is the best beer hall in Vienna.”

  “I’ll have to remember that.”

  Most of the rest of our conversation steered clear of Tall Cedars, Afghanistan, and all the other personal details of our lives. We shared another round of beer while talking about the Old World pleasures of this city, where we liked to eat and drink, and why there was a Mozart impersonator on every street corner of Vienna.

  “I’ve got to move on,” I said at last. “Time to think about dinner.”

  “Cheers,” Aggie added without much emotion.

  “You never did tell me why you’re in Vienna,” I asked.

  “You’re right. And neither did you.”

  I had quite clearly told him that I was here for a wine tasting, just as clearly as Aggie doubted my story.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Two Weeks Earlier

  Washington, D.C.

  “Is this Mr. Charles Dryden?” Willy Ebert was pacing back and forth at the edge of the Reflecting Pool. It was a pleasantly warm day in Washington, so he left his suit coat back in the office on the Senate wing of the Capitol. His tie was pulled up neat to his collar and tiny beads of sweat were gathering on his temples.

  “Yes,” returned the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line. “Who’s this?”

  “A friend gave me your name. I’d like to talk…”

  “What friend?”

  “Doesn’t matter, if you’re willing to work.”

  Charles “Chuck” Dryden was always willing to work, but he wanted to be careful. From his own cell phone, he could tell that the caller’s number was blocked.

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “There’s a guy in your city right now, an American, that I need to know more about.”

  “Who?” asked Dryden. At least now he could tell that the call was probably coming from across the pond.

  “His name is Darren Priest.”

  Dryden was silent for a moment. He was standing in the lobby of the bank where he worked, DFR-Wien, and didn’t want to continue this phone call too close to strangers, so he walked out through the doors onto the street below. The traffic noise was minimal but would be enough to cover his voice. He turned his back to the doors of the bank and raised the phone once more to his ear. The bottom half of a cruciform tattoo on the back of his wrist was partly obscured by his sleeve.

  “What’s he doing here, that you care so much about?” he asked the thus-far anonymous caller.

  “I don’t know, but someone here…”

  “Where?”

  Ebert paused, but admitted to himself that he would have to at least say he was calling from America.

  “The States. Washington, D.C., to be exact. Someone here sent Priest to Vienna to find something.”

  “What?”

  “Like I said,” Ebert continued. “I don’t know, but I kinda thought the Austrian authorities wouldn’t like somebody snooping around in their backyard.”

  “I’m not one of the Austrian authorities, you know. Did your friend tell you that?”

  Ebert paused. He didn’t want to acknowledge where he got Dryden’s name and phone number.

  “Yes, I figured that out. But I still think you can help. I’d like you to find this Darren Priest, find out what he’s doing, and whether it is something we should be concerned about.”

  “How do I know what you would be concerned about?” Dryden asked.

  “It should become obvious, and I think – knowing the people I work with – it could hurt Austria as much as it hurts America. Are you interested?”

  Dryden didn’t like the caller’s urgent tone. He didn’t particularly care what might hurt either of these countries. But he was interested in getting a side job.

  “Yes,” he replied. “How do we arrange things, between you and me, if I don’t know who you are?”

  “There’s an envelope with ten thousand Euros under your door at home, with a contact number. Call me tomorrow with whatever you find out.”

  Then the line went dead. Ebert punched a couple of numbers on the keypad, was rewarded with a short tone on the earpiece, then dropped the phone into a trash can before climbing the steps back into the Capitol.

  Dryden was impressed with the caller’s efficiency – and generosity. This guy Priest must really be a problem.

  He returned to the bank, explained that he had a personal matter to take care of, and walked out again, waving down a taxi to get him home. Just as he was told, there was an envelope stuffed with bills that had just barely been pushed under the door of his home. Dryden fanned the hundred-Euro notes and smiled. Working at DFR-Wien paid his bills, but these sorts of jobs paid for his retirement.

  It didn’t take long to track Priest down. He was not in Vienna at the moment but had been there just the week before. Dryden’s contacts at the Customs Office told him that Priest had cleared the border, stayed for a few days while boarding at the Marriott Parkring, and then returned to the States by week’s end. It was not immediately apparent what Priest’s objective was, although he had spent considerable time in the library and government offices.

  One thing surprised Dryden: Priest had made a single visit to DFR-Wien, where Dryden worked, and that raised the hair on Dryden’s neck. He asked around, particularly the tellers at DFR who seemed to notice everything, but he got very little in return.

  “A guy like you describe,” began one. “He came in last week, asked whether he could open an account, then left. Of course he could open an account. Why would he ask?”

  Another teller reported that the man seemed to be looking around a lot and asked about opening an account only when he was approached by a bank employee.

  “He just left?” Dryden asked.

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t talk to anyone?”

  “No.”

  Walking out of the bank, Dryden reached for his phone and punched in the number that came with the packet of money.

  “Yes, Dryden,” Ebert said when he answered the call. This phone was also a burner, a throw-away phone intended for a single use.

  “What do you have?” Ebert asked.

  “Found him. He was here in…” Dryden was about to say “here in DFR-Wien” but decided against it. The caller might not even know he worked at that bank. Could be just a coincidence, but he hesitated to say “here.”

  “He was in Vienna, spending some time in records offices, and he visited a bank called DFR-Wien.”

  Ebert grinned at Dryden’s attempt to cover. He knew that Dryden worked at DFR, which was among the reasons that he had called him.

  “What did he do there?”

  “Not much. Asked about opening an account, then left.”

  “That’s it?”

  “Yep. So far.”

  “If he comes back,” Ebert began, “keep tabs on him.”

  “How will I know if he comes back to Vienna?”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  Dryden was impressed that this caller could know so much about a person’s international itineraries, unless Priest really was high on someone’s radar.

  “What do you want me to do?” he asked.

  “Just let me know,” said Ebert.

  “Should I intimidate him? Get information from him?”

  “No. Not yet. I don’t know why he’s there…” Ebert continued, although he was beginning to figure it out. “Don’t do anything physical. Keep me posted, and then we’ll decide.”

  “You want me to just throw him off?”

  Ebert wasn’t sure what Dryden meant by that; it seemed sinister and might involve more violence than he was prepared for.

  “What do you mean?” he a
sked, prying for more detail.

  “I could make it hard for this guy to succeed, hard for him to stay off of the police’s radar.”

  “Possibly,” Ebert replied. That sounded less risky and he liked being able to quarantine Priest, whatever his plans were.”

  “Okay,” he told Dryden with some reluctance. But let’s stay in touch.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  April 16

  Loos American Bar

  “How are you, Chuck?”

  Simone sat lightly on the edge of a barstool in Loos American Bar, a dark and intimate establishment on Kärntner Durchgang that seemed designed for a furtive rendezvous. She was dressed the part, too, with a powder blue slip dress that hugged her figure, a plunging neckline that left little to the imagination, and a slit on the side that showed most of the thigh that she had draped over her other leg. Common sense prevailed though so she left the stiletto heels at home. “There’s such a thing as too much,” she thought while contemplating that last accent to her ensemble.

  Loos was a favorite among the locals, despite the “American” tag in the name. Beer and wine were readily available, but the bar’s reputation was one for cocktails, the more exotic and unique the better.

  Sigge, the Swedish bartender who commanded the ship that evening, was putting on a show for the cast of young women who filled the room. His boyfriend, Henri, was at home nursing a cold so Sigge had the opportunity to remind those who peopled his world that he liked both men and women.

  Chuck Dryden stood next to Simone for a moment, not shy about taking her appearance in before taking a seat beside her. They had met when Simone first arrived for her assignment in Vienna, the day she visited DFR-Wien to set up banking with the firm. Chuck didn’t have the looks to keep up with Simone, but she liked his strength and physical confidence. Besides, she wasn’t a one-man woman.

  “I’m fine,” he replied, then turned to Sigge and ordered a beer.