The Vienna Connection

by Dick Rosano

“What kind?” was the bartender’s query.

  Dryden just liked beer, but he had gotten used to the commercial demand for many pours on tap. He made a quick survey of the polished handles that revealed the brews that were available and pointed to the Märzen. Sigge was ready to dismiss the man as an oaf, but nodded approval at his choice of beers. Then he turned quickly and reached for an iced glass from below the counter.

  “So, what’s up?” he asked Simone. “I was surprised by your call today.”

  “I have some things at DFR, as you know…”

  “Yeah. You bank there.”

  “That’s not what I mean, Chuck, and don’t play dumb.”

  She lifted the mint leaf out of her glass and raised the cocktail to her lips. Although she had had her fling with Dryden and it had run its course, Simone couldn’t control her natural tendency to flirt with every movement. So, the glass went up, it touched her lips, and her eyes dazzled in the light reflected off the liquid within it.

  “I don’t like this guy,” she began, then realized that Dryden might not know who she was talking about.

  “What guy?”

  “His name is Darren Priest.”

  “And you care about him, why?” Dryden asked as the bartender slid a frosty mug of Märzen toward him. Not waiting for her to answer, he lifted the mug and took a long sip of the beer.

  “He came out of nowhere,” she began, “and I’ve checked but can’t find out much about him. Gerhardt, your boss,” she added unnecessarily, but seemed to be making a point, “is ready to bring Priest into the inner circle…”

  “What’s that?” Dryden asked between gulps of beer. He knew she was referring to the secret room of safe deposit boxes, but he wanted her to admit that to him.

  “Chuck, for God’s sake,” she replied, then lowered her voice. “I’d really rather not talk about it here. You know I mean the special deposits that Gerhardt keeps.”

  Dryden nodded.

  “One of those boxes is mine, and I would rather this not be known to everyone. This Priest guy, whoever he is, if he gets a safe box in that room, it might be trouble.”

  “You know, Simone,” Dryden began, and leaned in close to her and laid his hand on her exposed thigh. “That room and those safe boxes belong to Eichner.”

  “Yes, well, sort of,” she equivocated. “They also belong to the customers. Who else is in there, Chuck?”

  He knew that a small handful of Americans held boxes there, including some big wheels, but he wasn’t going to tell Simone anymore. Not even under the influence of her perfume.

  “Don’t know really,” he lied, and she called him on it.

  “I know what I keep in my safe box,” she said, then suddenly wondered whether Dryden had ever penetrated that room and already knew what secrets she was hiding.

  He looked at her again, unembarrassed by surveying her physical features. And he concluded that although she was brilliant and unquestionably crafty, she didn’t make Ambassador on those features alone.

  “So, what do you have in there?” Dryden asked, although he spoke the words while staring at the thin fabric that covered her breasts.

  “The safe box, you mean,” she replied with a smile, drawing his eyes back up to hers. “Well, of course, I can’t tell you.”

  “You can’t, or you won’t?”

  Simone only shrugged and smiled back.

  “Maybe they’re state secrets,” she suggested, lowering her eyes but peering through her eyelashes just as a young flirt might.

  “Anything that might be newsworthy?”

  “What on earth do you mean, Mr. Dryden?” She lifted her glass again and smiled, clearly enjoying the game.

  Dryden lifted his glass and drank down the last of the beer, then stood.

  “If you’re worried about the safety of that room, or the deposits that you have made there, don’t be.”

  “I’ll pay you to track down this Priest guy and find out what you can, what he’s after, and whether he’s a threat to my plan.”

  “What plan?” Dryden said, surprised that she would slip like that.

  “Oh, nothing, but I’d still rather it wasn’t let out.” Simone gulped from her cocktail glass. She, too, noticed that she had given Dryden more than she should have.

  “Okay,” he replied, once more touching Simone’s bare thigh. “Are you free later tonight?”

  “Not if I’m paying you.”

  It was an odd send-off, Dryden thought. But Simone clearly didn’t mean paying for sex. She did, however, say she would pay him to get into Priest’s head.

  He laughed to himself as he turned to leave. Somebody in Washington was interested in Priest, and now Simone had her antennae up.

  “This guy must have somebody’s attention,” he muttered as he stepped out onto the street.

  Dryden didn’t need to settle on the rate of pay from Simone. They had done this before, and she knew his price. Besides, she was right to suspect Dryden, as she had indicated. A man didn’t stay alive in his business by politely passing over information that he could use to control his clients. So, yes, he had gone into every safe deposit box in the DFR secret vault and made notes on their contents.

  Some European high rollers had documents there, usually the ones that could be used to blackmail their competitors. There were husbands who had collected dirt on their wives and mistresses, and wives and mistresses who had collected dirt on these same husbands.

  The box of the Frenchman he had opened focused on his wife paying for gay sex. It wasn’t the sex that mattered, gay or straight; it was having to pay for it. No aging beauty wants to be thought of as having to beg for physical attention.

  The Englishman’s drawer had only one photograph. In it, three women were sitting on a bed with a man who was sprawled on the coverlet naked except for his knee-high argyle socks. The women were talking among themselves, apparently oblivious to the man.

  Then there was the drawer belonging to the man from Russia. Oligarchs kept their multiple girlfriends hidden in that society, although all of modern Russia expected it of the rich class. But his box included photos of high-ranking party members dressed in drag and sporting black leather and whips.

  The four drawers that belonged to the Americans were the most interesting. Dryden noted that while all these people seem to focus on sexual misbehavior as the best weapon, only the Americans did it with some Puritanical “better-than-thou” attitude. One photograph depicted a man hovering over a naked woman kneeling on the floor, he with a crucifix in his hand and she with her hands clasped in prayer.

  “That’s some weird shit,” Dryden muttered upon seeing that one.

  He didn’t need to refer to his notes to recall what was in Simone’s safe deposit box. She had copies of letters written to, and from, her male friends. She was sexually experimental, but only heterosexual. Very heterosexual. And she seemed as interested in photographs of the men naked as much as photographs of herself performing various sexual acts on them. Among the letters to and from other government notables there was only one photograph – of a man wearing standard American swim trunks and perched on the edge of the lounge chair that Simone occupied in a micro bikini.

  Dryden had seen many scandalous photographs in his work; it was the letters that the box held, including a handful addressed to names he recognized from the American elected class that made the most lasting impression on him.

  He had taken some photographs of the contents, musing as he did so that they were worth more for his entertainment than anything. But he kept the copies, nevertheless. It’s the way to stay alive in this business.

  Chapter Fifteen

  April 16

  Skopik & Lohn

  The editor of The Wine Review insisted that I try out Skopik & Lohn, a Viennese restaurant known for its authentic Austrian dishes. I was reluctant at first, not objecting to his recommendation, but recognizing that it was merely a block from the police station I had been taken to. There was no reason for me to fe
ar the proximity; I hadn’t done anything wrong. But I still worried that appearing so close to the precinct might stir suspicion about my motives.

  So, although it was a small concession to make, I asked the taxi driver to avoid driving by Leopoldgasse 18, where the police station was, and approaching the restaurant from another angle. He looked at me in the rearview mirror, and I knew that I had sparked his curiosity while trying to avoid the police, but that was of small concern to me.

  Paying him the few Euros required for the trip from the hotel, I stepped onto the sidewalk and into the foyer of Skopik & Lohn. The gleaming wood-paneled bar and tables created the immediate impression of a traditional dining room, but the modernistic – almost psychedelic – brush painting that filled the ceiling and sidewalls above the tables stood in marked contrast to the other traditional accents of the room.

  I was directed to a two-top, a small table by the window that allowed me an alcove with some privacy but a great view of the dining room. I scanned the area around me, checking the plates that were already on tables for ideas about the food, and I looked up as the waiter handed me the menu.

  “Danke,” I said and took the folded list to consider.

  I had a feeling that I was under surveillance and peered above the edge of the tall menu to see if anyone was watching me. Many strangers surrounded me at the tables in the dining room but then I saw Alana Weber. She was not looking up when I saw her.

  Smiling to myself, I wondered if she was stalking me or if I had accidentally ended up in her “hood.” The restaurant was, after all, near her precinct. After a pause, I looked up again and saw her smiling at me. She probably wondered the same that I had: Was I stalking her, or did we just accidentally tack on the same jib and end up here. Her table was only one away from mine, and close enough to engage vocally if we wished.

  “Guten abend, Mr. Priest,” she said in little over a stage whisper. “Come here often?”

  My shoulders sagged, knowing that she probably suspected me of something. I was staying in the main part of Vienna and somehow miraculously ended up at a restaurant a mere few steps from her police station? What are the odds? Right?

  “Yes,” I said in short reply. How can I explain myself? Or should I even try?

  “My editor suggested this restaurant,” I tried.

  “Yes,” she said with a smile, “of course he did.”

  The double entendre left me wondering whether she doubted my intentions.

  She paused only a beat, and then seemed to think better of her comment.

  “I mean ‘of course’ because Skopik & Lohn is famous,” she added, “and any food writer should try it at least once.”

  Her comment seemed to bail me out and I grabbed for the lifeline. I saw that her menu was still on the table so she must not have ordered yet.

  “My table has two chairs,” I began. “Would you be willing to join me?”

  Alana’s smile scrunched up in thought as her eyes studied me. I wondered in that lengthy pause how much success I had had in convincing her of my innocence. Her answer might give me a hint.

  Just then her waiter returned to her table. Instead of placing an order, I saw Alana point toward my table. The server picked up her menu and stepped to the side, drawing Alana’s chair out as she stood. She slipped between two tables and gracefully glided into the seat across from mine. I was anxious for the waiter to drop her menu and get out of the scene so I could have some time with her. Coffee in the light of day was nice this morning, but dinner was far better.

  It was obvious that the best strategy was to avoid discussion of my situation, but I was casting about for something else to talk about. Her work was nearly as dangerous a path; my work couldn’t be discussed. The museums of Vienna offered a place to begin, as did the architecture and parks, both famous draws for tourism.

  “The wiener schnitzel is excellent here,” Alana offered to break the ice. I took the bait.

  “Better than at Figlmüller?”

  Alana sat back in her chair and smiled.

  “That’s not fair,” she replied.

  “Why?”

  “Figlmüller has the best wiener schnitzel in the city.”

  “Oh, I disagree.” I decided that this combat of culinary critiques might play to my advantage. “I think Zwölf Apostelkeller has the best.”

  Again, she smiled.

  “Well, I haven’t had theirs yet,” she added. And I made a mental note for the future.

  “What about the rabbit here?” I asked.

  “Excellent, if you like that sort of thing.”

  I had to smile.

  “I’m going to go for the steak,” I concluded.

  “And I will have the wiener schnitzel,” she suggested.

  “Oh, yeah? In spite of our debate?”

  “Sure,” she said, putting the menu down. “I want to have a reference point for when we try the same out in Apostelkeller,” she added, grinning back at me.

  The waiter took our order, including the corn soup with turmeric for Alana and the sautéed vegetables for me.

  “Of course, wine?” he said, standing over us. He had witnessed the accidental pairing that happened when Alana and I merged our tables, so he probably expected this to turn into a more convivial meal. She nodded in my direction and I pointed to a wine on the list that I had already noticed. Knowing that the fried preparation for her wiener schnitzel would not pair well with a white wine, and considering my choice of steak, I turned to Alana for approval.

  “Do you drink red wine?”

  She nodded yes.

  “I suggest something light that works with your dish and mine. How about a bottle of Zweigelt?”

  Alana nodded, and smiled.

  Handing the menus to the waiter, I waited for him to nod in understanding and then retreat from the table.

  “I am just a poor civil servant, Mr. Priest,” she began. “You wouldn’t expect me to choose the wine, right?”

  I smiled back, knowing that the “poor civil servant” line might work on Americans but would fool no one who is familiar with the people of Europe. The Austrians – just as the Italians, French, Spanish and others – were raised to understand and appreciate wine. However, with my professional background, I also wasn’t surprised that she wanted me to choose something to go with our meal.

  “So,” she resumed when the waiter had left, “what did you find out at DFR?”

  “Nothing much,” I started, but then balked. “Do we have to talk about my project, or your job? Or could we just enjoy the evening together?”

  “Yes,” she replied, but that was too obtuse an answer to help me.

  “Okay. Let’s get the business part out of the way, and then I get to ask you about your personal life, right?”

  “Yes, and no.”

  “Is that a ‘yes-no’ in general, like an equivocation, or is it yes about business and no about personal life.”

  “Mr. Priest…”

  “Wait a minute,” I interrupted. “We can’t have dinner together tonight with you calling me ‘Mr. Priest.’”

  “Okay, Darren….” but then she paused, as if she didn’t know where to go next.

  “Look, Alana…” I began but halted when she looked up at me. “Fair is fair. We’re on a first name basis for right now…I hope even for later, but certainly for right now. So, we don’t have to rely on just the business side of our relationship. Let me begin.”

  The waiter returned with the bottle of Zweigelt and poured two glasses. The pause gave me a moment to consider what I would say next.

  “You asked me what I knew about jewelry. Nothing is the answer.”

  “I was asking you in the context of the image we found on your computer.”

  “Yeah, I know. But I don’t know anything about jewelry, and I’ll tell you why.”

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about the business side of our relationship,” she suggested.

  “We’re not.” I knew that my failure in the
engagement process of some years back would make a funny story and might get Alana and I off the formal business track. I told her about Charisse and how I had totally flubbed the ring purchase thing. She laughed at all the right times but seemed sympathetic at all the right times too.

  “So, she’s not still around?” Alana asked tentatively.

  “No.” I was glad to have that out in the open and wondered whether it would allow me to find out about her. Alana had no ring, but that is not always a sure sign. She had made the comment earlier about not trusting men, so I had an idea that there was a story there.

  “Well,” she said haltingly, swirling the wine in her glass. “I was married once. Not now.”

  She might not have even noticed how she looked into my eyes as she said this. I enjoyed the moment and the meaning of the look, even if it was subconscious for her.

  We had broken through the formalities and launched into a multi-topic conversation about travel, work life, Vienna itself, and what we hoped for the future of our societies and our countries. The food came and the wine went. My steak was cooked to perfection, seared on the outside and still pink and juicy on the inside. Her wiener schnitzel looked and smelled delicious, up to the standards that I expected when I got the recommendation. The Zweigelt was, as always, a bright and refreshing wine. A cross between and St. Laurent grapes dating back to the 1920s, it has captured a faithful following and works especially well with Austrian dishes.

  All in all, it was a very pleasant evening, a more successful and enjoyable time than I first expected when I thought I would be dining alone.

  “Can I call you a taxi?” I said once we were out on the sidewalk.

  “No thank you,” Alana replied.

  It wasn’t a rebuff and I took it as a careful sign that she wanted to keep some distance. That was okay with me, but I hoped that it might amend later.

  Chapter Sixteen

  April 17

  Julius Meinl

  I was standing at the second-story deli counter in Julius Meinl when I saw Bao Chinh’s reflection in the mirror behind the counter as he walked up the stairs. He was toting a handbasket as I was, both of us in search of lunch at this food emporium at the intersection of Graben and Kohlmarkt. Although most foreigners know the establishment as the source of fine coffee because that is what can most easily be exported, the multi-storied market offers everything from fresh baked bread to cheeses from around the world, and seafood and meat that would rival any offered in the city’s restaurants. Locals crowded the aisles for gourmet delights and ingredients for meals made at home or to take out.