by Alex Gerlis
‘Shall I lock the front door and put up the “closed” sign?’
‘No, that’d draw attention. They weren’t outside before but they’re here much of the time, aren’t they?’
‘I don’t know, I don’t like to look out for them. I know they come every day, sometimes two or three times a day, and they stay for varying lengths of time. Look, this is a waste of your time, there’s nothing I can do to help you. Please leave, I beg you.’
‘I need to see him, Herr Lang.’
The man’s shoulders slumped and he nervously took another cigarette, striking four matches before he could keep his hands still for long enough to light one.
‘I’ve no idea where he is, I’ve no way of contacting him.’
‘So he’s alive?’
‘Don’t try and catch me out, I’ve no idea. Maybe I should be asking you that. You always seemed to know more about him than me. How the hell did you get here, anyway?’
‘I need to see him,’ said Viktor.
‘You’re not the only one.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Someone else was asking for him last month: I told him I’d no idea about Joachim and sent him away with a flea in his ear. Like you, he was someone I’d not seen since before the war.’
Viktor edged closer to the door, wishing he was facing Lang’s face so he could read his eyes.
‘Don’t mess around with me. Tell me who you’re talking about.’
‘I thought I recognised him at the time but couldn’t place him – he looked slightly different, not just older. It was strange because I’m normally good with faces and, while he was familiar, I just couldn’t put a name to him. After he left I was going over it in my mind and it was the voice that was the clue. I’m a trained musician – I have a good ear.’
‘Are you going to tell me who he is?’
‘He used to come here around ’37 and ’38, before the Anschluss, with messages for Joachim. His fiancée was an associate of Joachim’s. I never asked too many questions, you understand that. The fiancée was called Frieda Brauner and he was called Rolf. I don’t know if I ever knew his surname.’
‘Describe him.’
‘Around six foot tall, dark-blond hair, possibly early to mid-thirties. Spoke with a Viennese accent, no question of that – odd thing is, he didn’t have that accent all the time, seemed to slip in and out of it. Odd.’
‘Can’t you be more precise than that?’
‘Isn’t that enough? You’re as bad as they are.’
‘Who’s “they”?’
‘The Gestapo,’ said Lang. ‘A few days after this Rolf visited, they pulled me in – it happens every so often. I had to admit he was asking after Joachim – and they were far more interested in him than me.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I’m not sure. The man who questioned me is called Strobel; he’s one of the Gestapo bosses here. I’ve heard plenty about him; he’s a reputation for being vicious, but he’s also known as something of a buffoon. He let slip something I’m sure he didn’t mean to say, because the other man in the room looked surprised when he did. He told me the man who’d come to the shop – the one I think’s called Rolf – had also visited the house where a Wolfgang Fischer lived. Did I know a Wolfgang Fischer, he asked?’
‘And…?’
‘Fischer was another associate of Joachim’s. I said I hadn’t heard of him.’
‘Describe this Rolf to me once more.’
‘I told you, around six foot tall, dark-blond hair, possibly early to mid-thirties, Viennese accent. He wore glasses, I think.’
‘I have a feeling I know… When did you last speak with Joachim?’
‘I told you, I have no…’
‘… Tell him to meet me on Sunday afternoon, at 3.00. He’ll know where.’
***
Viktor’s instinct was that Acheron was still alive; his father would have been more emphatic if he wasn’t. So he followed a routine he hadn’t used since 1937. He started his walk on Franz-Josefs-Kai, at the point where the Danube Canal turned into the smaller Wien Fluss river. From there he walked along the banks of the canal, aware that if Acheron didn’t turn up he’d run out of options. He hadn’t walked very far when a tall man in an unfamiliar uniform turned as Viktor passed him. ‘Do you have a light?’ he said.
Before Viktor could say a word the man spoke again. ‘Just give me a bloody light; it’s bad enough having to meet here as it is. That building over there – it’s the Gestapo headquarters!’ Joachim Lang – Acheron – was smiling as he spoke, treating Viktor as if he was the old friend which in many respects he was. ‘Come. Let’s walk in the opposite direction, away from Morzinplatz, please.’
They walked back towards the Wien Fluss, Lang saying something about the weather. They came to a bench and both sat down. ‘When my father told me you’d turned up, I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. I couldn’t believe it at first. Then I thought if anyone could find me, it’d be you Viktor. The Gestapo have been looking for me for years, but Viktor finds me: maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised. How long have you been in Vienna?’
‘That doesn’t matter. What on earth is that uniform you’re wearing, Joachim?’
‘This?’ He was fingering the cloth of his jacket, as if admiring its quality. ‘The Wasserschutzpolizei – we’re the river police. Life was becoming impossible, you know? In ’41 the Gestapo arrested Mayer and Fischer and murdered them, then in March ’42 they arrested Frieda – you remember her, Frieda Brauner? I was convinced they’d break her, but as far as we can gather, they didn’t get anything out of her before she died. Anyway, I laid low for six months then realised it was too risky to move around Vienna if I wasn’t in uniform. I had one very good identity left and I used that to join the Wasserschutzpolizei. I rather enjoy it, to be honest. We patrol the Danube, checking the barges – that kind of thing. At least I’m safe and I’m hardly contributing to the Nazi war effort. I try to make sure of that.’
‘Did your father tell you about Rolf?’
‘He did, yes.’
‘Have you seen him at all?’
‘Of course not. I keep a very low profile these days, Viktor. When I’m out, it’s almost always in uniform. How do you know him, anyway?’
‘I came across him when he was working for the British in Zürich.’
‘I know he went to Switzerland when he left in ’38. Frieda was angry he went. So he’s a British agent now?’
Viktor shrugged. ‘He certainly was one in Zürich.’
Lang laughed, stretching out his long legs. ‘I know you, Viktor. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s also one of yours! Maybe you’ve chased him to Vienna!’
Viktor didn’t reply at first and when he did he sounded worried. ‘I’ll tell you something. Did you ever meet that rat I dealt with occasionally – Fuchs, Wilhelm Fuchs?’
‘Wasn’t he a pimp?’
‘Yes – and various other things. Nasty piece of work but resourceful, could get hold of things no one else could.’
‘Yes, I remember him.’
‘I caught up with him a couple of months ago, back in April. I’d paid him for some pistols years ago, before the war, and never saw them. He spun me a story that he needed a special key to get hold of the guns and promised to contact me if he could get them. I never expected to hear back from him, but I did and he told me a man had unexpectedly turned up with the key. But that was the last I heard of him. About two weeks later I found out he’d been killed. What’s worrying is the description he gave me of the man who turned up with the key.’
‘Go on…’
‘Late twenties, early thirties he said, with light-brown hair and a medium build. He also said his accent could have been Viennese but was hard to place. That sounds odd, doesn’t it?’
‘An accent is either Viennese or it’s not.’
‘Indeed, unless you’re trying to hide it. But who could that be a description of?’
Lang nodded.
‘Rolf?’
‘That’s what I thought. If it is him, what’s he doing in Vienna – trying to find you and Fischer then contacting Fuchs? If he’s working for the British… we need to be worried. Look, I need your help, Joachim. I need to set up a unit here in Vienna. What about the others in your cell, are they around?’
Lang laughed bitterly. ‘Look, after Frieda was arrested we met once more and agreed it was too dangerous to carry on, the cell would have to suspend its activities. We agreed we’d go our separate ways. Lethe, I’ve no idea what happened to him, he just disappeared. He was originally from Salzburg and he may have gone back there for all I know. Cocytus – the last I heard he was heading for Slovenia to try and join the partisans there, his mother was Slovenian and he spoke the language. Styx stayed in Vienna, like me. I’ve bumped into him once or twice; he works at the Heinkel factory.’
‘Joachim, you and I need to meet up with Styx, we need to start work again. The war hasn’t long to go, you must know it’s only a matter of time before the Red Army reaches the Danube. I doubt your river police will be in much of a position to stop them. I keep thinking, do you have you any idea why Rolf’s here in Vienna?’
‘No,’ said Lang. ‘Maybe he came back to find Frieda, I don’t know. He must be crazy to have returned here.’
‘Do you think it was him?’
‘Very, very few people used that method to contact me, Viktor. You did and Frieda did too, sometimes through Rolf. Wolfgang Fischer did, but he’s been dead for three years now, but no one else, so the chances of it not being him are remote. And my father always recognises someone’s voice; he was trained at the conservatoire here in Vienna. He has a bad temper, but a fine ear.’
‘Coming back to Vienna to find Frieda after… what… six years doesn’t make much sense, does it?’
‘No. But… there’s a… no… it doesn’t matter. Forget it.’
‘You’d better tell me what you’re on about.’
‘It’s a rumour, that’s all… a rumour and I know you want more than rumours.’
The Russian stared hard at him, his eyes unblinking. ‘I’ll decide that, just tell me.’
The man in the uniform looked unsettled. ‘The rumour is that Hubert Leitner is alive and hiding somewhere in Vienna. The gossip is he’s in contact with the British. I’m not sure how reliable this is and I’ve no idea where Leitner is if he’s here at all, but that’s what I’ve heard. It may be a coincidence, I don’t know – but I do know I first heard this rumour just a few weeks ago.’
‘I thought Leitner was dead?’
‘Personally I’m certain the Gestapo never got him; we’d have heard if they had, I’m sure,’ said Lang. ‘If he’s alive and has made contact with the British… well… is that good or bad, Viktor?’
‘Get hold of Styx. We need to meet as soon as possible.’
Chapter 17
Vienna, August and September 1944
Kriminaldirektor Karl Strobel had never taken his boss very seriously, a misjudgement he was now beginning to regret bitterly. If only he’d licked his jackboots like Molden and Nikolaus did on a daily basis or provided him with the pick of confiscated Jewish property like Grosser then he might not be in the predicament he was in now.
Police Generalmajor Franz Josef Huber was dismissed by some at Morzinplatz as just another Munich Nazi who owed his preferment to having had the good fortune to be in the right place at the right time. Since the Anschluss, he’d run the Reich Central Security Office in Vienna, which included all the Gestapo operations. Now he was bringing the full weight of that office to bear down on Strobel.
‘This is an outrage!’ Huber screamed so loudly that the windows overlooking the canal seemed to shake. Strobel felt himself go light-headed and the room seemed to move around. ‘You absolutely promised me, Strobel, that you’d broken this cell more than two years ago and now – look – this! Come here!’
Strobel edged nervously towards the table where Huber was standing. Behind Huber was the only other person in the room, Kriminalrat Andreas Schwarz, Strobel’s old adversary from the Kripo. Spread out on the table was a series of leaflets, perhaps a dozen of them, all different.
‘All from the same printing machine, Strobel, you agree?’
‘So it would appear, Herr Generalmajor…’
‘More than appear, Strobel. Kriminalrat Schwarz’s experts in the Kripo say there’s no question about it – they’re all printed on the same machine, using the same paper and the same ink, which means they’re the same produced by that cell you promised me you’d shut down in ’42. Would you care to read that leaflet out to me?’
It hadn’t escaped Strobel’s attention that Huber had used Schwarz’s rank, but omitted his. He looked carefully at him, checking whether he was being serious about reading out loud from the leaflet. He nervously picked up the one closest to him, with an obscene and demeaning caricature of a naked Hitler on the front.
He cleared his throat. ‘Citizens of Vienna and all Austria…’
‘Louder, Strobel, I can hardly hear you…’
‘… The war is lost and we shall soon be free of our German oppressors… Is it necessary to continue, Herr Generalmajor? This is such nonsense…’
‘If that leaflet’s upsetting you so much, Strobel, try this one.’ Huber handed him another leaflet, this one with a drawing of a hammer and sickle smashing a swastika. Strobel cleared his throat again, his hands now shaking.
‘It feels wrong to read such vile sentiments out loud, Herr Generalmajor.’
‘Read it, Strobel.’
‘The Red Army is moving fast towards Austria. We have nothing to fear from them. They will bring justice and freedom to the… please sir!’
Strobel caught Schwarz’s self-satisfied look: the detective was barely suppressing a smirk as he glanced down at his shoes. Huber was sorting through the leaflets and chose one more and handed it to Strobel. A series of crudely drawn Wehrmacht soldiers had bayonets sticking out of their chests.
‘Tens of thousands of young Austrian and German soldiers are being sacrificed every day in the name of Hitler… Surely this can’t be true sir?’
‘Of course it’s not true – I didn’t expect even you to believe it, you fool. It’s communist propaganda and, thanks to your incompetence, it’s now being read all over Vienna! As if it’s not enough that the fucking Americans seem able to bomb Vienna at will, now we’ve these leaflets to worry about. How many copies have been distributed?’
‘I don’t know for sure, sir… maybe the Americans dropped them along with their bombs?’
‘Don’t be so stupid, Strobel. Kriminalrat Schwarz? Maybe you can bring some sense to this.’
‘You have there 10 different leaflets altogether, Herr Generalmajor,’ said Schwarz. ‘The first one was brought to us in the second week of August and they’ve been appearing regularly ever since. Of course we don’t know how many copies of each leaflet have been distributed. We’ve managed to lay our hands on perhaps one or two dozen of each.’
‘And the areas?’
‘As far as we can tell, sir, mostly in Floridsdorf, Hernals, Brigittenau and Margareten. A few in Leopoldstadt and Alsergrund, and a small number in Innere Stadt.’
‘This,’ said Huber, thrusting a leaflet hard into Strobel’s face, ‘is such an utter disgrace that I should send you straight from here to the Eastern Front. Do you understand? If Berlin was to find out about this, that’s what they’d order, I can assure you of that. Now, would you care to tell me about the sabotage, Strobel?’
‘Fortunately, sir, there have only been two instances of this,’ said Strobel meekly. ‘The first was at the locomotive works in Floridsdorf on the 21st August and second was at a lorry-repair facility in Donnaustadt, just last week. In both cases, machinery was damaged by the insertion of a substance in its workings. It seems that…’
‘Cut to the point, Strobel, you’re rambling again.’
‘The same substance was used in both cases. It’s a
n unusual combination of acid suspended in a thick solution with sand and ground-up glass in it. It’s designed to cause considerable damage to machines and is, I very much regret to report, identical to the solution the resistance cell known as Hades was using in 1941 and 1942. Our scientists were able to compare it.’
‘I suppose it would be too much to expect any arrests?’
‘Not as yet sir, but we remain hopeful,’ said Strobel. ‘With the assistance of Kriminalrat Schwarz and his colleagues we’re interrogating everyone at both of the places where the sabotage took place. I’m expecting…’
‘… I tell you what I’m expecting, Strobel,’ Huber leant over the table and spoke softly, but with even more menace than before. ‘I’m expecting you to catch the culprits and put a stop to this nonsense, otherwise you’ll need to make sure you have some very warm clothing ready because where I’ll be sending you, you’ll most certainly need it.’
***
Joachim Lang had promised he’d do his best to make contact with Styx and arrange a meeting. ‘I’ll need a few days to try and sort things. It’s Sunday today… go to my father’s shop next Friday. I ought to have news by then.’
When Viktor visited the shop on Berg Gasse the following Friday morning, Ernst Lang informed him of the rendezvous details. ‘Do you need me to write that down?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ the Russian replied. ‘Never write anything down, you should know that. You may as well compose a suicide note at the same time. Just tell me.’
Sunday afternoon: the Alte Donau.
The Alte Donau, he knew it well. A water park created from the Danube some 70 years ago, and where the Viennese would go to swim and sunbathe. Now it was August the place would be teeming with people and he wondered whether he should ask Irma to accompany him – certainly a couple would be less conspicuous than a man on his own. But he couldn’t be certain this wasn’t a trap and, if it was, it would be easier to get away on his own. In any case, he hadn’t had a chance to warn either of them he’d have someone with him. It wouldn’t do if they thought it was a trap.
