Burke remembered his press pass from back on the Riviera and tapped the nearest cop on the shoulder, earning another glare. He explained who he was and flashed his pass. The flic said nothing.
“Where’s the vehicle that drove into people?” Burke asked.
The police officer paused for a moment and then pointed to the far side of the street where a van was leaning against the side of a building. A dozen police officers had cordoned off the area close to the van.
“Is the driver still over there?” Burke said.
“He’s been taken away.”
“Was it a terror attack?” Burke said, aware that others were behind him listening to the exchange.
The flic shrugged and looked away. He was finished providing information.
For the next half hour, Burke watched the scene. He counted more than two dozen people taken into ambulances, but the medical teams remained, tending to others. While scores of police kept the crowd away, other officers interviewed runners and observers on the spot. Meanwhile, the soldiers with their assault weapons moved around, studying faces, looking at the buildings and generally appearing like they were ready to pounce.
Burke left the area and headed south. Maybe the scene would be different. Two blocks later, he looked around. There was no difference. Ambulances, injured people, police and soldiers. Plus the media, filming, taking photos and asking questions.
Burke sent a note to Lemaire, telling the newsman he wasn’t sure he’d send anything more. A moment later, Lemaire replied that he’d use material from the wire services, but if Burke learned anything that had a French Riviera angle, he should send it. Burke promised he would, but thought there was little chance he’d learn anything that had a hook to the Côte d’Azur.
Then he spotted a scrum happening directly opposite him on the far side of the street. He didn’t have a clue who was there, but the reporters were reacting with excitement so it had to be someone important.
He overheard another bystander, who seemed to be a local, mention it was the mayor with some other politicians in tow. “It’s a photo op,” the local told his companion with disdain in his voice. “He never misses a chance to show he’s in charge.”
“You’re not being fair to the poor bugger,” the friend said. “This is his city and he has to be here to show a presence, to show some authority. If he wasn’t here, he wouldn’t be doing his job.”
Burke tuned out their bickering and peered at the mayor who was dressed in a navy blue track suit with the half-marathon race logo pasted over his heart. He was in his 60s, grey haired with a thick white moustache, and taller than most of the reporters around him. Burke couldn’t hear anything, but the mayor seemed very angry, jabbing a finger at questioners and pounding a fist into a hand for emphasis.
Burke tried to find a way to cross the street, but police blocked him at every attempt. When the mayor and his entourage moved on, still surrounded by the media, Burke gave up and started walking away, wondering what to do next.
He considered going to the police station, but he doubted that would be useful since real reporters would be getting information and making sense of it for world-wide distribution. The chances of finding a connection to the French Riviera were less than slim. He decided on another option, stopping three blocks from the chaos and phoning Karl Plaschke. He didn’t have a clue if the ex-Krems cop was on duty or even in the city, but it didn’t hurt to try.
To his surprise, Plaschke answered.
“Are you working on the attack on the half-marathon race?” Burke said in German.
“Everyone is so I don’t have any time for your theorizing, Herr Burke,” Plaschke said.
“Was it a terrorist attack?” Burke said, sensing the flic was about to end the call.
“We’re not sure, but it doesn’t look like it. More a case of someone with a mental illness who snapped for some reason that no one knows about yet. The individual is being interviewed as we talk.”
“How many dead and injured?”
“You can get that information at police headquarters.”
“Just give me another 30 seconds.”
“All right, it’s hard to say because medical teams are still on site working, but I know at least four people are dead.”
“Do you have their names or the names of the injured?”
“No, not yet, and I don’t expect that information will be released for some time,” Plaschke said. Then he paused. “Why are you asking? Where are you going with this?”
“I want to know if Felicity Blake was among them.”
“She’s in the race?”
“I saw her heading off this morning to compete in it.”
Plaschke paused again. “I’ll keep a lookout for her name, but I need to have your word you won’t use the information if I get it.”
“It’s a deal. And speaking about Felicity Blake, are you looking at her being involved in Wilson Talbot’s death?”
“I would like to, but my superiors are still not enthusiastic.”
“There’s something there.”
“I agree, but there’s just not enough evidence against her to do anything.”
“I know, I know, everything is too circumstantial,” Burke said.
But Plaschke wasn’t listening anymore. He had ended the call.
Chapter 71
An hour later, Burke was back again on the Sunna with Hélène and Claude, sitting in a corner of the dining room and relating what he had seen and heard. They didn’t ask questions or comment. They just listened.
Then Burke received a text from Plaschke. “FB hit by vehicle. Alive, broken leg, facial injuries, concussion, in hospital for week or longer.”
Burke texted back, asking what hospital. Plaschke told him, but said no visitors were being permitted for the next day or two. Burke relayed the information to Hélène and Claude who exchanged a look.
“This trip keeps getting more bizarre,” Claude said.
Burke sat silent for a couple of minutes, considering different options, and then he made up his mind. “I think I need to stay in Vienna a couple of extra days. I want to talk to Felicity Blake.”
“Why?” Hélène asked.
“I need to ask her some questions. I know it seems like a lost cause, but I think it’s important. She’s hiding something and I want to try one last time to find out the truth. Maybe I’ll get nowhere, but I need to do it.”
“What happens if she doesn’t want to talk with you?” Claude said.
“Then I’ll come home on the next train or plane.”
“Are you talking about the death of Wilson Talbot, chéri?” Hélène said.
“I am. I know she was involved in his death and I know I can’t prove it, but I just can’t let it go, especially since I doubt the police will do anything more about what happened to Talbot.”
“If she did it, she’s not going to confess, Paul,” Claude said. “She hasn’t done so to this point and so why would you figure she might tell you something in another couple of days? You’re just going to waste your time. Besides, if the police aren’t going after her, what can you do?”
“As I said, it’s a long shot.”
Claude leaned back in his chair and offered a small smile. “You’ve become a very stubborn man, Paul.” He looked at his niece who smiled back and nodded.
Two hours later, Burke bid farewell to Hélène and Claude, kissing her and hugging his friend.
“Good luck with Felicity Blake, chéri,” Hélène said. “I think you’re going to need it.”
Burke watched as they jumped into a taxi at the dock. They’d been fortunate to book a flight straight from Vienna to Nice and for a good price, too. When they were out of sight, Burke returned to his cabin and packed.
Three hours later, all the passengers who had been aboard the Sunna as part of the team-building exercise were gone. A few had come over to him in the dining room and shaken hands, wishing him well.
Most of the passengers, however, trooped off the ship in silence, looking glum. A trip that had started off so promisingly had ended in deception and death.
In the early afternoon, as a cleaning crew boarded the ship to get it ready for the next tour group, Burke met with Thierry Delisle, Carmen Moreau and Renata Hable for the conference call with head office.
Burke apologized again for leaving the morning meeting. Delisle frowned at him for a moment and then shrugged. “We’ve got it all arranged, Paul. If you get a specific question directed at you, answer it. Otherwise, I’ll do all of the talking from our end.”
The conference call with the head office of FWC Specialty Tours lasted an hour. Burke was grateful he didn’t get a question tossed his way. Most of the discussion focused on how the company should follow up on what had happened during the tour. By the end, they had a general strategy which the head-office administrators said they’d refine over the next day or two.
Burke was impressed with Delisle’s performance. And surprised, too. Too often jittery and anxious during the trip, Delisle had stayed calm and confident during the conference call, providing a brief, clear analysis of the last two days and contributing some useful suggestions for the company’s approach to managing any fallout. And it seemed the bosses back in Nice appreciated him, too.
When the call was over, Burke and his group exchanged hugs and good wishes. Delisle and Moreau were catching an evening flight to Nice while Hable would be leaving for Amsterdam the following morning; she planned to stay at an airport hotel.
Burke wondered if he’d see any of them again. Maybe Delisle and Moreau because they worked out of the same general area where he lived. And who knows, maybe he’d get hired again by FWC and they’d do another trip together although he doubted he’d get another offer, given how he’d gotten in people’s way with his own investigation into the deaths of Wilson Talbot and Bennett Blake. As for Hable, he doubted he’d see her again. As she had told them, she was pondering a big move. But just as she was about to go, she glanced at Burke with a twinkle in her eye. There was a message there, but he didn’t understand. What was he missing?
An hour later, Burke was ringing the doorbell of an apartment building on Maria-Theresien Straße where he had managed to find lodging for three days. It was a cheaper arrangement than staying in a hotel. The enormous door opened and an attractive woman in her late 20s and taller than Burke welcomed him. She took him to the management office that booked several apartments in the building, got him to sign some papers and took his credit card for payment and as a security measure.
“Your German is excellent,” she said as she punched some information into her computer.
“Thank you. I’ve had to use it a lot more than I expected.”
She took him up the elevator to the seventh floor and to an immaculate one-bedroom apartment with four-metre-high ceilings and windows that offered superb views of the beautiful city. For what he was paying, it was extremely reasonable.
“Is this your first time in Vienna?” asked the woman whose name was Johanna.
“I’ve been here a few times,” Burke replied, feeling no desire to disclose what had brought him to the Austrian capital on this occasion.
“Then you probably know where to go and what to see, although right now it’s advisable to stay away from the downtown area given what’s happened today.”
“I won’t be going near there, at least not for another day. Besides, the police probably still have large sections cordoned off.”
The young woman shook her head. “Today has been dreadful, a total surprise. I hope you don’t think badly of our city because of what’s happened. I came here from Graz seven years ago and Vienna has always been so peaceful. It’s just so hard to believe. But then again, maybe it isn’t after what’s happened to other cities in other countries.”
“Don’t worry. I think Vienna is a beautiful, wonderful city and whatever happened today won’t change that. “
“I’m glad.” Johanna handed Burke the keys to the building and the apartment. “I hope you enjoy your visit.”
“I’m sure I will. I plan to just walk around and relax.”
Burke thanked her and, once she was gone, he drank some water and then dropped onto the couch which was overrun with cushions. It felt good to stretch out.
But relax?
Not a chance. Not after the last few days. And not with Felicity Blake still on his mind.
Chapter 72
Early that evening, Burke went to the hospital where Felicity Blake was. After what Plaschke had told him about her injuries, he didn’t expect to be able to see her, but he hoped he could get a better sense of when she would be available to visitors.
“Are you family?” asked the middle-aged woman at the information desk in the main foyer.
“No, I’m a friend,” Burke said, figuring he had a better chance by describing himself that way. “I’ve been traveling with her down the Danube the last week. I heard about her being injured in that terrible incident at the half-marathon race today and wanted to say hello and cheer her up if I can.”
The woman tapped on her computer keyboard and studied her monitor. “Yes, well, it seems she won’t be available for at least another couple of days. That may change, though. You can check back tomorrow if you want.”
Burke smiled and thanked her. “It’s been a wild day,” he added.
“It has. Too many crazy people running around out there.”
Burke wondered if the mental health practitioners at the hospital would be pleased at the information woman’s use of “crazy.” But then again, if you drive into a crowd of runners, trying to kill as many as possible, what else were you?
He left the hospital, telling himself he would call back the following morning to check on Blake’s status.
Given the warm evening, Burke decided to have dinner outside and so he selected an outdoor table at an East Indian restaurant around the corner from his apartment. The sidewalk in front was busy with shoppers and with people out to enjoy themselves despite the day’s tragic events.
Burke decided he needed to put aside all thoughts of Felicity Blake and, for that matter, the entire Sunna trip. He figured a good meal should provide a reasonable distraction. And with that in mind, he chose a main course of chicken razala, which was cooked in rich gravy with mint, and ordered a half carafe of red wine to help the cause.
The main course and the wine did the trick, giving him an escape. He enjoyed not just the food, but watching the Viennese go about their daily routines. In a way, it was a comforting sight.
He decided to finish the meal in style, ordering cham cham, a Bengali sweet featuring cream, saffron, lemon juice, flour and coconut flakes. When he took his first bite, he knew someone was looking after him. He finished with an espresso, not concerned that the caffeine might keep him awake.
As he sipped the strong drink, he saw two slender women running on the opposite sidewalk. And instantly Felicity Blake came back to him. And so, too, did Wilson Talbot. And everything that had happened aboard the Sunna. He sighed. He knew he couldn’t really escape those shocking events until he knew all that had happened.
After his espresso, Burke decided to stay a little longer since he was still enjoying the evening air and the local atmosphere. So he ordered a Tyrolean fruit schnapps as a way to kill some time although he knew nothing about the drink. When it came, he took a sip and was surprised at its full-bodied, fruity mouthful and its strong, slightly dry aftertaste. It was delicious.
And as he worked slowly on the schnapps, he played out scenarios in the hospital with Felicity Blake. Every time he thought he had one that might produce a result, he found a flaw. He wished he was better at interviewing.
He pulled out his ever-present notebook and scribbled down a few possible questions he’d ask Blake. He reviewed them, eliminated a couple and added a few new ones. When he was finally comfortable with his list, he put them in order and
then he started to memorize them. If he got to see Felicity Blake, he doubted she’d say a word if he pulled out his notebook. Then he thought that if he followed a script from memory, he’d be too mechanical and she’d probably become wary and say little. He had to appear spontaneous, genuine. He had to think his way through the interview and be intuitive. He had to trust himself. But would that be good enough? He didn’t know. He stopped memorizing questions.
After paying the bill, Burke went for a long walk, strolling by the canal and then going through some quiet neighborhoods. He arrived back at his apartment just before midnight and went straight to bed.
But he slept fitfully, tossing and turning until 6 a.m. when he finally surrendered and got up, making himself a strong cup of coffee thanks to a few provisions he had bought the day before.
Sitting by the open living room windows and looking over the city as it gradually came to life, Burke pondered the day ahead. He’d try the hospital again. If Felicity Blake was still unavailable for visits, he’d write some kind of blog to satisfy François Lemaire. He didn’t have anything new to say, but he had to provide his boss with something. After that, he’d visit the main police station and see if there was anything new involving the child-porn ring and Niklaus Gast. If there was, he’d do another blog. After that, he’d go wherever he felt like. For a guy who had started a trip along the Danube as a guide, he needed an escape from all the turmoil and tragedy that he had been involved in.
He called the hospital at 9 a.m. The information desk said Felicity Blake would not be having visitors for at least another day. No surprise there.
He dashed off a quick blog about how the city had calmed down. He hadn’t talked to anyone, but he hadn’t heard any more sirens and the local news on TV reported the city was back to normal although with a few more police and military personnel on streets. When he reread it, he knew the blog was weak. But weak was better than nothing. Or so he hoped.
Then he took a taxi to the Vienna Police Directorate. Inside, he asked the duty sergeant what was the latest on Niklaus Gast and the others involved in the child-porn ring.
Deception On the Danube Page 27
