As they walked, his boots clicked on the cobblestones. To Bay, they sounded like exotic music in this very correct city.
“Operating here is like being inside a museum, punctuated by boredom, of course,” Cowboy instructed. “The lull before the storm. I used to believe I could die happy in my Jaguar. Now I know Vienna’s the place. What do you think?”
“It’s terrific.” Bay shot him a grin.
When a new officer arrived at his first station, he was customarily given a desk job for several weeks to read and analyze reports, recorded conversations, and streams of satellite data. Once he was familiar with that, he was assigned to shadow experienced officers for hands-on training. Bay had worked with two good ones and been pretty successful so far. Then Herb Rutkowski, the head of station, had called him into his office this afternoon to give him special instructions and the good news his next assignment was with Cowboy Crandell.
“Tell me about Max, sir.”
As they turned the corner, they passed the Mozart statue, and Cowboy said, “It was four months ago, Christmas season on the Kärntner Strasse. The stores were busy, a lot of people coming and going. I felt a tug on my pocket and grabbed. The hand was gone, but a torn piece of paper was left inside. Of course, that was the first contact-a list of four names. All were Chechen informants, just as the note claimed. There was also a phone number, which the station traced. It belonged to a disposable cell; the owner was unidentifiable. So I figured what the hell… I dialed the number, and the man who answered told me to call him Max, and he’d give me more intel for a price. All his contacts with me have been through disposable cells. Wily bugger, but his intel’s been good.”
“Is Max a Chechen?”
“Damn right he is. Never seen his face, and don’t have a clue who he really is.”
“Is that unusual?”
“Not here. Most of my assets are unknowns, but these Chechens are the best at it. Austria’s got one of the most liberal refugee programs in the EU, so about twelve thousand are living in the city. Mostly they’re from the two wars against Russia. A lot aren’t legal. They were guerrilla fighters and soldiers and don’t have a war or any good way to earn a living, so they’ve invaded the criminal underworld. Made it a hell of a lot more dangerous in the process. Besides the usual thievery and break-ins, they act as bodyguards, smugglers, strong-arm tacticians, and assassins. Not a postcard picture of Vienna. It drives the authorities nuts, especially when one country hires them to screw another country.”
“How will my blind date work?”
As they strode along, a frown crossed Cowboy’s face. Instantly it was gone. “Max gives me a location and the time to arrive. Then he phones to tell me exactly where to meet. You’ll go in with the five grand. He’ll give you a piece of paper folded down to nothing, which is his latest report. You’ll give him the dough. It’s always dark, and he doesn’t like to talk. Herb says you speak Russian, but good luck trying to have a conversation with him.”
“I understand, sir.”
“I hope you do.”
Pedestrians pushed past them. The edge of an umbrella nearly spiked Bay’s head. He glanced over his shoulder to make certain it was unintentional. When he turned back, a tall woman dressed in a short red skirt, flesh-colored tights, very high heels, and a formfitting black jacket was sauntering down a building’s steps, smiling widely. Her red lips were so shiny they seemed to reflect light. Although she held a small collapsible umbrella overhead, her long golden hair hung limp from the mist.
“Cowboy,” she purred in German, “it has been a long time. Who is this nice young gentleman with you?” She sidled up to Bay and ran her free hand down over his trench coat and inside to pat his shirt. Her breath smelled of peppermint toothpaste.
Bay grinned.
“Having a slow evening, Estelle?” There was a devilish light in Cowboy’s eyes as he answered in German. “This is my new friend, Bay. You have any info, feel free to pass it to him. He won’t mind.”
“Oh?” She stared into Bay’s eyes, her hand pressing against his heart.
He could feel it pound.
“I would like to give him ‘information,’” she decided.
“I’ll just bet you would,” Cowboy said. “We’ve got to be going, Estelle. Behave yourself.”
Estelle gave a pretty nod and backed off. “Have a nice evening.”
But as they walked away, Cowboy said to Bay, “Give me five euros.”
Bay reached inside his trench coat. And spun on his heel. He ran back to Estelle, who was trotting up her steps.
He grabbed her arm and felt big, hard muscle. “Nice trick. Hand over my wallet.”
Estelle turned and pouted. “I don’t know-”
Bay’s voice turned steely as he saw the prominent Adam’s apple. “Don t fuck with me. You know what I can do to you. Give it to me. Now.”
Her long black lashes lowered and raised. “You’re so mean. Oh, all right.” She took the wallet from her jacket pocket.
He snatched it and jogged off. Ahead, Cowboy was striding along without a look over his shoulder.
When he caught up, Bay said, “Okay, I get it. Estelle’s a guy.”
Cowboy laughed loudly. “You’re lucky you found out the easy way.” Then as they rounded the corner, he looked sharply at him. “Herb says you’re a hotshot. Ivy League, top of your class at the Farm, six languages. Grew up in Europe. What I see is eagerness and idealism, not that that’s the end of the world. I’m just warning you this is no glamour gig. It’s exhausting, nerve-numbing, and frustrating. The days are over of putting on your tux for an embassy party every night to try to get buddy-buddy with some East Bloc official so you can convince him his ideology sucks and he should play on our team. Now you’ve got to infiltrate the tenements, the mud huts, the terrorist cells. Vienna’s as close to the old Cold War days as you’ll get, and it’s not very.”
“Then why are you so successful?”
Cowboy chuckled. “Charm.” His expression grew serious as he continued, “The word is out I pay, and I keep my mouth shut. Chechen informants won’t take a piss unless they’re sure they can do it in secret.”
“With so many assets, you must handle a lot of money. Do you ever have trouble getting it for them?”
“As long as they deliver, Langley will. Tonight’s money is for Max’s last piece of intel. In it he claimed the Lebanese were paying the French tens of millions of dollars in contracts in exchange for nuclear technology, starting with a seventy-megawatt commercial atomic reactor and a smaller research reactor. Apparently they’re already building both.”
“Jesus. Lebanon aiming for nuclear capabilities? That’s fucking terrifying.” Bay already knew about it, but Herb had instructed him to pretend he did not. According to Herb, Cowboy was so intent on keeping his unknowns happy that he did not press them for more information when he should. Bay’s job tonight was to try to get Max to reveal how he had found the intel so the station could back-check it.
“Yeah, I can just see Hezbollah cackling about it in the Bekaa Valley,” Cowboy said with relish. “I’d love to be in Jerusalem when Mossad gets the news. The Israelis will go nuts. They’ll start polishing the jet to bomb it, and Washington will go into a paroxysm trying to calm them down until they can confirm or disprove it from other sources.”
“Max’s intel could be wrong.”
“Exactly. That’s why we’re paying him only five thousand euros.”