But he never stopped.
DeBolt kept kicking, kept battling. Just as he had not long ago in frigid waters off the coast of Maine. And before that with a tiny young girl in the wind-whipped Bering Sea.
Absolute resolve.
64
The United States Ambassador to Austria, Charles Emerson, arrived at his destination by limousine, and at the curb he instructed his security detail to wait — an escort for the remaining hundred feet, he explained, wouldn’t be necessary. Grudgingly, the two burly State Department men in front complied.
Emerson set out at a businesslike pace across the gray-stone commons. He looked down to check his watch only to realize he hadn’t put it on. The call had come very early, waking him more than an hour before his alarm was set to go off. Not the kind of thing he’d envisioned when he’d accepted the chief diplomatic post to Vienna.
It had seemed a good idea at the time. His father-in-law was the newly elected president’s onetime Yale roommate, and over the years a steadfast contributor to his campaigns. That being the case, the ambassadorship to Austria had been Emerson’s for the taking. He’d been tempted right off, given the uninspiring course of recent years. Emerson had long endured tiresome stints on corporate boards, and he served as director for a number of charitable organizations, but those affiliations were largely coming to a sunset. Not surprisingly, his wife, whose family pedigree went back to the days of Newport and railroads, was effervescent at the prospect of hostessing state dinners in the heart of old Europe. So take the posting Emerson had.
The job of ambassador was rather different from what he’d expected, more work and less play. He could not deny that, over the course of the last year, he and Marylyn had shared some prize moments. On the other hand, when the phone call had come two hours ago, well before dawn, his wife had barely stirred.
The wind caught Emerson’s hair, and he looked up at a foreboding sky — the Viennese weather had proven an unforeseen irritant. As he reached the head of the terrace, Emerson found himself wondering what other storm might be brewing at this hour. Looming before him was an oft-visited destination, Minoritenplatz 8, or more formally, the Austrian Ministry for Europe, Integration, and Foreign Affairs. The “Integration” part was a recent addition to the letterhead, a feeble response, Emerson knew, to the intractable immigration crisis.
He was met at the entrance by a familiar face, the foreign minister’s personal secretary, a statuesque blonde who was as professional as she was attractive, and who unfailingly slayed any attempt at small talk with her blue Teutonic gaze. In faultless English she offered a crisp, “Good morning,” and Emerson muttered something in reply about the lovely weather. Minutes later he was being ushered into the top-floor office of the Austrian foreign minister.
Sebastian Landau stood and walked briskly around his desk.
“Good morning, Charles. Thank you for coming.”
Emerson took a professional handshake, and was guided to a pair of settees where coffee was waiting. Landau was an exceptionally young man, Emerson had always thought, for such a vital government post. Before arriving in Austria, Emerson had envisioned himself dealing with old-school Prussian types with broad mustaches, boorish and predictable men who would carry on for hours about riding and hunting fowl, and who capped every meeting with a splash of good port. Seb Landau — that was what he went by, Seb — trained for bicycle races, knew a lot about sushi, and was prone to wearing colorful scarves. Emerson had a loose suspicion he might be homosexual, not that he cared about that sort of thing. Landau seemed competent, intelligent, and was generally chipper. That last trait, however, had gone missing this morning.
The two men seated themselves to be separated by the coffee tray, and Landau took the initiative to pour two steaming cups. Emerson had taken up the Vienna post one year ago, and in that time the two had crossed paths regularly, although more often than not on the diplomatic cocktail circuit. Regardless of venue, they’d both kept largely to business, and no personal relationship had yet evolved between them. In the haze of the early hour, Emerson actually considered whether today’s summons might be a bit of social rapprochement. Then reason prevailed — message traffic had been flying between their respective camps in recent days.
“I know it’s early,” said Landau, “but something has come up we must address immediately.”
“Does this involve Captain Morales?” Emerson asked cautiously. This had been their most pressing recent business — the U.S. Marine who’d been found, three days earlier, murdered in the trunk of an embassy car in a Bundespolizei parking garage. One casualty of a madman’s rampage.
“Indirectly, yes.” Landau steepled his hands under his chin thoughtfully, as if lining up what to say. “As you know,” he began, “this shooting incident a few days ago … it remains very much at the forefront for us.”
“A terrible tragedy. I haven’t heard anything new on our end, but I did pass along your request for assistance to the State Department. I can tell you it’s been given highest priority. The last update I saw arrived yesterday afternoon — we still haven’t found anything to help identify this man you dredged out of the Danube.”
“Nor have we, and I imagine we’re hitting the same roadblocks. We took pictures and fingerprints, but there are no matches in any of our databases. A number of people saw this attacker, but no one remembered hearing him speak, which means we can’t even narrow things down using language or accents. We know he entered Austria last week using a false identity, but our efforts to source his U.S. passport have gone nowhere.”
“I fear we’ve come to the same conclusion,” said Emerson. “It was an elegant forgery.”
Landau sipped his coffee, then said, “We have no idea where he stayed while he was in Vienna, who he saw, or what his motive was for going on such a tear.”
Emerson had in fact gotten two classified briefings from Foggy Bottom on the affair, but they’d offered no more than what was in the local newspapers. The day after the attack on the police station, the killer had murdered a scientist, then drowned as he struggled with another man after the two fell from a bridge into the Danube. Police divers had quickly found the suspect’s body right where he’d gone in — well anchored by the armored vest he was wearing.
“Has there been any progress on finding the second man who fell off the bridge?” Emerson asked.
A somber Landau shook his head. “No. At least twelve people saw it happen, but there’s no trace of him. The police are still dragging the river, but at this point it seems a pointless exercise.”
“I understand your frustration. I’ve been told the currents are strong in certain areas.”
Landau frowned, his youthful face adding ten years. “I’m no detective,” he argued, “but I think it defies logic that his body hasn’t been found. One witness claims to have seen him swimming away, but then he disappeared under the span. Another attested to some splashing under the bridge’s southern bastion shortly after the incident.”
“So whoever he was … you’re suggesting he might have pulled himself out?”
“It’s possible, although the climb up the embankment is quite steep. I suppose if he’d had some help…” The foreign minister let that thought drift, then said, “About this woman who was involved, Miss Lund. She also remains unaccounted for, and we’d very much like to talk to her. Have you come up with any information on her whereabouts?”