Chapter 5
Somewhere over the Alps
The announcement, first in German, then in English informed Mark that he would soon be arriving in Vienna, and could he prepare for landing. Checking his seat was upright, he fastened his seatbelt and waited for the descent to commence.
The voice on the phone that morning had claimed to be from Austrian Airways, looking for a Mr Smith, but Mark knew enough to understand that the next leg of his trip had started. In some ways it was a relief. Although his time in London had been relaxing, he was ultimately a spy, thriving on action. Three days in a hotel, even a hotel as nice as Claridges was enough to dull his edge, no matter how much exercise he took in the modern gym on the sixth floor.
Wheels bumping the tarmac, he looked forward to leaving the tin-can that had rocketed him across Europe. He did not mind flying, but too much in a short space of time and it all became a bit, well, samey. Inflight magazines were remarkably similar when analysed in any detail, the films were the same mixture of recent blockbusters and the food, well there was a limited amount you could achieve in a 3 foot by 4 foot galley.
Swiftly leaving the plane and he made his way through the formalities and headed for the taxi rank. At least Vienna Airport is close to the city, he thought, settling back for the 20 minute ride to the Hotel Bristol. Even if this whole mission turned out to be a waste of time, at least he was racking up the air miles, and doing so in some style.
10 minutes behind, Simon struggled through customs, his place at the back of the plane reflecting his place in the passport queue. After his discovery at the bank, he had returned to Oxford and sought an interview with the Warden of the College. A kindly old mathematician, Sir Nigel had been only too willing to listen to Simon’s plea for some time off after his terrible ordeal. A couple of weeks should do. Arrangements were made to re-distribute Simon’s teaching duties and he prepared himself for the next step of his journey.
Not quite sure why, he was tempted to blame a very early mid-life crisis, Simon decided to follow up the strange card. Failing to reach the Doctor on the telephone, the new and improved academic resolved to take matters into his own hands and go to see him. Booking the next available flight, and a midrange hotel in the centre of the city, he was satisfied by his more gung-ho approach to life. No more tweedy academic for Simon Pelham.
Packing an overnight bag, he decided cavalierly to slip the ring on his finger before he locked his door securely and headed for the bus to Heathrow.
Having endured the flight to Austria stuck between a rather large hausfrau and businessman who slightly creepy self-control could only be masking some deep seated perversion, Simon was now facing the realities of modern air travel. Dodging the crowd of braying English tourists, their trolleys laden with enough skis to mount an invasion of Switzerland, he headed for the train station in terminal one. Finally persuading the machine to accept his 10euro note, he boarded the grey and green double decker train for the journey to Wien-Mitte station. A trip of 16 minutes he was informed. From there, he would find his hotel, and head off to find the good doctor and get some resolution to the matter.
Disgorged from the train, he strolled the short distance to the hotel. A modern building on the banks of the famously grey Danube, the Adagio Wien was a modern chain hotel, with guaranteed hot water and internet access, and the charm of a brick. Still, it was warm, safe and cheap, three things Simon valued highly, particularly after recent events. While big enough to swing the proverbial cat, as long as it was not a large one, the room was not particularly welcoming, so Simon decided to head over to the museum to expedite matters.
Although it had obviously been snowing recently, it was a sunny day, showing off the baroque grandeur of the capital to its best. Following the inner ring road which circled the old centre of the city, Simon slowly arced round, past the Opera House where Mozart had plied his trade, the Burgarten Park and the back end of the Hofburg Palace. Crossing the road, he approached the majestic museum through the gardens of Maria Theresa Square, all signs of greenery hidden beneath the white tarpaulin of snow.
Completed in 1891, after 20 years of construction, the museum had been built in the form of two wings, linked by a central section topped by a spectacular octagonal dome towering 60 metres towards the heavens. Intended to display the artistic treasures of the House of Habsburg, no expense had been spared on its marble halls and sweeping staircases, with every surface seemingly covered in art, stucco or gold leaf.
Approaching the desk, Simon asked to see Doctor Fleicher. A raised eyebrow. “Who?”
“Dr Fleicher, here is his card.” Simon’s German was fine for reading scholarly texts, the Germans having re-invented the modern study of the ancient world in the 1800’s, but it was less good at day-to-day chit chat. Added to which, he was aware that the German spoken here was subtly different to that across the border.
The guard, thought for a moment and suggested that Simon might like to follow him. Pushing through the double doors behind the desk, the contrast between the public and private areas was immediately obvious. The ornate decoration and subtle lighting of the museum gave way to a bare flight of stairs, the walls painted in the municipal shade of pale green, familiar to all public offices the world over. Obviously the Habsburgs only dyed the parts that showed...
Passing through another set of double doors, the guard led Simon down a long corridor turning at one of the anonymous doors which marked its length. A plain wooden desk, couple of chairs and fluorescent light strip were all the room contained, the window so heavily frosted as to be useless.
“Please wait here.” The guard said turning on his heel, leaving Simon to wonder about the extent of Austrian hospitality. As the minutes ticked by, he continued in the same vein, before wondering how to broach his mission with Dr Fleicher. The tale of the coded letter, the safe-box and the card and ring seemed implausible, but pretending to be a visiting academic seemed unlikely to work also. He would play it by ear, but if the doctor was as welcoming as the rest of the staff, it was unlikely he would get very far at all.
A knock at the door. Far from being the academic he expected, Dr Fleicher turned out to be a rather pretty blonde of about his age, bright blue eyes sparkling under a carpet of spiky hair. Simon immediately began to re-think his views on female academics, perhaps he was just at the wrong University.
“Dr Fleicher?” the blonde inclined her head, playful. He liked this. Maybe the trip to Vienna had not been wasted.
“I’m Dr Simon Pelham, Wadham College, Oxford. I’m a Roman historian” A look of slight puzzlement crossed her face. Obviously she was not in his field. Why then was he here?
“I came across your card recently and thought I should look you up.”
“My card, really? Where was that?”
Hmm, how to answer that? The truth was probably best.
“It was left to me actually, by an old colleague, Jonathan Strange. He was also at Wadham, maybe you knew him?”
“Strange? No, not that I know of. Why did you decide to ‘look me up’?” she was almost playful, her English unaccented. Her eyes though concerned him. Never leaving his, they seemed to bore into him. He was feeling uncomfortable.
“Jonathan said that I should” he stammered, his best gambit failing woefully.
“So someone I never met told you to come and meet me. Is that not a bit strange? If you’ll forgive the expression”. She smiled, but there was no warmth there. “Perhaps you might like to try again, Dr Pelham?”
Simon was getting nervous now, aware that he was way out of his depth. Why had he not just stayed in Oxford? A faint layer of sweat began to form on his brow and upper lip, despite the cold outside.
Dr Fleicher took a wallet from her inside pocket and placed it on the desk. “Let me make this easier for you, Dr Pelham. I’m not actually Dr Fleicher” A momentary sigh of relief gave way almost instantly to confusion.
“Dr Fleicher is dead. And I am Inspektor Elena Stahlberg of the Vienna Police”. She opened her wallet to show him her warrant card. “And I am most curious to know the real reason you are trying to contact a dead man.’ She smiled, like a chess player who was one move away from mate, and there was nothing her opponent could do.
Fuck! Fuck! What could he do? His brave facade was crumbling now, his mind racing for some plausible excuse. Opening his mouth, no words came, leaving him doing a rather unattractive impression of a goldfish. He had to say something, and the only thing he could think of was the truth.
Out it tumbled, in more or less the logically correct fashion, Jonathan, the letter, the attack, his rescue (which elicited a derisory snort from Elena), the code, the bank, the box and the card and ring. He lifted his pinkie, showing her the ring, looking, somewhere in those bright eyes for a hint of sympathy and understanding.
He found none, but he did see confusion. She was wondering about his story. It did sound far-fetched, but it could be checked, and checked easily. All it would take was a couple of phone-calls. And there was the ring, it looked familiar.
“Show me the ring” Simon slipped it off his finger where he had grown used to it, and handed it over. The crest was an eagle with a spear in its claws, similar to one she had seen recently, one that was sitting in a plastic bag in her office, one that Dr Fleicher had worn.
“Did this Jonathan ever wear this ring?”
“Not that I remember. He did wear jewellery, but it was more beads and thread bracelets.”
“You see Dr Pelham, Dr Fleicher had exactly the same ring. I didn’t think it important, assumed it was his family crest, but maybe it is. Tell me about your Jonathan. Did he ever mention Dr Fleicher? The museum? Vienna? Austria? Think Dr Pelham, it may be important. Dr Fleicher was murdered and this museum robbed, and I want to find out why.”
Murder, a word Simon liked when applied to pints, but was distinctly less sure about when referring to people. “Murdered?”
“Yes Dr Pelham. Shot through the head. It tends to be fatal”
That's it for now folks
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