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CHAPTER 1
It seemed to Karl Baier as though he could never escape history, certainly not while working for the CIA. Not that he minded. He enjoyed slicing through the bureaucratic maze that came with any large organization, especially government ones. He had joined the Agency eight years ago at its inception in 1947 and found that studying the past helped. Especially working as the deputy chief of station in Vienna. Every once in a while, though, Karl wondered if he had at least one foot on the wrong side of history — if he was straddling that indistinct line that separates us from the past. Would he lose himself behind the curve of time by falling too deeply into the personalities and traditions of the past? How fully did he comprehend history's effect on the present — enough to allow him to have a positive impact on current events?
This time it started with a call in the middle of the night. Three o'clock, to be exact. Or almost. It might have been more like two forty-five or two fifty. He was disoriented at first, blinking his eyes to clear away the haze and confusion. Karl Baier studied the clock for several seconds before groping through the darkness that draped his bedroom like a shroud to pull the receiver closer to his ear.
"Hello?" He shifted his weight, raising himself on one elbow. The bedsprings groaned and something tumbled off the night table. Baier hoped it was a book. "Yes? What is it?" "Sir, there's been a call for you from the local police. A body or something."
"A body?" The first thought that came to Baier was that this had to be a duty call, someone from his office he would have to identify; then he'd need to set in motion the painful process of informing the family and returning the remains. Struggling to recognize the voice, Baier paused to rub the sleep from his eyes and shift the receiver to his left ear.
"You mean a dead one?" Baier sent a silent prayer to no one in particular that it was a case well short of death. "Please tell me it's just some drunk kid in a uniform who's run afoul of the Russians or the locals again, someone we have to haul out of jail." Baier took a deep breath and glanced at the clock to confirm just how early it was. Please don't let it be one of ours. "Are you sure you need to be calling me and not the Army or the Embassy?"
The voice on the other end of the line was apologetic. Baier recognized it now as Adams, a first-tour officer who had the bad luck to pull night and weekend duty for the week. "It's a corpse, sir. And they specifically asked for you. Otherwise I would have pushed this whole thing off on the military."
Baier shoved back the covers and slid his legs off the mattress until his feet reached the floor. He stood, cradling the phone between his shoulder and cheek while he slipped on his watch. "So, why didn't you call the MPs first off? And just who are 'they'?"
"It was the Austrians, sir. The Interior Ministry Police. It's not just the local cops. It sounded pretty serious. Otherwise, I wouldn't have —"
"No, that's all right. I understand. It's just a bit of a shock getting a call at this hour." He paused to glance out his bedroom window, not really sure what he expected to see beyond the impenetrable darkness. "American? It's not one of ours, is it?"
"No, sir, not one of ours. I don't think he's been identified yet. At least, no one mentioned it." Baier could hear the rustle of paper at the other end of the line. "It sounds like he's Austrian, an older gent. He was dressed as a civilian for the most part, except for his jacket."
"Where is this body then?"
"Down by the river, sir. Some drunk apparently saw it from the sidewalk walking home."
"What do you mean 'for the most part'?"
"Well, that's what's kind of odd, and it may be why they wanted you there. His jacket was actually an old Wehrmacht coat."
"Wait a minute." Baier stifled a yawn and ruffled his thick brown hair that felt like a patch of alfalfa after a draught. The early morning disorientation was beginning to wear off. "Did you say a Wehrmacht coat? Did this guy not realize the war's been over for ten years now? Did he just get out of a Soviet POW camp?" Even after the big release of 1948, there were still numerous German and Austrian prisoners of war languishing in the Soviet Union, probably because the work projects they had been assigned to were not yet finished.
"The locals said they'd know more by the time you got there and that they'd bring you up to speed at that point."
"So where do I need to go? What part of the river are we talking about?"
"Well, the good news is that you're nearby. It's right in the center of town — almost, anyway. At the end of Rotenturm Street."
"Strasse. That's what the Austrians call a street. So it's Rotenturmstrasse."
"Whatever you say, sir." A pause. "Sorry, sir."
Baier smiled, in spite of the hour. "That's all right. I don't mean to be picky. I'm just tired." And the day hadn't even begun.
"I think you can see the spire of the Stephensdom from what they said."
At least he had gotten the proper name for the cathedral. "I should hope so, son," Baier replied. "It's a pretty tall steeple. But thanks anyway."
When Karl Baier arrived, he found the local police, along with two officers from the Interior Ministry, much as he had expected. This was, after all, their turf. The Austrians had been running their country for several years now, despite the continued presence of the four victorious powers who had divided Austria and Vienna into four zones of occupation, much as they had in Germany and Berlin. The difference was that the Austrian occupation was about to come to an end. May of 1955 was less than a month away. These same four powers had finally agreed to a peace treaty and a permanent state of neutrality for the independent nation of Austria. It had been dubbed the Staatsvertrag, or State Treaty, which would restore Austria to its full sovereignty and independence. Most important in the eyes of the locals, it would send all four Allied powers home. Baier was surprised that they would make such an effort to pull the Allies into what appeared to be a local killing with the occupation coming to an end in just a few weeks.
He was equally surprised to see representatives of the other three powers waiting for him on the riverbank. The French officer, a man Baier recognized as a member of their military intelligence, was in uniform and slouched in a sign of indifference to the entire affair, his lean, shaven face distorted by an obvious frown. It was as though he could not figure out why he had dressed so formally for such an insignificant affair. Still, the uniform did give his squat figure — perhaps the result of too much pâté and foie gras — a more official aspect.
Baier had not seen the Soviet before, but identified him from his uniform as a lower ranking officer from the regular Soviet military, infantry most probably. The brawny man stood nearly erect, sucking in his shallow cheeks and glancing continually from side to side, as though wary of being lured into some sort of a trap.
Only Baier's British colleague, a civilian like himself, wandered over to shake Baier's hand and commiserate for the early morning conference on the slick banks of the Danube. The man appeared to have taken the time to shower and shave. His dark, wet hair was combed straight back, and his raincoat was wrapped and belted tightly around his thin frame. Baier guessed his height to be just about six feet, since the Brit's forehead was just below his own.
Baier swept his hand over his own semi-combed hair and pulled his raincoat tighter around his chest and waist to ward off the damp, cool air. His thin nose was running, and his light hazel eyes were misting slightly under the soft morning breeze. For most of April, the Viennese weather hadn't quite left winter behind and made that final transition to spring. The frequent rain had left the riverbank where they stood slippery and moist, and the weather kept Baier longing for some of that fabled Viennese coffee. His right foot skated across the mud when he tried to move. Glancing toward the opposite bank, he cursed his luck that had left the corpse lying on the muddy side of the river still under repair and construction. Why couldn't the dead guy have been left on the paved and tree-lined path along the other bank?
"I insisted that we wait until your arrival before proceeding further," his British colleague whispered. "I definitely wanted to have someone from your side, as it were, here to help in case the French or bloody Soviets tried anything inappropriate."
"Like what?" Baier had met Henry Turnbridge once before and found him to be a likeable colleague from MI6. As likeable as possible, that is, with suspicion of a 'third man' in MI6 still lingering in the long, torturous wake of the Maclean and Burgess defections. Baier had sought to maintain a certain distance from his British colleagues, which seemed to suit Turnbridge just fine. Maybe he had his own doubts about his service. Or maybe he didn't care for the pressure Washington kept putting on his superiors in London to pursue a more thorough house-cleaning of suspected Soviet agents buried within their service.
"Should we expect something like that from those guys just now?" Baier swung his gaze from the riverbank to the row of office buildings and apartment blocks that rimmed the road above. It was a panorama typical of Vienna today: four- and five-story buildings either reconstructed from the long granite blocks and classical designs of years past or the austere lines of metal and glass favored by modern European architects in their hurry to reconstruct a devastated central Europe. "What's this all about, anyway?"
Turnbridge motioned with his head toward the Austrian officials from the Interior Ministry, who were flanked by two more police officers in uniform. "I'll let them do the explaining. Not that I'll expect them to have much to say in any case."
Baier and his British colleague walked over to their Allied brethren, who followed the two Anglo-Saxons over to the Austrians standing next to the corpse. The body of an elderly Austrian — at least Baier assumed he was an Austrian since they were in Vienna — had been rolled over on his back, one arm thrown wide and pointing downriver, the other arm folded across his chest. His front was wet and dirty, as one would expect if he had been lying face down on this patch of riverbank.
"Good evening, gentlemen," one of the Austrians said. "My name is Stefan Huetzing. I work at the Interior Ministry and will be leading the investigation into this murder. I already have your names from your respective commands so that I will know whom I should contact if it becomes necessary. I apologize for asking you to join me at such an early hour, but given the potential complications of this case, I wanted to be sure you were kept informed of all developments from the outset."
The Austrian was tall, almost reaching Baier's height. Baier figured him for 5'10" or maybe 5'11. His body was shrouded in a deep green Lodenmantel, which he left unbuttoned, and the damp morning air had plastered his light-blond hair to his scalp. Baier marveled over the man's excellent command of English. He wasn't sure just how much his French and Soviet colleagues would be able to follow. But in view of the difficulties the American authorities had encountered working with both, he wasn't about to offer any assistance by pushing for a discussion in German. They'd probably have just as much difficulty following a conversation in that language.
"What sort of complications are we talking about, Herr Huetzing?" Baier asked. "How could this possibly affect the Allies, especially at this stage?"
The Austrian nodded. "I appreciate your uncertainties, Herr Baier, and again I sympathize with you for this early morning call." He smiled and spread his arms. "It may come to nothing, but at this stage we want to avoid anything that might upset progress toward the signing of the State Treaty, which you understand remains our priority."
Turnbridge pointed toward the body. "But what could this man have to do with our interests or the State Treaty, for that matter?"
Huetzing nodded again, apparently his way of acknowledging the question. "Hopefully nothing. But there is the matter of his jacket, which suggests an affiliation with the previous regime and its military forces. We also hope to identify him shortly, which should help us determine if there will indeed be complications. His jacket suggests he may have just made his way back here from the Soviet Union, and we naturally want to ensure that his departure and travels were all above board, as you say." The Austrian sighed and glanced up and down the riverbank. "Moreover, until we know the exact circumstances of his death, it is probably best that we all keep an open mind."
Baier and Turnbridge glanced at each other, then Baier studied the French and the Soviet officers. Both wore blank expressions, as though they had understood nothing and cared even less. Baier stepped closer to the body and found a face that appeared to be too old for active military service, although an extended period in Soviet captivity would age any man quickly. Still, Baier guessed his age as no younger than fifty. There were no other clues as to his background. The pants were made of a light-gray wool, and the shoes were of a well-worn black leather that looked as though they might have cost a fair bit when they were new. Of course, Baier had no way of knowing when that was, or if they originally belonged to this individual. The hands were rough and weathered, not surprising in one who'd performed years of hard labor in the USSR. Of course they didn't know if the man had indeed just returned from Soviet captivity or even been a prisoner there at all. Baier sighed, wondering just what they were supposed to know this early on. Or why they should even bother. The loose cotton shirt gave even less indication of the man's history, covered as it was with a large bloodstain over the chest.
"Oh, one other thing, gentlemen," the Austrian Huetzing announced. "This man was not shot here. He appears to have been killed somewhere else, and then whoever committed the crime dumped the body here." He pointed at the ground and circled the area with his index finger. "You see, there is no blood around here, and no sign of a struggle."
"Would you be able to determine that so soon and in this light?" the Frenchman asked. Baier grinned. So, the guy did speak English.
Huetzing nodded again. "Oh, quite." He looked upward. "The sun is already coming out, so we have been able to see well enough. And I think you will find that we are not so primitive in our investigations here. It may not be Paris, but we have done this sort of thing before."
As he approached his house afterward, Baier could have sworn that he had turned off all his lights when he left for his rendezvous at the Danube. But standing in the front walk, he could clearly see a single bulb casting a soft round glow from his kitchen at the back. Admittedly, it had been pretty damn early, and Baier remembered rushing from the house and locking his door in a flurry tempered only by exhaustion. Nevertheless he was pretty sure that he had indeed turned the key in the lock and that the house had been dark, matching the pre-dawn sky that surrounded it. But there it was: a soft shaft of light sliding toward him across the small lawn and along the walkway in front of the house.
He inched through the front door — definitely unlocked at this point — and crept toward the back of the house. A man sat at his kitchen table, a navy-blue overcoat draped over the chair next to him with a hat resting on the tabletop. He faced the front of the house, presumably to greet Baier when he entered, and he had already helped himself to a cup of what appeared to be freshly brewed coffee. Baier was sure as hell he had not made any before he left.
"Would you like some?" the stranger asked in a German that had the soft musical tones of an Austrian dialect. Baier had not placed it just yet. The interloper held his cup aloft and offered it to Baier.
"Thank you, but I'll get my own." Baier moved toward the cabinet next to the sink and pulled a mug from the bottom shelf. "In this sort of situation, it's probably best if I handle hot liquids on my own."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Hapsburg Variation"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Bill Rapp.
Excerpted by permission of Coffeetown Enterprises, Inc..
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