That morning Sanguineus walked along a pathway in Vienna's Aufgarten Park.
With him was a young man wearing thick spectacles and having prominent teeth, who was so thin that his knee-length alpaca sweater seemed to be worn by a walking clothes hanger.
The pathway was bordered on both sides by lime trees and maples. It was a Friday, and though the park was a quiet and sympathetic place for a private talk, it was showing signs of the approaching weekend. School children's voices were in the air, mixing with those of birds and the shrill whistles of the sports instructors. That particular timbre that speaks of an anticipation of freedom, and the joy of lethargy, was making itself felt.
"There's no indication that Sorgensen is aware of the contract on him," said the young man, Murray, "but he is convinced that ICS has been investigating him. Someone in that organization tipped off his personal accountant, a guy named Dimitri Archimedes."
"Anyone who has had dealings with the CIA's black operations will know about the vigilante network," Sanguineus said. "The question is, was the attempt on the life of Bear Claus a reaction to the investigation?"
"We don't know who ordered it. We think it was someone in the employ of Sorgensen, someone this Dimitri guy knows. But it could be the CIA. Do you think so?"
Sanguineus considered.
A spray of pale brown leaves whisked across the path in a soft clatter that frightened a squirrel.
"There have been many smoking gun accusations aimed at the government," he remarked. "They all slide right off it. One more accusation isn't going to make any difference. I don't think the Firm is behind the hit attempt on Claus, and neither does he. But Sorgensen is a potential patsy, and the Firm can distance themselves from him if necessary. So it makes sense to see him as the source of the attempt."
Murray swung his hands inside his sweater pockets, his strides springy, his geeky youthfulness apparent in every aspect of his appearance. Sanguineus did not like having to converse with him, not in public places, but the young man was Red Rum's only analyst in Austria and the Balkans.
"How did your acoustical engineer ruse go at the concert hall?" Murray asked as they walked along through the stripes of tree shadows.
"It got me a free pass for the concert tomorrow night, and the authorization to test the sound quality from anyplace in the venue, including backstage. But I'll have my eye on the maestro. I need to wire his tux for audio. It's likely that he'll have a chat with Dimitri after the concert. And I'll want to hear that."
Sanguineus stopped. He stood staring at a vendors area near an athletic field. It was the rich smell of roasting peanuts that had first caught his attention. Then a casual glance at the portable nut stand arrested his movement.
A youngish blond woman was buying what looked like roasted chestnuts scooped up from a bin and poured into a bright red and white paper sack.
Money changed hands and the blonde turned with the bulging sack now in her denim shopping bag. She was pretty and her golden hair gleamed silkily in the light breeze.
She did not look directly at Sanguineus, but he sensed that she had seen him; or, what was more likely, had followed him. She was strolling in apparent lightheartedness toward the Film Archive building.
"Do you know her?" wondered Murray, standing beside him.
"If that's Dolina Galsworthy, then either the CIA has got wind of me, or Dolina has gone rogue."
"Dolina? Galsworthy? A field agent?"
"She knows Bear Claus's assistant secretary, Gina. Well, of course," Sanguineus muttered, "if she's here on official business then she must've learned of my involvement from Gina." He saw his reflection in Murray's glasses. "Gina is a paid CIA informant. Claus knows this. He uses her to send mixed signals and false info to the spy boys if they get too nosey about us."
Murray nodded while thinking it over. "Then which is it? Is she here to fuck us up, or is she here to assist you in some way? Is she a double, on the CIA payroll, but actually a rogue doing what will benefit her own personal agenda?"
Sanguineus smiled at him. "You're quick, but don't get ahead of yourself," he said. "It must be that Dolina's section chief sent her to spy on me, and possibly set me up for a fall. If she were here to assist or warn me, then Gina would know that, and I would've been briefed on it by Claus. No, she's here on the Firm's dime. She might throw me a bone, like she did in Switzerland a little while back, but I think she's primarily the face of the opposition."
"Maybe the Firm wants Sorgensen dead. You know, to seal his mouth. It could be that, just that. As likely as the other."
Sanguineus turned and watched Dolina, or who he supposed was Dolina, crossing the athletic field.
"I might find out late tonight," he thought aloud. "She'll know where I'm staying."
The 'Fluss Sprite' was a permanently docked cruise boat, 185 feet long, with a beam of 32 feet. It was also an exclusive hotel. The forward deck was a restaurant. In inclement weather, and in winter, the diners ate in the enclosed dining room in the aft section.
But this was early fall and the evenings were just short of balmy. One had a choice: an interior ambience, or out on deck with its lighted awning and a view of the city.
Monica Paladin went out from her cabin and along the starboard promenade to the outdoor dining area. The diners were few, though there were no vacancies among the seventeen cabins. She sat at a reserved table. It was exactly five o'clock.
Monica wore a red flannel pullover with a scoop collar, Bermuda shorts of a brown and dark green plaid design, and calfskin boots that laced nearly to her knees. Her jet black pageboy sent a few random strands of itself waving across her line of vision. Aside from a touch of lip gloss and bold eyeliner, she wore no makeup.
"I think that must be him," she said into her cell phone. "Tall and dark. Not at all bad-looking. No, I haven't seen any pictures, are you crazy? We don't advertise ourselves in this line of work, you know. Talk to you later."
Monica put the phone away in its belt holster. She busied herself taking out a Turkish Hill and lighting it. A waiter crept over like a weasel and raised his brows. "A Bloody Mary. Double. And for God's sake don't be all night about it. My guest will be wanting a stiff one. Send someone out right away to take his order."
She shooed the waiter away and tilted back her head to blow a stormy cloud of smoke across the deck.
Sanguineus was dressed with a formal casualness: a dark sport coat, a pinstriped grey shirt, no tie, black jeans and dark brown leather shoes. On his head was a black Brixton Wesley fedora. When he saw Monica he touched the brim of the hat and gave her a rather enigmatic smile.
He came up to her table as though he was not quite satisfied with the setting. She noticed his quick appraisal of the other diners, and, when the weasel-like waiter came stealthily over with her drink, watched with approval as Sanguineus said to him, "Vodka tonic on the rocks," and sat down without paying him any further attention.
"You knew what I looked like?" she asked with an open mouth smile.
Sanguineus looked her straight in the eyes for a moment. Then he said, "I was told you were a beautiful brunette. I was sure I wouldn't need any additional description. And by the way, I saw 'Below Zero' on its premiere weekend. I enjoyed it. I remember thinking that you might make a good prospect."
"Did you? Well how nice of you to say so. I haven't seen a damn thing with you in it." She raised her glass. "Here's to the world at large. The only real movie set."
"You might wait until my drink comes," Sanguineus said.
"Oh what a faux pas!" She laughed, looking over his shoulder. "Here comes your drink now. I'll have you know that I put the fear of God into the waiters."
Sanguineus said to the oily man, "Hold off on the menus, and bring us some jalapeño peppers, breaded and deep fried."
The waiter looked doubtful for just a second, then: "An excellent request," and hurried off.
Monica stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray. She looked out at the placid Danube, her hair pushed gently past her ears in the sharp aromatic breeze.
"How did you..." she began, and watched him from the corners of her eyes. "...know that I like chipotles?"
He did not smile or look surprised.
"Do you?" he said.
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