The Polizeidirektor of the municipal division of the Bundespolizei came into the special waiting room outside his office.
He smiled at the attractive blonde seated by one of the three windows that overlooked the gardens.
"Guten morgen," he said in a mischievous tone.
"Good morning," said Dolina Galsworthy. There was a touch of anxiety in her manner.
She leaned forward and held out a red folder. The Director took it, opened it, and scanned her CIA card affixed to three stapled pages, one of which concerned NATO, and the bold-print headings identifying the categories of information in English and German.
The Director looked like a 1930's film star, meticulous in his official suit and personal grooming. His smile warmed a few more degrees as he said to her, "This will take a few minutes. Will you be comfortable here?"
"Yes, danke."
"Sehr gut. I will have my secretary bring in some refreshments. Excuse me, please."
Ninety minutes later the Director returned.
"Your bonafides check out," he said agreeably. "Will you join me?" He waved a hand at his open office door.
Dolina expected an austere office, and she was not surprised. The sparse furniture was functional but nothing else recommended it.
She sat across from the Director. He had avoided his desk as though he suspected a booby trap, and chose a spartan armchair in front of drab grey filing cabinets.
"I understand that this is steng geheim," meaning top secret. "Pardon my manners. You may smoke if you like," he said, reaching for a pack of cigarettes in his coat pocket.
"Danke, but I quit some time ago."
The Director tried not to look too crestfallen as he drew his hand back to his lap. "Gut, gut," he said.
"But you may smoke, it doesn't bother me. Please do."
"Ah. Danke. Ja, sehr schlecht habit of mine." He took out the pack and lit a short thick filterless cigarette in one smooth motion.
"Explain, if you would, the activities of your engagement," he said pleasantly.
"I don't know any way to say this except bluntly."
"Gut, gut."
"Tonight the philharmonic will be conducted by a guest maestro, Herr Phillipe Sorgensen. I'm sure you've heard. He is to be arrested by American agents at some point after the performance and flown back to the United States on a charter plane. But the difficult issue concerns his mistress, who is a serious security risk. My orders are that she is to be dealt with 'in extremis,' or as you would say, extreme Vorurteile."
The Director smoked reflectively for a moment. "I see."
"Her body is to be transported to Ramstein Air Force base in Germany. Your Ministry confirmed this?"
"I was told to acquiesce," he replied shortly.
He stood and put his cigarette in the brass ashtray on his desk. Linking his hands behind his back, he turned to Dolina and asked in a flat tone, "Is there anything else to discuss?"
"Yes, some details," she said, nodding, "and a request for assistance from your department."
The Director smiled. "Ah, I did think that there would be something like that."
"Gut," said Dolina. But she was not relieved. Not yet. She shifted in her chair in such a way that the Director took it as a cue and sat down again.
"Ja? Is more?"
"A man was found shot to death in the Hotel Antoinette," Dolina said. "Has he been identified?"
"Not yet. Obviously a person of interest to you. Are you free to discuss this event?"
"Yes, if I knew anything but I don't, except that he attempted to kill a French American named Hilary Napoleon."
"Do you know why?"
The Director lit another cigarette and rubbed his chin, squinting his eyes in the smoke. "We know there was a Mr Napoleon registered there and that he abandoned his room and his effects, including a sniper rifle of British make. Can you speak of this?"
Dolina reached out a hand. "May I smoke your cigarette?"
He handed it to her, pleased, and lit another for himself. "It is so much complicated, this world we live in. Is this Hilary Napoleon an agent of your government?"
"Oh, yes. Yes, he is. He is certain to be out of Austria by now. I don't know who he was targeting. My superior hasn't seen fit to explain... Well..."
Dolina sighed a lungful of smoke and shook her head. "When can you expect to learn the identity of the dead man?"
"Perhaps now, this minute." The Director lifted the receiver of his desk phone, pushed a button, waited a few seconds, and said briskly, "Die mordkommission an der Antoinette. Die identitat des verstorbenen?... Ja... "
He looked at Dolina, his greying brows arched. Then, staring intently at the phone, he said with enthusiasm, "Gut, gut... Ja..." He hung up.
"An anonymous tip came in this morning, over a public telephone," the Director announced with a vein of skepticism. "A man. He said to check with Interpol's data base, a Roger Cornwallis, British citizen with a record of arms smuggling. Always works in partnership with an American named..."
He paused, searching his memory. "Last name Welles. Ah! Harrison Welles. This had our investigative team reconsider the crime scene. The bullet holes in the room, in a chest of drawers and its mirror. They may have been from gunfire across the street, from the Hotel Wien. Mr Napoleon was fortunate to get away. There were blood drops on the hallway carpet different from the blood of the deceased. This Hilary Napoleon was wounded. But no one of his description has been admitted into a hospital or clinic in Wien. Or I should say, Vienna."
He leaned back, then abruptly stood and put his cigarette in the ashtray, to join the other. He linked his hands behind his back, smiling thoughtfully at the introspective blonde.
"Do these names mean anything to you?" he asked.
Dolina flicked ash in the ashtray and said to the curlicues of smoke: "Nein."
Herbert von Herbock, conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic, laughed at the remark by 'Reginald Beckwith' that the Great Hall was like a very ornate shoebox.
"Indeed, yes, as were all the concert halls built in the late nineteenth century," said von Herbock as he escorted the tall gentlemen down the center aisle of the empty venue; empty except for themselves and the custodians busy cleaning the gilt and crystal.
"As you know, such a shape, and the design of the balcony boxes, make for excellent acoustics. You say you would like to see the backstage rooms?"
"To add color to the piece I am writing for Travel Log magazine," said Sanguineus. "Acoustics is a passion of mine. I have spent large sums on my home audio system, but not as much as I would have, had I not studied acoustical engineering."
"A worthy subject indeed," said the conductor.
He ran his fingers through his unruly white mane, limping slightly as his shorter legs strove to keep a pace ahead of this impressive fellow who had managed to turn the head of the Musikverein's assistant coordinator, Olivia.
"Herr Sorgensen was just here an hour ago," von Herbock continued, "and he pronounced himself more than satisfied. You say you have a pass to see him after the performance?"
"Yes, a press pass, and also a scheduled interview with him immediately after the symphony."
"Then you will want the use of a dressing room, for the sake of convenience. We have three available, if I'm not mistaken."
Sanguineus looked up at the podium on stage and at the tiers of orchestra seats.
"That would be very kind," he said.
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