WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 5
VIENNA, AUSTRIA
1:30 PM
SABRE BRAKED AT THE GATE AND WOUND DOWN THE DRIVER’S-SIDE window. He displayed no identification, but the guard immediately waved him through. The sprawling château stood thirty miles southwest of downtown among forests known as the Vienna Woods. Three centuries old and built by aristocracy, its mustard-colored walls of baroque splendor encased seventy-five spacious rooms, all topped by steep gables of Alpine slate.
A bright sun poured past the Audi’s hazy windshield, and Sabre noted that the asphalt drive and side parking lots were all empty. Only the guards at the front gate and a few groundskeepers tending the walkways disturbed the otherwise tranquil scene.
Apparently this was to be a private discussion.
He parked beneath a porte cochere and climbed out into a balmy afternoon. Immediately he buttoned his Burberry jacket and followed a pebbled path to the schmetterlinghaus, an iron-and-glass enclave a hundred yards south of the main château. Painted an unadorned green, its walls lined with hundreds of panels of Hungarian glass, the imposing nineteenth-century structure easily blended into the forested surroundings. Inside, its fortified indigenous soil supported a variety of exotic plants, but the building took its name-schmetterling-from the thousands of butterflies roaming free.
He jerked open a rickety wooden door and stepped into a dirt foyer. A leather curtain kept hot, humid air inside.
He pushed through.
Butterflies danced through the air to the accompaniment of soft instrumental music. Bach, if he wasn’t mistaken. Many of the plants were in bloom, the tranquil scene a stunning contrast with the stark images of autumn outlined through the moisture-dotted glass.
The building’s owner, the Blue Chair, sat among the foliage. He possessed the face of a man who’d worked too much, slept too little, and cared nothing about nutrition. The old man wore a tweed suit atop a cardigan sweater. Which had to be uncomfortable, Sabre thought. Yet, he silently noted, cold-blooded creatures needed lots of warmth.
He slipped off his jacket and approached an empty wooden chair.
“Guten morgen, Herr Sabre.”
He sat and acknowledged the greeting. Apparently German would be their language of the day.
“Plants, Dominick. I’ve never asked, but how much do you know about them?”
“Only that they produce oxygen from carbon dioxide.”
The old man smiled. “Wouldn’t you say they do so much more? What about color, warmth, beauty?”
He glanced at the transplanted rain forest, watched the butterflies, and listened to the peaceful music. He cared nothing about soothing aesthetics but knew better than to express that opinion, so he simply said, “They have their place.”
“You know much about butterflies?”
A china plate smeared with blackened banana rested in the old man’s lap. Insects sporting wings of sapphire, crimson, and ivory were eagerly devouring the offering.
“The odor attracts them.” The old man gently stroked the wings of one. “Truly beautiful creatures. Flying gems, exploding into the world in a burst of color. Sadly, they live only a few weeks before rejoining the food chain.”
Four greenish gold butterflies arrived at the banquet.
“This species is quite rare. Papilio dardanus. The mocker swallowtail. I import their chrysalides specially from Africa.”
Sabre hated bugs, but he tried to appear interested and waited.
Finally the old man asked, “All went well in Copenhagen?”
“Malone is on his way to find the link.”
“Just as you predicted. How did you know?”
“He has no choice. To protect his son, he needs to expose the link so he’s no longer vulnerable. A man like that is easy to read.”
“He may realize that he was manipulated.”
“I’m sure he does, but he genuinely thinks, in the end, he managed to get the upper hand. I doubt he assumes I wanted those men to die.”
A crease of amusement invaded the old man’s face. “You enjoy this game, don’t you?”
“It has some satisfying aspects.” He paused before adding, “When played right.”
A few more butterflies joined those already on the plate.
“It’s actually a lot like these precious creatures,” the Blue Chair said. “They gorge themselves, drawn by the lure of easy food.” Gnarly fingers plucked one by the wings, the dark spiracle and tiny legs wrenched as the insect tried to break free. “I could easily kill this specimen. How hard would it be?”
The Blue Chair released his hold. Orange and yellow wings sputtered then caught air.
“But I could just as easily let it go.” The old man focused on him with eyes full of zest. “Use Malone’s instincts to our advantage.”
“That’s the plan.”
“What will you do once the link is found?” the Blue Chair asked.
“Depends.”
“Malone will need to be killed.”
“I can handle that.”
The old man threw him a glance. “He might prove a challenge.”
“I’m ready.”
“There’s a problem.”
He’d wondered why he’d been summoned back to Vienna.
“The Israelis are alerted. Seems George Haddad made another call to the West Bank, and Jewish spies within the Palestinian Authority reported his contact to Tel Aviv. They know he’s alive, and I assume they know where he is, too.”
That was a problem.
“The Chairs are aware of this exposure and have ratified the authority I granted you to handle the matter as you see fit.”
Which he planned to do anyway.
“As you know, the Israelis have far different motivations than we do. We want the link. They want it gone.”
Sabre nodded. “They bombed their own people in that café just to kill Haddad.”
“Jews are a problem,” the Blue Chair quietly declared. “They’ve always been difficult. Being different and obstinate breeds unmitigated pride.”
Sabre decided to leave that comment alone.
“We intend to help end the Jewish problem.”
“I wasn’t aware there was a problem.”
“Not for us, but for our Arab friends. So you must stay ahead of the Israelis. They cannot be allowed to interfere.”
“Then I need to leave.”
“Where did Malone go?”
“London.”
The Blue Chair went silent, concentrating on the bugs fluttering in his lap. Finally he swiped the butterflies away. “On the way to London, there’s a stop you need to make.”
“Is there time?”
“No choice. Another contact within the Israeli government has some information that he will only convey, in person, to you, and he wants to be paid.”
“Don’t they all?”
“He’s in Germany. It shouldn’t take long. Use one of the company jets. I’m told this man has been sloppy. He’s exposed, though he doesn’t realize it. Resolve our account with him.”
He understood.
“And needless to say, there will be others there, watching. Please make the show memorable. The Israelis need to understand this is a high-stakes affair.” The old man shifted in the wooden chair, then angled his stiletto of a nose back down toward the plate. “You’re also aware of what occurs this weekend?”
“Of course.”
“I need a financial dossier on a certain individual. By Friday. Can it be done?”
He knew the correct answer, though he didn’t have time for that, either. “Certainly.”
The Blue Chair told him the name he was to investigate, then said, “Have the information delivered here. In the meantime, do what you do best.”