Darren Priest Mysteries Collection

Chapter 6

April 14

Champions Bar

After Weber left, I glanced around the area again, found nothing, and resigned myself to the fact that my laptop had been stolen. I kept important files there, but none that would harm me or assist the thief. Still, I had compiled information that I needed, particularly in the work I had planned for this visit to Vienna. Fortunately, my obsession with information also drove me to maintain copies, in this case on a flash drive that I always carried with me. Slipping my hand into my right pants pocket, I found it there, attached to the long lanyard that I always kept with it.

I zipped the backpack shut and slung it over my shoulder, then turned toward Parkring, the main avenue that hugs the contour of Vienna’s old city on this side. At the pedestrian light on the curb, I stood for a moment until the light switched to green, then I crossed the street with the joggers, walkers, and pets and walked directly up to the entrance of the Marriott Parkring.

Just as I anticipated, the laptop was not in my hotel room, nor in the restaurant. I checked with the manager. The waitress was off shift by the time I returned in late afternoon and she didn’t recall anyone finding a small computer, or a man fitting the description I provided.

I scanned the room, checking the faces of the wait staff on shift at that time to see if I could find the man I remembered from the morning. Then I approached the manager on duty.

“I’m looking for a man, sturdy build, slightly graying hair, maybe a manager or something?” I asked.

“When were you here?”

“At breakfast.”

“About how old was he?” the manager asked.

“Maybe fifty, give or take a few years.”

“Well, no, we don’t have a manager who fits that description. In fact, the manager on the breakfast shift is a woman.”

“Could he have been a waiter?” I asked.

“No. As you can see, the servers here are all younger than you describe. Like the waiters in your restaurants in America. There is no one here of the age you describe.”

I looked at the manager. He was older than his wait staff crew, but I wasn’t looking for him.

Anticipating my question, he said, “I was the manager on shift this morning. Still here, I regret to say, but there was no one forty-something with gray hair working today.”

“Could he be a guest?” I asked.

“Oh, but of course, Mr. Priest. We have many guests. That would be very difficult to pin down, sir.”

I made a note to return the following morning hoping to find a guest who fit the hazy memory I had. But in the meantime I wanted to return to the reason why I was in Vienna.

After returning to my room, I pulled Inspector Weber’s business card from my wallet and dialed the number.

“Anything?” I asked.

“No, nothing,” she said curtly.

“Okay,” I replied with resignation. It was a natural impulse to want to follow up on my loss, so I didn’t worry about Weber reading anything into my call. I also felt that showing interest in the computer and not trying to avoid contact could have a positive impact on my relationship with the police. On the other hand, I realized that showing too much worry about the missing files might generate renewed curiosity on their part.

I returned to Stadtpark as the sun was dipping toward the roofs of the buildings. This was a popular public park, just across the Parkring from the Marriott, and dozens of people still walked down the paths or were sitting on the lawn. I thought perhaps I could talk to someone who might have seen something earlier in the day, something that might jog my memory. Wandering throughout the area where I had been a few hours before, I found a couple of young women sharing a blanket, and I was quite certain they had been there earlier. I approached and introduced myself.

“Excuse me. I am looking for something. My name is Darren Priest and I was here this afternoon.”

One of the women giggled at that, telling me that she remembered me sleeping, and being awakened by the police.

“Yes, I know,” said the other woman. They were sitting up but leaning closely together in an intimate embrace.

“Did you see anyone with me?” I asked.

“You mean, other than the polizei?” she asked amused.

polizei“Yes.”

“No, no one,” her partner replied.

“How about before the police officer arrived?” I persisted.

They both shook their heads.

I thanked them and moved on, keeping my eyes on the ground for any clues but also surveying the area to see if I recognized anyone else. No luck. Realizing that it was getting on six o’clock, I left the park by the winding sidewalk on which I had entered the area, crossed the busy divided street of Parkring, and re-entered the glittering lobby of the Marriott.

The doorman nodded a pleasant “Gutentag” as I passed by. He was helping new arrivals at the check-in desk. I swiped my keycard and pressed “8” for the concierge level. The evening snacks and wine would be served by this hour and I thought I’d get a glass of the local Zweigelt to sip in my room while I dressed for dinner.

GutentagThe wine tasting that served as the cover for my visit was scheduled for the next evening, so I would spend tonight at Cantinetta Antinori, a restaurant owned by the Antinori wine family. After discovering the establishment on my first visit to the city a few years back, I had become a regular customer, so much so that I knew the layout and selection of dishes, and the staff knew me. Not only were the wines excellent – as would be expected from Piero Antinori and his wine empire – but the menu was truly Italian and unfailingly exceptional.

Cantinetta AntinoriBack in my room, I changed from my short-sleeved shirt and jeans into a button-down dress shirt – sans tie – and slacks. The Zweigelt was a very pleasurable wine, not in a style that one would expect from Italy, France, or Spain, but true to the grape and one of Austria’s flagship wines. I sipped at the glass and listened to the short bursts of news on CNN as I roamed around my suite getting ready for dinner.

I let my mind wander to the wine tasting that I would attend the next evening, allowing myself to be distracted from thoughts of the lost laptop. I am a columnist for The Wine Review, a wine magazine in the U.S. that had gained enough respect internationally that its ratings could decide the fate of new wine releases around the world. My columns focused on European wines although I maintained a strong interest in the wines of America’s west coast too.

The Wine ReviewTomorrow’s tasting was part trade event and part celebration, but all Italian. The writers would be allowed in first to sample the wines and make their notes, catching short conversations with the winemakers in attendance, then to be followed by a small and select audience of consumers. This would not be the usual cattle rush that occurred so often in the States, where a purchased ticket would be all that was necessary for the wine-thirsty curious to gain entrance. This small, chosen group of consumers would no doubt include local luminaries and politicos – not to mention people with deep pockets. Special in their way, but not of much interest to me. I planned to attend the trade part, get my notes, enjoy the wines, and talk to the industry reps. I would excuse myself then, before the doors opened to the deep-pocketed buyers.

But that was still another day off. Jetlag had never been much of an issue for me, but I wanted my senses to be fully functioning to cover the event for The Wine Review, so another day would be a welcome respite. Downing the last sip of Zweigelt, I made a quick survey of everything on the table and nightstand to memorize their positions. The clock on the nightstand was perched at a forty-five degree angle with respect to the bed, my small pile of note papers were left in practiced disarray, the pen straddling the edge of the pile, and the wine glass was placed just three inches from the edge of the counter. I swung the door next to the minibar open to reach the room safe inside, then set the unlocked door ajar at exactly one inch.

The Wine Review, This penchant for placement was necessary in my life. Whenever I traveled, I was careful about my private space and wanted to be sure to notice if anything had been disturbed. Satisfied with the mental pictures I had of anything that might be moved in my absence, I turned toward the door and hung the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the handle before heading down the hallway.

It was too early for dinner so after riding the elevator to the lobby, I descended the sweeping staircase, crossed the wide expanse, and settled onto a barstool in Champions, the sports bar that fronted the street. There was a soccer game on the television, pitting teams in the UEFA Champions League, which I thought might serve as a distraction from thoughts about my assignment and my lost computer.

The distraction didn’t work. My mind kept mulling over the events of the morning – at least as far as I could remember them before being kicked awake by Inspector Weber. Not a bad vision to wake up to but the loss of my computer raised the hair on my neck. I was here in Vienna with a single purpose and I had to keep my purpose concealed. Maintaining a low profile and keeping off the authorities’ radar would help too. Losing track of an essential tool like the laptop or becoming too well known to the local authorities could expose me to danger and interfere with my mission.

Still, I wondered whether the loss of the computer was something other than a random theft. Perhaps my movements had already attracted unwanted attention and I had been drugged and then victimized in retaliation. It wasn’t what I was expecting but it couldn’t be completely discounted either.

Thinking through the events of the last two days, my biological fitness in the morning, and other facts convinced me that I had been drugged, probably via the espresso at breakfast. I knew that even if I found the waitress, she would not be able to tell me anything and I doubted that she was part of the plot. She had been taken advantage of by the man with the salt-and-pepper hair, and I had been his victim.

“What’ll you have?” the bartender asked.

“A Stiegl,” I replied, indicating the local beer I had come to appreciate on my visits to Austria. He pulled a cold glass from the freezer below the bar, tipped it at an angle below the dispenser, and pulled the long, white handle to fill the glass with what they called the “Salzburg beer.”

While I sipped from the tall frosty glass, I recounted what I knew and what I remembered. In my line of work, discrete movements and constant awareness of surroundings were like life insurance. Attention to detail, especially about your surroundings could be the difference between surviving and dying. I would not have fallen asleep in a public place like the Stadtpark without being induced. But my attention to detail had failed me at the breakfast table. If my memory could recall the man interfering in the service of the espresso, why hadn’t my internal alarm gone off? I knew that I couldn’t resolve that glitch in my training but made a note to consider it at another time.

A roar from the soccer match’s spectators rose from the speakers on the sides of the television and drew my attention away from my thoughts. FC Zurich had just slipped the ball past a sprawling goalie on the Bayern side, chalking a one-nil score in the early minutes of the match.

My cover should still be intact, I thought. But if I was singled out for drugging and theft, how could it not be related somehow to my mission, and possibly to my dual identities?

The beer went down well, though I sipped it slowly.

“Another?” the bartender asked after I finished the glass.

“No. Thanks. Gotta go. Check?”

I planned to have wine at dinner and – knowing the lengthy repast that I planned at the Cantinetta – there would be wine, so I didn’t want to overindulge with beer beforehand.

CantinettaThe bartender handed me the little paper slip from the empty mug on the bar and I folded out a few Euros to pay for the drink and leave a tip. I couldn’t completely drop my American training, so I probably left a bigger tip than was necessary here in Europe. But, then again, he didn’t seem to mind.

Slipping off the barstool, I left Champions through the street-side door, turned right, and headed off on a familiar path on Weihburggasse toward the main part of town.