Dead drop, p.3
Dead Drop, page 3
I must remember to pick up a narcissus plant and push the note down into the soil. Herr Schneider must know Albert, or at least know of him. I imagine Albert as a clandestine figure who is never seen, smokes a pipe and gives orders via a carefully organised network as he directs large, illicit operations. Or he’s an older man with a steely gaze perhaps, with half-glasses and a tweed jacket, masquerading as a legitimate businessman. The thought of the former makes me shudder and I change tracks, listening instead to Miles Davis. My nerves rarely catch me off guard but the thought of meeting Herr Schneider, and intrusive images of the body at the top of the steps of the underground station, have made me jittery.
I pull a discarded chewing gum wrapper from my pocket, stretch it out and twist it into a totem pole of letters in green and white. I spin it between the index and second finger of my right hand. It releases some tension. I feel afraid for the first time in months although I’m not sure why. A momentary inability to remember the number of Herr Schneider’s house betrays me. I should remember. I never forget a detail: a name, a number, a place. I can’t remember whether the stop is Gatterburggasse or Silbergasse. Gatterburggasse is too early. I need the next stop. The tram stops again and empties at Hardtgasse which means there are two more stops. We pass a bar, a video shop, a few takeaway restaurants, the university halls of residence and the Apotheke. I still don’t know what I will say to Herr Schneider and I don’t know why Albert has sent me. I tell myself that my life won’t be at risk. I don’t know why the man at the station wasn’t alive when I reached him and I wonder, for a moment, whether Herr Schneider will be alive when I reach number nineteen. I remember now, it’s nineteen.
The tram judders as it stops. The brakes screech as the steel wheels resist the pressure. I stay on the tram for one stop beyond number nineteen the potted narcissus. There’s a flower stall in front of the Rudolfinerhaus hospital where I was born. The tram waits at the lights. I turn to watch them until the red is replaced by flashing amber – a warning – then by green. The carriages begin their descent from Billrothstrasse and around the corner, stopping at Silbergasse. I look both ways and cross the tracks towards the flower stall. I enter but can’t see any narcissi. The assistant looks at the back of the shop and pulls one out from behind a flower arrangement.
I pay and wonder whether to get on the tram travelling in the opposite direction back to the previous stop but decide instead to walk. The day is fresh and I draw the air deep into my lungs. Holding the plant in my left hand, I rearrange my shoulder bag with the other hand. It slips, irritatingly, when I walk. This only happens when I wear a jacket. It stays in place when I am only wearing a light top. I realise I am not out of breath, despite the ascent, and put that down to the increased distance in my runs. I’ve pushed myself from ten kilometres to fifteen and my fitness is building. It’s important to keep my body lean and to be able to move fast.
I stop outside number nineteen without looking at the numbers. I recognise the bars and the bay windows. The house isn’t particularly noticeable and, set back off the road, reminds me of a remote Scottish Highlands castle. I’ve often wondered about the owner.
I see the curtain move. He is expecting me. There’s no need to ring the bell three times. I reach the front door and press once. Nothing happens. I ring again. Silence. I ring for a third time and hear footsteps walking along what sounds like a wooden corridor. I hold up the pot with its yellow bloom, pull the note from my pocket and plunge it deep into the soil as the handle turns. The face of a man about my height peers through the chink in the door.
‘Herr Schneider,’ I say. ‘Liesl Baumgartner.’
‘Liesl who?’
‘Baumgartner.’ I suspect he heard me the first time.
‘Come in.’ He motions with his hand for me to enter quickly, as though I might have been followed.
He opens the door and I place one foot inside the house followed by the other. The hall smells musty and airless and I wonder if he lives alone. At first glance, it looks as though he might, but you can’t always tell. Some people surprise me. Some houses surprise me. He takes the narcissus and pokes his fingers down into the soil, then pulls out Albert’s note and shakes it. Several soil particles loosen from the paper and fly through the air. He picks up a stick from a tall coat rack with curled wooden arms formed in a willow-tree shape, its branches drawing down towards the floor. He slides the note into his pocket, turns on his heels and disappears down the corridor. I wonder whether to follow and decide it would be better than standing in the hallway.
There is a tall grandfather clock further along to the left, a collection of antique maps on the other side, and a row of Klimt sketches. These are originals and I wonder why they are on display in such a visible location. He must be aware of their value. The walls are covered with frames. Some contain black-and-white portraits, possibly of family members, others encase detailed watercolours and small tapestries. The walls are high, vanishing into a white ceiling a few metres above my head. He mutters words I can’t hear and continues to walk. I follow until he reaches the kitchen.
‘Coffee,’ he announces, more as a statement than a question. He turns to look at me and I shudder, as though I’ve stepped across a grave and awakened a spirit. I nod enough to form a yes, knowing he’ll make one anyway, two if he joins me. His stature is upright for a man of his age and his eyes are steely and searching. His eyebrows are wispy with flashes of white and the lines of his face draw downwards, sloping towards an angular chin. His face has been chiselled with the knife of a fine carpenter and his nose stops short of being hooked. He wears a frown, which appears accidental, a sign of time and pressure. There’s a resoluteness to his voice, making his opinions sound like facts. He forms no open questions at this stage and I’m relieved, but I know his mind is searching for answers beyond my note and Albert’s. Elderly people make me uncomfortable, especially elderly people who don’t speak. I presume he knows Albert and this alone makes me tense. Each minute in his house edges closer to the time when I can leave.
‘Have you always lived here?’ I ask, wondering whether the question will be shrugged off, along with all the other unnecessary irritations of life.
‘All my life. I was born in that room.’ He points diagonally upwards to what must be one of the bedrooms. There are five doors leading from the hallway which suggests that there are five substantial rooms above us.
‘And your siblings? Do you have brothers or sisters?’
‘A sister. My brother died.’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. These are the only words I can summon.
‘It’s ok. He was found at Stephansplatz station at the top of the steps.’ He stares into my eyes and tries to hold my gaze. ‘He was due to meet somebody. We don’t know who. The items he had on him were missing.’
The image of the body paralyses me, leaving me unable to speak. The word we lingers in my mind. It feels as though a hand is gripping my throat. Does he know I should have met him? Does he know about the brooch and the note? I no longer feel safe and I wonder if he has his suspicions, or whether Albert has already incriminated me. I didn’t feel entirely safe when I arrived, even less so now. His eyes are still fixed on mine and the note sits in his pocket, taken from the trousers of his own flesh and blood. I cut the stream of thoughts before they reach a conclusion.
‘It must have been a shock.’ I manage to force the words out of my mouth, my lips so dry they smack together when I speak. ‘For you, I mean. Are these yours?’ I point to some paintings by my chair. They have a signature on the lower right that I don’t recognise. The style differs from all the other paintings in the house.
His face lights up. ‘Yes, I used to paint. Now I collect other people’s paintings.’ He nods enough for me to notice and I acknowledge his comment.
‘You have quite a collection. Are those Klimts?’ I ask, pointing in the direction of the hall.
He nods again, without any explanation. ‘Kuchen?’ he asks.
I imagine fine cakes and pastries but my stomach is rolling and I feel too tense to eat.
‘No, coffee is fine.’ I don’t want to drag out my stay any longer than necessary.
‘I expect you want to know about the note.’ His tone is free of emotion.
‘If it’s necessary.’ I acquire information on a need-to-know basis.
‘Very well. I’ll assume you don’t need to know this time.’
I immediately regret my last comment but refuse to show further interest. I drain the coffee cup and get up to leave.
‘Thank you. I’ll head back into town.’
‘Was there anything with the note?’
‘No,’ I say, hoping my words prove convincing. Albert’s note said nothing about handing over the diamond brooch, only the note itself. The brooch is tucked away in the apartment. He nods, stands up, and plants a note in my coat pocket. His eyes close in on me, searching mine for any information he can draw. I turn, make my way to the door and feel him follow me out of the room. His footsteps are close behind and his pace only marginally slower.
‘Before you go, can you tell me what he was wearing when you saw him?’ I freeze. ‘It’s all right,’ he says, ‘you don’t need to be afraid. I know Albert sent you.’
This doesn’t put me at ease. He speaks about his brother with a disconnect, as though the string of events – the body, the note, my meeting here – are a passing thought. I should be used to this kind of approach but I find his apparent indifference chilling.
‘I don’t remember. I took the note and made my way out of the station. I’m sorry for your loss. He should have been alive.’ He is silent. His face reveals nothing I recognise as grief. He looks through me, out towards the window into the street beyond. A tram rumbles past.
‘I’ll get going. Thank you.’ I say, swallowing most of the sentence. Only the word going sounds intelligible.
My hands and feet are tingling, fizzing almost. I try not to break into a sprint as he releases me from the house. It feels cold, despite the warmth of the day. I raise a hand to say goodbye, not wanting to turn back or look into his eyes. I can feel them piercing me and I focus on the gate and the black iron rails curling and twisting like a dark thicket of weed.
Tram 38 arrives. I get on and the door closes behind me. I walk through the gate as if shaking off a swarm of flies. I turn right and walk down to the stop by Chimanistrasse, but the tram takes off at the lights at high speed without waiting for anyone. If it had waited a while longer I could have made my escape. Waiting outside the Hochriegel champagne factory, the scent of fermentation is tantalising.
The next tram reaches the brow of the hill seven minutes later, slowing as it reaches the stop. It should have only been five. A few people are pacing and looking at their watches. Any delay longer than a minute is late. I’m flanked on one side by an elderly lady with a wicker shopping trolley on wheels and on the other by a boy in baggy trousers with oversized headphones. He can’t hear the tram but we can all feel the vibrations beneath our feet. He looks up before it draws to a halt. I climb the steps as the doors open and help the lady with the trolley.
The doors close automatically as I head towards the back of the tram and find a seat facing the rear. I put my feet up on the ledge and put my own earbuds into my ears. They are small and inconspicuous. Sometimes I remove one so that I can hear everything: my music and the outside world. My eyes are drawn upwards towards the skylights of the buildings looming over the street. The clouds have darkened. I close my eyes, the beat bringing the rhythm of my pulse to a steadier pace. The sound of the wheels on the tracks vanishes.
I pull out the note from Herr Schneider, lines of black ink typed and printed to avoid any flow of character from reaching the page.
Go to the bible collection in the library on Tuesday morning at 10am. Deposit the Van Gogh inside a King James and leave.
Chapter 4
The following morning, I take a tram to the National Library, get off at Albertinaplatz and walk briskly along Josefsplatz until I reach the courtyard with the statue of a lion. He looks at me with disdain. The doors to the main entrance tower over me with giants and the imperial double-headed eagle guarding the entrance. I suspect they’ll turn a blind eye to my arrival. Part of the Hofburg Palace, this houses one of the largest collections of Martin Luther’s writings and is arguably one of the most beautiful libraries in the world, but is mostly visited by tourists. The job should be quick. It’s relatively quiet. I slip in and walk slowly to the main library room, trying not to draw any attention. I’ve already checked the building for entrances, exits, guards, cameras – the usual. I need to know everything: timings, opening and peak hours, number of personnel on the ground, shift cycles. Observe everything, pre-plan, check everything, know your route in and out. I’m right on time, as always.
Today, luck is on my side. I can feel it in the pit of my stomach, the thrill of the risk, coupled with the knowledge that I can pull this off. Van Gogh’s Beach at Scheveningen in Stormy Weather, tucked inside the book in the base of my bag, my jacked draped over the opening. Unlike galleries, there’s no need to hand anything in. I walk towards the next set of doors, passing a couple of Japanese tourists, both with single-lens reflex cameras around their necks and an array of lenses slotted into padded camera bags, the real deal. He’s wearing walking trousers and a tee shirt, she looks elegant in tailored linen trousers, a pressed shirt and floral scarf. A travel-sized city map pokes out of a small rucksack on his back and I wonder whether they’ll find the city’s backstreets with their antique dealers tucked inside ancient buildings, shielded from the heat of the sun. Seasoned buyers and exclusive gallery dealers know their location but travellers rarely find them or make an effort to blend in, continually harassed by ticket sellers outside the Opera House and the Cathedral. They stand out more in winter than in summer. Locals wrap up in coats as thick as sleeping bags with fur-lined hoods and thick hats and gloves, while tourists are mostly British or American and wear thin autumn jackets and flimsy umbrellas. They expect rain and are prepared for all weather except for the extreme cold of Austrian winters. Our summers turn to winters and back again with little in between. Spring and autumn are gone in a flash, if they arrive at all.
I pass a guard. He fails to notice me or my bag with the jacket slung across it. I let out a long, slow breath. You get used to the manoeuvres, but the surge of adrenalin never leaves you – the scent of excitement, a whiff of danger. I know that what I’m undertaking is wrong but it’s all I know. And besides, I no longer care for the rules. There are days when waitressing is harder, more gruelling. I hate the mundane. I live for the quick thrills and danger, the risk of getting caught. I need to know I can achieve the unachievable, rattle a few cages, including my own. It’s thrilling to hold a ten million euro painting in your bag like a heap of groceries, to carry art into a library and locate a dead drop. I must follow Albert’s instructions. We’ve never actually met but I follow his every wish to the last detail: the library, the King James.
I found a King James Bible large enough in a second-hand bookshop. I cut out the pages last night and reinforced the edges of the spine. I don’t think God will mind and I doubt Albert cares. I created a false edging to replace the page leaves and inserted the rolled up Van Gogh. I had a good look at the painting first. It’s beautiful but I can’t keep it. I discovered it was housed in the Van Gogh Museum in Amsterdam before eventually being passed on to me. I don’t know how many times it has changed hands since its removal from the museum. I picked it up from a dead drop in the Hofburg last week. It hadn’t been easy, too many tourists and guards, and had been tucked behind a painting of Empress Sissi in one of the rooms. The fine details of the white hats on the women by the shore, the small red flag of the sailing boat billowing in the wind, storm clouds rolling in, the frenetic movement of the waves and the way the low light catches them as they break, bring the whole scene to life. You can almost feel the movement of the water. I unravelled it and watched it as I drank a shot of vodka and smoked my last Memphis. I had to find a large enough version of the King James to roll it up into – thirty-four point five centimetres, to be exact. The width of the painting has to fit the length of the bible. The location of the dead drop in the library matters. At least Albert didn’t pick the oldest bible in the library to switch with – the 1368 golden Holy Gospels. That would be sacrilege.
Stepping into the ceremonial room takes your breath away. I’m watched by the cupola ceiling frescos. Quiet glances from the cherubs cast a shadow of doom across my path momentarily. I observe the statue of Karl VI, the Holy Roman Emperor. He appears to be welcoming. I’d like to have met his daughter and Hapsburg ruler, Maria Theresa. She had the same strength and steely determination as I do. She got things done. I remind myself he knows nothing of my intentions to remove any items and I head towards the back end of the room. The scent of old books fills my lungs as I breathe deeply, inhaling history. Some of the manuscripts are from the fourth century BC. I feel a shiver of excitement being inside a part of the Hofburg Palace with over seven million items of value within my reach, and the fact that I’m concealing a priceless Van Gogh makes me shudder. I wish I’d been the one to lift it from Amsterdam. I sometimes try to imagine what’s happened, the route a painting has taken and how it has reached me, where it goes from here. I never know whether or not it will change hands a few more times before it reaches its final destination. It’s harder to sell stolen works and they only garner a fraction of their open market value but it remains a lucrative business. I’m in it for the thrill as much as the money. Most galleries aren’t well guarded, and it helps if you know the timings the way that I do in the Leopold. It’s easy to figure out in any gallery if you look for long enough. Observation is important, observation of people, their movements, patterns, irregularities. It builds a picture that helps a criminal to slip into the shadows.
