‘We made it!’ Johann turns to congratulate us.

  ‘We haven’t lifted it out of the van yet,’ I say.

  ‘Well, it’s out of the building. The hard part is over,’ he says.

  As we pass the antique shops on the way through the city, I can’t help wondering if we’ll be caught before we can offload the painting. I think back to the letter and the star brooch, and know that with every move, with each new job, I risk the same fate. He should have been alive. With Albert, nothing is explained, you follow instructions to the letter. No, whys, no hows, no questions asked. He rules the operations from who knows where? It could be an island in the Caribbean. Nobody asks. The van nears a bend in the road and I see the word Polizei in reverse letters in the wing mirror. I can’t see whether it’s the same patrol car that just passed us. A sense of guilt lingers, like swirls of smoke in a bar, it clings to you, leaving traces on your clothes.

  ‘We were lucky,’ says Fritz.

  ‘Yes,’ I say, but luck doesn’t come into it. It’s skill.

  ‘I thought we were finished when the car drove past while you were both still in there. Gave me the jitters.’ says Johann. He shuffles back against his seat.

  ‘You can’t think like that,’ I say.

  ‘Back to base and onwards,’ he says, glancing at me in the mirror. I smile and look out of the window.

  ‘I don’t think they suspected anything. Probably just a routine patrol,’ I say. Jobs like these tend to go wrong towards the end and it’s usually down to carelessness. ‘I hope that’s the last time we see them.’ I grit my teeth, my gaze fixed on the streets outside the window. Albert only ever gives us partial instructions. No one is ever told the whole plan. It is safer that way.

  Chapter 9

  A violent thunderstorm forces me to run from the tram this morning, cutting my journey time to the library in half. The damp air brings with it the scent of trees and blossom. It is difficult to see the path in front when your head is almost completely submerged under the hood of a raincoat. Every so often I peel it back and peer down to see beyond my toes and the cobbles of the pavement. A few other faces are also hidden from view under coats and umbrellas. My bag is waterproof and holds a small Van Gogh, a still life of sunflowers. It reminds me of the larger one in Amsterdam’s Van Gogh Gallery but there’s something appealing about a more compact work that I admire – tighter brush strokes and a composition designed with the final painting in mind. I try to imagine what the artist might have been thinking as he positioned himself to begin: a blank canvas ahead, a palette knife or a large brush in hand, maybe a cold coffee on a table somewhere out of the way. The note from the Dorotheum has led me here.

  I recognise the figure walking towards me, the wide gait, almost a swagger, the height and facial features, the stubble. I know we’ve crossed paths before. Not here at the entrance of the library, but inside a gallery or while I’ve been with Hans. As he passes, I feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. I turn, briefly, to check that the figure has gone and head into the library.

  The instructions this time are to go to the eighteenth-century historical manuscripts. I walk past the globes, stopping to admire them for a moment. The eighteenth-century manuscripts contain some rare treasures and my body tingles at the thought of the pricelessness of the artefacts and the fact that the general public can stand so close. It feels different to standing next to a valuable painting. Something about the words and the time that they were written gives an insight into where we are today. I should take up a job lifting manuscripts, not paintings, but demand dictates the jobs and paintings are more highly sought after. I’m a small cog in a large machine. If one cog refuses to turn or removes itself, the whole system grinds to a halt. Leaving is not an option, but the thought occasionally enters my mind after a close shave or when I’m tired.

  I wait for a few moments until there are no more people within view, remove volume ten and replace it with the fake Van Gogh from my bag. As I lift out the original volume, I see a newer looking piece of paper protruding from the pages. I’ll look at it later. I leave the building without passing anyone on my way to the exit.

  The journey back to the apartment is quick and I think about the figure passing me in the street and the note in the book. I can’t risk reading it on the tram. I have a strong sense that I’m being followed and that my messages are being intercepted. Who would know about the dead drop, apart from Albert or the person who sets up the location? I doubt it’s Albert who writes the notes. He’s probably smoking a pipe on a chartered yacht off the coast of Monaco. Sounds like a stereotype, but that’s what I picture. He would have the more glamorous end of the deal but I wouldn’t swap that for the thrill of being able to touch and remove the paintings myself. The adrenaline rush is unmatched.

  I jump off the tram and walk up to my building. I put the largest of the three keys in the lock, kick past the junk mail on the floor and open my mailbox on the wall with the smallest key. It’s empty. I want to stand behind the doors and ambush the junk mail delivery guys as they arrive, but I’m out of the building before they reach our door and before anyone else leaves. An early start is the only way to get the work done.

  Climbing the cold stone spiral staircase to the second floor, I hear echoes of footsteps several floors above. I reach my own front door, use the third key and notice that I only turn it once before the door pops open. I always lock it with two turns. Maybe I forgot this morning. I got up ten minutes late, but I never forget things. My stomach twists. Has someone been in my apartment? Why would anyone break in without busting the lock? No one has a key and if you used a skeleton key it would be impossible to lock the door behind you. I stand for a moment, my feet frozen to the mat, before taking off my shoes. I grab a large kitchen knife.

  I look in the bedroom, then the living room. Nothing has been touched. I check the kitchen again and, finally, the bathroom. I kick the door back. It swings hard against the wall and stops with a bang. The shower curtain is drawn shut. I usually leave it to dry out before tucking it back into a loop against the mirror. I know I need to look behind the curtain but I hesitate. My toothbrush is on the floor. I never leave anything on the floor. As a child, I couldn’t go to bed until the floor was clear. I was the unusual teenage tidy freak. I don’t bend down to pick it up in case there is an intruder behind the curtain. The evening light is too low to show a silhouette.

  I clutch the knife and rip the curtain back. Nothing, nobody, no belongings. Just my bath and a selection of Weleda shower gels and a shower hat. I don’t like to get my hair wet, not unless I wash it.

  I turn to put the knife back in the kitchen. The bedroom window is ajar. I notice as I pass the door, and return to look more closely. I never leave the window open. Two floors may be high up but I don’t take that risk, and it might rain. I try to recall my movements this morning and wonder if I left in too much of a hurry to worry about the toothbrush, the window and the lock. I’m not that careless. I should let it go. There’s no sign that anything has been tampered with or taken.

  I go back into the kitchen, return the knife to the magnetic runner and pour myself a vodka. I reach up on tip toes to open the small built-in freezer compartment of the fridge and pull out some ice cubes. I don’t cook so there’s no point in having a separate freezer. I often skip meals or pick up sushi or a stir fry on the way home. I grab a smaller knife and a fresh lime from the fruit bowl and slash it in half. I cut off a slice from the middle, toss it into the glass and squeeze in some of the juice, leaving the flesh pulverised. I place the other half into a glass ramekin dish and slide it on to the top shelf of the fridge. I grab a packet of spicy crisps with the glass and take them through to the living room, setting them down on a low glass coffee table. I glance at the worn leather sofa and the urge to slump into the corner by the cushions is overwhelming, but I have to get the book from the bag in the hallway. I scrutinise the lock on the door and wonder how easy it would be to break in, then leave, half locking a door behind you. It’s not the mark of a careful worker. The evidence left behind is too obvious. I remember the figure passing me outside the library. Was it Hans? Or Albert? I’ve never met Albert. Maybe it was Herr Schneider, or an undercover officer. The ones who followed me from the cathedral were uniformed, making it less likely that it was planned. Maybe I was in the wrong place at the wrong time. They have a radar for things out of place.

  I clutch my chest, lower my shoulders and roll my head to loosen my muscles. The weight of the bag on one shoulder, and the tension of the job, leaves me feeling tight. I’ll have a hot soak later with a book and another glass of something. I reach down to the bag, lying limp on the floor next to my boots, slowly unzip it and pull out the cloth covered book. I lift it up and take it to the living room. The phone rings. I pick up the receiver but there’s nobody there. I go to the window, scan the road below and the windows across the street, then draw the curtains before turning on the lamps. I slump down into the corner of the sofa, curling my feet up under me, and take a long swig of vodka. The liquid warms my insides. I untie my hair and shake out the dust and stress of the day. It’s almost the weekend. I’ll have to work at Cafe Heiner tomorrow, but the most demanding part of the week is over.

  I set the glass down, the ice clinking against the sides, and pick up the manuscript. The cloth unravels and drops to the floor. I hold the book in the palm of my hand, run my left hand across its surface, lift it towards my nose and breathe in the smell of ageing paper, the scent of history. The feeling is thrilling. Holding an artefact this valuable in my hands makes me cling to it a few moments longer. I reach for the piece of paper from the library and tug until it’s freed from the pages of the book.

  The note is typed, always.

  Liesl,

  Do not trust Albert. You are not safe. Complete the next job then flee Vienna. He is planning to remove you. Lock your door with a dead bolt before you go to sleep. There is one more location and then you must leave the city: Akademiestrasse 21a/10.

  I clutch the note with both hands and reread it, hoping I’ve misread the words. Why would he remove me? I’m reliable. Who wrote the note? Was it the figure who passed me today? Were they waiting to check that I went into the library? Was it written by the same person who forgot to properly lock my door? The person who knocked my toothbrush to the ground? The person who left via the bedroom window? What were they doing in my room?

  I slide the note under the book and take another swig of vodka. Tipping my head back, I drain the glass.

  Chapter 10

  Clutching the note in a clammy fist, I walk across Museums Quarter towards the Leopold Gallery. I need to check the Leopold first, prepare for another job. The enclave of buildings are a sun trap in the hotter months with upturned giant blocks scattered across the courtyard for people to stretch out and soak up the heat like cats on a roof. In the winter months, they are used to build an ice bar. The fountains and pool are now uncovered. Boards removed from the winter months reveal a blue, green pool of shallow water. Children dabble around the edges, watch the copper coins thrown in by people passing by, those who hope for good luck. There is no such thing as luck in my line of work. You need skill. I’ve never understood the compulsion to throw money into water. I believe in superstitions but not the kind that cause you to part with money.

  The white cube-shaped building ahead sits like a fortress, clad in white shell limestone from the Danube. It boasts a poster of Schiele’s work: A contorted body, painted with an exuberance of brush strokes and palette knives. I’m not partial to a Schiele but I understand the allure. I prefer neater work with greater precision. A girl screams as she is splashed with water by another child, possibly a sibling. The concrete block behind me is the Modern Art Museum, but I prefer the Leopold, home to some of the most wanted paintings in the world.

  I reach the entrance, climb the steps to my right and lean over the wall. The view allows you to scan the whole courtyard. I feel the heat of the sun against my flesh and close my eyes; the dots of people scattered across the forecourt blur as my eyelids close. The last snapshot I see is a Lowry painting – dashes of people across a canvas. I imagine them as ants scurrying across the floor to reach a hole in the ground, escaping a large cat.

  A cloud passes, the light dims and the warmth retreats. I open my eyes and turn to walk up the last few steps. The entrance is a vast expanse of space with no real detail, only the woman at the ticket counter and a sparse collection of advertisements for future exhibitions. It lacks the grandeur of the Albertina, the gallery wing of the Hofburg Palace complex, but it’s perfect for art. It reminds me of London’s Tate Modern, but younger and less quirky.

  I wind my way up the stone staircase, glancing across at the open, empty space of the entrance hall. The corridors ahead repeat themselves like a hall of mirrors. I head up towards the third floor, home to the largest Schiele collection in the world: a treasure trove of dark and twisted paintings. They lure you in and spit you out. Some of the contorted nudes are grotesque, but they are still in surprisingly high demand. I’m here to assess and to return later for a job. When I’m not moving paintings or working here, I like to look at the brighter collections, the sculptures and the Picassos.

  My favourite collections are outside Vienna: Rodin’s sculptures in Paris with his bronze masterpiece, The Thinker, and Henry Moore’s collection in the Art Gallery of Ontario with the stone sculpture, The Shape of Anxiety – the form reminds me of a heart, held in the palm of a hand. There’s also a painting I’ve not yet seen but I imagine it to be exquisite: da Vinci’s wall mural of The Last Supper in the Sant Maria delle Grazie. I’ve been to Milan, but I was working. I will have to return.

  I scan the rooms that I need to see, then leave and head to Akademiestrasse, following the instructions on the note. It’s on the opposite side of Kärntner Strasse to the Opera House, tucked away behind the shops. I decide to walk instead of going by tram. It’s not far and I will cut through the Burggarten. The blooms are in full explosion in May. I stride past the small Romanesque amphitheatre and the café selling ice cream and coffee. It’s a shell of a place in the winter, boarded up and closed for business. I watch a small boy weaving his way through the rose beds hiding from a young girl. A woman is walking alongside with a pram, the top of a wrapped bundle just visible.

  I pass children playing in the sand pit and, as the trees open up to a view of the Hofburg Palace at Heldenplatz, there appears to be a beer festival with wooden huts and women wearing dirndls and men in lederhosen serving Bavarian specialties. Someone offers me a beer. It’s tempting but I wave an arm and keep moving. I reach Akademiestrasse and search the numbers for 21A. I ring the bell to apartment 10 and wait. It’s an unusual request. My stomach twists and I’m carrying a gun, just in case. This is neither a job or a drop off. A man answers but gives no name.

  ‘Who is it?’ Asks the voice from the buzzer.

  ‘Leisl,’ I say, turning my head to speak into the small microphone.

  A selection of family names runs down alongside two rows: Moritz, Friedlander, Schulz, Fritzl, Weiser, Bittenauer.

  ‘Come up,’ says a voice.

  I don’t recognise it and I hear another voice but put it down to interference. I push the door open with a click. It feels heavier than most apartment front doors. Paint is peeling in chunks of green faded gloss. I look at the lift and decide, instead, to use the stairs. The stone staircase winds up to four more floors of apartments. Black swirls of wrought iron railings curl up towards the roof. They don’t look high enough, given the drop down through the centre of the stairwell. I continue up to the third floor. Number 9 is to my far right. 10A is straight ahead, the left of the two doors. I lean in to press the buzzer but the door is opened by a short man in a suit before my finger reaches the button. He looks at me without a word, doesn’t open the door fully and peers over my shoulder before stepping back to let me in. He closes the door behind me. I’m not sure who he’s expecting, but I’ve come alone.

  ‘Can I ask your name?’ I ask, as he studies me.

  ‘Albert,’ he says. I feel a chill. He doesn’t fit the image I had in my mind. I can’t picture this small frame of a man rubbing shoulders with criminal gang leaders. He looks more like a banker or an upmarket salesman. His gaze is unnerving. I don’t know why I’m here and we’ve never met. I don’t like to be unprepared and my throat tightens, stifling my voice. It cracks as I ask what he wants.

  ‘Sit down, Leisl. I’d like to talk.’ He flicks his hand towards the sofa in the living room and I position myself on the edge. I can feel him watching me but when I turn, he looks away and out of the window.

  ‘Coffee?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes. Black.’

  Without any acknowledgement he disappears from the room. Klimt sketches line the walls. They are from the same series as the ones owned by Herr Schneider, but this would not be obvious to the untrained eye. I wonder how well they know each other. An array of bronze sculptures and porcelain figurines line windows and tables. There are a few oil paintings on the walls, nothing significant. I imagine he owns a safe for more valuable works. I’ve worked for him for three years but I know nothing, other than his first name and the jobs he contracts out.

  I hear a phone in another room. He answers. Muffled words are cut short as he hangs up. The scent of fresh coffee and the sounds of bubbling water come from the kitchen. There’s something unusual about the apartment, but I can’t say what. He re-enters with one coffee.

  ‘Are you not going to have some?’ I ask. He ignores my question, hands me a small cup on a saucer and remains standing.

 

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17