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The meeting point is a fifteen-minute walk, so I leave the hotel twenty-five minutes before three, the appointed hour, to give myself some cushion. A pedestrian avenue of stone, closed to vehicles, Kärntner Straße is a touristy walk to be sure, with plenty of chain stores and restaurants familiar to Americans, but the overall vibe is swanky and high-end, the avenue dotted generously with outdoor cafés. It’s not lost on me that this is the perfect avenue from which to surveil me. I quickly give up any pretense of trying to detect, much less avoid, a tail.
I soon reach Stephansplatz, the plaza featuring the Stephansdom—St. Stephen’s Cathedral, an immense Gothic limestone structure with Roman towers of notably different heights, including one of the largest in the world, a roof of hundreds of thousands of colorful glazed tiles, and over a dozen altars and nearly as many chapels. The seat of the Archbishop of Vienna, the site of the marriages of both Haydn and Mozart, and during the 1600 Turkish wars a de facto military command center, the cathedral is one of the top tourist attractions in Vienna.
Near the Giant’s Gate where tourists enter is a small engraving—OS, a symbol of the Austrian resistance to the Nazis after Hitler annexed Austria in 1938. (Austria, in its native language, is Österreich, but in most other languages the Ö is written as Oe, with the letter E being the fifth letter of the alphabet. Thus, O5.)
I could spend all day inside this massive cathedral but was directed to one place among many: the high altar, built in the 1640s and one of the few altars that survived the Allies’ shelling in World War II.
As instructed, I sit in the penultimate pew on the far right side, leaving space for a visitor. I am six minutes early, but I sit alone for the next thirty, occupying myself by counting all the figurines of local saints around the altar (Leopold, Florian, Sebastian, and Rochus), imagining how painful it must have been to be stoned (very), and wondering how long I’ll wait before giving up (not much longer).
I spend some time admiring an oil painting above the altar featuring Saint Stephen being stoned to death, while he looks up to Heaven and beseeches Jesus and God the Father, the dramatic lighting on Stephen’s face meant to look angelic. Then I move my attention to the elaborate stained-glass windows that bookend Pock’s masterpiece. Then to a sculpture of the immaculate conception. But by 3:45 p.m., my appreciation for the altar is overcome by the growing ache in my lower back, and I am ready to leave.
“My personal favorite is Saint Florian.”
I turn to see a man roughly my age, dressed in a long wool coat, scarf neatly tied around his neck, and a gray fedora. “May I sit?” he asks.
This is not who I was expecting, or at least not what my contact was supposed to be wearing.
I slide over, but when he sits he leaves no space between us, our shoulders touching. For one panicky moment I expect to feel a sharp object sliding between my ribs, something stealthy, allowing him to slip away while I slowly bleed out.
“Saint Florian.” He gestures toward the altar, one of the figurines. “Do you know what he is best known for?”
I try to calm myself and find my voice. “Putting out fires.”
“Just so. He was part of an elite firefighting brigade for the Roman army. Who later refused to persecute Christians and sacrifice them to the Roman gods. A true and honorable man.” He smiles. “You know your history, Professor. You wrote your doctoral thesis on the fissures and distrust between Hitler and Mussolini during World War II. And you’ve taught courses.” He nudges me with his elbow.
“You want me to know how carefully you’ve researched me,” I say.
He chuckles, an admission, and puts out his hand. “I am obviously not who you were expecting. And that man is obviously not coming. He is more competent than I would have thought at spotting surveillance. And here I thought we were being discreet.”
“And who are you?”
“I think of myself as a firefighter as well. I come for a preventative purpose.”
“Preventative,” I repeat. “As in preventing me from obtaining certain items?”
“Just so. But only for your safety.” He clears his throat. “We are not so naive as to think that stealing your computer will erase the knowledge in your head. I daresay you could rewrite what you’ve already completed in a week’s time from memory.”
“But it could be dismissed as speculation unless I have corroboration.”
“I could not have said it better, Professor. What you have learned from the notes and those journals you obtained from Francis Linderman is not proof. It was enough to get you started on this journey. Even enough to write an engaging book proposal, however inconclusive it may be. But not enough for a historian, at least not one with any integrity, to print as fact. You want facts. You want proof. That is why you’re here.”
“Fair enough,” I say. “But why do I need you to tell me what I already know?”
“Because I don’t want to see you killed, Professor.” He raises a hand. “Your death would only call attention to your research. It would lend credibility to it. Others would take up your cause.”
“Then you shouldn’t kill me.”
“I might agree, but this is not my decision alone. Do you think there is but one leader of our movement? There are many factions that are autonomous. And all are aware of what you’re trying to obtain, Professor. Any one of them could act against you at any time. The harder you try to obtain this information, the greater your risk.”
“But as you noted,” I begin, trying to still my nerves, “it will backfire. Give credibility to my cause.”
“Unless they do it properly, make it look like a suicide,” he says. “As they did with Mr. Linderman.”
My head whips in his direction. What was he telling me about Francis Linderman’s death?
“He… didn’t commit suicide?”
The man makes a guttural noise but remains motionless, eyes forward, looking at the altar. “For the first time you surprise me, Professor. Surely you’re not that naive.”
