Charles leaned back into his seat, involuntarily checking the side
mirror. He lowered the volume as a woman tried with limited success
to carry a high E-note. Then he cut it off. Angela was being
cagey about the central facts of this casethe why of all that
moneybut that could wait. Right now he wanted to visualize the
events. When did they arrive at the coast?
Friday afternoon. The seventh.
Frank, no. He was too well known for that. Leo used an old
one, Benjamin Schneider, Austrian.
Next day, Saturday, was the trade. Which part of the docks?
Ive got it written down.
Frank disappears . . . ?
Last seen at 4:00 a.m. Saturday morning. He was up until then
drinking with Bogdan Krizan, the local SOVA head. Theyre old
friends. Then, around two in the afternoon, the hotel cleaning staff
found Leos body.
What about the dock? Anyone see what happened at seven?
Again, she glanced into the rearview. We were too late. The
Slovenes werent going to ask us why Frank was buying them toys.
And we didnt know about Leos body until after seven. His papers
were good enough to confuse the Austrian embassy for over eight
For three million dollars you couldnt have sent a couple more
Angela tightened her jaw. Maybe, but hindsight doesnt do us
any good now.
The incompetence surprised Charles; then again, it didnt.
Whose call was it?
When she looked in the mirror yet again, her jaw was tighter,
her cheeks flushed. So it was her fault, he thought, but she said,
Frank wanted me to stay in Vienna.
It was Frank Dawdles idea to go off with three million dollars
and only one watcher?
I know the man. You dont.
Shed said those words without moving her lips. Charles felt the
urge to tell her that he did know her boss. Hed worked with him
once, in 1996, to get rid of a retired communist spy from some nondescript
Eastern European country. But she wasnt supposed to
know about that. He touched her shoulder to show a little sympathy.
I wont talk to Tom until weve got some real answers. Okay?
She finally looked at him with a weary smile. Thanks, Milo.
The smile turned sardonic. I wonder if you even have a real name.
A Man Called Intrepid author dies aged 89(Dec 03 2013) William Stevenson, a journalist and author who drew on his close ties with intelligence sources to write two best-selling books in the 1970s, A Man Called...