Death Instinct - Jed Rubenfeld [112]
“That would be President Wilson, I’m guessing.”
“In 1916, I advised Mr. Wilson that if he didn’t stop the war, many would die. That’s how I got to be a Secret Service agent. He wished to meet with me, but his aides wouldn’t permit it. Doubtless he regrets that decision profoundly today.”
“Sure he does. So who do you think was behind the bombing, Fischer? Who did it?”
“Anarchists, of course. Bolsheviks.”
“Are you positive?”
“Absolutely.”
“How do you know?”
“I read it in the papers.”
A nurse interrupted them, to take Mr. Fischer back to his room.
Their train slipped with a satisfied shriek into Vienna’s Westbahnhof on a mid-October evening. The Austrian trains, once the pride of an empire, were shells of their former selves. They ran on half rations of coal—the other half having been sold off by corrupt officials and needy conductors. Chandeliers and decorated paneling had been ripped away, evidently by thieves.
A single cab was waiting outside the station under a bright half-moon—an elegant two-horse carriage. Although Younger sat next to Colette, she kept her distance, facing away from him and looking out at Vienna. Luc sat across from them, one suitcase under his legs and another beside him. It was a lovely, old-world night. In the distance, over the roofs of handsome buildings, the electric lights of the Riesenrad—the giant Ferris wheel of the Prater, Vienna’s famous amusement park—described a high slow arc in the air. The wind carried strains of a faraway waltz and merry laughter.
“Vienna is gay,” said Colette—wistfully, Younger thought.
Colette had spoken in French. The coachman answered in the same language: “Yes, we are gay, Mademoiselle. It is our nature. Even during the war we were gay. And unlike the last time you were here, we are no longer eating our dogs.”
The driver presented his card to them. He was the very same nobleman—Oktavian Ferdinand Graf Kinsky von Wchinitz und Tettau—who had taken them to their hotel on their first stay in Vienna. But on his card, the words Graf and von, indications of his illustrious birth, had been crossed out.
“Titles of nobility have been abolished,” he explained. “We’re not allowed them even on our cards. Yes, things are improving. Things are certainly improving.”
They heard a far-off keening behind them, followed by a thunderous crash.
“What was that?” asked Colette, starting almost out of her seat.
“It’s nothing, Mademoiselle,” replied the coachman. “It comes from the Wienerwald, the Vienna woods, the loveliest woods in the world. They are chopping down its trees.”
“At this hour?” said Younger. “Who?”
“Everyone, Monsieur. It’s illegal, but people have no choice. There is no more coal to burn. Only wood. They go at night to avoid arrest. When winter comes, many will have no heat at all. You’ve come from Paris?”
“New York,” said Younger.
“Is Monsieur American?”
Younger allowed that he was.
“I beg your pardon; I thought you were French. Then you must accept this ride with my compliments. Austria owes you its deepest thanks.”
Younger was surprised at this offer and said so.
“A defeated country does not ordinarily express gratitude toward its foe?” asked the coachman. “It’s our children I’m thanking you for. Your relief packages are still their chief source of food. Do you know Mr. Stockton—your chargé d’affaires? I drove him to the station last month. He had just received a letter from the Chief Justice of our Supreme Court, asking if the judges could have a relief package too.”
“What will happen,” asked Colette, “to the children if they have no heat this winter?”
“They’ll die, I imagine, many of them. Here we are—19 Berggasse. I hope Dr. Freud is well.”
Younger, letting himself out and extending his hand to Colette, raised an eyebrow at their exceedingly knowledgeable coachman.
“When foreigners visit the Berggasse,” explained the driver, “there can be only one reason.”
Younger asked if he would be so kind