Mozart’s Last Words

After his call to Laurence Kellerman, Oliver Yates resumed his walk along the Kohlmarkt on a pleasant late spring day in Vienna. Residents and tourists packed the trendy shops, and tables were at a premium at the cafes and restaurants along the fashionable shopping promenade. The early tourist season had already begun. Oliver scanned the celebratory crowds, remembering his previous visits there. He and his late wife, Amelia, had enjoyed their honeymoon in the city, and it was in the same month of May that he attended his first international training conference there as a special agent. He took a deep breath of the fresh spring air, relieved that he would soon resolve the debacle he himself had created. A buzzing ended his daydream. “Hello!” “I’m bloody damned glad I nicked you, Yates. Listen, you’ve got to get out of Vienna. You’re in serious trouble, mate!” “Corbyn? What in all of heaven are you jabbering about?” “That bloke you met with earlier! He’s deeply involved in a Neo-Nazi cabal that Austrian Intelligence has been tracking. They must be quite curious, indeed, about the sudden involvement of a British Intelligence Officer in their clandestine plot. You’ve got to leave right away!” “Beitzel a Neo-Nazi?” Oliver struggled to believe such a revelation. “And what do you mean by ‘right away’? I’m walking along the Kohlmarkt, and I’m not even close to my hotel. It’s on the other side of the city, so I can’t just—” “You can’t go back to that bloody hotel at all, mate! Get your ass on a train back to London as quickly as possible. Otherwise you’re going to find yourself in real trouble.” “But I—” “No buts about it, chum. Get to the bloody station now and evacuate the city! They’ve certainly staked out your hotel by now. Grab the soonest train to London you can get. I’ll catch up with you once you’ve returned.” “Hold on to your knickers, mate. I understand what you’re saying. I’m just trying to get my bearings on this wanked-out scene. Okay?” “Of course, Oliver. But please, just call me when you’ve finally parked your arse on a train. Get going, man!” “Consider me already gone!” The time on his cellphone read 17:08 when Oliver Googled the app for the next train to London: “17:36 from the Hauptbahnhof,” he read on the screen. “I can make it!” He raced to the end of Kohlmarkt and hailed a taxi at Michaelerplatz. Within minutes he was speeding along Reitschulgasse. Ten minutes later the cab turned off Augustinstrasse and entered the drop-off area in front of the modern glass structure housing Vienna’s central transportation center. Oliver stuffed a bunch of Euros into the driver’s hand as he exited the back seat. Entering the massive station, he spotted the Fahrkarten window and hustled to the ticket booth in front of it. The huge digital clock across the way read 17:23. Plenty of time, he thought, but an elderly man—the only person ahead of him— was having trouble understanding the ticket agent’s instructions. When he turned back to the clock, it was 17:30. At last, the old man had shuffled along. “One first class to London on the 17:36, please,” Oliver blurted out. “That’ll be 375 Euros, sir.” Oliver reached into his wallet and handed the clerk 400 hundred Euros. “Thank you, sir, but I’m not sure you can get to that track on time,” the agent said, glancing at the red digits blinking on the huge board across the concourse. “I’ll get there!” Oliver said, snatching the ticket and dashing for Track B49. “All aboard!” the conductor yelled as Oliver neared the train. It was already departing when he got there. Jamming his right arm into the edge of the closing door, he forced himself inside. The door shimmied shut. Oliver Yates was on his way to London. Sinking into his seat, he reached into his coat and felt for the lower pocket. His fingers traced the edges of the small envelope containing Mozart’s last words in their acrylic-protected sleeve. It had been Oliver’s plan to hand the fragment over to Franz Beitzel when they met that morning so he could ensure its safe return to the Austrian National Library—its ultimate reunification with the autograph manuscript. When Franz reacted in an unexpectedly frantic way, Oliver changed his plan, deciding to wait until later that evening when they could discuss the matter in a calm and more thorough manner. He needed to be certain he was taking the right action. Alone in the first-class cabin, Oliver soon noticed the conductor approaching. “Are you quite all right, sir? You nearly had your right arm severed back there.” A smile had replaced the conductor’s earlier frazzled expression of concern at seeing Oliver’s risky entry. “Quite all right, thank you. I apologize for my death-defying feat, but I’ve got to get back to London as soon as humanly possible.” The conductor tilted his black cap back a bit. “She must be well worth the risk!” the conductor remarked as he moved on to the next cabin. Oliver pulled out his phone and punched in Corbyn’s number. His call went directly to voicemail. “Oliver here, David. I just nicked the 17:36 out of Vienna. I’ve got to change trains in Frankfurt and Paris, but I expect to be back in London around six tomorrow afternoon. I’ll call you when I get in. I owe you one, mate.”